[illustration] some three hundred years ago by edith gilman brewster the w. b. ranney company, printers, concord, new hampshire copyright , by edith gilman brewster to the children of portsmouth this book is dedicated. dear boys and girls: because so little is told of the children who lived on our shores when forests were cleared for home-making, i have tried to picture here what they might have done in the midst of the true and thrilling happenings you will some day read of in our history. i hope these tales will help you to love the more our granite state. yours with much affection, edith gilman brewster. contents stories period nonowit's home the new world visitors from england the settlement danger for the colonists [a]strawberry bank the boys' catch the forest garden the fur trade coats, shirts, and kettles winnicunnet the crystal hills the denmark cattle the cut of the hair [a]cynthia's bear the witches of the wolves of portsmouth the king's fort [a]little jane's gentians the church law peace or warfare susanna's rescue to the garrison house! my new hampshire the bowl of broth thomas toogood outwits an indian the escape the defense at oyster river [a]the attack at the plains the strawberry fields of exeter [footnote a: courtesy of w. a. wilde company] nonowit's home long before new hampshire found its name, the deep river at its southeast was known as the piscataqua by the indians who could stem its strong currents, even in bark canoes. perhaps it was because of the fresh spring close to its salty shores, some three miles from the sea, that the red men made their encampment on the spot that was later equally attractive to men of white skins. nonowit, like his people, was glad to see the snows melt away during that spring of . the bare branches of the oak and maple showed tufts of browns, reds, and greens. the fish stirred in the streams, and by the time that nonowit's forest home had its roof of thick green foliage the indians themselves were astir. for far up the river at the falls fish could be found in plenty, and that was a welcome change from the game of the winter food. the men of the tribe were the first to start afoot for the fishing spot, while the squaws broke camp, gathered their belongings, and herded the children. nonowit suddenly recalled some sturdy reeds growing by the salt marsh which he thought would make fine arrow shafts. it had occurred to the boy that he might stand by the falls and shoot his fish as they bounded over. that is why he was not on the spot when the children were started on the march, and the last camp fire had been covered. even though he was an indian boy, his heart thumped with fear, when at the end of the day he returned from his hunt on the marsh to a deserted camp. no answer came to his long shrill call. the sun was setting, and it was of no use to follow the trail that night, even though he had known just where his people were to go. he munched some scraps that had been left behind and sought the shelter of a hollow oak which had been the playhouse of the indian girls and boys. an old owl hooted and flew from a hole above, but nonowit had no fear of him, though he was glad the hole by which he had crawled into the oak was far above the ground. this was some protection from the wolves, which he could even then hear howling in the distance. all night there was a beating rain, which washed away the last trace of the carefully hidden trail of the indian travelers. when nonowit crawled out into the sunshine the following morning, he could learn nothing of their direction. to get a wider view, he wandered through the thick forest to the river's edge, but there discovered no signs of his people. "there are so many children in the camp i might not be missed," he thought and dropped upon a rock in one little heap of loneliness. suddenly he sat very straight, for there beyond the narrows he saw a monstrous thing. could it be a huge bird with white wings spread? over the water it seemed to be coming nearer. instinctively he slid into a crevice between the rocks, yet without moving his gaze. through the narrows, under full sail, came the first ship. nonowit seemed to become a part of the brown earth as he wriggled back into the undergrowth, never moving his wide-open eyes from this strange sight. then came the rattle of chains and the voices of men. a boat was lowered, and nonowit, safe under the cover of the low branches, saw it headed for his shore. men with white skin and hair growing on their faces landed on the very rock on which he had been sitting. their clothes were unlike any he had ever seen before, and their speech could not be understood. cautiously he backed into the forest until he gained the branches of the oak in which he had slept. yet that was unsafe, for the white men looked up into every tree, breaking the branches and tasting the sap. in his fright, nonowit wriggled for safety through the very hole from which the owl had flown the night before. there from the dark hollows he watched the white men as they studied each tree. they came at last to the old oak and shook its branches. when one man even climbed far enough to look deep into the trunk, nonowit crouched to the very ground, holding his breath. the shadows protected him and the men passed on. "worse than wolves," thought the boy as he ventured again to his peep-hole. the white men lingered about for an hour or more, until the imprisoned little indian felt that he might never see his people again. he would starve rather than face such creatures. at last, there came the sound of oars on the water. creeping from the tree, nonowit pushed aside the low branches to see the boatful of strangers depart. suddenly a strong hand was clapped on his shoulder. he jumped with fear only to find himself in the grasp of his own father. nonowit pointed hastily through the thick growth to the river, and the two watched the english vessel sail up the stream, but history reports that martin pring saw no indians when he searched the piscataqua shores for a sassafras tree, which, he believed, held the "elixir of life." [illustration] the new world far away on the shores of france, in a little cobbled lane by the water front, jacques swung into the rhythm of the sailor's hornpipe. raoul stood in the doorway of his low-roofed house, with his violin, directing the tune and swings until he pronounced the dance correctly learned. just then three well-dressed gentlemen turned into the narrow way and passed on to the vessel at the wharf below. the raising of sails and shouting of orders suggested an immediate start. jacques' father hurried around the corner and motioned to his boy. as jacques followed, he called back to raoul, "i'll bring you an indian scalp when i come home!" the father and son then crossed the narrow plank to the deck and went below, for their business was to cook for the crew. the distinguished-looking gentlemen, however, talked earnestly on the shore until the last sail was spread. then one of them, no other than monsieur champlain, stepped aboard, and, as the gang-plank was drawn, called to his friends, "we will also mark the rivers." and so, long ago in , the french sailed to the northwest with new hopes. the spanish and portuguese had returned with wonderful tales of the mines of south america. perhaps even greater things might be found on the northern shores. it happened one day when the sea was smooth and the well-fed sailors had little to do, that a group of them gathered on deck with tales of the americas: the shining gold to be found there, the wild beasts, and the wilder indians. jacques felt that if he had but a knife, he could conquer the whole country. in the meantime his eye rested on a sharp and ugly-looking one thrust into the belt of a rough old salt who sat astride the deck rail. just then there came a lull in the tales and the old fellow, to urge on the flagging spirits, brandished his dirk and pledged it to "the best fellow yet!" fierce and impossible yarns followed until jacques, as if to work off his excitement, jumped into the circle with the swing and the stamp of his newly-learned hornpipe. he danced it well and responded repeatedly to the sailors' applause. it pleased them better than any tale told, and they voted jacques, "the best fellow yet!" true to his pledge, the old salt presented the knife with a sweeping bow. jacques, overjoyed, at once cut his mark on the handle, and he dreamed that night of his attack on the new world. he awoke to make plans for the indian scalps he should take to raoul, for indians seemed only as beasts to be slaughtered. days and nights of sailing passed, as well as storms and fogs. when the sun at last brought clear horizons, the shout of "land head!" thrilled captain, mates, and crew. no one knew just where they were, but shining peaks could be seen in the distance. at last they came to anchor, and small boats carried the men ashore. jacques, too, was allowed to go. he clutched his knife, expecting to plunge it into the head of the first red-skin. a group of indians stood on the rocks. monsieur champlain, the first to step ashore, greeted them with friendly signs. jacques caught sight of an indian boy of his own size, lurking behind. he held a bow in his hand, and a quiver of arrows was slung across his back. it was nonowit, for they had landed on the piscataqua shores. the indian boy gathered wood for the fire, and jacques eagerly joined in the search. soon the older folk sat about the blaze. the white men tried to ask where they had landed and what was the nature of the coast. jacques, in his desire to learn, drew in the sand for nonowit the picture of the ship, the point of rocks, and the coast. the indian boy understood and added the river to the map. that aroused monsieur champlain, who sent an order to the ship and soon received brilliant beads and various knives from the stores on board. these he laid at the feet of the indians and pointed to the boy's map on the sand. the red men pulled charred sticks from the fire and drew on the paper offered the full coast line, so far as they knew, even to the merrimac river with its impeding sandbars, then not even heard of by white men. by the time the french had started for their vessel jacques had become sure that the many stories he had heard of the fierceness of the indians were not entirely true, for already he had found an indian boy a good companion. instead of thrusting his knife into his scalp, he followed the example of his leaders and laid it at nonowit's feet. the little red-skin, pleased with his gift, instinctively offered to jacques his bow and arrows. these the french lad safely tucked away for raoul, now thinking it a much finer gift than many scalps. monsieur champlain was even more pleased than jacques to carry to his countrymen so true a map of the coast of the new world, though at that time he did not know it was to be the map of new england, nor that he had landed on the new hampshire shore. visitors from england. eleven years passed and nonowit was a grown indian who knew the forest lands along the piscataqua and the rocky turns of the coast. but in all this time he had not forgotten the two strange experiences of his boyhood: a sailing vessel, seen in the river, and later the meeting of white men face to face. never did his eye run along the ocean horizon without thought of those white-winged sails. one morning in may, , nonowit paddled miles from the shore and pulled his canoe upon the rocks of a small island, the largest of a group that could be seen from the coast. leaving his bark in safety, he crossed to the opposite shore of the island, where he first laid sticks for a fire and then threw out his line for a fish. a full catch held his attention until the tide had risen to an unusual height. suddenly he thought of his canoe. he hastened over the rocks to find it far afloat. there he was left alone on the island with only the fish of the ocean for food and the sky to cover his head. that day and the next he watched for a stray canoe. on the morning of the third day, as he scanned the ocean to the east, he discerned a distant white speck. slowly it shaped itself, and he realized that once again he was watching the approach of a white man's vessel. it seemed to be heading for his very island. nonowit watched cautiously, ready to find safety in the rocky caves in case these proved unfriendly people. the vessel dropped anchor and a small boat brought eight men ashore. the leader was capt. john smith, who had sailed from england to learn what he could of the new world, and whether it was a desirable place for colonists. as this group of small islands attracted him, he had landed to see what could be found. nonowit, from his hiding place, watched the astonishment of the white men when they came upon the burning coals of his fire. then his turn of surprise came, for one face of that group was familiar to him. the features of jacques had been stamped upon his boyhood mind, never to be erased. he now recognized the french boy who, since that first trip across the ocean, had learned his father's art of cooking and had hired out as steward to this english captain. springing from his cave, nonowit appeared before the wondering men, who drew back, fearing him one of a band of hidden indians. suddenly, jacques caught a glimpse of the knife, cut with his own mark, thrust into the indian's belt. it was the very dirk he had won by his well-danced hornpipe on his voyage with m. champlain. after an exchange of friendly greetings, the indian led the english party about and visited with them the smaller islands of the group. the low green bushes and bold rocky shores surrounded by the sparkling ocean so pleased captain smith that he gave the group his own name, calling smith's isles what later have been known as the isles of shoals. the seamen learned of nonowit's lost canoe and offered to take him ashore. as they approached the mainland, the wooded coast with its lone mountain and later the safe harbor and rocky shores were most attractive to these englishmen. on through the narrows they sailed, as did martin pring many years before. this time, nonowit was aboard the vessel that his people watched from the bank by the fresh spring where they had made their encampment. it is near the spot where portsmouth markets now stand. perhaps the first marketing was done that day, for captain smith was ready to trade knives, beads, fish lines, and hooks for the furs the indians offered. jacques prepared stews and porridge for these new friends, and in turn the indians feasted the sailors upon maize and bear meat. after nonowit had well described the coast lines to captain smith, he presented dried fish and deer meat for the journey, and to jacques, for his own use, the skin of a bear. although nonowit was urged to sail with the party, he refused. captain smith continued along the coast to the point now known as cape cod and then, returning, found others of his party whom he had left fishing at the mouth of the penobscot river. with salted fish and furs from indian trading, captain smith returned to england, elated with the charm of the new land. he published a map of the seacoast with a vivid description of the country and presented it to prince charles who named the region new england, and so, ever since, it has been called. the settlement in a little thatched cottage in old portsmouth of hampshire, england, roger low sat on a stool by his father's knee, while the light of the fire flickered over the heavy settles and on the rafters above. the man was still in his working clothes, with his hammer and saw at his side. "this new world they tell me of, my boy, must be a wonderful place. those puritan leaders, bradford and standish three years ago, in , took their followers to new england to worship as they pleased. and now the laconia company, of which our own governor, john mason, is a member, has been given a grant of land there." "what can he do with it, father?" roger asked. "they say, lad, the furs of those forests and the fish of those waters would make a big business for england." a knock at the door brought the man to his feet. on opening it, he bowed low to the gentleman waiting. "come in, sir, and be seated." david thompson took the opposite settle, quite ignoring roger, who had risen in respect. absorbed in his own plans this scotchman, thompson, broke out at once, "low, i want you to pick up your tools and come to america with me this spring. governor mason wishes to make a settlement and proposes to establish a manor on his new grant. we will pursue fur trade and fishing, and even hope to cultivate vines and discover mines." it was an astonishing thought to this carpenter, whose son was his only companion. "i should have to take the boy with me," was his first remark, after some thoughtful moments. "certainly," replied david thompson, who knew that the good workmanship of this man was worth an extra passenger. "we shall need the boys in a year or two," he added. final arrangements were completed, and in the spring of , roger and his father sailed with the party for new england. edward hilton and his brother william, who had been fish dealers in london, were on board with equipment for one settlement, while david thompson had charge of the other. from the map which captain john smith had made, the piscataqua river was found. here the coast was thoroughly studied. thompson selected for building the very point at which monsieur champlain once stopped. but the hilton brothers preferred river fishing and continued some eight miles up stream to a point of land called by the indians, winnichannat. it later became a part of dover. thompson's location was at the mouth of a small stream, which led to the main river. he called it little harbor. the hillock on which he planned to build gave a commanding view of the ocean. at the west stretched a salt marsh, of great value to a plantation. small log cabins were quickly constructed, and also a secure building for the abundant provisions. roger worked with the men in landing barrels of pork, kegs of molasses, sacks of oats, and boxes of candles. a securely fastened door not only protected these supplies from the weather, but also kept off the prowling beasts that might find comfortable living on such food. when the excitement of landing and the newness of this life began to wear away, the days seemed much alike. roger asked one morning, "father, shall we see no one but each other again today?" "that is all, my boy, for the plymouth colony is many miles to the south, and there are only a few people between that settlement and our own. the indians are probably up river now for their spring fishing." roger had been eager to see an indian, though he had hoped he might not be alone, for he rather feared them. the days wore on with much monotony. the carpenters were busy building the manor-house. a few men were planting only the most necessary crops. others were making arrangements for the manufacture of salt, which was of first importance. otherwise fish could not be preserved for the markets of england. one day something did happen. at dusk roger passed the cabin where provisions were stored and found the door wide open. it was a law of the settlement that that door be kept closed and barred. the boy darted in to see if any one was there. peering about the kegs and boxes he met a pair of glaring, fiery eyes that glowed through the gloom between himself and the doorway. he screamed. the creature crouched. an added horror came when roger glanced at the door and saw there the dark, stern face of a tall indian with arrow poised. it was aimed not at roger, but at the springing lynx. the whirr of that arrow lived in roger's mind the rest of his days. the boy himself was almost as limp with fright as the creature that was carried by nonowit to the main cabin. for this indian had heard of the new settlement and had travelled miles through the forest to make friends with the white men. he was close behind roger and heard his scream of fright when he ran into the store-house. the settlers, resting from the day's work, were surprised at the appearance of the indian, but still more astonished by roger's story. john, the cook, then confessed that he had come out of the store-house with his arms full, and had forgotten to go back and close the door. the day's excitement was not over, for that night david thompson led into camp captain miles standish of the plymouth colony. he had a hard story to tell of the starving condition of his people. they had compared themselves with the israelites during the famine of egypt, yet the hebrews had their flocks and herds left to them. "however," continued the captain, "the lord has been good to give us the abundant fish of the sea and the spring water, which is all we have, save a few dried peas." he then added that governor bradford had urged him to go even as far as piscataqua to search for food. "and little could we have offered him," spoke up the cook, "if the old lynx and his friends had had a night in our store-house!" much was then given from the ample supply of the settlement, and captain standish returned to plymouth well repaid for his journey. danger for the colonists. five years had passed since roger low and his father had come to america to help establish the mason manor. although david thompson, the leader, had found an island in massachusetts bay more to his liking, still enough settlers remained at piscataqua to make the lower plantation one of importance. edward hilton yet held what was called the upper plantation at dover. one morning, early in the summer of , the mason settlers were disturbed to find that john, the cook, had disappeared. whether the days had become too monotonous for him and he had gone in search of adventure, or had been lost by wandering too far into the woods, no one knew. finally nonowit, who had become fond of roger and had spent much time in teaching him the ways of the woods, was sent with the boy in search of the lost cook. the two started in the direction of the upper plantation. not far from the hilton settlement, the sound of a shot in the woods brought them to a standstill and then to the ground, where they hid in the underbrush. through the clearing they saw a deer fall. they waited breathlessly, expecting next to see the bulky form of john shoulder his game. to their surprise, a tarateen indian glided over the ground to the fallen deer. as he was an enemy, nonowit and roger remained in hiding until they could safely continue their journey. they then carried to the plantation not only news of a lost man, but also the astonishing word that indians were using guns in the woods. such a thing was unheard of. it was against the law of the settlers to trade firearms or ammunition with the indians. how it had been done, or by whom, was a matter that must be looked into at once. the people of the upper plantation had seen nothing of the cook, though that was of small moment now. edward hilton felt it was of utmost importance to return at once with roger and nonowit to the lower plantation. on arriving there, a leader from naumkeag was found who had brought the same disastrous word that the indians were armed. he had received a message to the same effect from weesagascusatt. it threatened serious danger for the colonists. just at dusk a messenger from winnisimmet arrived at piscataqua with the same rumor. by candle light that night a conference of grave importance was held. the naumkeag leader reported that a man named morton had opened his settlement at mount wollaston, mass. to all discontented servants and lawless people. he had changed the name to merrie mount and there he allowed reckless, dissolute living. upon hearing of the loss of the cook, he suggested that he might be found among the merrymakers. worst of all, morton had established a trade of firearms with the indians in order to obtain a greater number of furs. with guns in such skilled and treacherous hands, the white settlers stood in great danger. the discussion that night resulted in an agreement to send letters, pleading for help, to plymouth, which, though it stood in less danger, was a colony stronger than all the rest together. it was also near enough for an approach to morton at merrie mount. roger was asked to carry the letters. with nonowit as his guide, he started out on the following day. it was an adventurous trip, partly by land and partly by sea, for the man from naumkeag was returning by water and carried the two along with him. when well underway by boat, a darkened sky and wild wind drove the small vessel to the isle of shoals for shelter, where they found at anchor "the whale," an english ship soon to cross the ocean. the hurricane was of short duration, and the messengers continued their journey. traveling afoot from naumkeag, they soon noticed fresh footprints on the path, which suggested that someone was not far ahead of them. they continued with increased haste and added caution. nonowit suddenly gave the signal for silence when, not far from the path, they saw through the thicket the broad shoulders of a white man eating by his camp fire. they remained silent until he turned and the jolly face of john was visible. he was doubtless on his way to merrie mount but allowed them to think he was merely off for a change. on learning what had happened and the message they carried, john allied himself to the two and begged to continue with them. after a rough journey, the three arrived at plymouth and delivered the letters, which were most carefully considered by the men of that colony. realizing the serious danger such a center as merrie mount could be to all the settlements, it was decided to send a note of warning to morton. he, however, treated it with scorn and in the same spirit rejected a second appeal. then, with stern determination to take the man by force, captain miles standish started with his company of soldiers. he returned with morton, who was sent as a prisoner to england on "the whale," the very ship the travelers had found about to sail from the isles of shoals. the various colonies shared the expense. roger, nonowit, and john finally arrived home, triumphant with the news of success. but the wrong morton had already done the settlers was never rectified, for the indians had learned the value and power of a gun and never again were content without firearms. strawberry bank. "couldn't he find one anywhere, mother?" asked samuel. "why didn't he keep on looking?" persisted richard, as the two boys braced themselves for the lurch of the vessel which was tossing on a choppy sea. mrs. chadborn steadied herself and continued the story they so loved. "it was almost thirty years ago that martin pring sailed up the river to which we are now going. he searched the forests on either bank for a certain tree which he believed had the power to give people health and happiness. he found the deserted camp fires of the indians, but, even though no savages disturbed his hunt, he sailed away disappointed because he could not find a sassafras tree." "i believe i could find one there," boasted richard, with a secret determination to do so, "for i know how they look." this was in the early summer of . it was a happy day when they landed on the new england shore close by the mason manor house, which had been built eight years before. then it was the only one for many miles. now some eighty men and women of many trades had come to settle about it and to build another which they would call the great house. there was much to interest samuel and richard in the salt works and the flakes where fish were dried, and in the fort which was built on the hillock between the manor-house and the ocean. but a few days after landing, richard, much troubled, hunted for samuel, whom he found fishing from the rocks. "sam, mother's almost sick. father says the voyage has tired her. he thinks she's homesick, too. what can we do about it?" samuel dropped his pole and sighed, "i wish we could find a sassafras tree." "we will," cried richard, jumping to his feet. "father will let us go with him to the place where they are working on the great house. it is several miles away, but we can hunt the woods there and camp with the men until they come back." mr. chadborn readily consented, not knowing what plan the boys had in mind. but he warned them not to stray far, for, once lost, they were at the mercy of the indians and the wild beasts. they made a long search always keeping within the sound of hammers. "i'll keep the path while you examine that tree off there," they constantly agreed, but never did they find one of the right kind. for two days they searched diligently, glad to get back to the cornmeal cakes and pea-porridge, and at night, quite as disappointed as pring and doubtless more tired, they fell upon the bed of boughs their father had laid for them. on the third morning mr. chadborn told them to keep within call, for they were to return to the manor that day. samuel thought quite seriously, while richard lay on the ground discouraged. "what is it, sam?" cried richard, catching a gleam in his brother's eye, and ready always to grasp at a suggestion. "let's make baskets out of bark from a birch tree and fill them with these strawberries for mother." they went to work with much energy, surprised to find how abundantly the berries grew along the banks, and returned to the manor so full of the account of that strawberry patch that their disappointment was almost forgotten. "oh, mother, see what we have found! the bank was covered with berries, even after we had picked all these!" "why, boys, it is just like the home-land! surely captain john smith had described this place well for prince charles to name it new england. already i feel better, for this land is not so strange since home things grow here." the boys found that even the sassafras could not have given her more pleasure. they went to bed that night before dark, contented with their search and anxious to return to the strawberry field. for twenty years the land about the great house was called strawberry bank. though that was almost three hundred years ago and the name was afterward changed to portsmouth, there are now many people in new england, and some outside, who know just what spot is meant when they hear of strawberry bank. the boys' catch. "get off that boat! we can't be bothered by boys on this trip!" edward godfrie, who had charge of the fisheries at mason manor, shouted with stern authority. it was scarcely daybreak on a may morning in . six great shallops lay at anchor off the rocks. five fishing boats were in readiness, while several skiffs were conveying fishermen and equipment for the day's work. godfrie's own boy, hugh, and james williams, regretfully climbed ashore. "leave that seine behind!" was the next order to the boatmen. the stretch of net was pitched out upon the rocks. every available worker at the manor was ready to cast a line or haul a net on this trip, for the biggest catch possible was to be made that day. the warwick, an english trading vessel of the laconia company, had already gone up the piscataqua river and on her return would take a cargo of fish back to england. no later catch could be sufficiently salted and dried. "to feed eighty people every day," grumbled godfrie, "and keep a cargo on hand, can't be done even in these waters." there had been little planting on this shore; so the fish already prepared for market had been eaten by the hungry settlers because of the delayed arrival of the warwick with food supplies. perhaps this accounts for godfrie's irritation and anxiety for a good catch. when the last boat had started, he stepped into a skiff, picked up the oars, and pulled for the fishing fleet. four forlorn boys, for samuel and richard chadborn had joined the others, stood on the shore and watched the sails against the pink of the morning sky. the glorious air and strong salt breeze made the land seem unbearable to them. they wandered to the flakes and on to the salt works. francis williams, james's father, manufactured the salt. "get away from there, boys," he shouted, as they appeared. "a big catch comes in tonight, and we need every grain!" log cabins were scattered about the estate for those who did not live in the hall. horses, cows, pigs, sheep, and goats had their sheds or wandered about at will. however, there was no interest in them for the boys, who sauntered back to the shore from which the boats had started. "there are two skiffs left," suggested hugh. "let's go fishing for ourselves!" "yes!" exclaimed sam, with a new idea. "and why not take that net and stretch it across the narrows in the little harbor? i saw the men do that one day." it was a thought that aroused them all, perhaps because it required both daring and pluck. the net was a weighty one for their muscles, although they were stout, strong fellows for their years. james's father felt relieved as he saw them start. at least the flakes and the salt would be unmolested. however, his attitude changed at sundown when the boys had not returned. the fishing fleet brought back a set of disappointed men, for the catch had not been what was hoped for by many pounds. godfrie's grumbling could be heard before he landed, nor was it lessened when he reached shore to find that his boy, with the others, was missing. the sun set and the moon rose, yet nothing had been seen of the boys. an hour later the distant splash of oars on the quiet waters and excited boy voices brought all the manor folk to the shore. the approach was so slow that there was great fear that some one had been hurt. yet there was an elated tone as the voices came nearer. when they were within shouting distance there came a call for help. a half-dozen strong men jumped into their skiffs and pulled with speed. in a half-hour's time two great boat-loads of fish were pulled ashore. the boys had stretched their net at low water across a narrow part of the stream. as the tide rushed in, it brought fish in a school of unusual size, which, caught by the current, had entered the little harbor instead of the main river. this catch made up for the loss in the day's fishing. men and boys set to work in the moonlight to clean the fish. they then spread them on the flakes for salting and drying. godfrie started a good cargo to the english markets, and each of the four boys carried the title of captain for weeks to come. the forest garden. it was the spring of . richard and samuel had watched the distant horizon for many days. at last came the shout, "a sail! a sail!" later, the warwick dropped anchor. the boys soon climbed aboard, and there they found rebecca gibbons, an english girl, who had started with her mother to join her father, ambrose gibbons, who was helping establish the new hampshire colony for the mason grant. john mason had given the name because of his home in hampshire, england. "then you are going on to newichewannock," explained richard. "your father has built a house there for you. at the falls they have a saw-mill. it is the only one in new england." samuel, who had gone ashore, then returned with a package, which he tucked into rebecca's hands with a whisper. she secretly hid this strange parcel as the vessel started. the warwick left its passengers and supplies at the great house on strawberry bank, and continued up the winding piscataqua, which seemed endlessly long to rebecca. at last a final turn brought to sight the new home, and, best of all, her father, followed by his four helpers, hurrying down to the shore. [illustration] the house was a substantial one. there were also a barn, other small buildings, and a fine well, all surrounded by a palisade which protected the family from wild animals and hostile indians. the saw-mill kept a busy hum on the logs, making boards for immediate use. many were also to be shipped to england on the returning vessel. ambrose gibbons and his men spent their time otherwise: in search for useful ores or minerals, or trading for furs to be sent back to the laconia company, who, in turn, kept the colonists supplied from english stores. perhaps for these reasons the gardens were quite neglected, and so rebecca's strange little parcel proved a double treasure. her spinning done with the spirit of a true pioneer, rebecca explored the surrounding woods and soon knew them quite as well as the nooks and corners of her own dooryard. in one spot there grew a thick undergrowth, through which she crept and discovered a small clearing so closely shut in that it would never have been suspected. "this is the spot for my secret," she declared and began to pull the grass by the roots. the next day she returned with spade and rake, and her mysterious package. it was to be a buried treasure, for here she opened her bundle and planted in various holes the kernels of yellow indian corn which samuel had given her. "there!" she exclaimed, as she patted the loose earth. "this is to be my own secret, till i am quite ready to tell. then i will surprise them." the home people were too much occupied with their own interests to give attention to rebecca's play-time. the newichewannock indians, whose settlement was near by, were camping elsewhere for the summer, so that no one even guessed the garden, or knew how well it was growing. some struggling grape vines and a few vegetables had been planted within the palisade, but small attention had been given to them. in fact, so little gardening had been done that the autumn brought anxious days. no english vessel had come in, nor had the grain from virginia arrived in boston, where it was to be ground at the wind-mill and sent on to strawberry bank. the meal-chest at the newichewannock home was almost empty, and except for fish and game the food supply was low. the situation became serious. ambrose gibbons started, one crisp fall morning, for the bank, hoping to obtain food of some sort. he took one man with him, while the other three with their axes started for a distant point to fell trees, not returning until night. rebecca ran off for awhile that afternoon to inspect her garden, which was now filled with a surprising growth of ripening corn. "it might be picked at once," she whispered to herself. "but i think i will leave it for a big surprise. father may not be able to get us food." quite elated over her splendid crop, she hastened back to the house. she was surprised to find the gate of the palisade open and still more astonished to see a tall figure in the kitchen. her frightened mother was showing the empty meal-chest to a fierce looking indian. rebecca did not then know it was rowls, the sagamore of the newichewannock camp. he had returned ahead of his people with a small but hungry band of indians. "he has come for food, dearie, but i cannot make him understand that we have nothing." rowls straightened himself and by motions again ordered mrs. gibbons to get him food. at the same time he showed a fine beaver skin for exchange. empty cupboards and barrels were opened, but the fierce creature believed the food was hidden and raised his knife as a threat. at this a sudden thought struck rebecca. with energy she motioned for him to wait. then she darted to her secret garden, where she tore the precious ears from the stalks until her arms were full. fearing for her mother in the meantime, she flew back to the house to find that rowls had patiently waited. it was what he wanted. with a satisfied grunt, he took the corn and presented rebecca with the most beautiful beaver skin she had ever seen. after the sagamore had gone and the palisade gate was bolted, rebecca explained her secret garden to her surprised mother. she then for the first time realized the disappointment of not bringing in her own crop, should her father return without food. but just then a whistle was heard outside the gate, and ambrose gibbons was admitted, bowed over with a heavy sack of grain, for the virginia supply had that morning reached strawberry bank. soon after these events a grist-mill was established at newichewannock, and gardens became a matter of more careful consideration. the fur trade the winter had passed since rebecca gibbons had traded her corn crop for a beaver skin. that piece of fur had become a much-beloved treasure to becky. it covered her rag dolls in the daytime and served her as a blanket many a cold night. the winter had been a rough one, filled with severe hardships. in spite of their knowledge of new england winters, even the indians in their encampment close at hand suffered. hostile tribes had at times surrounded the house a hundred strong. added to these troubles there was a great scarcity of provisions, so that a longing for warmer days was coupled with an anxious hope for the returning english vessel. supplies of all kinds were sadly needed. one cold raw day in may, rebecca wandered into the woods to gather early spring flowers. she suddenly realized that, in spite of her usual care, she had strayed beyond the sound of the buzzing mill. searching in vain for a familiar spot, she at last shouted for help. no sound was heard in reply. she dropped to the ground, frightened by the thought of the many awful things that might happen. was that a shadow at her feet? she started suddenly to find standing behind her a silent indian squaw, with a pappoose strapped to her back. without a word the woman turned and rebecca followed, for she had recognized a squaw of the neighboring camp. it was a long walk home. as they passed the newichewannock camp, four forlorn shivering little indians who had been huddling over the dying coals caught her attention. rebecca was stirred by the misery of their cold and hunger, quite forgetting how near her own household were to this same misery. on reaching home, determined to show her thanks for this safe return, the little girl hunted out her fishing pole and started for the river. she hoped to make a catch for these hungry people. she reached the rocks and cast her line like a true fisherman. "captain neal will feel mean enough when he gets here and finds us all starved to death," she murmured as she jerked her pole only to find her line had caught and broken. finally, with the disappointment of no fish, she was turning toward the house when a white gleam on the water caught her eye. it was from the sail of the pide-cowe, the english vessel just rounding the bend. rebecca dashed home with the news. that afternoon cornmeal, salt, beef, butter, sweet oil, oatmeal, and candles were landed within the palisade. there were men's coats, waistcoats, and children's coats, stockings, blankets, rugs, flannel and cotton cloth, as well as fish hooks and lines, lead, hammers, pewter dishes, and iron kettles. indians, gay in fringes and beads, arrived on the scene with loads of fur: otter, mink, fox, and beaver for trade. ragged squaws and shivering pappooses followed. captain neal and his sailors mingled with hearty good cheer among them, while the white settlers acted as tradesmen, happy in the relief which this vessel had brought them. rebecca was wild with excitement. she knew this meant food for everybody. each box and barrel was turned and inspected by miss becky. she poked over the piles of clothing and tried on the children's coats and even the men's coats, anything in fact that struck her fancy. some bright beaded things caught her eye. pulling at the english shag, she drew from the bottom of a pile a queer little garment labeled "pappoose coat." after searching and tugging, she produced five of different sizes. then her eye fell on the group of timid little creatures still clinging to their mother. rebecca knew that at this trading all the furs would go to buy food. her wise little head thought, "these coats would make them so comfortable!" perched on a salt-cask close to the pile she was soon absorbed in her own plans, which were quickly completed. jumping down she excitedly ran to explain them to her mother, who had been watching the trading from the doorway of their home. becky stood on tip-toe, awaiting her mother's decision. after a moment's thought, it came. the child rushed indoors and soon returned with her still beautiful beaver-skin. "captain neal," she cried, before she had fairly reached him. "how many of these pappoose coats will you trade for this beaver?" "you may have all for such a skin as that," he exclaimed as he stroked the soft fur. with the five coats in her own possession, proud little becky begged her mother's help. together they fitted them to the five smallest indian children. trading ceased for a moment, while all eyes turned to the funny sight of these wild little creatures in english clothing. the settlers and seamen laughed aloud, while even the stolid faces of the old warriors looked pleased. coats, shirts, and kettles. during the winter of - , at least three feet of snow remained on the ground from november th until march th. broken ice was still in the rivers, when in march a coaster started from boston with mrs. wheelwright and her five children and also friends of hers with their children. little thomas, quite as round as the small iron kettle which he carried under his plump arm, trudged up the plank to the deck. "mother, see what tom has!" exclaimed susan with some disgust. "never mind, child," came the tired reply. "that kettle was forgotten in packing, and, if it pleases him, do let him keep it." there were children enough on board to make the party a merry one in spite of the sharp cold winds. the vessel turned northward, rounded the coast to the piscataqua river, and pushed its way among the ice chunks even into great bay, not stopping until it came to the foot of the falls in squamscot river. the rev. john wheelwright and several of his followers had already spent the winter about piscataqua. the rough cabins, now built for their families, were not so comfortable nor so well furnished as the home rebecca gibbons had found at newichewannock. the children were delighted with the wild woods. the month gave them some warm spring-like days, and they soon established a play camp for themselves not far from the cabins. edward and joseph built a wigwam pointed at the top like those of the squamscot indians who camped along the river. "look," cried susan with delight as she rested three poles together at the top, "this will stand over our fire, and we can swing tom's kettle from it." but tom and the kettle were missing. at last he was found in the curled roots of an old oak, scratching the picture of an indian on the rough surface of his treasured kettle, which he was persuaded to use for the new play. the fun went with zest until susan was called into the house. "there, dear," explained her mother, passing her an armful of woolen stuff, "you must take my needle and finish this seam, while i prepare these birds for a stew. this is the last of six shirts your father wished completed soon." susan seated herself by the fireside on a stool, which was merely a tree stump, for their furniture was of the roughest kind. her mother quickly plucked the feathers from the wild fowl that had just been brought in and prepared them for the kettle that hung on the crane over the hearth fire. "oh, may we have that little one, mother, for our camp?" begged susan. "we want to make a stew out there in tom's kettle." her mother consented and laid the bird aside, while susan watched carefully to see just how the stew was made. when it began to boil, her mother picked up the sewing and told her to run and play again. the children soon had a fire crackling and the fowl stewing. they sat delightedly about it, planning many fine uses for the little black kettle with its three short legs. then edward and joseph started on a scouting trip, but returned later with eyes that told of something more real than play. "we've found an indian boy, a real one, susan, lying on the ground as if he were sick." "then," replied susan quickly, "take him some of our broth. i am sure it will help him. there it is, just as good as mother's," she exclaimed, as she gave a final taste and poured out a bowlful. some half dozen children followed the boys and soon circled about a frightened indian lad stretched on the ground. in a trice, susan had propped him up and was feeding him with the stew, which seemed to revive him. soon he allowed the children to lead him back to their wigwam, where he dropped again to the ground. they brought him food from the house, and then to amuse him they showed their black kettle and pointed out the indian tom had scratched on its side. though the lad said nothing, his fear was gone, and his eyes were wide with interest. suddenly a shadow fell across the path, and the little indian's face brightened. there stood a full-grown indian of the piscataqua tribe. it was nonowit, though these children did not know him. the little fellow was his son, assacon, who had lost his father on this hunting trip and had become exhausted for want of food. not only nonowit, but other indians began to arrive at the new settlement. white men landed on the shore with loads of woolen shirts and heavy coats like those sent on the english vessels; even iron kettles were lifted from their boats. the next day, which was april rd, , wehanownowit, sagamore of the piscataquas, pummadockyon, his son, and aspamabough arrived with many of their tribe. the squamscot indians and others gathered together with the white men in their clearing by the river. the questioning children begged of their fathers to know what it all meant. they were told that, as the men of the plymouth colony had thought it just and kind to pay the indians for the use of their lands, so mr. wheelright had urged the men of the new hampshire settlement to do the same. a deed was made out to the indians, promising the land of a certain district for settlement by the white men, but reserving the privilege for the indians to hunt and fish there. payment was to be made in money as well as coats, shirts, and kettles. the white men signed their names, but the indians could not write. the children then saw wehanownowit with the point of a wild goose quill make his mark of a man holding a tomahawk. pummadockyon drew a man with a bow and arrow, and aspamabough, who also signed the deed, drew for his mark an arrow and bow. and thus a friendly feeling was established between the natives and the colonists at the time of this settlement, which grew to be the town of exeter, named for the one in england. when the coats, the shirts, and the kettles of varying sizes were shouldered, the indians started homeward. the children then hurried back to their camp and soon found that their own play-kettle was gone. after many inquiries it was learned that in the confusion of things someone had caught it up and tossed it upon the pile of kettles offered to the indians. the children were bitterly disappointed and sorely missed the loved plaything. nor could another be spared from the limited home supply. weeks went by, and the children still played in their camp. one day, while all were gone on a play-search for food, joseph was left on guard in a hollow tree with merely a peep-hole through which to watch. he heard the cracking of a twig; to his surprise, something moved cautiously through the bushes. it was a real indian boy. he crept to the wigwam door, peeped in, and then thrust in his arm. joseph could not tell whether it was to take or to leave something. as the lad turned, he proved to be assacon. before joseph could scramble from the tree, the indian was gone, frightened perhaps by the voices of the returning children. together they hurried to the wigwam, and there in the center stood the little black kettle with the same picture that tom had scratched upon it. assacon had found it in his own camp. in some way he had secured it and, in appreciation of their goodness to him, had traveled some ten miles to return it. winnicunnet. in the days when no lines were drawn between massachusetts and new hampshire, the general court of massachusetts had an eye open for a stretch of salt-marsh a few miles north of the merrimac river, near the sea. the forests were so thick that feeding places for the cattle were difficult to find. here on these marshes salt was added to the food, which in those days was considered a most valuable possession. for that reason it was agreed that three men from newbury and ipswich should build a house on the edge of the marsh. so on an october day in they went in a shallop up the winding winnicunnet river. where hampton now stands, they built of logs the bound house, to make good the claim of massachusetts to the marsh. soon others followed, and the little settlement of winnicunnet grew up in the wilderness, miles from other neighbors, except the indians who had pitched their wigwams in the vicinity. their trails along the river and over the marshes to the sea were used by the white men in hunting and fishing. in this same wilderness elizabeth dwelt in a cabin of logs, yet not without playmates or playthings. chewannick, an indian boy who lived in a wigwam, came often to play with her, and the little black lamb that was born in the spring was given to elizabeth for her very own. as soon as she found it was hers, she called chewannick within the palisade to see the little black thing with legs like sticks. "when it is old enough to be sheared," she explained, "i shall help to do that myself. then my mother will help me to card its nice black wool, and we will spin it into long threads. i shall then weave a thick cloth, which will make me a warm winter cloak." chewannick stood with wide-open eyes understanding by elizabeth's motions much of what she was telling him. together they made the little creature a comfortable bed in the big yard outside the cabin. it was most necessary to have the high fence built about the house to protect the garden from foxes and other prowling creatures, and to keep the wolves and the bears away from the cattle and sheep at night. through the day, the gate stood open. the cows and sheep wandered off to the marsh grass, and the children came and went as they wished, but before the sun went down, every creature was driven home, and the children were safely inside when the gate was barred. when elizabeth petted her little black lamb at night, she could hear the howl of the wolves through the woods and often the growl of a bear just outside the enclosure. one day when the children were outside the palisade, chewannick attempted to climb it. elizabeth laughed and declared he could not do it. he then fastened a prop between the closely planted posts and tried again, but he could not spring with enough force to get over. again and again on succeeding days he tried, determined at every failure to reach the top some day. late one afternoon as the cows came wandering in at their usual hour, the children watched the sheep huddle together. elizabeth noticed that the little black lamb was not with them. "and the sheep came from the woods, not the marsh," she added after her first word of surprise. "come, chewannick, we must find my lamb!" unnoticed by her mother, who was busy in the yard, elizabeth led the indian boy over the well trodden path to the woods. already the sun had dropped, but on and on the children went until they paused to listen. from the far-distance came a faint cry like that of a child. "it is my precious, black woolly lamb!" cried elizabeth, frantically. "it is in the thorn bushes!" farther still they pushed into the woods, hardly noticing how dark the shadows were growing. the cry seemed close at hand. "yes, here's my darling lamb!" elizabeth tugged at the poor little thing, caught by its woolly fleece in the long sharp thorns of a bush. "help, chewannick, pull hard!" great tufts of black wool were left on the bush, but the frightened little creature was freed at last. the woods seemed very dark by that time, as they half pulled, half carried the lamb homeward. darker still it grew. howls could be heard in the distance. the children hurried on. suddenly a wolf barked on their very trail. they were then within sight of the house, but with horror they saw that the gate was closed. the hastening wolf had caught the scent of the lamb. the children tried to shout, but they could make no sound. chewannick bounded ahead. with desperate force he sprang upon the fence, grasped the top, and fairly fell over the other side. he had the door unbarred for elizabeth and the lamb, as the fiery eyes of the wolf could be seen but a few rods up the path. the gate was closed in time to shut the creature out, while elizabeth's surprised mother caught up her little girl as if she feared the wolf might even then spring through the bolted door. the crystal hills. those who sailed the sea came always to these shores with accounts of the white and shining hills seen far back over the land. from other travelers were gathered wonderful tales of lakes stocked with delicate fish, fine forests rich in game, and fair valleys abounding in fruits, nuts, and vines. the immediate needs of the settlements held most of the colonists close to their homes, but the spirit of adventure was too strong for darby field. it was soon reported among the few households of exeter that he was going to explore the country to the north, an enterprise which was of great interest to them all. he hoped to find gold and precious stones added to all the other wonders. it was thought that a trip of a hundred miles might take him to the river of canada, or perhaps to the great lakes. susan, edward, joseph, and all the other children stood about with wide-eyed wonder at the courage and daring that could carry one so far into an unknown wilderness. with two indians as companions, and a pack strapped to his back, darby field waved his good-bye to the group of settlers and started off. for some forty miles they traveled past lakes large and small, over indian trails, and through pathless forests. from this time on they seemed to be tramping upward. field felt sure that they had reached the lower slopes of the shining hills so often seen from the sea. [illustration] at last they climbed to a moss-grown level. here they found an encampment of some two hundred indians, who proved to be friendly. the travelers rested and looked about. not far away appeared [a]"a rude heap of massive stones, piled upon one another a mile high, on which one might ascend from stone to stone, like a pair of winding stairs." darby field was moved by the charm of that peak which seemed to be the highest of all. when he expressed a determination to climb to the top, the indians, horrified at the thought, begged him for his life to refrain. it was, they assured him, agiochook, the abode of the great spirit whom they could see in the clouds about the summit. his voice could be heard in the thunder of the storms from cliff to cliff. the winds were manifestations of his power. his gentleness was revealed through the sunset colors that lingered on the slopes. this sacred mountain had never been climbed by an indian. now they begged the white man not to risk his life. in spite of this warning, darby field persisted in his plan. a group of indians accompanied him to within eight miles of the top. there they waited for his return, for this daring act was of great concern to them. the two indians who had followed field from home took courage by his example and held to the party, which was undoubtedly the first that ever climbed our mount washington. from the summit they saw waters to the westward, which they thought to be the great lake from which the canada river flows. to the north, the country was said to be [a]"daunting terrible, full of rocky hills as thick as mole hills in a meadow, and clothed with infinite thick woods." perhaps the outlook was too terrible for adventure, for after they had picked up clear shining stones which proved to be crystals, they descended the mountain and presented themselves safe to the waiting indians. then instead of continuing their explorations, they decided to return home. after an absence of eighteen days, they reached home. on a cold night in june of , the grown folk and children gathered about a blazing hearth to hear of the country that lay to the north. the travelers reported a wonderful trip of at least a hundred miles from home. they felt sure that their discovery of the great lakes [a]"wanted but one day's journey of being finished," but for lack of sufficient provisions they had been obliged to return. the glistening stones were passed on to the wondering children, and field announced that he had gone as far as the crystal hills,--the name at one time of the white mountains of new hampshire. [footnote a: quoted from jeremy belknap's history of new hampshire, chapter i.] the denmark cattle. the thread dropped from the spinning wheel as elizabeth earnestly leaned forward in the firelight, that late afternoon of may in . "uncle richard, is there any school for boys--" "sh! here comes your father!" whispered her uncle. francis norton, absorbed in thought, entered the large east room of mason manor house and wandered to the window, where he scanned the ocean distance for a sail. elizabeth silently picked up her thread. "things have become serious, richard," exclaimed norton. "since mason's death, few supplies have come from england, as you know, and the amounts due the workers here have long been unpaid. i am here to manage the mason affairs and consequently get the blame, yet my own interests are at stake. my boy must be educated--" "oh, i say, father, six cows are missing!" it was a rugged, healthy boy who burst into the room. "they have wandered off somewhere, and now it's milking time. shall i hunt them up?" norton continued his conversation, quite ignoring his son, who respectfully awaited his father's reply. "there is a school at cambridge, near boston. the only one i know of in new england. a charlestown minister, john harvard, left eight hundred pounds for it a few years ago--" "don't lose those cows, francis," interrupted his brother-in-law. "they are a valuable lot, a denmark breed sent over by mason, while i was a boy." jacob then caught a nod of assent from his father and cast a quick glance at his sister, elizabeth, whose wheel was again whirring busily. she jumped to her feet. "may i go too, father?" she cried. he gave his consent absent-mindedly and then turned to the subject in question. meantime the girl and boy chased off together. "i believe the cows have wandered through the woods to the salt-marsh," declared elizabeth; so they turned in that direction, following a crooked path for a long time. at last a breaking of the bushes opened a way to the discovery of five of the cows. the children were pushing on for the sixth, when a distant shout was heard on the opposite shore of the marshy stream. there in the mud and mire stood a horse and rider. each step plunged them deeper and brought them nearer to the stream. "is this the ford?" the stranger called. jacob at once saw he had mistaken a cow-path for a trail. "back, quick!" cried the frightened children. "you cannot cross there!" the horse, about to plunge again, turned suddenly, while the children shouted the direction to the ford, much farther up the stream. the last cow had by that time appeared. driving the six ahead, jacob and elizabeth wondered together who the strange rider might be, and then turned their discussion to family affairs which kept the home atmosphere constantly clouded. "elizabeth, i must find some way to go to school," declared jacob, "but i know father cannot send me now. they say all the furs, lumber, and fish that have been sent from here to england cannot cover the expense of these people. what can be done?" "we must find a way, jacob," replied elizabeth thoughtfully, "for you to go to that cambridge school called harvard college. all boys ought to be educated." she gave no thought to herself, for in those days girls were taught only home interests. still deep in conversation, the children reached home to find that the same stranger, caught so dangerously on the marshes, had arrived at the manor. he brought francis norton a written message, which had come by way of boston from a newly-arrived english ship. norton, standing at the door while the rider waited, read the word and exclaimed-- "so we're to shift for ourselves! the owners of the mason property can no longer be responsible for their new hampshire estate." many settlers who had come for the purpose of furthering the interests of this estate were involved in this crisis. with no returns from england and back dues long unpaid, the situation seemed hard and serious. some of the occupants claimed the land they lived upon; some the creatures they cared for; but the most daring of all was the plan of francis norton. jacob heard it first and hurried the astonishing news to elizabeth, whom he found at the well. "beth, father is going to drive a hundred oxen to boston, almost sixty miles! he is to sell them there! what is more, we are all to go with him!" this crafty plan was actually carried out. it was a long, slow journey, but successfully made. the cattle sold in boston at twenty pounds sterling a head, the current price of that day, which brought norton a snug little sum. he did not return to strawberry bank, but established a home in charlestown. he was then able to give jacob an education. the cut of the hair. so many settlers had come to new hampshire that, as early as , the need of a government was felt, and therefore massachusetts was asked to extend her law to this colony. it was then arranged for two deputies to represent new hampshire life in the general court of massachusetts. on a summer's day in , at the boat-landing not far from the great house, the power of this general court was under discussion by jonathan low and thomas berry, as they threw their lines into the river and waited for the fish to bite. "the court can make a man do anything!" remarked jonathan. thomas seemed to doubt it. "my father has told me," continued jonathan, "that not more than four years ago mr. williams bought an african slave from captain smith. the general court considered it wrong for a man to own a slave and made mr. williams give him up. then they sent the black man home to africa." "hush, here comes mr. williams now! who is that with him?" "that," replied jonathan, "is ambrose gibbons. they are both magistrates." evidently the men were talking on the same subject that was interesting the boys, for, as ambrose gibbons stepped into his boat, he remarked emphatically, "the court has the power to control this evil. hugh peters returned to england a few years ago and announced before parliament that he had not seen a drunken man, nor heard a profane oath during the six years he had spent in the colonies. we can surely then control this ungodly habit that is threatening to corrupt us." the boys were alert to find out what the evil might be. "as magistrates," replied williams, "we control undue pride and levity of behavior. we oblige the women to wear their sleeves to their wrists and close their gowns about their throats. our men must now overcome this sinful habit of wearing the hair long." gibbons picked up his oars, remarking, "we will enforce the law after we have met the governor and deputies, as is planned." he pushed off his boat, and williams walked thoughtfully away, while the boys agreed that the court was a power. for several days the matter remained in jonathan's mind. he noticed as never before the trig little cuffs about his mother's wrists, and the narrow collar that enclosed her throat. he was so troubled by the long hair that swept his father's shoulders that, at last, one afternoon he talked the matter over with his mother as she sat by the open door. they both knew roger low to be a determined man and slow to accept new customs. little mary was playing with her dolls under the spreading lilac bushes. she glanced at the two as they talked earnestly together and caught bits of the conversation, but continued with her play. after an early tea jonathan and his mother wandered down by the river, while roger low, the father, weary with a hard day's work, settled himself in his big chair and soon dropped to sleep. little mary had put her dolls to bed and, feeling much alone, snuggled close to her sleeping father. looking at the long locks as they hung from his bent head, she recalled the afternoon's conversation. "his hair is too long," she thought. "jonathan says it is not right to wear long hair." stepping to the shelf she took down the scissors and quickly gave a delicious snip to her father's thick locks. another snip-snap and more hair fell. the sleeping man roused a little, but finding only his little mary playing about him, nodded off again. his head this time fell in a more favorable position for mary to continue the clipping, which she did most thoroughly. it was dark when her mother returned and passed her sleeping husband to put mary to bed. just what happened in that home the next day i cannot tell you, but roger low appeared to the towns-people with closely cut hair, an astonishing example, just as the proclamation of the magistrates was announced. it read as follows: [a]"for as much as the wearing of long hair, after the manner of ruffians and barbarous indians, has begun to invade new england, we, the magistrates do declare and manifest our dislike and detestation against the wearing of such long hair, as against a thing uncivil, and unmanly, whereby men do deform themselves and do corrupt good manners. we do, therefore, earnestly entreat all elders of this jurisdiction to manifest their zeal against it, that such as shall prove obstinate and will not reform themselves, may have god and man to witness against them." [footnote a: adams, annals of portsmouth. page .] cynthia's bear "yes, we have given up the name of strawberry bank," exclaimed richard chadborn, as he settled back before the bright firelight on a sharp october evening in . his brother samuel had just returned from his clearing in rhode island, and was eager to know all that had happened in the years of absence. "the townsmen petitioned the general court of massachusetts," richard continued, "to change the name to portsmouth, 'it being the river's mouth and good as any in the land'." but the name of strawberry bank had caught the ears of hannah and small sam, who rushed to the spot begging for the story of the first berries picked there by these very men when they were boys. uncle samuel pulled the two children to his knees, offering instead a true bear story. "now, all this happened," he explained, "to my cynthia and john, your cousins, way down in rhode island. they had been to the edge of the clearing and had gathered a basket of fine blackberries for their mother. "'just what i want for a pasty,' she told them, 'and so well picked that i will make you a gingerbread man for dinner.' "their eyes shone like the berries, as their mother pulled the molasses pitcher from the shelf. but there was not a drop in it. "'our very last,' she reported, as she looked into the keg in the corner. "the shine went out of their eyes until cynthia suggested that she and john go to the neighbors and borrow some. their mother hesitated, for the children had never been there alone, but those little things looked so disappointed that she let them go. "well, they got there all right, i suppose, and had the pitcher filled. they started home, probably talking about their gingerbread dolls, when little john called out eagerly, 'see the big dog, sister; he is coming right to us!' "cynthia knew that the creature was a bear. the sight of him so startled her that she jerked the pitcher and spilled a great spot of molasses on the ground. "the bear was very near by that time and ran for the molasses. "'run, johnny, run!' cynthia cried, pulling him on. she stopped a moment later to pour out more molasses for the hungry bear, who was already chasing after them. "'run, johnny, run!' she cried again, anxious not to lose a moment for those little short legs, and so the two kept on. when the last drop of molasses was poured out, and cynthia had dropped the pitcher for the bear, little john stubbed his toe and fell just before the turn of the path to the cabin. "now it happened," explained uncle samuel, "that a few minutes before this accident word had reached me that two bears had been seen in the woods that morning, and i had rushed home to say that the children must not go out. before i had finished speaking, their mother had grabbed the gun from the wall and had dashed down the path. "i tore ahead with my musket. we made the turn as the bear was bounding away from the well-licked pitcher after the children. "they had no gingerbread dolls that day, but later i brought them home a fine bearskin rug, on which they now sit for their bedtime stories." the witches of . strawberry bank had not only taken the name of portsmouth, but other changes had also crept in. in place of logs, houses were built of bricks burned in the dooryard; or else were constructed of frames of oak, often with pitched roofs that sloped to the ground. it was in such a house as this that hannah puddington lived. old buff, her large, yellow cat, would sometimes run to the ridgepole and from there watch for the river boats as they returned with fresh fish. one april morning old buff hungrily followed little hannah to the landing, where she went with her mother to secure a fresh supply of fish to salt and dry, as well as some to cook at once. as they returned, goodman trimmings stopped them to tell of the sad condition of his wife. "she has surely been bewitched by goody walford, whom she met in the woods. when she first came home, she could not speak. her breathing troubled her, but later she complained that her back was as a flame of fire and her limbs numb with cold. goody walford told her that she would take a long journey but would never return, and then the witch seemed to vanish in the shape of a cat. my wife has since been very ill." [illustration] goodwife puddington listened with alarm. "how frightful to find witchcraft on our own shores! charlestown and salem have been so invaded by it. there even children have been accused." fearfully she grasped little hannah by the hand and hurried home. when the fish were well cooked, mrs. puddington laid one temptingly on a hot pewter plate and covered it. "there, hannah, take this to goodwife trimmings. it may tempt her appetite. yes, little jacob may go with you." old buff followed the two children down the grassy path and through a short stretch of woods to the neighbor's. as they returned, hannah saw a queer looking figure digging roots in the woods. her waistcoat and petticoat were red; her old apron green. she wore a black hat over a white linen hood tied under her chin. it was goody walford. friendly old bluff darted to her side, while hannah seized jacob's hand and ran for home. her haste and fright moved the little fellow to howls and tears. "stop," commanded hannah, "you must not cry, for then they will say that i have bewitched you, and may be they will hang me as they do the salem witches." he caught her meaning, though he did not fully understand, and manfully gulped back his sobs. another fear came. hannah had seen the old witch stretch out her hand and stroke the soft, yellow fur of old buff. "she might have bewitched him," thought the little girl, "but i'll tell no one." at noon hannah's father came in with more trouble to tell of goody walford. her husband would not let her feed his cattle for fear she would bewitch them. after sunset goodwife evans, frightened by the reports, came to the puddington house and begged that she might stay for the night. "i am followed by a yellowish cat wherever i go. i am sure 'tis the witch work of goody walford. oh, don't open that door!" she cried. "it will come in." she dropped trembling to the settle. little hannah's fright was quite as great in her secret fear that old buff might be the witch-cat. she gasped when she saw her father take his gun from the wall. "we'll put an end to these witch-cats," he declared, and stalked out. hannah held her breath in fear. she heard no shot, however. at last her father came in and looked over his gun. "it wouldn't work," he muttered. "there is more witchwork going on inside this house," his wife remarked as she looked over his shoulder at the gun. "your new stockings that i finished last week have holes in them already." when on the following morning a large hole was found under the door that led to the shed, the family blame was directed to old buff. he was without doubt the yellowish cat that had followed goodwife evans. hannah had not seen her dearly loved pet since she had left him in the woods the day before. she feared to have him come home, yet her heart yearned for old buff. that day it was discovered that much of the homemade soap stored under the pitch of the roof had disappeared. "cat-witchery it surely is!" declared mrs. puddington. little hannah, miserably unhappy, tossed in her bed that night. perhaps she slept a little. she was, however, quick to awake upon hearing a cry at her window. like a flash she bounded out of bed, pushed up the sash, and pulled in her own dear buff. "you're not bewitched, i know you're not, my dear old buff. you wouldn't cry in that same old way if you were! come quick and let me hide you so you won't get shot!" she pushed the cat under the bedclothes and in her happy relief dropped to sleep. in the morning old buff, proud and dignified, sat like a king before the kitchen fire, while at his feet lay the body of the huge rat he had killed. it was the rat that had eaten the stockings, had gnawed the door, and had carried off the soap, afterward found in the walls. old buff was the hero of the house. this strange experience of the puddington household was told throughout the village. some were satisfied that witchery was no longer to be feared, but others still held their belief. in course of time, however, the witch acts believed of jane walford were forgotten. the wolves of portsmouth. john hinkson led his saddled horse from the stable one september morning in . things had gone hard with john, for taxes were due, and bills were demanding immediate payment. as he needed money at once, he was now starting for exeter to borrow, if possible, from his brother peter, until his grist-mill should bring him the fall returns. as he mounted the horse, his wife opened the door. "john," she asked, "if you go to peter's home, do not fail to ask miranda for a bottle of her pine syrup. i ought not to be without it, for already little anthony has a heavy cold. when shall you be back?" "i must return on wednesday," john replied, "for there is to be a town-meeting that afternoon." then, adjusting his gun, he called, "good-bye," and was off. when wednesday came, and the townsmen had gathered at their meeting, john hinkson was not there. thomas keats, whose home was on the outskirts of portsmouth, reported that hinkson had passed his house on the way to exeter a day or two before, but had not yet returned. richard webster remarked that he had just spoken with mrs. hinkson at her gate. she was looking anxiously for john. their boy was seriously ill, and she needed the medicine john would bring. she was equally worried lest in his delay night should overtake him, when there was grave danger of attack by wolves. another townsman emphatically declared: "it seems as if measures should be taken immediately to overcome this pest of wolves. there is no safety in the woods after dark, and even our door-yards are in danger from straggling beasts. since portsmouth has grown to be a town of a hundred inhabitants, though we are widely scattered, we ought to be able to make some headway against them." the meeting was then called to order, and that very question was placed under formal discussion. meanwhile, john hinkson had reached exeter, only to find that his brother was crippled for funds and could give him no help. he obtained the syrup that his sister-in-law had made from the pine sap and, after indulging in a short visit, made an early start for home. the roads were very rough, and the horse loosened a shoe on the way. his progress was so slow that darkness had overtaken hinkson by the time he had reached the isolated home of thomas keats on the edge of portsmouth. the rider kept on his way, hoping that the distant cries he heard might not come nearer. he was less than half a mile from keats' home when the howl of the wolves became more distinct. soon he knew that a pack was on his trail. the horse seemed to sense his master's fear and dashed forward. at a bend in the path hinkson turned and caught the gleam of the fiery eyes in full speed behind him. he fired, and the pack stopped to devour the fallen leader, while the horse plunged on. again hinkson's good aim brought another wolf to the ground, but a few of the pack, mad with the taste of blood, kept on in hot pursuit. hinkson brought down a third and dodged a fourth that sprang at the horse's flanks. again the wolf jumped and would have crippled horse and rider had not the crack of another gun sounded upon the frosty air. it belonged to thomas keats, then on his way home from town meeting. the wolves, frightened by the double-attack and weakened in numbers, slunk away into the woods. "this is a lucky shot for you, hinkson," called keats. "the town today voted a bounty of five pounds for every head, provided the nearest neighbor would stand witness that they were shot within the town's boundaries. i'm that neighbor, and i'll stand witness for you." then, as john hinkson fastened his bloody trophies to the saddle, keats added, "the heads must be nailed to the meeting-house door." the two men parted and later hinkson rode into his own dooryard, where he found an anxious little wife. she begged for the pine syrup, for her little anthony was choking with croup. one glance at the saddle told of the story yet to be heard, but not until an hour of troubled watching had passed could she listen. the little boy then rested in comfortable sleep, and john related to his wife his exciting adventure with the wolves, adding, "i have brought home four heads, which give me twenty pounds bounty. with my good eye and my steady gun, i can yet relieve the town of an even greater number, and taxes at least will be paid." the king's fort. little peter white was so filled with the pride he took in his older brother thomas that he had no thought for himself. thomas was just sixteen years old, which was a very important matter that june of , when king charles the second of england ordered the harbors of the new england colonies fortified. although the king's commissioners had had some trouble with the general court, nevertheless, the governor and council of massachusetts had appointed a committee to visit the new hampshire settlements and determine upon the most suitable place for a fort. the eastern point of great island, now known as new castle, had been the spot selected. the matter of building had been left to the decision of the townsmen of portsmouth. now it happened that little peter was feeding his pet rabbits with plantain just outside the doors of the town-meeting that afternoon of june th. as the dignified men adjourned from the gathering, they still discussed the measures adopted for the erection of the fort. peter's sharp ears overheard the mystic words "sixteen years." had not his thomas reached that wonderful age? they must be speaking of him. peter caught every word that followed, and although the conversation was not about his thomas, it was of utmost interest to peter. with a white rabbit under one arm and a brown bunny bulging from the other, peter ran full tilt down the beaten path to his snug home on the river bank, where thomas was weeding the garden. "oh, tom," cried the little fellow excitedly, "you are to help build the king's fort at great island, because you are sixteen years old." this surprising news was explained a few minutes later when the boys' father returned from the meeting. eager to learn what was meant, tom rested on his rake with an inquiring look in his eyes. mrs. white, who from within the house had caught peter's words, had come to the rose-arbored doorway, while peter, still hugging his rabbits, called, "tell them, father." "it has been voted," explained abram white, "that every dweller in this town, above the age of sixteen years, shall promise a week's work on the new fort before next october. he must be there from seven in the morning until six at night and will be paid three shillings a day. the king has sent eleven guns, six pounders, to defend the fort." "just think, tom, you're to work on the king's fort!" exclaimed little peter, fairly bursting with brotherly pride, for a direct order from the king seemed to the little boy a great honor. "that will mean another pound for harvard," replied practical tom as he bent again to the rake. harvard college, the only institution of learning in the country at that time, was the ambition of many a growing lad in the remote districts. when the call actually came for tom to work on the fort, peter announced, "i'll do the home work while tom's away. i'll weed the gardens and drive the cows to pasture." "you'll be my right-hand man," declared his father with a gentle slap on the little fellow's back. for six days tom had taken the early start, rowing down the river to great island and then at a brisk pace crossing it to the ocean side, where fortifications were being erected for protection from attack by sea. on the last morning his father, whose week was just beginning, accompanied him. peter in consequence felt himself doubly important as the only man at home. in the forenoon as he was passing the boat-landing, he chanced to see the basket containing the dinners which had been forgotten. "they must have it," thought peter and stepped into the one remaining boat, which he pushed into the stream. peter had had little experience alone on the water. so interested was he in watching the boat swing into the current of the outgoing tide, that he did not notice the darkening clouds above. soon there came a flash followed by the deep roll of thunder. the swift piscataqua tide held the boat amid stream, and the small arms could turn it neither to the right nor the left. flash and roar repeatedly followed each other. the boat swung past the usual landing on great island and on down the river. as the wind tossed the water into white-caps, peter, who had long before pulled in the oars, clung frightened to the sides. on sped the small craft until it had rounded the curve to the great ocean beyond. dinner time had come for the men at the fort, but tom and his father, with nothing to eat, stood on the rocks, watching the ocean toss in this yet rainless storm. suddenly a little boat swept into sight from the river. above its side was seen a small head too far away to be recognized. instantly the two watchers, with the same thought, dashed for a boat drawn up on the shore. pushing it off, they jumped in and grasped the oars. with strong, even strokes they made steady headway, while the stray boat plunged on and out into the sea. it was a mighty pull even for sturdy arms, but nearer and nearer they came until they saw the pale, frightened face of their own little peter. with redoubled energy, they overtook the little fellow and held his boat while he scrambled into theirs, announcing, as he lifted the lunch basket over, "i was bringing your dinner to you." thankfully they carried him safe to shore, where together they ate with relish the rescued dinner. early that afternoon peter's father took him home to relieve the anxiety he knew the boy's mother must be feeling. when tom returned that night with his newly-earned shillings, he passed half of them over to peter. "there, pete, put them aside for college. harvard will want such a man as you will make." peter went to bed that night, happy with the new thought that he, himself, might some day go to college. little jane's gentians. "have you never seen a fringed gentian?" asked little blue-eyed jane. "if you will go down that path with me, i'll show you where they grow." benjamin was about to follow, when his father reined in his horse at the gate and called, "come, ben, we must start for home!" "never mind," whispered little jane, "i'll bring one to you at the meeting-house on the sabbath." john cutts lifted his boy to the horse's back, and with the bag of meal behind the saddle they started homeward over beaten paths through the woods to the clearing, some two miles from the settlement. this happened as long ago as , when the fire on the hearth was the only kind used. benjamin was glad to get close to it this cold fall night, as he listened to his father's account of the many wolves shot that week, whose heads, benjamin knew, would be hung on the meeting-house door until the captors received their bounty. on sunday morning john cutts examined his musket closely, for he dared not start to meeting without it. indians as well as wolves were feared. his wife sat on the horse behind him, and benjamin rode before. traveling over the narrow paths, they passed but few people on their way. sunday was a day of fear for benjamin, for outside the church door was built a large wooden cage which held the stocks, while a pillory was constructed on top, both of which were to hold in most uncomfortable positions those who disturbed the meeting. inside the church his mother sat on one side, his father on the other. benjamin was always left at the back with a row of boys under the piercing eye of nicholas bond, the tything man, who kept strict order with his rod and an occasional nod to the cage outside. on this particular morning when benjamin dropped into his seat at the end of the row and near the door, he thought seriously of the whispered word he had overheard outside. "little jane is lost. there are several searching parties out!" "this is the morning," thought benjamin, "that little jane was going to bring me the gentians. i wonder if anyone would think of searching that path for her!" he glanced at the unusual number of wolves' heads hung on the door and thought of those still living in the woods. the guns stacked by the doorway suggested lurking indians. his fear for little jane's safety so increased that he became restless and soon received a sharp rap on the shins from the tything man. it was during the long prayer when all heads were bowed that his fear for jane became greater than his fear of the cage. could it be that nicholas bond was nodding? benjamin slipped from his seat, crept out the door, and flew down the road outside. the risk was great, for if he should be caught, the horror of the cage awaited him. he was soon out of sight of the church and had turned down the gentian path without meeting any one. he knew enough of woodcraft to break a branch here and turn a stone there to mark his way. the gentians were found, and some had been picked, but jane answered none of his shouts. he returned the same way until he found a branching path. "she might have taken that by mistake," he thought. it was a long search before benjamin came upon the little girl asleep on the ground, with her hands full of gentians. "oh, jane, jane, wake up and come quickly! the wolves or the indians might find us!" together they ran down the path to the turn and up the right one to the church, which they reached just as the people came out, troubled by the disappearance of benjamin. a searching party came from the opposite direction, and jane's father caught his little girl up in his arms, while benjamin told his part of the story. his father proudly patted him on the back and swung him up on the saddle, but little jane scrambled to her feet and darting to his side reached up her plump little hand, exclaiming, "i picked these gentians for you, benjamin!" the church law it was now . four years had passed since jane fryer gathered the gentians for benjamin. her father, jonathan fryer, had moved from the neighborhood of the meeting-house far up the river-side, where he found better land for cultivation. he still held a strong church interest and built for his family a small shed at the rear of the meeting-house. here they could warm themselves by a hearth fire before the service in the unheated building and take a hot dinner before the long walk home. jane was now an energetic girl of ten. one february afternoon she rested her bucket of water on the icy edge of the well as she watched her father striding homeward down the hill slope. as he reached her, he picked up the heavy bucket and entered the house, where his boy tom was placing a huge log on the fire, and his wife stood ready to fill the kettle with water and hang it on the crane. jane had followed her father and waited with expectant silence until jonathan fryer announced-- "i am going to boston!" "father!" exclaimed tom. "this winter?" asked his wife, while jane embraced her dearly loved father as if he were off for the moon. boston was fifty-eight miles away. [illustration] "i have just attended town-meeting," he explained. "the sixty pounds which we have pledged to harvard college annually must be paid. there are also town matters for consultation." as it was february, jonathan fryer decided to travel on horseback by an inland route to boston. during his absence, the family had cause for anxiety in the weather. storms and a moderating temperature were bad, for jonathan fryer had frozen rivers to cross. on the night of the second saturday after his departure, he returned weary and exhausted from a hard and perilous trip. jane had spent many hours watching for her father and was eager to make him comfortable. she hung about him with every attention, and laughed when he nodded with sleep. "father, you must go to bed, for if your head should tip like that in the meeting-house, the cage would await you." it had been decreed that the old wooden cage before the church door should punish--"those who use tobacco or sleep during public exercise." the next morning jonathan fryer arose aching in every limb. his family begged him to break his custom of attending meeting, but his strong spirit asserted itself, and he was ready at the usual time. with a basket of dinner, the four started afoot at an early hour that they might be well warmed before meeting. mr. moody, famous for his long sermons, had preached some forty minutes when a lusty snore brought the already straight listeners to an alert posture. it awoke the sleeper himself, no other than jonathan fryer. the preaching continued to its customary length of an hour or more. then silently, shamed beyond endurance, jonathan, his goodwife, his tom, and his jane, sought shelter in their small house. words were useless. they knew what would follow. the tramp of four tything men was soon heard crunching the ice. some eight or ten men with that title had been chosen to "look after the good morals" of the neighbors of their home district. tything-man eliot was the spokesman as the four stood to administer justice. "we regret, goodman fryer, that since you have disobeyed the strict orders of the church, not only by sleeping, but also by disturbing the meeting with an audible snort, we must comply with our laws and place you in the stocks, within the cage built for that purpose." there was no chance for reply, for like a tiger jane pounced before these men of dignity and burst forth, "it is not right. my father, in service for the town, has faced great hardships and almost lost his life. that he came to meeting at all, he should be thanked. if you place him in the stocks, you shall place me there too!" her flashing eyes and angered face seemed to burn themselves into the stolid four as she stamped her foot for emphasis. the spokesman turned and quietly remarked to his companions, "there is need for further council!" they left. jane threw herself into her father's arms. he dropped his head. "my daughter, this conduct doubles the insult to the church. your action is unrighteous, though well meant. your father's disgrace was great enough, but this from a child to our worthy tything men cannot be overlooked. there was need for further council." no greater punishment could have been given jane than these words from her father. the barley-cakes, porridge, and cheese were left untouched by the shame-faced group. soon the heavy steps were again heard. the moment of suspense was stinging. the door opened and the tything men entered. the same spokesman, perhaps the gentlest of the four, began: "goodman fryer, it is deemed best that the punishment to be administered to your untamed daughter for her unruly tongue shall be determined by her parents. it is left to their discretion. yet there is truth in her words. the council of the church commends you for your recent service to the town and grants you pardon for your unseemly conduct in the meeting." peace or warfare since the days when nonowit had welcomed the english to his shores and had taught roger low the ways of the wood, there had been little serious trouble between the white man and the red. the new hampshire coast was at this time fortified against an enemy from over the seas, but the homes were rarely protected by palisades, save the larger ones used as garrison houses, where the neighbors gathered in case of an attack by indians. up to this time, however, there had been but little need of the garrisons. roger low had become the father of jonathan, and even jonathan now had a boy robert, for some fifty years had passed since robert's grandfather had crossed the ocean to this land. the portsmouth house in which the three lived had been the scene of jonathan's boyhood and recalls the time when his little sister, mary, cut off her father's hair. the winter months of had passed. frightful stories of indian troubles were coming to the ears of the colonists. robert low had loved to sit on his grandfather's knee and in the warm light of the hearth fire to listen to stories of indian life and of nonowit, of whom nothing had been heard for many years. the two were sitting by the fire one evening, when jonathan low, leaving them alone, had gone to exeter for the night. a neighbor happened in. his face was grave, and he shook his head in doubt as he seated himself on the opposite settle. "philip, that chief in massachusetts, the son of massasoit, is a dangerous fellow. he is turning his indians against the white men. and have you heard what has happened on the saco river, at our east?" robert was alert for a new story, though his interest was now mingled with a sense of fear. "the squaw of the sachem squando," continued the caller, "was crossing the river in a canoe with her pappoose, when two sailors upset the craft just for the sport of it. the child sank, but the mother dived to the bottom and brought it up alive. later the child died, and squando is now rousing the indians of the east against the colonists. with philip south of us and squando, a chief of wide influence, at the east, we stand in great danger." "yet peace must exist between the white man and the red," confidently replied the grandfather, "for passaconaway, the great sachem of the penacooks, that wonderful chieftain, fifteen years ago urged peace when he called the river and the mountain indians together at pawtucket falls. at a great dance and a feast held there passaconaway spoke to his people and bade them live in peace, for it was the only hope for the race. they might do some harm to the english, but it would end in their own destruction. this the great spirit had said to him. then," continued roger low, "he gave up his chieftainship to his son wonolancet, who has heeded his father's warning, as have other tribes about us. they had faith in old passaconaway, who had the power to make water burn and trees to dance. he could even turn himself into a flame. yet he accepted our christianity as preached by john eliot and finally, the indians say, he was carried in a sleigh drawn by wolves up the slope of our highest mountain, whence he rose toward the heaven of the white man in a chariot of fire." the neighbor again shook his head doubtfully and bade them good-night. little robert, torn by the fears of the indian raids, and his grandfather's assurance of peace, lay awake many hours. his grandfather was breathing heavily in his sleep, when robert distinctly heard a footstep outside. thinking his father might have returned, he hurried to the window in time to see the figure of an indian. the little boy threw himself upon his sleeping grandfather in fright. as the old gentleman awoke, a heavy knock was heard at the door. "'tis an indian, grandfather," shrieked the boy. at that moment the outline of the indian's face was seen at the window which he was trying to open. roger low jumped from his bed, seized his gun, and stood ready for an attack. the indian spoke. low dropped his gun and listened. something more was said outside, grandfather hastily unbolted the door. "was he mad?" he seemed eager to meet the indian. then robert heard his grandfather cry, "nonowit!" for the old-time friend had at last come back. they stirred the fire and seated themselves to hear nonowit's story of peace and trouble between whitemen and indians. robert gained no promise of peace. however, the friendliness of such a powerful indian as nonowit was reassuring, and he dropped to sleep in his grandfather's arms. susanna's rescue a tale of toby tozer dropped the rock which would have completed his house of stones, as he saw a sail tacking across the river straight to his point at newichewannock. "look, susanna! here comes mistress lear, and she has brought henry with her," he cried excitedly. susanna hurried up the bank to carry the news. she was a sturdy girl of eighteen, with neither home nor people. the little group at the settlement took care of her, and she gratefully served them all. hearing of the arrival, mistress tozer hurried to the shore, bidding susanna notify the few neighbors and invite them all to her home for the day. spinning, weaving, and other household cares were always pushed aside for such an occasion as a visit. "and may we keep her for days, jacob?" mrs. tozer asked anxiously of mr. lear, who was then pushing off his boat. "just an over-night trip," he called. "i'm on my way to dover and will come around for her on my return." already the good-wives, with knitting in hand, were gathering to greet mistress lear. some fifteen or more, including the children, were soon settled about the tozer fireplace, eager to learn of the happenings in portsmouth. "how dared you come so far, mistress lear, when the indians are committing such terrible deeds? since king philip has stirred up the creatures in massachusetts, even the settlements of maine have felt their treachery." by this time susanna had caught the winks and nods of toby and henry, who were tired of sitting primly on the settle. "shall i draw you a bucket of water, mistress tozer?" asked susanna, as eager as the boys for an excuse to get out to the open. she glanced at the boys, who followed to help her. secretly she held the fear of an indian attack and, for days, had been keeping watch over the river. "my great-grandfather, ambrose gibbons, dug this well!" exclaimed henry, knowingly, as susanna let down the bucket. "his little girl, becky gibbons, was my grandmother, and she traded some corn for a beaver skin with the indians." since susanna and toby seemed interested, henry continued his story as they turned to the shore. "almost all the indians were friendly in those days," he added. "but they are not now," replied susanna. her alert eye, at that moment, had caught a distant movement of paddles on the water. as a nearer view brought the dreaded indians to sight, she cried, "run for your lives, boys!" the frightful feathered savages were gliding straight toward the point. the two children made a mad dash for the house. susanna, ahead, broke into the peaceful group gathered there. "indians! run! out the back door, over the fence to the knight's house! don't let them see you!" susanna slammed the front door and threw her full weight against it, while the women in mad haste rushed through the narrow doorway and scrambled over the fence to the more secure protection of the neighboring house. a moment later the howling indians slashed their tomahawks into the door which susanna, to gain time for the others, still held. the savages now forced the door open. the girl was thrown to the floor by the blow, and the indians, thinking her dead, rushed through the house. finding it deserted, they dashed through the back door on toward the neighboring house. shot after shot from this direction startled the pursuing indians and made them realize that their party was too small to face such fire. they then wheeled about and struck for the canoe. after a long and fearful waiting, mrs. tozer crept cautiously back to her home, sure that susanna had been carried off captive. no, there she lay on the floor by the door. could it be that she moved? her eyes opened. mrs. tozer dropped to her side and, with the assistance of those who had followed, brought her quick relief. the girl was tenderly cared for, and in time she entirely recovered her strength. when henry lear returned to portsmouth, he told a tale of newichewannock life wilder than the stories of his grandmother's day. to the garrison house! one september day in , near their home on the upper plantation, now known as dover, betty haines, a girl of ten, stood in the cornfield with her little apron outstretched to hold the ears of ripe corn her father was plucking. suddenly her brother joseph, twice her age, bounded over the meadow and into the field. "father," he cried excitedly, "the indians have made an attack at newichewannock. they are likely to be down upon us at any moment. the garrison house is our only safety." his mother, at the door of their home, caught joseph's alarming words and took immediate command of the situation. the rest of the family hurried in from the cornfield and followed her directions. "get your heavy coat, joseph! betty, pack the bread into that basket and ask your father to bring down our heaviest blankets!" "i hope nothing will happen to this nice home of ours," sighed betty as her father on their departure locked the door. "nor to our corn either," he added, with a thought of the winter's food. soon they established themselves in the largest home of the neighborhood, which stood open in such a moment of need. mrs. haines, ready and capable, did her part for the neighboring families assembled there, while mr. haines and joseph lent their aid to strengthen the fortifications of timber outside and to erect a sentry box on the roof, where guard was to be kept night and day. as joseph haines took his turn to guard, the first night of alarm, betty crept up to the roof after him and immediately cried, pointing across the river, "look there, joe!" a small glow of fire, seen in the distance, soon brightened the whole sky with flames. "work of the indians!" muttered joe. when word was brought the next day that two houses and three barns with a large quantity of grain had been burned that night by the indians, betty implored her brother, "oh, don't let them burn our house, joe!" "no, little betty, i'll see that they do not," he declared with determination. later the report reached dover of six houses burned at oyster river (a neighboring village) and two men killed. the young men of dover rose with indignation at the insults of the indians and begged major waldron, commander of the militia, to grant them permission to protect the town in their own way. this request granted, some twenty of them, joseph haines in the number, armed themselves and scattered through the woods, hoping in that way to find the lurking savages who were doing their mischief in small groups. just at dusk joseph, with one companion, took his position in the woods near his own home. "hist!" came from his friend after long, patient watching. the two were alert, for five stealthy figures were seen to cross the meadow and linger in the cornfield. three of them began to pick the corn, while two, approaching the house, gathered sticks for a fire which they lighted. their purpose seemed to be to roast the corn, but the fire was built dangerously near the house. joseph and his friend had become separated from their companions. no signal could be given without arousing the suspicion of their enemies. after a whispered consultation, they cautiously crept out of the woods and into the shadow of the house. from there they suddenly rushed upon the two indians by the fire, striking them down with the butts of their guns. those in the cornfield, hearing the commotion, ran for the woods and escaped. mr. haines, seeing the firelight in the direction of his house, started at once from the garrison, not knowing that betty quietly followed him through the darkness, even slipping through the big gateway without being seen. the fire had already caught the house, while the young men were occupied in binding the prisoners. mr. haines dashed to the well for water and returned to find his betty beating the flames with a broom. mrs. haines, missing betty and suspecting that she had followed her father, was on the spot by the time joseph had turned his attention from the prisoners to find that the house had been saved from the flames. word of the efficient guard at dover was reported by the escaping indians, and no further attack was made at that time. my new hampshire the indian raids had told heavily upon the colonists in the region of the piscataqua. scattered gardens had been devastated; homes built by great effort had been destroyed in a night; family circles had been broken by death, or by capture, and the colony had suffered the loss of strong young men who were its mainstay. john stevens had been crippled by the tomahawk of an indian; his whole family and that of his brother had been swept out of existence by the same cruel hands, and all that was left was his home and one little nephew, david. "this country is ours now, david, and we must hold it," he would say to the manly little fellow, who was already facing the responsibilities of life, though with arms too young to swing the axe or to steady the plough. glancing at the sturdy little boy, john stevens, unable to leave his chair, looked through the open doorway to his cleared land and his forests, and wondered how, to say nothing of protecting the country, he could keep the boy and himself alive. "david," he cried on sudden thought, "the garden shall be yours and the forest mine. we will each do what we can. i still have a strong arm left to me and a sharp knife. the red oaks can be felled and sawed at the mill. here in my chair with my knife i can shape the short boards into hogshead staves. the town accepts them for taxes at twenty-five shillings a thousand." "perhaps," added david, "mr. cutt, the merchant, will have use for some." together the man and the boy, before the open door, planned for the coming days until the twilight had settled into night. the simple home was remote, and neighbors rarely dropped in. david took the necessary trips to the bank, as the upper end of the town by the river was still called, or to the south end, where the great house stood with many smaller homes of the town to the south of it. always the little boy started with this injunction: "learn all you can, david, of town affairs. inquire about the doings of the general court. this is our country, david, and we must know what happens." the cutting of staves proved to be a means of meeting their simple daily needs. the abundant forests everywhere prevented a demand for the shipment of staves to other ports; so it was an exultant david who came home one fall day with the word that mr. john cutt, the wealthy merchant of portsmouth, wanted all the staves john stevens could make. they had proved the best of the kind that mr. cutt had yet found. with the little that david could do on the garden the two managed to make a living. yet all this effort to live was held before david as a small matter compared with the life of the country. "you must remember, david," his uncle impressed upon him, "that the country must live whether we are here or not, and its life, lad, depends upon what we can do for it while we are here." with this quickened interest in the big country, of which he could see so small a part, david returned from town early in january of , with stirring news for his uncle. "listen to this, uncle john," he cried, excitedly, "our king in england has seen fit to separate new hampshire from the government of massachusetts, and he has appointed our mr. john cutt as president. the royal charter is already here!" john stevens leaned forward, as if to grasp the thought. "say it again, david, every word." then, after the boy had repeated the news, his uncle slowly shook his head. "it is a heavy responsibility for us, lad. we have but four small towns in new hampshire. yet i have confidence in the honored gentleman appointed to lead us." actually to withdraw from the rule of massachusetts required time, during which period david never returned home without bringing some interesting news. one day it was, "uncle john, portsmouth has seventy-one men who can vote; dover has sixty-one; hampton, fifty-seven; and exeter, twenty." at another time he announced, "there is to be an important meeting in march, to which every town of new hampshire is to send three representatives except exeter, which sends two." on the th of march, the day of the general assembly, john stevens sent the boy off to town for the whole day. "learn everything for me, david," was his parting command. "do not miss a thing. and david," he added, impressively, placing his hand on the boy's shoulder, "remember always that this is your new hampshire." then he counted the hours for the boy's return. when david reached the town he found three other boys of his own age eagerly watching for a sight of the gentlemen attending the assembly. choosing an advantageous spot on the roadside, david and his companions swung themselves to the low, spreading branches of an oak, where they patiently waited. "here they come," called sam cutt, who had already seen these gentlemen arrive at his father's house. as the solemn procession of representatives from new hampshire's four small towns passed on their way to the meeting-house, david slid from his branch to the ground and in an erect position bared his head and held his hat to his heart until they had passed. "oh, see the sissy!" cried one boy from the tree, pointing to david, when the riders had moved along. david's face flushed, but with unusual self-command he replied. "did you not know that those men are taking care of our province, which is yet very small, and that this is for us all a very serious and important meeting that they are attending?" the surprised boys who had expected to see david slink away, slid down from the branches, caught with interest in what he continued to tell them of town and even state affairs. they asked questions which he could answer. "now i tell you," he added with authority, "you must remember always that this is your new hampshire." david's knowledge of his country had so deeply impressed and interested the boys that, when the general assembly adjourned, four hatless lads stood in respect as the members passed, who honored them with a salute. when, at the close of the day, david reached home he threw off his coat and warmed his hands by the fire exclaiming. "you should have seen the dignified gentlemen, uncle. there were a dozen or more of them who rode from mr. cutt's estate to the meeting-house. they wore fine clothes, and swords at their sides, and shining buckles on their shoes and knee bands. the rev. mr. moody preached a sermon to them after he had offered a long prayer. then the gentlemen voted to write a letter to the general court of massachusetts. sam cutt told me all about it. he had asked his father what had happened there. and, uncle, in this letter they thanked the court for the care and kindness given us while we were under its rule. they explained that we did not seek this change. it was only because it was the king's wish that we were willing to accept the plan. then they begged the court for the benefit of its prayers and blessing in this separation. sam said that it was all very solemn. uncle," david continued, after a pause, "i kept feeling all day long, 'this is my new hampshire!'" the bowl of broth one september day mrs. elizabeth heard opened the door of her house on the cocheco river, in dover, and first looking cautiously about, a habit bred by fear of lurking indians, stepped out with a bowl of hot broth, which she was about to carry to a neighbor who was ill. the heard house was a garrison with a protecting wall built about it, the gate of which, mrs. heard at this moment noticed had been carelessly left open. a few months of peaceful living had caused the younger members of the family to grow careless of the once needed caution. now about to pass through this gateway the quick movement of a shadow beyond the well, caught her eye. bravely approaching the spot, she discovered, crouching there, a young indian whose face instantly told more of fear than of daring. instinctively her mother-heart felt sorry for him, and she offered him the bowl of hot broth. he drank it eagerly and then begged her to hide him. without a moment's hesitation, she led him to the garret of her house and there in a corner concealed him under a pile of blankets. it was fortunate for her scheme that her family of ten, five boys and five girls, was off on a fishing trip. later, on their return, they brought the news of a large capture of indians made in the town that day. mrs. heard said nothing of the one then hidden under their own roof. after the children had been tucked into bed, and she had made the rounds of the rooms to be sure that all were sleeping, she crept to the garret and signaled to the indian that his moment of escape had come. noiselessly and swiftly he made his way out. some thirteen years passed, and the children of the heard family were well grown. one june day in , mrs. heard, three of her sons, a daughter and some friends, had taken a river trip to portsmouth and were returning by night. as they approached dover, where their home still stood, they heard many unusual sounds. "i fear the indians may be in the town, benjamin," remarked mrs. heard to her oldest son, with some alarm. "perhaps," replied benjamin, "we had better go right to the waldron's garrison, since it is so near. i see lights there." the party, filled with fear, hastened to the house suggested and knocked at the outer gate. "let us in!" they pleaded. no answer, however, came from the home within. benjamin then climbed the wall and looked over the top. to his horror, he saw an indian, armed with a gun, standing in the open doorway of the house. benjamin had not been seen, and the confusion within had drowned the cries outside. jumping down, he started his party with utmost speed to their own garrison house. they had not gone far, before, to his dismay, he realized that his mother was not with them. [illustration] he returned to the scene of their peril to find his mother, exhausted by fright, still at the gate. she was lying there unable to move. "go," she implored him in a whisper, "and help the others to safety! i will come as soon as my strength returns." at that moment a cry of fear from the others, and his mother's last urgent appeal drove benjamin to their rescue while his brave mother was left to her fate. recovering a little, mrs. heard crept to some protecting bushes where she lay until daylight, when the gate opened, and an indian with a pistol approached her. he paused and looked at her very hard. silently he left but returned immediately, for another keen look. this time, his grim savage face still unmoved, he grunted-- "good squaw kept indian boy safe! indian no forget!" then he ran yelling to the house, with some word for his friends who seemed to be there in numbers. soon after the waldron house burst into flames. not until the house had burned to the ground, and the indians had gone, could mrs. heard gather strength enough to move. she feared the same sad end for her own home, but, to her surprise, she found it standing unharmed. surely she had received her blessing for the bowl of broth and aid to the indian lad, for her family and the friends, who had succeeded in reaching the house, reported that they had been free from attack through the horrors of that night, which were long remembered by the people of dover. thomas toogood outwits an indian an incident of . "there, you clumsy thing, you've stepped in the cat's saucer and spilled the milk. be gone from here," and the crabbed old aunt, who kept house for the toogoods, switched her broom after tom as he moved good-naturedly out the back door. thomas toogood was overgrown, and awkward, and seemed always to be doing the wrong thing. he now sauntered out to the shed, where his father was feeding the cows and his sister tossing grain to the hens. "tom," said his father, pointing to a gun in the corner, "i traded some corn for a gun for you, in dover yesterday. they say that wild ducks are now found on the cocheco. thought you might like to try for them." tom picked up the gun, looked it over, and said, "all right," but the look of pleasure on his face told that it was the first gun he had ever owned. "now that you have a gun," spoke up his sister joyfully, "you can take me to the quilting party in dover, next week. all our friends are to be there." tom had reasons of his own for wishing to attend that gathering, but he was especially pleased to be considered manly enough to play the part of escort. though dover was but a few miles away, it was never safe to take even that trip without a gun for protection. with his father's suggestion of ducks in mind, thomas picked up his new gun and whistled his way along the path to the river, where he kept his canoe. as he pushed his bark into the stream, he thought that he might now appease his aunt's anger by a brace of fine ducks for dinner. two hours later poor tom, dripping wet, with one small bird in his hand, faced the assembled family in the home kitchen. "where is your gun?" asked his father immediately. "at the bottom of the river," replied the boy. "i was reaching for my duck, and the canoe upset." "oh, tom, you'd upset a sailing vessel if you stepped on it!" came from his sister. "now you can't take me to the quilting party. it is just too bad!" "you go over to neighbor roger's and chop his wood," ordered tom's father with disgust in his tone. "i told him one of us would do it, for he is bad in his limbs." after changing his clothes, tom started off to the roger's home, a good two miles through the woods. the family attitude had dampened his usual good spirits, and his sister's words had stung. an afternoon's work of wood splitting brought cheer, at least to the forlorn neighbors, and tom started home again whistling. it was a bad habit, in those days, to make one's presence known in the woods, and in this case tom's whistling proved most serious, for suddenly, he realized that three dusky figures were creeping up the hill slope behind him. quick as could be, he bounded up the crest of the hill and over the other side; but quite as quickly came one of the three indians in hot pursuit. the other two, confident of their companion's speed, waited below for him to return with his prisoner. tom was too heavy to run far, and soon the indian had him in his ugly clutch. "name?" asked the indian, taking tom by the shoulders. "thomas toogood," was the boy's frightened reply. "ugh!" grunted the indian. then, appreciating tom's clumsiness, the indian loosened his grasp for a moment to straighten some cords with which to bind his captive. as the red man stooped with gun under his arm, for an instant he turned his back. tom, for once in his life not slow, in a flash seized the gun and aimed it at the indian. "you shout for help, and i'll shoot," he cried, backing away, and then with more dexterity than hitherto seemed possible, tom continued to back with gun still pointed at the indian, who muttered, "tom no good, no good!" once out of momentary danger, before the indian could signal to the others, tom had plunged into the thicket and taken a short cut home. he was again in possession of a gun, and he had met an adventure which must command the respect of the family and prove to his sister his worth as an escort. the escape "this, my little dick, is a fine holiday for us," exclaimed mrs. waldron as she lifted her baby from his hooded crib. "your father has promised an outing, and you shall go with us to the farm far up the river. some day, my little boy, you shall gather the strawberries there yourself, and play in the hay, and hunt for eggs." as she tossed her baby while she chatted, he seemed to be caught in mid-air by the tall soldierly gentleman who had entered. after a moment of play, mrs. waldron turned soberly to her husband. "now, richard, will you use every argument possible to persuade madam ursula cutt to return with us to portsmouth? the french have so stirred the indians in the east that it is not safe for her to remain on that remote farm." "she has insisted," protested col. waldron, "that the haying must be done first. until the crop is safely stored, it will be hard to start her. however, the weather has been warm and dry, so it may even now be done. our boat is ready, can you go soon?" it was a wonderful july day in . mrs. waldron followed her husband down the garden slope to the sparkling river and had already passed little dick into his arms while she stepped into the boat. a servant, hurrying over the arbored path, announced-- "your friends from the manor have arrived and are waiting to see you." "oh, richard," came in disappointed tones from mrs. waldron, "we cannot take our trip. they have come so far we must offer them at least a day's hospitality." regretfully they turned and cordially received their guests. the plans for entertainment crowded out all thought of the river trip and a day on the farm. the farm two miles up the river belonged to madam ursula cutt. it was a busy place, while the waldrons were detained at home that july morning. madam cutt was over-seeing her household affairs as well as keeping a watchful eye on the hay-makers at work in the field. the maid at the washtub remarked, as her mistress stepped to the door with basket and scissors to gather flowers. "dover has felt the fury of the indians. they may yet come down the river!" "it may be well for us to move into town as soon as the haying is done," madam cutt replied, and passed on to the garden. the maid rinsed the white linen and lifting a basketful stepped out to spread it on the grass to dry. with the awful fear of indians still on her mind, she peered through the trees to the river, half expecting to see the dreaded creatures bounding up the bank. the clothes were spread on the green when her piercing gaze caught a strange movement of the water. a second look discerned the curve of a canoe. madam cutt was off in the flower garden. the hay-makers were in the fields. there was scarcely a moment in which to find shelter. darting into the grape arbor, the maid then crept behind bushes and through uncut grass to the river slope around the bend. at last she was hidden from the farm-site. on she sped with all haste toward the town. there was a gap of water to be crossed. she found a boat and pulled at the oars in the direction of portsmouth. while the waldrons and their guests in the portsmouth home were gaily chatting at the table, cries of "the indians! the indians!" were shrieked through the hall, and the terrified girl in working clothes rushed in exhausted. as soon as she recovered her voice, she poured forth brokenly, "the indians--i ran--they didn't see me!" "but madam cutt, where is she?" asked col. waldron. "she was in the garden! she must be killed! there was no time! i hid in the bushes, crept over the meadow, and ran to the point, where i found a boat!" col. waldron ordered his horse and in a short time had gathered a force and hastened to the farm. it was all too true. the indians had made their attack. madam ursula cutt had been killed and robbed of her jewels. the three hay-makers had been shot, and their scalps taken for trophies. but little dick, who might have been there, was safely rocked in his own cradle that night and saved to become secretary waldron, an important man in new hampshire history. the defense at oyster river thomas bickford viewed with satisfaction his house and fortress now complete. building in was attended with many difficulties, as john and william, his sons, well knew, for they had helped. "boys, you've worked well. a holiday for you tomorrow," promised their father. early the following morning the boys started off on an exploring tour, for they had but recently come to the oyster river shores, several miles north of portsmouth where they had lived with their grandmother. the river had much to interest the boys. at night they returned home filled with excitement over the large hollow oak they had found almost a mile below. "it was just like a house, father. we planned the rooms and played there all day." "and saw no indians?" their father inquired with some anxiety. "yes, on the opposite bank we saw several creeping up the river, but we had a fine hiding place." the boys little knew that on that th day of july, some two hundred indians were stealing cautiously up the oyster river, on both sides, to the upper settlement. their plan was to divide into small groups and attack each house at sunrise, the next morning. a single shot was to be the signal. on the following day by some mistake the shot was given before the indians were ready. "what does that mean?" exclaimed thomas bickford, who from his home had heard the crack of a gun far up the river on that early morning of july th. instantly he recalled the stealthy indians that the boys had seen the previous day, and he sensed immediate danger. "quick!" he called to his wife and boys. "run to the boat! i believe the indians are afoot!" hurrying into their clothes, they rushed to the river and jumped into the boat. bickford passed them the oars. "down the stream," he pointed, "and get around the bend as soon as you can! the savages are up the river!" "you are not coming?" they asked in alarm as he remained on shore. "no, that house is not to be lost, if i can save it!" there was no time for argument. he pushed the boat into the stream and darted back to the house, bolting the gates of the palisade and then the door as he entered. he grabbed his gun and placed his bullets and powder-horn in readiness. he then dashed upstairs quickly returning with an armful of clothing, which he spread out upon chairs and tables. at that moment the shots of the indians struck the house. a horrible fear for the safety of his family brought a shudder to thomas bickford, yet, though alone in the house, he bravely began its defense. "steady there, shoot!" he shouted as if he had a house full of men to command. he then pulled on an old red soldier's coat and flashed past the window in view of the indians peering through the chinks outside the palisade. with another loud command and a remark in a different tone of voice, bickford tore off the coat, pulled on a fur hat, and came again to view at the window. this he continued to do with frequent changes of costume and constant shooting and shouting until the indians lost courage and fled for safety fearing an armed band would soon rush out upon them. their flight brought but a moment of relief. the house, perhaps, was safe, but what of the family? not until late in the day did thomas bickford dare start forth in search of them. he crept along the shore in the dusk, fearing each moment the shot of some lurking indian. on and on he went, yet he found no trace of his people. at last he came upon the hollow oak that the boys had described as their playhouse. here he paused, for a sound came from within. "can that be a hiding place of the savages?" he asked himself in alarm and quickly turned his course. suddenly there came from the oak a stifled whisper, "father!" the family had but just escaped the sight of the indians that morning, and here in the hollow tree they had crouched in fear all the long day. now, startled lest the sound they heard outside was the tread of a redman, the boys peeped through a knothole and saw their father. to find each other was joy enough for one moment. the next brought the whisper: "is the house saved?" after dark all crept cautiously out to the hidden boat, and later in the shelter of their home they listened breathlessly to the story of its wonderful defense. the attack at the plains "scamper! the raindrops will get there before you!" mrs. jackson scattered her children like a flock of chickens to the green to gather up the whitened linen which had been spread to dry on that long remembered june day of . "there, samuel, do stop that nonsense, for the rain will soon be here!" she laughed in spite of herself, as the round freckled face of her boy on hands and knees appeared with a grin from beneath a sheet. the laughter of all three children increased when the cows and sheep, in mid-afternoon, came hurrying to the barns, as if they, too, were afraid of a sprinkle. mrs. jackson gave a troubled glance skyward at the on-coming storm and then at the trembling cattle, which had doubtless been frightened by something worse. samuel, betsey, and peggy had glorious romp together after supper, but neither father, nor mother, nor even uncle jack, could be persuaded to tell them a bedtime story, for something seemed to trouble them all. the children went early to bed. betsey whispered, as they climbed to the feathers, "i heard father say that we'd stay here one more night. do you suppose the indians are coming?" however, not even the dreaded word, indian nor the booming of the thunder storm outside could keep those sleepy eyes open. downstairs the older members of the family and several neighbors gathered about the wide fireplace, glad of the warmth that chilly june night. with sober faces they discussed the rumors of terrible deeds the indians had committed in dover, a few miles up the river. "some are lurking about us," declared mr. jackson, "for no storm would so frighten the cattle. 'tis not the first time they have come home bruised and bleeding." "tomorrow night," added his brother, "the settlers here at the plains must go to the garrison house for safety. an attack may come at any moment." little samuel was the first to open his eyes the following morning, thinking it a glorious sunshine that gave such a brilliant light outside. suddenly a snap and a crackle brought him to his feet. he found the barn ablaze. a war-whoop from the indians then aroused the household. while father and uncle jack armed themselves with such implements as they had at hand, mother gathered the children together to go with her to the garrison house. about to leave the house she missed her wallet, which she had left, and ran upstairs to get it. she came down to find the children gone. "perhaps they have started ahead," she thought, and hurried out. the children, left alone for a moment, frightened and bewildered had run out the front door, for at the back of the house were the indians, yelling and shrieking. samuel had crawled into a familiar hiding place under the cinnamon rose bushes, while betsey and peggy had hidden beneath the low branches of the lilac, so completely concealed that they did not even see their mother come out of the same door a moment later. here the children remained until the barns were smouldering ashes, and the indians had fled. samuel was the first to creep from his hiding-place and dash to the side of his father, whom he saw at the front door. betsey and peggy followed, calling, "where's mother?" "is she not with you?" asked their surprised father, grasping his children by the hands in his thankfulness to find them alive, for the indians had left a desolated spot. "here comes uncle jack from the garrison house. he will tell us where mother is," cried peggy hopefully. they all hastened to meet him, only to learn that their mother had not been seen since she left home. "did the indians carry her off?" cried little samuel, choking back a sob. betsey relieved that awful thought by exclaiming, "here comes captain shackford with his soldiers. they will find her." the little group gathered about the sturdy captain, who had been summoned from the bank, two miles away. with his militia, he had reached the plains too late to meet the indians. seeing the destruction they had caused, he inquired in which direction they had fled and started in pursuit. "bring back my mother!" pleaded little samuel, running after the captain, who nodded doubtfully. it was soon learned that four people were missing from this little group of settlers; several were injured and many had been killed. nine barns and five dwellings had been burned. "we have a house left to us," sighed peggy, "but what is that without mother?" there was no time, however, for even the children to mourn their loss; so many things were needed from their home for those without homes, that they were kept busy for several hours carrying pillows, blankets, and other things of comfort to the injured ones. suddenly little samuel cried, "here comes captain shackford back again," for the captain was then emerging from the woods across the clearing with his militia carrying kettles, lanterns, blankets, and other things the indians had taken as plunder. "oh!" cried betsey with joy, straining her gaze for a moment. "mother is with them!" the children dashed across the plains, in wild delight to escort their mother home. her friends gathered about and with the children still clinging to her heard how the captain had seen a feathery blue smoke some four miles from the plains and, approaching it, had found that the indians were cooking their breakfast behind the protection of their captives, who were tied to the trees. the soldiers suddenly rushed upon the indians, who escaped. however, the plunder and, best of all, the four prisoners were safely brought back. since then many a bedtime story by the hearth-fire has been told of that spot, which to this day is known as breakfast hill. the strawberry fields of exeter on a june afternoon in , the silent forests about the little village of exeter felt an almost imperceptible stir of life, for through it there stealthily crept an indian chief, followed by one and then another of his frightful band. each dressed in tawny skins like the creatures of the wood and with adornment of feathers from the very birds, they seemed but a part of the forest life. no smoke of the camp fire floated through the green boughs, for in utmost secrecy these indians took concealed positions to spring, in the early morning, upon the unguarded inhabitants of the town before they were astir. now it happened on that same afternoon while the sun shone alluringly upon the open fields, patience nutter dropped her wearisome patchwork and looked out of the window. a speck of red in the grass outside the house caught her attention. her stint was not finished by several squares, yet the temptation of that strawberry was too great. laying aside her work, she stepped out and popped the luscious red berry into her mouth. beyond it she found a cluster of berries ripe and juicy. step by step she was led into the open field fairly riotous in its growth of nodding red strawberries. it seemed as if she could not pick them fast enough. "patience!" came a call from the house. the little girl turned to see her mother in the doorway, holding up the unfinished piece of patchwork. reluctantly she returned. "mother," she cried, as she entered the house, "will you go with me for some berries after i have finished my sewing? the field is full of them." "yes, child, we need some for supper. while you are sewing, i will step into mrs. wiggin's, for she will be glad to know that the berries are fully ripe." mrs. nutter's news of the berries was of interest to mrs. wiggin and her daughters, who picked up their baskets to start for the field at once. anthony wiggin, who was sorting his papers at his desk, shook his head with the warning: "it is a great risk you run to go into that open field without a guard. indians may even now be prowling about the woods." nevertheless the women started off for the strawberries. little patience, with the strip of patchwork dangling from her pocket, joined them so quickly that one could almost believe some large stitches had been taken on that last square. when anthony wiggin had finished his work and each paper had been placed in its proper pigeon hole, he closed his desk. "hm," he muttered, glancing from the window at the women and children in the field, "they do not sense the danger we constantly live in, now that the french have stirred up the indians. i believe i will frighten them with a shot, just as a warning." [illustration] he picked up his gun from the corner where it was kept in constant readiness and, stepping to the door, sent a bullet over the heads of the strawberry pickers, whizzing into the woods beyond. baskets and berries were dropped by the pickers in their fright and haste to get home, for their fears had been aroused by the words of anthony wiggin before they left the house. patience, who had not sensed a possible danger, had wandered near to the woods where the berries were more abundant. even after the sound of the gun, she lingered for a few more strawberries. the shot acted like magic upon the inhabitants of exeter, who took it for an alarm of danger. men dropped plough or rein and seized their guns. women followed with powder-horns and bullets. in less time than one could believe, an armed body was in the village centre ready to protect their homes. that gun-shot carried its force still farther, for there in the woods beyond the strawberry field lay the indians in ambush. "we are discovered," reported their leader. the savages then bounded into the open to make their attack, only to find themselves faced by an armed body of men. firing a few shots, the indians then made a hasty retreat. one, however, seeing patience running for home and yet not halfway across the field, dashed after her, caught the child in his arms, and followed the retreating band. "patience! patience!" shrieked her mother. "she is captured! oh, save her!" and the woman turned imploringly to her townsmen. they started in an almost hopeless pursuit, for the speed of an indian in the woods is hard to cope with. some dropped out of the chase, but the swiftest and more persistent men kept at it, anthony wiggin in the lead. hours of agonizing horror then passed for patience's mother as she pictured her own little girl in the cruel clutches of the savages. she could feel no possible hope of rescue. in the meantime the men continued a long and wearying chase, when suddenly a distant glimpse of an indian was seen through the clearing. anthony wiggin, still ahead, sent a shot and soon after came upon little patience alone in the woods. it seems the indians had stopped to parley, and when they renewed their flight, patience had been picked up by the last savage in the line. as he roughly seized her, she caught at the patchwork dropping from her pocket and found her needle still in it. her indignation had by this time risen beyond her fear. quickly she thrust the needle so far into the indian's neck that he instinctively dropped the child to pull it out. she ran back over the path they had followed, just as wiggin's shot was heard. the indian ran for his life. as the full rising moon outlined the forest-tops to the people of exeter, a triumphant shout came from the woods, and patience, proudly shouldered by anthony wiggin, was placed in her mother's arms. the prison chaplaincy, and its experiences. by rev. hosea quinby, d. d., ex-chaplain of n. h. state prison. in two parts. concord, n. h.: published by d. l. guernsey bookseller and stationer. . entered, according to act of congress, in the year , by d. l. guernsey, in the office of the librarian of congress, at washington. morning star steam job printing house,--dover, n. h. contents. part i. under the reformatory system. . emotions at the idea of assuming the position, and object of these pages, . our first meeting for worship, . the sabbath school, . general appearance of the convicts, . the warden, . educational means found in operation, . influence left by the former chaplain, . prison order, . chaplain's routine of duty, . general description of the prison and prison management, . general remarks upon the prisoners, . prayer-meetings commenced, . pike, the hampton murderer, . doctrinal discourses, . effect of the prayer-meeting on prison order, . the new chapel, . prison repairs and mistakes, . profanity attacked, . efforts for a son, from a mother's plea, . warden's efforts for a young man, . experience with noble appearing heads in prison, . the warden admits presents to prisoners from friends outside, . warden decides to resign, . prisoners' anxiety at the rumored resignation, . governor and council memorialized by the prison s. s. teachers and chaplain, . prison funerals, . educational and sabbath school summing up, . religious success, . fourth of july at the prison, . the true principle of imprisoning and prison managing--on the idea of reform in the convict, . the commutation system, . chaplain's proposed attempt at tobacco reform, part ii. under the punitive and money-making system. . warden chosen, and new arrangements for the chaplain, . chaplain almost resolved to resign, but decides to continue and arranges his work, . cells cleared of trinket-making and tracts, . necessity for the chaplain's undertaking what he did, . new phase at the prison, and the chaplain's efforts, . sabbath school commences, . the warden's views considered, . chaplain's restrictions, . prisoner's aid association, . complaint of prison hunger, . chaplain's object in hearing from released prisoners and others, . b. and e.'s request, and the connected abuse, . alleged prison conspiracy, . national prison reform congress, . money-making and punishing, the paramount objects in our prison management, . waste paper in the cells, . defective beds and bedding, . cracked wheat dinner, . bad fish, &c., . prison suffering from cold during the winter of ' and ' , . lighting the hall, . the aid of the association to released prisoners, and warden's course, . lecturing for the prison aid association, . prison correspondence under the new rule, - . chaplain under a system of espionage, . the chaplain's pacific efforts severely taxed, . death of gideon sylver, . the sylver case excitement and hearing before the governor and council, . preparing for the adjourned session, . the adjourned hearing, . motives for desiring the chaplain's removal, . chaplain's change of course, and the question as to who should conduct the prison correspondence, . change, for a time, in the warden's management, . the fate of henry stewart and others, . warden's want of courtesy to prisoners' visitors, . effects of the new order upon the prisoners, . comparative prison order for the two years, . good traits in the warden for prison service, . chaplain's inability to prevent knowing more or less of the prisoners' troubles and the prison management, . secular school success, . sabbath school success, . religious success, . lack of truthfulness at the prison, . reported quarrel between the warden and chaplain, . prison report for ' , . efforts of the prison aid association for legislation in favor of the prison, . experience with the new government, . chaplain determines to have an investigation into the charges against him, . anniversary of p. a. association for ' , and remarks on our jails, . fourth of july at the prison in ' , . chaplain's removal from office, . prison fare under the new government, . the warden question, . experience at the prison subsequent to dismissal, . prison report for ' , . international penitentiary congress, london, july - , ' , conclusion, the prison chaplaincy. part i. under the reformatory system. . _emotions at the idea of assuming the position, and object of these pages._ the proposal of friends that i become chaplain of our state prison at first struck me with much disfavor, from the idea that the position, instead of affording the encouragement and satisfaction attendant upon my former labors in schools and churches, must be up-hill work, and repulsive to the finer feelings of the heart. still, having been no little accustomed to laying aside personal tastes and conveniences for the good of others, i yielded, and commenced the work on the first sabbath in july, . the experience gained in this connection, with the hints and suggestions on collateral subjects, is set forth in the following pages, not for the purpose of personal notoriety, but for the sake of correcting important misconceptions by giving the true facts, and making a humble effort towards awaking in the public mind a deeper interest on a subject in which every citizen should feel a concern, and on which he should become duly informed, and thus be prepared to act intelligently. for this preparation he needs light, which light the real working of things, properly set forth, would surely give. experience is ever regarded as the best school-master, the proper touchstone to all our theories. never was the community more widely and deeply stirred than now on the questions, "what course will prove the most corrective of crime with the least public burden? what is the true method of managing penal institutions?" these are questions of no trifling moment, questions which bear largely on the public weal. from the days of howard, the philanthropist, they have been rising in the public estimate, now to stand among the more prominent of the age. on these, widely differing theories are brought face to face in earnest antagonism; some contending for the sterner type of the vindictive, for rendering the condition of the wrong doer as repulsive as possible, thus to terrify him from erring,--others contending that they have found a better and more effective way in humane, reform, gospel efforts,--efforts prompted by the principles of enlightened christianity. the writer, while touching upon a somewhat wide range of points, will constantly aim at as great brevity in statement as may be consistent with perspicuity, go into detail only so far as shall appear needful to the end in view, and feel amply compensated for his labors, if the developments and suggestions here made shall in any degree aid the cause of prison reform. . _our first meeting for worship._ in assembling, while the ladies and gentlemen, admitted from the city, were taking their places at my left and front, the female prisoners were being arranged at my right, closely facing the wall, with the matron and assistant beside them, that they might not indulge in looking about upon others, for such an act was held as a misdemeanor. this done, and the south door securely bolted, that leading to the hall was unbarred, and the male prisoners, some one hundred and twenty, were marched in by divisions and regular file, taking their seats with perfect order before me, and filling every available foot of otherwise unoccupied space in that small and ill ventilated room called "the chapel," thus packing it as closely apparently as could be. what a sensation thrilled every nerve on this my first experience in attempting to dispense the gospel, thus locked within walls of granite and iron, with a military guard at each window ready to deal summarily with any who should attempt escape, or commit a disorderly act. then what mingled emotions of sorrow and pity at the thought of so great an amount of talent present, which had been devoted to crime, and the depths to which their iniquities had sunk the wrong doers,--enough to make angels weep. the singing by the prison choir, a young lady of the city presiding at the instrument, was exhilarating, voices good, all in time, and movement spirited, the whole having a peculiar charm. many a choir outside might have listened with advantage. the scripture reading was responsive, the chaplain repeating a verse and then the audience. as the speaker commenced his sermon, every convict's eye was fastened upon him, apparently with the deepest interest, continuing thus to the close. this fixed attention, with all the connected circumstances, acted as a powerful stimulus to his intellect and heart, causing thoughts and words to flow almost unbidden, and those of a peculiar unction, thus rendering preaching in the place easy. the numerous moistened eyes and earnest countenances seemed plainly to say, "here are minds responsive to the truth, a field which can be cultivated for god and humanity." those anticipated feelings of repulsion did not arise, but rather the assurance that success and pleasure would attend a faithful dispensing of the word for reforming and elevating the prisoner in his bonds, as well as in efforts to save sinners under more favorable surroundings. . _the sabbath school._ this met sabbath afternoon in two places, the females, eight in number, in their work room, with the matron and other ladies who might attend from the city as teachers; the males in the chapel, a number of christian ladies and gentlemen from outside attending and hearing classes, some having long been laborers here in the work, one having, years previous, helped set the school in operation. the toils of these earnest workers were evidently being blessed, under god, to the good of their pupils, producing impressions upon some, which greatly aided them in their efforts at reform. my attendance was with the latter, and the interest was fully equal to that i had witnessed in the forenoon worship. the prisoners were required to attend the latter, while the sabbath school attendance was left to the inmates as a voluntary matter, and yet some ninety males attended this, about three-fourths of the whole company from which the audience was usually drawn,--a much larger percentage probably than any outside congregation can boast of. . _general appearance of the convicts._ judging from appearance as they sat in the assembly, a few were evidently hard cases, narrow-minded, sordid, ugly. to a number, dame nature had dealt bountifully on the score of mind, they having noble foreheads, and bright, sparkling eyes, indicative of no small natural ability. one would think that some of these would have shone conspicuously in any of the learned professions, business circles, or common industries of life had they bent their minds in the right direction. certain visitors at the prison and state house, in time of the legislative session, were wicked enough to say that they found the likelier appearing company at the former place. other inmates partook more of the low cunning, the artful, leading them to accomplish their ends by more adroit means, while a small number seemed bordering on insanity, two on idiocy. in dealing with these, as a whole, while at large, no doubt the police had found their own shrewdness, at times, keenly taxed, and been made to feel that they were called to grapple with mind worthy of a better cause. . _the warden._ he was found to be a man of generous impulses, an earnest christian worker, with a heart full of kindness, professing to act for the prisoners' highest good. he would furnish them with enough of suitable food, good clothing and bedding, all needed care in sickness, with the requisite means for mental, moral and religious improvement, fully believing in the practicability of labor to reform the wayward and elevate the fallen, that reform is the primary purpose of the institution. as one great means to this, he seemed to feel it needful that the inmates be kept under strict, wholesome discipline, and required at all times, when able, to perform their tasks fully and faithfully. he was accustomed to hold correspondence with other prison officers of like faith with himself on prison management, and profited by any feasible hints thus gained. his motto was, "keep the prisoners on good fare, provide them all needed means for reform and make all the money practicable from the prison as subordinate to these." . _educational means found in operation._ by the combined effort of the warden and my predecessor, what we may term a secular school had been established in the chapel, to be held evenings, in sessions of one hour each, as often as a guard could be spared from other prison duties. this was voluntary on the part of these gentlemen, and was intended to be open for all the male prisoners of good behavior to attend, and take such of the common branches as each should need. the legislature had so far recognized the move as to vote the chaplain an increase of salary in consideration of his labors as teacher in the school. but here it stopped, and that short of its full duty. it ought to have gone further, and made the thing a fixed fact, obligatory upon all prison officers, as really as our common school system outside is upon town officers. why not? the state has taken the convicts under her care as wards, moved them from their vicious surroundings, and put them where, with a little additional painstaking on her part, many of these may be led to the daily habit of devoting their otherwise idle or squandered moments to storing up valuable ideas for future use, a long step towards their true reform. as leading in the same direction, these gentlemen had adopted the custom of having occasional lectures in the chapel for the men by outside speakers, also readings by a lady elocutionist, and meetings for instruction and drill in singing. . _influence left by the former chaplain._ this influence was of a highly salutary character among the prisoners. a number would feelingly refer to his efforts for their best being, and from which they had been constantly striving to profit. some professed to have experienced a change of heart under his ministration, and were still living in the exercise of daily bible reading and prayer, being obedient prisoners, duly attentive to all the prison rules, and in good repute among the officers of the institution. they continued thus till leaving prison, and had not fallen from their integrity when last heard from. eternity alone can unfold the amount of good secured to those once degraded men by these efforts. . _prison order._ while intent on reform measures, we were not for a moment to lose sight of the strictest order. the warden would have the rounds for this carefully observed, that no risk should be run with regard to the safe keeping of the prisoners and their due observance of the rules. hence, the chaplain was not allowed to hold his school in the chapel for instructing the men, or have any gathering of prisoners there without a guard. then, previous to their admittance, we were required to be certain that the south door to the chapel was securely fastened, and the key, for safe keeping, passed through an opening to the guard-room. and when the exercises were ended, and the men secured in their cells, on a given signal, the keeper of the key would open for our release. this order was not to be deviated from under any circumstances. from this fact, had the prisoners, at any time, risen in rebellion, overpowered the guard and chaplain, they would have found no means in the room for escaping. or had any professed goodness, or pretended to a great desire for education with the hope of being taken to the chapel under circumstances favorable to their getting away, they would have found it of no avail. good or bad, professedly reformed or not, all were treated alike in this respect. and, so far as i had the opportunity of observation, the same strictness was observed in all other departments of the prison. true, one escaped, but from no lack of internal watchfulness or order. his time had almost expired, he having been a faithful, obedient, well-disposed prisoner. the warden set him at work doing chores about the stable and outer yard, not supposing that he would leave for so short a period, and thereby forfeit his commutation and render himself liable to be returned at any time through life. but after serving here a few days he absconded. . _chaplain's routine of duty._ in this were embraced, not only the sabbath morning service and the sabbath school care, but also visiting the cells for giving words of advice, visiting the hospital for imparting religious consolation, managing the secular school, changing the library books for the inmates, saturdays, learning, from the prisoners, enough of their past history to enable him to judge of the instruction adapted to each, and, in fine, to speak such words here and there as would conduce to the requisite order. this gave a wide range, an important field. i seemed to have returned to my school keeping days; and found my long habit of reading human nature in students of no little use, aiding me to understand the best manner of approaching each so as to gain his confidence. also my custom in school discipline, which had at times been complained of as being too strict, now served an excellent purpose, prompting me, at every step, to move in decided contrariety to all irregularity and disorder. . _general description of the prison and prison management._ the old part of the prison was erected in , favored by mason, woodbury and other distinguished men of that day, the avowed purpose being to have an institution where the criminals of the state could be gathered and put under reformatory influences. thus it appears that the idea of reform was a fundamental one in the founding of the establishment. some years since the north wing, for the male prisoners, was erected, which is three-storied and contains cells, each about three and one-half feet wide, seven feet long and seven high, the bedsteads being of iron and made to turn up. the south wing, or old part, contains a tenement for the deputy and cells for the female prisoners. the warden occupies the main building, or middle part. here, too, are the cook room for the male prisoners, the chapel, the office, guard room, hospital, dormitories for the guards and overseers, and the reception room, in which the library is kept. the prison yard is surrounded on three sides by a granite wall, perhaps sixteen feet high, the prison itself constituting the wall on the fourth side. in the yard are two buildings of brick, each two stories high, one much larger than the other: the smaller, on its lower floor, affording a wash-room, tailor's shop, &c., the second story and attic rooms used for storage or any needed mechanical purpose, sometimes as shoe shops; the larger building is devoted to bedstead manufacturing, the machinery driven by steam. from this engine these two buildings are warmed by means of steam pipes, the boiling in the wash-room being done by the same. the hall is furnished with a steam boiler, which not only warms that, but also the guard and reception rooms, and the chapel, and the steam is used in the men's cook room, all other warming and heating in the prison being done by wood fires. to economize fuel as much as possible, a steam pipe has been extended from the engine room to the prison to conduct the waste steam of the shop boilers for use in those apartments. the female prisoners eat at a table in the warden's kitchen and from the same food as goes to his own table. the men have a prescribed diet, called rations, the allowance of each being dealt out in a tin basin,--meat, potatoes, gravy, &c., all together, the potatoes unpared. coffee is given in a tin dipper. the meals being ready, the men are marched through an entry by a long table standing contiguous to the kitchen and loaded with their rations, each taking what belongs to him, carrying it to his cell and partaking in solitude. their mode of eating is quite a curiosity. they generally use their beds for tables, and each has a knife, fork and spoon in his cell of which he takes the exclusive care. he fishes out his potatoes and pares them; but where shall he put the parings, dripping as they are? he has no extra dish. then how shall he wash his knife, fork and spoon? he can use his tongue, for he has nothing else, and he may or may not have a towel on which to wipe them, but his jacket sleeve or pants' leg is wonderfully convenient. what a dehumanizing system! why not let the men eat at tables the same as the women, and have some decency about the matter? then how much better in another respect. by the present system, rations must be dealt out to all alike, giving the same quantity to each, with the result of having more or less food returned or a part not have enough, some eating more than others. but if at a table, each can eat as he needs, and thus avoid suffering or waste. the men are provided with means for ablution by a few bathing-troughs in their wash-room. an old man gave me quite an amusing description of the operation, thus: "the bathing department here is a wonderful institution. they will march a file of men into the wash-room, old and young together, fill the troughs with water, put in a little soap, then a nigger or two to grease it with; when done, the men must strip and go in one after another. a wonderful institution! i never would go that." the female prisoners are employed in mending and making apparel for the men, and in domestic labors in the family apartment. the feeble men are employed in light work about the hall, such as dusting, carrying water to the cells, whitewashing, sweeping, &c., or in repairing clothes. two able-bodied men are required in the cook room, another in the wash-room and to do chores, and part of the time still another. the remaining men are let to a contractor, who pays a stipulated price per day for each when he works. the needed officers to the institution are the warden, deputy, physician, chaplain, hospital steward, four overseers, four guards, and two night watchmen, fifteen at least. all of these must be paid from the prison earnings. when to this is added the cost for supporting the prisoners, the ordinary repairs, printing the report and annual apprisal, we have the net prison gain. but the outsets, with the strictest economy, must always of necessity be large, showing that crime is an important drawback to industry and thrift. when i commenced my labors at the institution, it was about emerging from an experience which had brought no little opposition to the warden from some in the city, especially in the line of his reform moves. he took the prison in ' , the inmates, numbering seventy, being let on a contract of forty cents per day; the bedding extremely limited; the cells swarming with those pestiferous attendants on sleeping hours, every crevice between the stones and bricks affording a safe resort; the food for the inmates insufficient for prison demands. he at once commenced a war of extermination in the cells. having secured a change of bedding, and taking a division at a time, he would remove all the articles for washing and boiling, and inject burning fluid into the cracks and crevices, setting fire to it, and thus literally burning out each apartment. he found it essential to renew this attack, however, as months rolled round. finding, from the best authority at hand on prison fare, that it is not safe to run the supply to a man lower than twenty cents per day in cost for the raw material as the market usually is, and that flour bread is an economical food for prisoners, as well as being humane, he resolved to adopt this with a diet commensurate with nature's real demands, built a baker's oven, and hired a baker for instructing certain selected inmates in the art of baking, and established the daily supply seen in the bill of fare at the end of this article. under the head of "vegetables" are embraced all the articles commonly used as such on our tables,--onions, beets, carrots, parsnips, turnips and cabbage. not, however, using all at any one meal. in the chapel service the warden gave the prisoners liberty to look upon the speaker,--a great relief from the former downcast method,--and the chaplain introduced the responsive manner of reading, denounced by some as a most dangerous innovation. the sabbath school was held the year round, instead of simply during the session of the legislature, and a few months beside. but it required close calculation and strict economy with the warden to meet the current expenses with the wages of forty cents per day to a man, though he did that and gained a little. the war ending, the tide began to set towards the institution, increasing the number in ' to , ' to , and ' to , the highest number ever reached by the institution. the current then turned, the prisoners numbering in ' , , and in ' , . in ' the authorities relet the prisoners at ninety cents per day instead of forty, a great advance, brightening the financial prosperity of the institution. but in doing this they had to make a great outlay in enlarging the shop, obtaining a new engine, boilers, &c. there were, also, important repairs, with improvements in the drainage and ventilation, made. these outlays were mostly made by the warden, the governor, for the time, assenting and advising. in ' the governor and council relieved the warden of all financial responsibility, appointing one of their number to act as prison agent, and make the purchases and meet the outlays at the prison, in which year they put a new roof to the south wing and made other important alterations and repairs. from the legislative grants and prison earnings all these expenses were met, and the year closed with the institution free of debt, in good repair, and with all needed labor appliances, which was a great relief to all having the care and responsibility of the concern, rendering the task of keeping things tidy and in comfortable order much easier than formerly. it is better and more economical for the state. that constant patching up and fixing over in numerous places, swallowing up money, no one hardly knowing how, is now nearly ended, permitting the real gains of the institution to accumulate and stand prominently in view, though everything there is not quite perfection yet. the drainage and ventilation were found very defective and in bad order, but by the remodeling are made as good, perhaps, as can be in the situation. in this general fitting up, the prison officers and men voluntarily contributed to quite an extent, of which no account anywhere appears, though the state enjoys the gain. in the summer and fall of ' and the spring of ' , i frequently saw the deputy, out of the usual work hours, going with squads of men to labor on the sewers or wherever they could advantageously. the prison is lighted by gas. in the hall the burners, thirty-two in number, are placed along the outer walls, each from eight to ten or twelve feet from a cell, but being old and leaking badly, they give a poor light, the bars to the cells casting shadows on the books or papers the prisoners may attempt to read. hence, one of the governors ordered candles to be furnished to the cells extra when desired. these were so extensively called for that in ' the gas had been largely dispensed with for the candles. in case a prisoner is attempting to run away, or is rising upon an officer, the officers are held at liberty to shoot, knock down, or use whatever means may be needed in self-defense or in preventing their escape. otherwise prison rule does not allow an officer to strike a man, but he must be punished by the solitary or ball and chain at the discretion of the warden, who found it needful to use no little precaution as to the length of the former, "for too great severity in that tended to insanity on the part of the punished." in letting the prisoners on contract, the state furnishes the shop to the contractor rent free, also the motive power, shafting and belting, keeping these in repair. in managing the prisoners, each officer has his assigned position and duty, and everything is conducted with a precision closely approximating that of a military character. the south door to the chapel, spoken of, opens to the female part in the south wing and to the pass-way down two nights of stairs and out of doors. bill of fare _at new hampshire state prison._ sunday: _breakfast_--baked beans, brown bread, and coffee. _supper_--rice pudding, brown bread, and coffee. monday: _breakfast_--flour bread, brown bread, and coffee. _dinner_--corned beef, vegetables, and brown bread. _supper_--flour bread, molasses, and coffee. tuesday: _breakfast_--corned beef, warm brown bread, and coffee. _dinner_--codfish, potatoes, butter gravy, and brown bread. _supper_--flour bread, molasses, and coffee. wednesday: _breakfast_--fish hash, brown bread, and coffee. _dinner_--fresh beef soup with vegetables, and brown bread. _supper_--flour bread, molasses, and coffee. thursday: _breakfast_--meat hash, brown bread, and coffee. _dinner_--stewed peas with pork, and brown bread. _supper_--flour bread, molasses, and coffee. friday: _breakfast_--meat hash, warm brown bread, and coffee. _dinner_--baked fresh fish or chowder, potatoes, and brown bread. _supper_--flour broad, molasses, and coffee. saturday: _breakfast_--meat hash, brown bread, and coffee. _dinner_--fresh beef soup with vegetables, and brown bread. _supper_--flour bread, molasses, and coffee. . _general remarks upon the prisoners._ when entering my service here, the prison had more inmates than cells. eight were females. the community was reaping a sad harvest from the demoralizing effects of the late war. six or eight were u. s. prisoners. all treated me with due respect. the most were easily approached, free in conversation, readily giving account of themselves, admitting their crimes and the justice of their sentences, which probably they would not have done to one in whom they could not confide. a very few would plead innocence, some, no doubt, rightfully; three probably having been victims of fiendish plots. two or three were very reticent, one saying, "no one here shall ever know my real name, native place, or business of life." it was heart-sickening to listen to their tales of wrong and suffering, clearly showing that "the way of the transgressor is hard." sin has a most debasing effect upon its victims. three-fourths or more doubtless came to prison directly or indirectly through strong drink. true, in many cases, more remote causes lay back of this, a native inclination to sin, loss of parents, parental neglect, family infidelity, vicious associates, ignorance, sabbath-breaking and the like. a very few had used no strong drink. a large share were young, some mere boys on their alternate sentence. many, on entering, could neither read nor write. the crimes were various, extending from the worst murder cases down to the lower grades of iniquity, some perfectly fiendish, horrible. it would seem impossible for men and women to do such deeds. but these inmates were evidently not all the wrong doers of the state who merited punishment. in a few cases, no doubt, the prosecutor rather deserved the doom. then there are those rum-sellers, keepers of billiard saloons, gambling dens, and houses of ill fame, all inciting to crime. numbers of them stand really in the light of _particeps criminis_ to our inmates, and perhaps were more deserving of this confinement. how long will the people see this class making criminals of our sons and brothers, yea, of our daughters and sisters too, and remain inactive? why do not the very stones cry out? i found all the prominent religious persuasions here represented, from the universalist to the staid quaker; a number had been sabbath school attendants, one quite an advent speaker, who seemed positive he would be able to convert us all to his notions could he have the stand for a suitable time, a privilege he earnestly strove for. more came from the catholics than from any other sect, and more from the shoe-makers than from any other business class. when introducing the subject of personal piety to each, no little care was required to bring it forward in such a manner that it should not strike the mind repulsively, and thus fill it with needless prejudice, but rather conciliate and convince, leading to free conversation upon the subject. in this a great advantage would be gained. the larger portion acceded to the just claims of religious truth upon them, some hoping that their imprisonment was being sanctified to their highest good. one feelingly said, "i was swiftly floating on the stream of sin and corruption towards that awful gulf in which i must have landed ere this, had not the prison walls caught and saved me, as i trust." some i found professing a belief in infidelity, a few in real atheism. as weeks passed on, it became evident that something beyond human power was at work in the minds of a few. personal conversation developed the fact that they were really and seriously considering their ways. a case of much hope would occasionally present itself. "but," says one, "these fellows were professing this with the hope of getting out." that could not have been the case with some, most surely, as their term had nearly expired and they neither asked nor looked for a pardon. the work must have been genuine with these, if not with all. nor could i see any reason to doubt the sincerity of any, and i scrutinized closely. the classification of prisoners, as to their crimes, affords an interesting subject. it will be largely found that the wrong doing of each is of a specific character rather than a general. thus that of one is simply in the line of murder; that of another, robbery; of a third, stealing, or picking pockets, acting the burglar, assaulting female character, or of whatever sort. then, thieves can be classified into horse thieves, sheep stealers, leather thieves, watch and money thieves, and so on. some commit crimes only when influenced by strong drink, and then steal, quarrel or murder. many can not help their wrong doing, or will not, and therefore should remain in prison, where they can live as very good men, and aid the state instead of cursing society by their wrong deeds. they do not all steal for the gain, but for the sake of stealing. hence here is one who will hoard up his booty and never go to it afterwards. i asked an old man, a burglar, what induced him to lead such a life, and received this answer: "there is something peculiarly exciting in the engagements. i never engaged in it for what i could obtain." . _prayer meetings commenced._ previous to the present fall, no prayer meetings had been established at the prison, the need of which we now greatly felt. after much thought on the matter, i asked the warden if we could not introduce them, and he answered, "oh no, that can't be. there are so many hypocrites among the prisoners, who would take advantage to say what they might choose, and to the disgust of the others, that we can not control the matter." this came from no lack of interest in the subject, for it was the very thing that had found a large place in his contemplations and desires, though he had seen no time when he could feel it safe to take the step. not being able to put the idea out of mind, i soon brought it before him again, but in connection with the sabbath school teachers. after duly considering the pros and cons, the question was decided thus,--"start such a meeting, to be held weekly, if found practicable. next sabbath let each teacher, when hearing his class, select such of the number as he may think fitted for the exercise; passing the names to the warden for him to invite them in at his discretion, the meeting to commence the following monday evening." to prepare their minds for the occasion, the discourse, the next sabbath, was on hypocrisy, the text being the account of ananias and sapphira, with the attempt to point out the enormity and danger of that sin, that the truly sincere should not be kept from duty by hypocrisy as seen in others, or by being accused of it in themselves by the malicious. at the close, the warden, grasping my hand, said, "we will let all go in who choose. we will make no selection," and we appointed the meeting accordingly. met at the time appointed, nearly one hundred being present, for it was a novel matter there. in the commencement i clearly stated what would be expected of all who might engage in prayer or speaking, referring to the subject of the sermon the past day, and said that the opportunity was offered for those only to improve who sincerely desired to become better and were truly determined to act accordingly, expressing the full conviction that none would presume to come forward under any hypocritical pretenses. a few of the sabbath school teachers present took part to good acceptance. then two or three of the inmates offered prayer, and three or four spoke of their feelings and desires. they could not have been more appropriate in their words, spirit, or manner. to all appearances they were sincere. perfect order prevailed,--a most profound and respectful attention. much of the time the dropping of a pin upon the floor could have been heard. an overpowering spirit seemed to pervade the room, not so much in the words uttered as in the convictions of each man's own heart, it was an impressive season. how was my soul relieved at this triumph over our fears and rejoiced at the way god had evidently opened before us. thus the meetings commenced and that too indicating, as the first results, the very blessing i had been hoping and praying for, a deeper impressiveness to our sabbath and other religious efforts. shortly after, we found that hearts not sensibly touched before, were being deeply impressed, among them one of the worst cases perhaps in prison. it was taking a new start in the right direction. in laboring with these men now, as at all times, i felt that a great responsibility rested on me; that this was no place for dealing softly, petting them with insinuations that they had been more sinned against than sinning, and that nothing was needed for them but a professed determination to amend, with a few efforts in that direction. duty seemed imperative that i should labor to bring the wrong doings of each as clearly and impressively as could be before him, how deeply he had sinned against his own best good, his fellows and his god, enforcing the absolute necessity of true repentance, and turning to the right through faith in christ; that he must make a thorough, radical work of the matter, or it would avail nothing. thus plainly, yet coupled with a feeling heart, i invariably met the prisoners on these subjects. and where no evidence could be found of a realizing sense of sins committed and true compunction therefor, we could found no hope in the case. . _pike, the hampton murderer._ on entering, i found him in prison, not at work, but confined to his cell according to our present law, that, when one is condemned to execution, he shall be confined in the state prison one year, at the end of which the sentence shall be carried out, unless receiving a reprieve or commutation. by law also, the criminal has the right to choose his own spiritual adviser, and, much to my relief, i found that pike had arranged with my predecessor about this before he left. still i volunteered to the doomed man all the aid in my power, for which he appeared highly grateful. the plea of insanity had been used on the trial, or that the accused was in a state of mind, when committing the offense, that rendered him irresponsible for the crime alleged, which plea pike would ever make to me, sometimes alluding to the great injustice of his being hung. but as mr. holman had undertaken to fathom that, i never pressed him with any particular inquiry on the matter. it would seem impossible for one manifesting the spirit pike always did to us, to commit so horrid a crime, and probably he never would had he been free from rum. in prison, he at all times appeared gentlemanly and kind-hearted, helped me a number of days in repairing the library, and seemed glad of the opportunity. when laboring with those he afterwards murdered, he was uniformly pleasant, ready to do anything for them they needed. they parted on the most friendly terms, the old people earnestly urging him to continue with them still longer. but when pike was under the influence of liquor, he was a very different man, and at times a highly dangerous character. in this he was fully responsible, for he could have let the drink alone, and did when he chose. i saw nothing leading me to doubt his full responsibility in the murder. but others also are responsible,--those who helped him to his liquor and thus caused his madness. against them, also, the blood of those mangled forms cries loudly from the ground to a righteous god for vengeance. the community likewise, which, by supineness and inactivity, permitted those persons to carry on their nefarious traffic, must come in for its share. the blame of that startling act does not all lie at pike's door, though he was guilty enough. when i attempted to urge upon him the importance of a full preparation for the dread event before him, he seemed strangely inclined to put it off and almost callous to the magnitude of his sin. he would admit that his career had been one of desperate wickedness, but did not appear truly moved in spirit by its real enormity, or as having genuine repentance over the matter, a thorough breaking up of the fallow ground of the heart. trusting to the idea of his non-responsibility as a shielding circumstance, he no doubt felt almost perfect confidence, till near the last, that a pardon, or commutation, would be granted, and ventured on that assurance. i constantly discouraged the idea, repeatedly urging him to put no confidence in that, but earnestly to set about a preparation for the worst. the final decision of the executive power, not to interfere with the decision of the court, came to me, but in such a way that i was not at liberty to announce it till officially divulged. still, feeling so anxious for the criminal, i went as far as the circumstances would allow, and said to him, "from what i hear, your case is finally decided, but not in your favor. and i am perfectly satisfied that my information is reliable." but it was not official, and the very fact of its being withheld inspired him with hope that i was mistaken. the rulers, no doubt, did as they thought best in the matter, but it would seem that there was an error on their part in not communicating their finality to the criminal as soon as made. it was a grave matter to him, and the last few days he reflected no little upon the course. in our labors with the doomed man, we had two prominent points before us, one to fit his mind for going upon the gallows with the needed fortitude, the other to lead him to a due preparation for appearing before his god. during the last week, by his desire, clergymen from the city visited him. a few of the singers from the city, also, by the warden's invitation, occasionally called and spent a short time with him, singing some of those devotional pieces so well fitted to his case, which were followed by prayer and then all retired. his cell was now in the hall. this occurred when the other prisoners were in the shop at work, for at no other time were visitors allowed at his cell. two or three of his last days were spent in the hospital, which then had no sick occupant. the strictest care and watchfulness were observed by the officers, so that, whether in his cell or in the hospital, he could not possibly escape if he attempted it. the day appointed for the execution was tuesday. monday the criminal frankly admitted to his adviser, that he knew what he was doing that terrible night, and was fully responsible for the deed, which acknowledgment he signed in writing. he also dictated a letter to his youngest brother, faithfully warning him against following his own ways of wildness and drinking, also a note containing good advice to two young men who had been officers in the prison, and finally an address to be read on the scaffold. brothers and other relatives took leave of him monday afternoon and tuesday morning. the fatal hour was fixed at eleven, a. m. pike was up in due season, took a slight morning repast, dressed for the day, had devotional exercises, and finished parting with friends at nine, that he might have opportunity for becoming duly rested and composed in mind for that painful occasion. at ten the other officers retired, leaving him alone with us two. what an hour before us? i had never experienced the like before and hope never to again. it was much like standing on the crumbling verge of time and looking into eternity's vast abyss. we had a season of prayer, then conversation for the purpose of learning his present feelings and convictions. he professed a hope that god had forgiven his sins and would accept him at last; said that no doubt it would be better for him to go then than be pardoned and return to the world once more, for, in that case, his appetite might overpower him again and he do other horrid deeds. still, it was hard to die in the way he must. personal conversation over, we continued bringing to his mind fitting portions of scripture and appropriate verses from hymns and thus occupied the moments till eleven slowly arrived. our door opens. the sheriff with his attendants enters. we march to the scaffold in the hall, where are gathered many reporters for the press and other gentlemen. the address being read and prayer offered, mr. holman at his right and myself at his left lead him upon the fatal drop, and there support him while the preparation for the last is being made. during the adjustment of the black cap and noose, i feel a tremor in his arm. he is taken forward from us and placed under the beam. his legs are bound, his arms pinioned, the sheriff reads extracts from the doings of the court, and gives the final sentence. the spring is touched, the drop falls, the surgeon calls for the rope to be drawn higher, as the feet touch the floor. this done, life ends in about a quarter of an hour. as the drop fell, mr. holman settled back in a chair, faint. i led him to a window where he soon recovered, but serious illness followed, caused by the excitement and anxiety of his labors here. now, if men must be hung, humanity would call for the work to be performed differently in these respects: that mortal long reading from the court doings should be dispensed with, that is, long for the place. it can be of no sort of use. a short formula, consisting of the last two or three sentences, uttered by the sheriff, would be all sufficient. then, again, that black cap should be different. binding the limbs consumed a few moments, and the reading, referred to, still more. but probably after the cap was on and the noose fitted over it, the criminal exhausted all the oxygen available to him in three or four breaths, and was forced to suffer the process of suffocation during that occupied time. how near death he was when the drop fell, i can not say, but he appeared to be suffering greatly before the binding was completed. that could all be remedied by having an orifice in the cap opposite the mouth for breathing. further, that sad mistake about the rope should never be allowed to happen. he who permits himself to be appointed to such a duty, ought so to understand his business that such an accident shall be impossible. some of the papers, especially in new york, roughly criticised our efforts to prepare pike for his end, said it was an outrage on society to give a wretch like him so much attention; that, in it, we exhibited a sickly sentimentalism, appeared as though we would raise crime to a saintship, and more in the same line. a few words only on this must suffice. we supposed that the sentiment, "the criminal has a right to the benefit of the clergy," really meant something; that, though this man had been condemned to execution by his compeers for a most outrageous crime, he yet had a right to means for preparing himself to pass the ordeal of the scaffold with due composure, and for becoming reconciled to his god, if that could be. we did not dream that anybody short of heathendom would object to this. supposing we were appointed to work for that end, we went to the task with a sincerity of purpose. if we were not appointed to do just the things we did, for what were we, pray? we simply followed the usual course pursued at the bedside when one is near death, had religious conversation, prayer, singing, parting with friends; though, in this case, we had no extreme feebleness caused by disease to meet, but rather crime, in one of its most revolting forms, to recognize in bringing gospel appliances, concerning which crime we endeavored to be duly faithful. hence, all that feverish editorial brain-work over this pretended wrong, and that amount of printer's ink and paper thus used were simply wasted upon, what never occurred, or that which was only a usual, honest effort to do our duty with fidelity. but this tirade, no doubt, came through the agency of some living not far away, who designedly put a newsmonger on the wrong scent, for the purpose of venting their own spleen at the idea of having those around who would treat a helpless, fallen man better than a dog. . _doctrinal discourses._ in pursuing my labors among the prisoners, i often met those skeptical views, before alluded to, which were sometimes quite boldly avowed. some of them would constantly attend the sabbath school, doubtless simply from the pleasure derived in puzzling their teachers with questions. they were acute, shrewd fellows, keen in argument, quick to see a point and turn it, hard to meet. to help these, if possible, i decided to give a few discourses on the evidences of the existence of a god as seen from the light of nature. those of the skeptical class as well as others manifested no little interest in the subject. soon evidences began to appear of a material softening among them in their opposition to bible truths. one young man said to the warden, "when the chaplain commenced those discourses, i felt sure of being impregnably fixed in my ideas. after hearing one, i would retire to my cell and sit down with the purpose of figuring out the want of conclusiveness in his arguments. but the more i figured, the more i saw that i was in the wrong and not he; that, from what we see all about us, there must be a god, whom i am convinced i ought to love and obey." this man became altogether changed in his habits and entered upon a really hopeful course. nor was he alone among those thus yielding, who had long been accustomed to shut their eyes against the true light. . _effect of the prayer meeting on prison order._ these meetings had now continued a number of weeks with no abatement of interest, having gained the reputation of being the best in the city. but it became needful for us, at this time, to suspend all our chapel exercises for a while, to give place to the proposed enlargement of the room. hence, at the close of the last meeting previous to this vacation, the warden said, in substance, "we have been holding these meetings several weeks. at first i thought them wholly impracticable in the place, but am truly glad to find i was so greatly mistaken. as an act of simple justice, i feel that i ought to bear testimony, before you all, to the influence they have exerted on the morals of the inmates. since they commenced, we have not had a single case for discipline in this institution, a fact without precedent in the past, so far as my knowledge extends, for so long a time. and i most devoutly hope that this state of things will continue and the meetings grow more and more powerful in their influence for good." such a result of our efforts was in advance of what i had dared hope for. though fully convinced that the influence must be in that direction, i had not realized so clearly that we were setting in operation what would prove so effective an aid to order in the prison. . _the new chapel._ at length the chapel was completed and made a gem of a room, as it seemed to us, in comparison with what it previously was, having been enlarged to nearly double its former size, extending the whole width of the building and taking in the windows on both sides, thus giving us great improvement in air and general comfort; the painting also was neat and cheerful. we all felt truly thankful for so great a blessing, thankful, too, for the opportunity of meeting again to resume our worship. as the poor fellows entered, one after the other, and cast their eyes about upon the beauty and neatness before them, i could see the joy flash over their countenances. the singing sent a new thrill to the heart, and it seemed much easier to speak to them. everything appeared more hopeful for good. during the recess, i had been assiduous in visiting the prisoners, sabbaths and other days, and endeavoring to influence them in the right. but now that the meetings had commenced, we could rationally look for a greater success to our efforts. nor did we look in vain, for soon some professed a full determination to forsake their ways of sinning and seek to become what god required. these indications, as is usual in the outside world, tended to give the general moral tone, in the prison, a deeper impressiveness. . _prison repairs and mistakes._ previous to the enlarging of the chapel, general repairs and important alterations had been made in the south wing, consisting of a new french roof, a great improvement in appearance and utility, new cells for the female prisoners, and other rooms fitted for the officers and general prison use. the mechanics worked most diligently, and the money appropriated by the state was, no doubt, most economically laid out. the agent, one of the council, evidently felt no little satisfaction in having it said that he could accomplish so large amount of work with so little money. but either he, or some one else, made at least two grave mistakes. one was in locating the cells for the females, which are in the third story, requiring the occupants, in going to and from their meals, and attending to much of their work, to pass over two, and sometimes three, flights of stairs. all understanding minds know that this must prey most sadly on female health, and that apartments for this class should be as near the ground as can be. the other mistake was in the stairs. in the old arrangement the females had their private stairway, where they could pass unobserved by any except their attendants. but in the change, that private way was laid aside and the women required to use the public stairs, subjecting them to great inconvenience. i called the attention of the agent to this matter, but to no effect. another thing of trifling expense should have been attended to. the female wash-room should be arranged so that those laboring there, in turning out the waste water, should not be required to lift their tubs as high as, and, in some cases, higher than their heads; and, while washing, they should not be obliged to stand on ice so much. blinds, also, should have been put to those large hospital windows to prevent almost broiling the sick in hot weather. . _profanity attacked._ profanity appeared to be a common evil in the institution, not only among the convicts, but also with many of those who were over them. a prisoner said to me one day, with no little emotion, "chaplain, i am in a hard case. swearing is my besetting sin. if i become vexed with my work, or anything else, that is my resort at once. in the meetings, i hear preaching, prayer and singing, under the influence of which, i feel a strong impulse to leave my sinful ways, and seek to become good and live an upright life. almost resolved on this, i go to my work and am there forced to hear more or less profanity. they will swear at me, and i fall to swearing, too. thus i am in a hard case." the deputy said, "there is swearing enough here daily to sink the whole concern clear down out of sight." thus assured, it seemed important that a move specifically against that sin be made. true, we might not reach those who most indulged in it, as they never attended our gatherings, but we could work for the prisoners. hence, one evening, after speaking of the folly and sinfulness of the habit, an appeal was made direct to the men, soliciting all who would wholly abandon the practice to rise in their seats, to which some forty responded. at the next meeting, on requesting those who had succeeded in keeping their pledge to rise, the largest part signified their success. the next day as i passed about, some told me that, the past week, they had failed once or twice, but felt determined to struggle on and conquer. subsequently one and another would assure me of their full triumph, that they had not been overtaken since that first week. how far the reform went, i shall never know, but it was in the right direction, such a reform as should be carried out everywhere, for no gentleman will take god's name in vain. it is a vulgar, mean practice. . _efforts for a son, from a mother's plea._ during the spring of ' and, while our religious interest was progressing, a mother visited her son in prison, having a temporary home with a lady friend in the city. we will call the mother, mrs. a., the son, b., and the friend, mrs. c. mrs. a., witnessing the subduing influences pervading our meetings, and feeling a strong desire that her son might be benefited thereby, determined to do what she could in that direction. this son was a youth who might have stood high, had he followed the right, but he had gone deeply into crime, causing his parents and friends untold sorrows. still, this mother clung to him as only a mother can, hoping and praying for his rescue from his downward course. the two families, here represented, had previously lived in near proximity and in happy union, when b. was an innocent youth, just emerging from childhood, a mother's pride and a father's hope. considering this circumstance, and knowing that mrs. c. had a class in the prison sabbath school, and was an intelligent christian worker, of good standing in the community, mrs. a. conceived the idea that she perhaps might now essentially help her son, and solicited her to make the attempt. she replied, "i have no objection to attempting what i can to reclaim your son, with the warden's assent." this assent obtained, the two met in his presence. for a time b. appeared averse to talking directly of his convictions concerning the soul's interest. but she at length secured his confidence, thus leading him to speak of his feelings and desires to reform more freely, perhaps, than he had to the chaplain or warden. she referred to the past, what he once was, what his parents had done for him, what he might have been; to his fall, what he had lost, his present condition, his mother's agonized feelings in his behalf. the recital cut him keenly. like peter of old, he wept bitterly. she then pointed him to the saviour as the only means of hope and relief. thus she met him a few times and to good effect. he had been really interested in his religious welfare for a long time previous. but these efforts helped him greatly to decide fully to follow his convictions of duty. he became more alive to his true condition, perhaps, than ever before, would mourn over the heinousness of his sins, and evidently appeared to be drinking the bitter cup of repentance. he would be at times in real agony of mind at the view of himself. while in this state, the warden invited those especially interested in the subject of religion to meet in the chapel, from twelve to twenty in number, for an inquiry meeting. we conversed with them severally and then proposed a season of prayer in which each should engage, which they did, b. among the rest, after which he appeared more calm, as if he had obtained a measure of relief, though he did not feel satisfied that he had really experienced a change of heart, but seemed decided about pursuing the right. we encouraged him to press on as he had begun, and to take part in our meetings, to the latter of which he replied, "no, i will not attempt that. should i, they will say, 'i am playing good with the hope of getting out.' that i won't do. i despise hypocrisy, however bad i may be in other things." thus he took his stand, still interested in daily reading god's word, prayer, sabbath school, and the general religious exercises. other prisoners noted the change in him and would say, "he has been converted." but he was called to meet sore trials in the prison, trials hard to bear, of which we will speak hereafter. . _warden's efforts for a young man._ this young man, here called e., from the middle walks of english society, parents well to do, with a good trade, superior mental powers, commanding high wages, came to this country to seek his fortune, fell into bad company, bad habits, and finally the state prison. the warden became deeply interested in him, found that he was anxious about his religious state, and seeing the success of mrs. c.'s labors invited mrs. d. f., another prison sabbath school teacher, resembling mrs. c. in efficiency, character and standing, to make an effort with him for his good. she assented, and met him in the presence of the warden. she first took measures to satisfy herself that he was sincere and truthful with her, and proposed numerous questions about his home affairs, his history, &c. he answered her inquiries with apparent frankness, said that he was then under an alias, not wishing by his wrongs to disgrace his friends or real name, purported to give his true name, which she was not to reveal, the name of his minister and thus on. mrs. d. f. had been acquainted with this minister, wrote to him, as she thought best, and in due time received an answer conclusively showing that e. had been truthful in his personal statements. she then conversed with him concerning his religious interests with about the same results as in the former case, except that he did not give so clear an evidence of a thorough work as did b. the warden was particular to have the prison visits of these ladies in his presence, and sometimes that of the chaplain, too, not only that there should be no deviation from the rules of strict order, but also as a safeguard against evil reports. he well knew that there were ill-disposed persons who were ready to distort and misrepresent all his efforts at reform; and had a lady been admitted to private interviews with a prisoner, it would have given them just such stock to work with as would have delighted them. . _experience with noble appearing heads in prison._ facts have shown that, in meeting an assembly, whether in prison or out, we can not always judge correctly in regard to the mental caliber of those composing it by the view of their heads. the apparent superior development may be deceptive, the work of disease. among the "noble appearing heads" alluded to on a previous page, a part were of that class, or at least contained diseased minds. we will look at two cases, using substituted letters for the names, as previously. h. is of good form, head finely proportioned, forehead high, eyes bright, all indicating, at a little distance, that he might possess no small share of intellect. occasionally he will make pertinent, well timed remarks, but is greatly wanting in mental ability. i have been informed that his mother was intemperate, and had the delirium tremens just previous to his birth. he, also, years before, had at times appeared as though satan himself possessed him, and was evidently insane, which, passing off, would leave him all right for a season. he has some remembrance of learning to read a little, can count almost one hundred, but has no power to combine numbers otherwise, at least none that i could find after persistent labor in drilling him almost daily for some four weeks on the same figures; thus, in addition table and , and , &c., ending where we commenced. ask him, "how many are and ?" and he would as quickly answer, " ," or " ," as anything. still he appeared earnest to learn, and was about twenty-four years old. he would detain me with him as long as possible to help him catch the idea, and would often say, "when i go out, i mean to find a good place where i can go to school, for i intend to obtain a good education." at times he would appear very religious, and talk and pray in our meetings; but, should anything irritate him, he perhaps would fly into a rage beyond all self-control, in which, if he could, he would kill a man as quickly as he would a fly. still, an officer of the needed prudence and skill, by studying his infirmity and managing with due discretion, would have but little trouble with him, and he would readily earn his living. he would be an unsafe man to go at large, as dangerous, if fired with anger, as any raving maniac. he should ever be under firm control somewhere, with proper treatment and labor. it would be difficult for us to determine how far moral responsibility can be affirmed of this man. god alone can decide that. j. was another fine looking man of some twenty-eight years, gentlemanly appearing, with a good education, kindly disposed, usually of good habits, honest, so far as known, except in two cases, and those in much the same way. he would hire a team for a ride, go to a hotel and put up, exchange or sell the horse, or harness, or carriage, or all together, wander about awhile, and then return home for his father to help settle the matter, making no effort to escape arrest. the first time he was arrested, but not convicted, as neighbors pleaded in his behalf. the second time he was sent to prison. on this trial neighbors urged the father to put in the plea of insanity, but he refused, as so many were resorting to that. still, all said that he had the best of reasons, as his own brother, or the young man's uncle died in an insane asylum, and those exceptional acts of his must have been performed through an insane impulse. receiving a pardon previous to the close of his sentence, he went into good employment, worked steadily about a year, and took the same step again, when the court put him under guardianship, instead of sending him to prison, which was no doubt the most judicious course; for if kept from that horse hiring, he will doubtless be all right, as he has never manifested any inclination to wrong except in that particular point, and that only when his mind was evidently unhinged. there were others who exhibited each his peculiarity. some of these, could we look within their mental structure and there take a just survey, would perhaps be found possessed of such a native taint, or bias, or disorder, that their wrong doings, for which they were in prison, would be regarded in the light of misfortunes rather than crimes. this subject of hereditary mental taint or disorder, in connection with wrong doing, opens to the phrenologist a wide and important field for investigation. but when he is forced to the conclusion that the one has acted from a disordered impulse of mind, uncontrollable, and he therefore not responsible for his acts, it can make no difference with the fact that the wrong doer must be restrained and put where he can not trespass upon the rights of others. it will rather lead to the questions of where he shall be confined, how employed, after what manner treated, and in what light regarded; perhaps showing clearly the need of important modifications in our present system of prison management. . _the warden admits presents to prisoners from friends outside._ he would permit friends outside to send soothing dainties to the sick, or packages of fruit or home comforts to the well; or florists of the city to send bouquets to stand upon the speaker's desk on the sabbath, for the prisoners to admire, and each received a flower or sprig to carry to his cell as a memento of innocence and purity, and a stimulus to love the author of such beauty. it was really gratifying to see what cheer to the fallen these remembrances from the outside world would bring. all packages thus sent to prisoners were most carefully examined by officers, that nothing wrong should pass. . _warden decides to resign._ he had not found his place a bed of roses. certainly it possessed its thorns, and these, at times, largely predominated. his efforts for bringing the prison, in all its departments, to what it was, had cost him a great struggle, many anxious hours of planning, and at times perplexities in executing. but his greatest vexation came because of opposition, from certain ones without, to what he felt assured was for the best good of the institution, and from the misrepresentations of those opposed to all prison reform and improvement, who think it an outrage to the state to treat a prisoner better than a brute. he says one complained of him thus: "you give the prisoners too good fare, and make things too comfortable for them, on account of which they will wish to return. whereas, the prison is a place for punishment, requiring you to keep the inmates on poorer food, and food so prepared that it shall be a punishment to eat it, and make everything around them a source of discomfort, that, after leaving, they may thereby be deterred from crime through dread of being returned." from all considerations, the warden resolved to resign at the close of the year, yet, while remaining, to continue the usual prison rations and efforts at reform. his wife also heartily joined in his efforts, having from the first done much towards the excellent fare of the prisoners, and seeing that the sick were properly cared for. hence, on one occasion, finding a man gradually wasting away with consumption, the skin wearing from his emaciated limbs by the hard prison couch, she sent in her own feather bed, that he might pass the remainder of his days in what comfort he could. but what shall we think of the assertion that "the food should be so prepared that it shall be a punishment to the men to eat it?" can it be possible, that one in new hampshire, at this late day, uttered a sentiment like that? so the warden most positively asserts. to say nothing of its inhumanity, common worldly policy would repudiate such an idea. of food thus prepared one at first would eat as little as possible to live, his powers for labor therefore depart, his appetite gradually fails, and he goes down to death. all who use horses or oxen, except the worst of men, would scout such a practice. they say, "to have teams work well, feed well." so it must be with men, whether in prison or elsewhere. power for muscular labor can be furnished only by generous food. then the fear that good prison fare would induce the prisoners to return purposely on recommitments, must have been expressed without due consideration, or being taught by prison facts. statistics show that, where the prison is the most cruelly managed and the inmates are kept on the poorest fare, the greatest number return on second or third sentences. then as to our own prison, the very year this complaint was made, more pardons were granted, i think, than had ever been before in one year since the founding of the institution. and most surely none refused to accept of the offer and depart. besides, nearly all who had friends, except those soon to go out by commutation, were constantly importuning them to intercede for their pardon, while those who had none, were persistent in their pleadings with the warden, chaplain and other prison officers to help them in efforts for the desired boon. why this, if good fare would be an inducement to return? would the utterer of that sentiment have sanctioned the idea of leaving the prison doors all unlocked and unbolted for one night? what a skedaddling there would have been, old or young, sick or well, the infirm and decrepit, hobbling off as best they could, leaving their good fare behind and their cells "to let." what an idea! the good prison living, which at best can not be made equal to the comforts in our most common families outside, lead men to desire to be locked up in those gloomy cells for its sake and subjected to the general prison regime! that man may fear it who will. . _prisoners' anxiety at the rumored resignation._ this rumor soon spread through the prison, not however to bring joy, but sorrow. i had not imagined that the prospect would cause the prisoners so much anxiety. probably the slave of former days on the auction block, about to be struck off to a new owner, and all uncertain as to his future fate, would experience feelings allied to theirs. their first anxiety seemed to be about their educational and religious privileges, lest these might be cut off or largely curtailed. said one, "i have served on board of a whaleman and been accustomed to the most rigid discipline found there. i fear nothing in the line of strictness of rules, but can not bear the idea of being deprived of our school and meeting opportunities. i would do almost anything for the sake of enjoying these." this was the feeling. then, they were deeply anxious about the character of the man to be put over them, whether he would be humane, or the reverse. and no wonder, when we consider how completely they are left to his control. probably no other state officer is so irresponsible as the warden of our state prison,--that is, in a position where those under him are so completely at his mercy, and where he can exercise real cruelty, if disposed, and cover it up with a fair outside show. none but a man of humane instincts, one especially qualified for the post, should be put in that position. . _governor and council memorialized by the prison s. s. teachers and chaplain._ sustaining the relation we did to the prison, we thought it appropriate for us to set forth our views and desires to the governor and council touching the appointment of the warden; not respecting who should be appointed, but the principles to be secured. hence, by a committee, we drew up a paper to be laid before them, giving account of the religious and educational privileges we had been laboring to secure to the inmates for the purpose of throwing around them all the influences possible for securing good order in the prison, and a preparation, on their part, for going out reformed, and duly prepared to act the part of good citizens, and also soliciting their honorable body, that they would so recognize these arrangements and labors of ours, in their contemplated appointment, that they should not be curtailed, but permitted to go on, gathering around them such improved facilities as might be devised from time to time, thus securing the best discipline in the prison and the highest ends of imprisoning. we were treated on the occasions with due respect, and permitted to speak freely on the points as we judged best. some of the gentlemen responded in most commendatory terms at what we had been doing, regarding the influence as highly salutary in regard to order and general good in the prison. . _prison funerals._ the methods of procedure at the interment of the prisoners had been various, at times not very complimentary to a professedly christian people. but more recently the custom had obtained of having prayer and remarks appropriate to the occasion, the men being arranged in the prison yard, after which they were to retire to their work. in this way we conducted our first funeral after my entrance. at the next, we observed this form: had all things ready when the men were had eaten, say at twenty-five minutes past twelve, and then took them to the chapel for the usual prayer and remarks, which ended, we conducted them in file through the reception-room for leave-taking of their lifeless comrade, the body being there laid out with some little taste, and then they passed on to the shop. this method is chaste and appropriate, hinders nothing about the shop labor, and manifests due respect for the occasion. the matter of funerals has ever been held as of great importance by all civilized nations. nor is it any the less important to a well conducted prison than elsewhere. proper funeral observances will tend to the good of the prisoners as well as to that of others, and help impress upon them the idea of their own mortal career and accountability. how much more like men they will cause the inmates to feel than would putting the body in a rough box and hauling it off the back way, in a cart, like a dead dog. . _educational and s. school summing up._ the year closed upon our educational efforts with a good measure of success, though of necessity limited in comparison with what ought to be accomplished by a like number in our public schools outside. for, it will be borne in mind, that all our pupils had to perform their daily tasks at manual labor from early morn till night; that their cells are not the most advantageous rooms for study; that what they obtained they had to gain in these pent up places, in the odds and ends of their time, as best they could. then, again, we could have our school only when the guards could be spared from their common prison duties. still, with all the drawbacks, a number of the inmates made commendable proficiency. they did what they could. they had become inspired with the idea of putting themselves earnestly to the task of cultivating their intellects and hearts, so far as they could, and thus be prepared, on leaving prison, for common business. some had really waked up to what they had lost by their sinful courses, and now appeared determined to do their best, in the future, at making amends. thus spurred on, they were diligent. and it was truly a pleasure to be permitted to help forward these minds, arousing, as they were, to a higher and better life. sordid indeed must be that heart which would not fire up with energy for encouraging such to go on. some forty of the young were among those who were striving in this direction, a very few others of that class not possessing sufficient mental capacity for learning. then others had obtained a good education previously, and chose to spend their time in reading from the library, except that some would wish a better knowledge of arithmetic, and perhaps other branches, when about to close their term. we had been favored with a few interesting lectures from outside gentlemen, with three readings by lady elocutionists, and a number of drill exercises in singing. a gentleman also gave us a number of lessons in penmanship. we had repaired the books of the library, added nearly two hundred volumes, obtained a new catalogue, two large blackboards for drill exercises in arithmetic, &c., a set of charts on penmanship, a set also of outline maps in geography, purchasing likewise such books or material as appeared needful to the school, expending in all $ . , being allowed to use in this way the money gathered from the admission fees of visitors, all of which we did not use. we endeavored to do what we could towards beginning what we confidently hoped would soon become an institution duly established by the state with all needed provision for security. the sabbath school continued with unabated interest from the first, numbers varying but little, seldom falling below eighty, average, eighty-six. . _religious success._ from my first day at the prison, the religious state had been encouraging, nothing to mar the interest transpiring. true, there had been no revival at any time, but a steady, healthful drawing in the right direction, that from which the most is ever to be hoped. a goodly number had, at different times, become professedly fixed in the determination to a thorough reform, while the others had, to appearance, largely lost their prejudice against religious truth; and entered more freely into conversation upon those subjects, many admitting the justness of their claims. and, taking all things together, our prospects had never appeared better than at the end of the year, indicating that, should our rulers possess wisdom enough to select the right man for warden, still more cheering results might be anticipated from subsequent efforts. but we could not presume to judge correctly as to how much of this profession was well founded. that we had to leave for god to take care of. we had one important certainty, however, connected with this matter,--the certainty that all true good is found with just such surroundings as we had at the prison, the love of prayer, interest in god's word, delight in attending meetings, desire for mental culture and a professed seeking for holiness; but not with the contrary, such as swearing, contentions, hatred of god's truth, and the like. . _fourth of july at the prison._ the fourth came with no new warden appointment. therefore, the incumbent determined that he would celebrate this at the prison as his own yearnings prompted, and as it would be observed at some other prisons. hence, at early morn, he announced to the men that he was about to give them a real fourth, causing their hearts to leap for joy. at o'clock they met in the chapel for the reading of the declaration of independence, singing, &c., after which they marched into the prison yard, where were tables beautified by floral decorations and spread by fair hands, with picnic dainties, lemonade being prepared expressly for the prisoners. the blessing asked, the men having done ample justice to the good cheer, and the tables having been removed, speaking by a number of distinguished gentlemen from various towns followed. this ended and prayer offered, the sports followed as various as the different tastes could devise. nothing rude, boisterous, insubordinate, or unkind appeared from any. one standing outside the walls would not have supposed, from anything heard, that a real, live fourth was being so greatly enjoyed within. and probably the pleasures of the day were never more keenly felt anywhere, in prison or out. one and another would say, "this is the happiest day of my life." a somewhat large delegation of ladies and gentlemen from various parts of the state was present, who seemed delighted with the occasion. the female prisoners partook of their picnic dainties in their own room, but were permitted, with their attendants, to witness the yard scenes from the chapel windows. everything passed off satisfactorily. the speaking was excellent, just fitted to the occasion, showing the need of laws and prisons, that those present were here for crimes, yet that they could reform, for which they should strive, that numerous willing hands were reached out for their encouragement and aid. the time at length came for separating, when each man went to his cell with a cheer of heart which he had never carried there before. and this cheer long pervaded their minds, leading them to obey with greater alacrity. nor did i hear of a case of a contrary character. they would afterwards often refer to the occasion as that _happy day_. . _the true principles of imprisoning and prison-managing on the idea of reform in the convict._ for the sake of brevity these principles are here set forth mainly by questions and answers. what is the object of imprisoning? this object is fourfold: . to prevent the criminal from injuring the public. . to deter from committing crime. . to punish the wrong doer. . to reform the erring. on the first two of these two points there is no dispute, while some will not admit the third, and others proscribe the fourth. let us, however, admit the four. who has the right to imprison and assign the terms and conditions to the imprisoned? the state alone, or society organized in a body politic, has this right, and that is to be exercised by due process of law, in which exercise she is, first, in her legislative capacity, to point out clearly, by her enactments, for what a man shall be imprisoned, specify the terms of the imprisoning and the conditions to which the imprisoned shall be subjected; second, in her judicial capacity, assign the wrong doer his merited doom; and, third, in her executive capacity, to carry out in him the decisions she has made, no individual having a right to interfere with this in any way, except as specially authorized by state enactments. hence, the criminal, when standing at the bar and hearing the sentence of the judge, can understand exactly what lawfully and justly awaits him, provided that he demean himself uprightly in his new condition. suppose the sentence, in a given case, is this: "you are to be confined at hard labor in our state prison for five years." in this all that can lawfully be inflicted upon the convict is involved. so say the judges themselves. hence, should any man, or party of men, bring upon him additional infliction during that time, the imprisoned would, just so far, become the sufferer of a wrong, and those making that infliction would be the wrong doers. let us, then, analyze this sentence and thus ascertain its elements. being confined in prison for the term, all admit, involves the idea that he is to enter those walls and not be permitted to pass out till his time is ended. as the term, "hard labor," is not defined, it must be determined by the common custom of workmen at the same or similar business outside. so say the judges again. to illustrate: if ten hours constitute a day's work with these, so with the prisoners,--not twelve or fifteen. again, if, in bedstead making, turning one hundred posts, in the one case, is required for a day, so in the other, not one hundred and fifty or two hundred. this laboring day after day, during the specified number of years, constitutes the "hard labor" in the meaning of the court. the law assigns no further punishment to the imprisoned, if duly submissive to wholesome prison rules. but, should he be stubborn, refusing to perform his task, or obey the regulations generally, or should he rise in rebellion, of necessity discretion must be left with the officers to use such means, even to taking life, as shall be essential in bringing the delinquent to subordination. these means, however, may be limited by law, as they are to a great degree in our state, and are ever to be used as humanity dictates. what rights does the state take from the criminal in imprisoning? she takes from him the right to live and act outside of prison walls, to be a master to himself inside, and to receive his earnings as his own. these constitute the sum total. as he had used his liberty and the mastery of himself to the public damage, she justly steps in, deprives him of the one and takes upon herself the other, thereby assuming the guardianship over him during the specified time. she takes his earnings as a compensation, so far as they will go, for his damage and expense to community, and as an important element in his punishment. she becomes his guardian for the purpose of so educating him that, on going out, he shall live an upright, harmless life. what rights remain to the imprisoned? there is a wide range, a long list of these, which the state does not pretend to cut off or interfere with, such as the right to suitable food, clothing, lodging, ventilation, drainage, care in sickness or infirmity: in a word, to what will tend to corporeal vigor; the right to means for mental, moral and religious culture, or what will tend to the development in him of true manhood. if this is not so, which right is cut off or curtailed? and where is the law that does it? what duties does the state take upon herself in thus imprisoning? these are of two classes, one relating particularly to herself, and the other to the imprisoned. duty to herself is done, st, in protecting society from the crimes of the imprisoned, which she does by imprisoning; nd, in keeping the criminal diligently at work, thereby obtaining pecuniary compensation, so far as can be, for her trouble and expense on his account; d, in using all feasible efforts for rubbing off the rust of sin, washing away the corruption of iniquity, found in those taken in charge, and making of them true men,--good, industrious, honest, upright citizens. the latter part is of the highest moment, far exceeding all considerations of mere dollars and cents, drawing as much real manhood as possible from the material put in her hands. if she takes one who is dangerous to society, and works in him an entire reform, she accomplishes a work in comparison with which gold and silver will weigh but little. making men is the high mission of the prison, and the state can not be regarded as having performed anything like her whole duty, till she has used every feasible means to this great end. the duty of the state to the prisoner is performed by securing to him what he needs in his corporeal, mental, moral and religious departments. if she withholds in any of these, so far she becomes delinquent towards the imprisoned, a violator of his rights just as really as he had been a violator of others' rights when in his wild career of sinning. more than this. in such withholding she becomes chargeable with real cruelty. for she has put the man in a state where he can not supply his own needs, and, if she neglects them, he must suffer. this is surely a grave matter, one which should be looked to with the utmost care;--a place where the state can afford to be highly generous rather than expose herself to a suspicion of such a wrong. what are the proper means of reform? among these will be found, the state guardianship, the labor system, strict discipline, kind treatment, stimulating hope, mental, moral and religious culture. the state guardianship will tend to form in the convict the habit of duly regarding the rights of others and of looking up, with respect, to wise and beneficent direction; the labor system, that of uniform industry, of profitably employing the time instead of in idle indulgencies; strict discipline, that of cheerful submission to wholesome rules, regardful of the principles of right. kind treatment will tend to inspire the recipients with confidence in the sincerity of the reform efforts used, trust in the proffered friendship, and an assurance of success in struggles for good. stimulating hope will rouse the better nature to action and secure confidence in overseers. cultivating the intellect will prepare one intelligently to conduct himself in the affairs of life, and open to him sources of satisfaction far above those of his former life. moral culture will arouse controlling ideas of the bounds of human rights, and the importance of observing them. the religious cultivation, having been made through deep conviction of sin, resulting in a hatred to wrong and a love for good, will lay a broad and deep foundation for a life of right. let these means be honestly and efficiently used, and they will most powerfully influence to ways of goodness. none of them can be spared. each is a link in the chain which will be mighty to elevate the fallen. and if one can not be reformed by them, it is proof positive that he ought not to be at large. what kind of prison officers are essential? they should be of good moral character, ever setting proper examples before the prisoners, humanely disposed, capable of complete self-control, alive to efforts for reforming the inmates. those more especially charged with the administration of affairs will need, in addition, to be good disciplinarians, studying the peculiarities of each and endeavoring to heal the weaknesses of mind. the warden should possess great breadth of mind and force of character; be capable of bringing to his work large heart power; patient, yet decided; abounding with humane instincts, yet capable of using sterner means when essential; ever keeping wisdom at the helm, using true discretion, and be controlled by a strong desire for the highest good of all. he will be intent on studying how to address reform means to each with a view to the greatest success. at the same time he should look well to the true pecuniary interests of the institution. the chaplain should be truly a man of god, enabled to bring large mental, moral and religious force to his duties, and alive, heart and soul, to the great work of raising up those under his care and presenting them to the world redeemed and saved. . _the commutation system._ this is a system established by legislative enactment a few years since; on condition of good behavior and a faithful performance of duty in one, to grant him a specified shortening in his term of sentence, and complete restoration to citizenship. it was really interesting to witness the effect of this provision on the convicts, stimulating as it did their hope, and leading them to do the best they could to obtain this much coveted boon. the case of one will illustrate this feeling. he had been in the solitary, but did not seem to mind his sufferings there in the least. his great anxiety was whether he should lose his commutation. he suffered no little in mind in this respect. indeed, every day gave us a clear exhibition of the influence this system had over the inmates' minds for good, helping the officers greatly in keeping order in their efforts at reform. now, if hope could be thus stimulated, and that to such great advantage, by this simple provision, what might not be accomplished by following more largely the same line of policy, that is, the hope-stimulating line? . _chaplain's proposed attempt at tobacco reform._ the chaplain made this proposition to the governor and council: "put the prisoners on their option as to tobacco using with the condition that any who will disuse it, receive, once a month, or quarter, as the case may be, the amount thus saved in money, to be kept funded in the bank for him to receive, on certain conditions as to time, &c., after his release." this proposition was made with at least four prominent objects in view. the first was to convert as many as could be from tobacco using; the second, to give an additional stimulus to hope among the prisoners; the third, to create an interest in the men in looking after money matters, a care for small items; and, fourth, to help them form the habit of saving and laying up. this privilege was, of course, to be granted on condition of good behavior, and therefore as effective as could be toward prison order. the proposer conceived that here was an element of great power for good to the prison and state. this forming a habit, in the former careless one, of looking particularly into the smallest items of money, with carefully saving and laying up, might work an entire revolution in more than one, leading them to habits of honest industry and thrift, an immense gain to the individual and the community. but the rulers did not see fit to heed the proposal. if they had, no doubt quite a large number of the prisoners would have adopted the plan. the prison chaplaincy part ii. under the punitive and money-making system. . _warden chosen, and new arrangements for the chaplain._ some weeks of the new year had passed, when the warden's place was filled by the choice of j. c. pillsbury, of concord. report said that the delay had been by reason of a division of sentiment on the case in the council chamber. i directly waited on the new incumbent, at his office, to arrange for my duties. he seemed to feel that he had been put there for correcting important abuses that had grown up in the prison management, in what particular department i did not learn. but he laid out my work as follows: "chaplain, we will have the meetings held in the chapel as heretofore; that is, the males assemble sabbath mornings at nine and enjoy the same exercises as usual, none else to be admitted except at my special invitation; sabbath school continue sabbath afternoons, and i will select such teachers as i think best. wednesday evening prayer meetings to continue, i inviting in some of the religious men of the city to help carry them on, and not a prisoner be allowed to open his head in them. these fellows are here to be punished. they must not be called men, but criminals, for such they are." such in substance was my programme, on which this colloquy followed between myself and warden: "warden, you did not speak of admitting the female prisoners to the sabbath worship in the chapel." "no, i don't purpose to admit any females to that service."[ ] [footnote : i understood his objection to be, that the sight of a woman is demoralizing to a prisoner.] "but we can have a screen so arranged, that the women can not be seen by the men, though assembled as formerly, and i will be at the labor and expense of fitting it." "no, i won't have a woman in the chapel." "but do not the rules require the warden to assemble the females as well as males in the chapel sabbath mornings for worship?" "oh, i call the women's work-room their chapel." "but, if i am to hold a service with the women in their work-room after the chapel service, it will double my labors, and then not be as interesting and useful to them as if hearing the discourse with the speaker fresh and unfatigued." "i don't ask you to hold a second service with the women, for giving them a sermon. only go into their room any time in the week, some evening if more convenient, and offer prayer, and that will be all sufficient." "how about commencing the school in the chapel?" "oh, i can't have anything to do with that, we are so tired, when night comes, with our other duties." thus matters were before me. what a cutting off! the question would be, "is this cutting off a part of the proposed correction of prison abuses?" no secular school, no religious instruction of note to the female prisoners, and the screws put upon our prayer meeting so tightly as to render them of but little account to the prisoners. as to the latter, i felt that, could the prisoners enjoy the privilege of taking part in them as previously, having only the warden, guards and myself present, it would be preferable to the new plan. this i proposed, to which the warden finally assented, and that from the fact, as i supposed, that it would rid him of so much outside attendance. this then was gained, though the other points remained immovably fixed. i understood the warden to remark, "it is of no use for the chaplain to preach and labor with a hope of reforming these prisoners, for they can't be reformed." then this expression, as of his saying, was told me,--"i will break up that methodist camp meeting at the prison." what did the assertion mean? was it a slur on our previous religious efforts? or was it indicative of a shortening of our religious privileges? we had, at no time, any rush at our meetings, but few being admitted for want of room. a small number had attended and helped in our prayer meetings, more in the sabbath school. all denominations were alike interested in the matter. indeed, we had no denomination about it. i brought the matter of the school and that of the females assembling in the chapel for worship to the notice of the governor, but the warden prevailed. . _chaplain almost resolved to resign, but decides to continue and arrange his work._ thus things put on so forbidding an aspect in every way, that it did not seem that i could accomplish any further good at the prison. true, i could draw my salary with almost nothing to do, the name go out that the institution had a chaplain, but being expected to drift on with the current, whichever way it might set, and at the end make up a glowing report of the prison doings and success, no matter what the facts might be. but my feelings rebelled at such an idea, and i thought, for a time, that i must resign, and almost resolved upon the step. then the question would arise, is it right to leave those who have appeared so earnest to improve and reform? something said, "no." friends, too, learning my feelings on the subject, said decidedly that i must remain at the post. i was in a hard place. there were the sentiments as uttered above, then the general spirit manifested, speaking louder than words, that "reform moves are all interlopers in prison, having no sort of business here." after looking the ground carefully over in my mind and thinking of all the connections, i saw that, by a greatly increased amount of labor, i could furnish the prisoners with a partial substitute for the chapel school. i had a right to visit them in the privacy of their cells, from morn till the hour for retiring in the evening. i could therefore hear their recitations there separately. no one could justly complain of this. hence, i decided to remain, and laid out my work thus:--sabbath, usual service with the men from nine to ten, and services in the women's work-room till eleven; then in the hospital with jones, the murderer, and others as their cases allow, till twelve; sabbath school services in the afternoon, besides visiting cells as much as possible; on other days, to spend noon and evenings visiting the cells in turn, hearing recitations and imparting instruction in the common school branches; besides changing the books saturdays, as already, to change them at any other time when called for. thus i voluntarily undertook three times as much real hard work for the prisoners as my duty had previously demanded. the new order seemed to render it imperative, for i could do nothing in the educational line without it. . _cells cleared of trinket-making and tracts._ the former warden was accustomed to distribute tracts among the prisoners. he also, by the assent of the government over him, had allowed the men, who desired it, to employ their otherwise idle moments by making small trinkets, as hair chains, paper folders, tooth-picks and small fancy boxes in imitation of what was done in certain other prisons, thereby, as was supposed, securing greater contentment and better order among the men. the new warden condemned all this as a great violation of good prison order. the candles, also, were condemned, and everything of the kind, with all the writing material or waste paper found in the cells, was removed, the spoils carefully measured, and the number of bushels sent the rounds of the papers as an evidence of the former abuses in this prison and of his labors to correct them. i asked if the prisoners did not need to have the waste paper, at least, remain. "oh," said he, "they will look out for that themselves." i could not then see how, but subsequently learned, much to the cost of the state. . _necessity for the chaplain's undertaking what he did._ this necessity arose, not simply from the demands of the inmates for educational and reformatory means, but also from considerations of good prison order. true, the warden had the vanity to think he could control the men in whatever way he might undertake. the show of his cane would be sufficient for any emergency. but there was human nature in the prison as well as out, and, from the circumstances, it would be strange if it did not show itself. by taking away the prisoners' educational privileges, and the various articles referred to, much idle time would be left. how would this be employed? these men would naturally feel angry at being deprived of what they had enjoyed so long, and prized. this now unemployed time would give them ample opportunity for studying means of revenge, and some would no doubt turn their acumen in that direction. if a prisoner had any smartness, he would feel, from the circumstances, almost impelled to give vent to mischief, and thereby make as much trouble as possible. but, could i step in, and, by dint of effort, keep those minds agreeably occupied, i should do so much towards helping the warden to the desired subordination and order. no previous time in my prison experience seemed to demand so great efforts in that direction as now. hence, duty appeared calling me to step forward, as i did. . _new phase at the prison, and the chaplain's efforts._ the first sabbath morning came for chapel worship under the new order, and a sadder appearing company i never met, their countenances being expressive of anxiety and gloom commingled. the singing dragged, the instrument standing voiceless, as the one who had usually made it speak, was of the sex here proscribed, and the warden had not found another to take her place. it was hard preaching, for these once earnest hearers seemed to have hearts too full for hearing. but i endeavored to give words of hope, and to direct their minds to a heavenly father who will ever carry his trusting children through the scenes they are called to pass. of course i could make no allusion to present circumstances, or appear to recognize any change in the surroundings; but somehow i could not call the hearers "criminals." i pursued the usual course, addressing them as _men_, or _friends_, or perhaps _brothers_, for i was occasionally guilty of all that; but the word "criminal" never hung on my lips when addressing the inmates on subjects of improvement. in my view, such a course would have been like attempting to light a fire by applying the match with one hand and dashing on water with the other. at the close of our services, as the warden, in his peculiar way, was giving some of his orders, i could see the crimson flush on more than one cheek, indicative of the feelings stirred within, the character of which i could only conjecture. one of his assertions was, as i understood it, thus: "i am warden here now. the days of bouquets and flowers are played out here," and more in the same vein. in the women's room the countenances were not so anxious. they rather liked this part of the change, for it would free them from the task of preparing, sabbath mornings, to appear in public. still, anxiety was not entirely wanting. sabbath school was this day omitted, as the warden had not obtained his corps of teachers. on going my rounds for private counsel to the men in their cells, i found, in most cases, gloom and discouragement, they having generally heard of the warden's disbelief in their reform. it was really wonderful to witness the change a few days had wrought in the moral aspect of the prison. a frost in june would not make a greater change on the face of nature. i could but ask myself, "why are things thus?" "at what are our rulers aiming?" i went to each with all the cheer i could, exhorting them not to indulge in these downcast feelings, but to look upward with hope, and gave them the assurance that their educational privileges, as well as religious, would be continued, only with some change in their application, and pointed out in brief the manner, saying that each could advance in study as rapidly as in his power. if any referred to their cell amusements being taken away, i met them with the remark,--"don't trouble about that. you shall be furnished with all the books you can read and study, and i will hear your recitations. in this way, your time can be pleasantly and profitably occupied, perhaps making you the gainers." a few of these former trinket workers became more interested in their studies, but the most could not, by reason of their sight, thus being left to endure their privation as best they could. when one would refer to his discouragement on account of the warden's disbelief in reform, i would meet him thus, "you are to look only to yourself and your god in this matter. what a fellow mortal believes or disbelieves concerning you is of no account. you have the power to go on in the right and be a good man. i know you have, and others who are good and true, men upon whose views we can all rely, also know it. what matter if the warden does think as you suppose? it is only his opinion. he wishes you to do well, and will be glad if you succeed in the right. but, should you turn back, it will confirm his views that you can not reform. you will meet with harder things than this in life, yet must not think of yielding the struggle, let what will arise." these efforts tended materially to lift the cloud from the prisoners' minds, and give them more hope. it really gladdened the hearts of many to learn that the privileges, which they had come to love so well and esteem so highly, were still to be theirs. . _s. school commences._ the next sabbath the s. s. was resumed. nearly the usual number were present. a few christian gentlemen from the city were teachers, a sufficient number to guard each prisoner and see that nothing contraband passed. these were good men, some having long been laborers in the school. on the whole, things appeared more encouraging than on the sabbath previous. that frosty appearance had in a measure departed, though it was by no means wholly gone. . _the warden's views considered._ the idea that "prisoners can not be reformed" is contrary to scripture, history, and experience. the former gives the assurance that the vilest, the chief of sinners, those whose sins are as scarlet or crimson, may be saved. then history deals in facts where such have been radically reformed, and have become good men. some who were once in prison are now upright, industrious citizens. hence, the assertion shows lack of confidence in scripture assurances and historical knowledge. but one asks, "do you think it possible to reform all, or a large proportion of prisoners?" we can assume it of those here as of the world in general. whether out of or in prison, we are to sow the seed, and some will germinate. we must work, use all right appliances, and leave the event with god, not knowing "which shall prosper, this or that." again, the objection comes: "prisoners will be often hypocritical, profess goodness from sinister motives, pretending to have reformed for a time, and then become as bad as ever." admit all this. but are not just such traits found in the world all about us? where are there more wicked wretches than some outside the prison, who have "put on the livery of heaven to serve the devil in?" what meaner men inhabit god's earth than some who have succeeded in working themselves into the church, and can boast of coming to the communion regularly? how many profess and fall away on every hand, yes, sink deeper in corruption than before! the fact is, this pretended argument to the disadvantage of the prisoner is all a sham. the prison, if rightly conducted, possesses certain means of reform, which can not be had outside. to illustrate: here is a young man, who has never entered a school-house, or a place of worship, but has spent his time with vicious companions and in vicious habits. he falls into prison, where his home is a cell and silence his constant companion. here he is removed from his former surroundings and opportunities for sinful indulgence. the loneliness and tedium of his condition soon become unendurable. he must, in some way, have relief. but no means lie within his reach except those connected with reform appliances. to these he is forced, by the pressure of his nature, to resort, simply for self-gratification, which he can find in hearing the human voice and in the connected exercises. he hears truth which he had never heard before, but which is permitted to fall on his mind with its full weight. he is thus led to reflect, repents of his sins, and becomes really a reformed man, a brand plucked from the burning. the tendency of things, then, in a properly conducted prison, _is_ reformatory. therefore, let ours be managed on that principle, and all in our state, worthy of such a place, be there assigned for the requisite time, and, no doubt, one good, devoted, wide-awake man could do them more good than they now receive from all the religious means and labors outside put together. "the sight of a woman is demoralizing to a prisoner." the reader will readily understand in what respect. if this be true, what a demoralized class must be our grown up, unmarried sons, our bachelors and widowers, with women constantly in sight. then how wickedly does the warden himself proceed in taking certain of his men among the women to work; and in permitting women and girls dressed up in their finery to perambulate freely about the shops and buildings in sight of the men. "but," it is answered, "the men are not allowed to look at visitors." true, but not being allowed is one thing, and not looking is quite another. if any man can make himself believe that, when a woman is conducted right into the presence of a prisoner, he will not obtain a sight of her, he possesses more credulity than falls to the common lot of men. the fact is, visitors about the shops are seen by the prisoners and thought of and talked about by them, no matter who pretends to the contrary. every one knows this, who knows anything of a prison, let him say what he will. then why select one spot, the chapel on the sabbath, as a place where the sight of a woman is to be branded as a most polluting sin, and no objection raised to her being seen elsewhere almost daily and hourly? consistency is a jewel. if the sight of a woman is so demoralizing to a man confined in prison, how demoralized must he speedily become on leaving and meeting them everywhere! and what sinners prison managers in numerous other states have become through admitting women to moral labors in their institutions! what egregious sinning on the part of that state which employs a woman as chaplain of its prison, and she permitted to go freely from cell to cell in her ministrations of mercy! in the army, in hospitals, or whatever place men are found needy and dependent, true women are freely admitted as ministering angels, with no thought of demoralization. yes, the world lauds the heroism and devotion of many of these in poetry and song. so far as i could learn, the influence of the women in the chapel did not produce the effect alleged. i inquired of some on this point, at the time of their leaving, and solicited the real truth. take the answer of an intelligent young man, one whom i have no doubt is sincere and reliable,--"the influence on my feelings were not in a wrong direction, but wholly to the contrary. i should have been ashamed of myself at indulging an impure thought towards that lady under whose care i was so long in the sabbath school. i rather felt humbled and filled with gratitude, that she should condescend to take me, a poor, wicked prisoner, not able to read or write, and labor so patiently and persistently to help me to what i now am, redeemed, i trust, and made a different man, largely through her labors. they were her words of hope and assurance which first stimulated me with the idea of an earnest effort to rise from what i was." the fact is, some men have their passions and will think, whether seeing any of the other sex or not; and more or less are inclined to deeds of wrong. but, in the opinion of our best minds, the true course to pursue is, to admit judicious ladies, those of character and influence, to help in labors of reform. "motives of safety required the cell clearing." this was the pretended reason, but could not have been the real one, according to the warden's own words. one day, in passing along the cells with company, he remarked, "gentlemen, vigilance, vigilance, is the only safety here! lock me in one of those cells, and i would walk out in half an hour. there is no safety in this prison but in the watchfulness of the guard." this being true, the small articles which the warden found in the cells could make no difference in regard to safety, therefore, their removal must have been from other motives. . _chaplain's restrictions._ these were not given at once and in detail, but were learned by experience. one afternoon, the prisoners being in the shop, i took the key, as sometimes before, when needful, to enter the chapel by the south door, where there could have been no possible danger had the men been passing to their cells; having gone a few steps, i heard the voice of the warden calling out, sternly,--"chaplain, here, what are you doing with that key?" i informed him, and received the reply, "bring that key right back. you must not touch a key." quietly obeying, i returned the article and never touched it again, thinking, "if he will speak out to me as an irritated father to a vexatious boy, what can be expected for the prisoners?" he had a perfect right to require me not to use the key, and i had a right to a gentlemanly treatment. i uttered not a word, though i could not help thinking. afterwards when needing to enter the chapel, i must ask a guard, perhaps a mere boy, to go and unlock and lock the door for me, which seemed really ludicrous. shortly after, i heard the warden speaking of his enormous burden in the line of watchfulness,--"i have to watch not only the prisoners to keep them right, but also the workmen, overseers, guards, steward, physician and chaplain." at another time i asked him to change the position of a class in the sabbath school to accommodate the singing, and received an answer not so insolent in tone as before, but, with the connected circumstances, equally clear for me to understand that i must propose no move, make no suggestion whatever about the school, leaving everything in that line to him. i could open and close the school and hear also those not otherwise provided for. again, finding a man in his cell with no lesson, he having broken his glasses, i passed them to the deputy to be repaired. days passed, and no glasses were returned. meeting the warden, i alluded to the matter. he replied, "chaplain, i would have you know that when a man needs anything, he must speak of it to the deputy or to me. you have no business with these things." to my inquiry, "am i to understand that now, after speaking to you about the glasses, and putting them in the deputy's hands, the man must speak to one of you himself, before they can be returned?" he answered, "certainly." hence, on my next round, i said to the owner, "please speak to the warden or deputy about your glasses, and they will return them, probably, all right," not giving him the least hint as to how matters really stood, though i could but think, "here is red-tapeism with a vengeance; not permitted to speak of anything in my own department." waiting for a time, and thinking that neither law nor gospel would object to my lending him my own, this i did, which he used until liberated. true, after some weeks, glasses were brought him, in which, however, he could not see. thus i was effectively taught my bounds, to touch nothing about the prison but my books, to suggest no change any way, and to bring nothing to the warden, or deputy, about a prisoner, which bounds i was ever careful to observe. there was an attendant rule to this red tapeism, as i understood it, that bore hard on the prisoners,--that one must ask for a thing but once. some would ask me to help them to an article, when i would say, "you must go with that to the deputy, or warden." they replied, "i have, with the promise of it, but it does not come." or, perhaps, "i ventured to ask the second time, and received the stern reply, 'don't you ever mention that to me, again.'" a forlorn condition this,--the state placing her wards helplessly under a man who is not to be reminded of a request, which had slipped his mind, perhaps, through the multiplicity of business. surely, such a man should be very considerate and particularly careful about attending to the needs of his dependents. the lessons taught me, the spirit manifested with all the surroundings, gave me to understand that i must walk in everything with the utmost circumspection or be mercilessly dealt with. true, i had ever labored to do all things in my prison management just as i should, ever acting with an eye single to the best prison order; but circumstances now evidently demanded of me a double care, that my every step should not only be right but appear right, and no shadow of grounds for complaint be any way found. . _prisoners' aid association._ in the spring of ' , a company of ladies and gentlemen organized under the n. h. statutes into a corporate body by this title, to hold its annual meeting in the city of concord, the second tuesday of each june, the avowed purpose being to aid the discharged convicts by proper advice, and help them to places of labor without delay, where they may enjoy the needed society privileges, guardian care, and a general influence in favor of their best success, paying for them such small bills as may be necessary for this purpose. the legislature of that season voted the association three hundred dollars, to aid it in its benevolent work, i being appointed agent for that purpose. . _complaint of prison hunger._ late in the summer, a man, leaving prison, complained that the prison living was not as good as that of the past year, the rations being poorer in quality, and less in quantity; that, at times, he had really so suffered with hunger that he could not sleep at night. i questioned him carefully, and he appeared honest in his statements, still, this being the first i had heard of such complaints, i would not form an opinion from this assertion, for he might be telling the story to injure the warden. but he gave this account here and there in the city, so that it was circulated widely. a lady, as she asserts, asked the prison physician if the rations had been reduced, and he replied that they had to some extent. the reader will understand, that while i had no right to converse with the inmates about their food, and other like subjects, and did not while they were there confined, yet, when they had been released and become citizens, nothing lay in the way of my freely conversing with them on all matters as with others. . _chaplain's object in hearing from released prisoners and others._ this object was purely to learn the true working of things, and thus be prepared to conduct myself understandingly in all my prison duties. i had served a year under a certain system, studying with care its workings and effects on the men, and had now entered service under one that seemed measurably different, the operations of which, also, i ought to comprehend. i would, therefore, listen to those who were released, study what might come to hand in this way, from personal observation in official intercourse, or from reading authors, and use whatever hints were gained, to the best advantage. but one says, "those fellows from prison will lie." grant that. grant that here are twenty of the greatest liars in the state about to leave prison in course. but they have no opportunity, while there, for mutual conversation and planning a particular story to tell on leaving; nor do they even know of having an opportunity, outside, to talk with me or any particular one. they severally leave their confinement, each giving account of his experience, which i put down. on looking these carefully over, a line of substantial agreement is found running through the whole. we cut off whatever, in any, seems essentially deviating. but every judge in the land will admit that that general line contains the truth. this illustrates my course of procedure, and my grounds for believing prisoners. then, again, where one voluntarily, without my alluding to the matter, gave me an account of a subject, part of which i knew to be correct, i had every reason to believe the remainder was correct, also. . _b. and e.'s request, and the connected abuse._ these men, before spoken of, had become much interested in the moral and religious instruction given by those lady friends, mrs. e. and d., to whom they had been introduced in the manner already pointed out. request was extended to the warden that they might have the privilege of corresponding, but he peremptorily refused; why, none could conceive, though some would contend that the reason must be found in the vindictive, for the correspondence was to go through the usual channel and be open to his own inspection, that, had anything objectionable appeared, he could have suppressed it, or stopped the whole correspondence. those ladies were capable of writing excellent letters, letters by which any right-minded man would be benefited, the warden himself being judge. i have no doubt that should he meet some of their productions, unaware of their authorship, he would pronounce them of a superior character, and say that "the more of such writings the prisoners can have to read, the better." the men did not ask for a personal interview with those ladies, but simply their words; words which would stimulate them to higher aims, and enable them the better to endure the trials of prison life. the warden possessed the right, if he chose to exercise it, to interdict this correspondence wholly. but i protest that he had no right to defame those ladies, villify their character, and speak of them to those men, and to prison visitors from whatever part of the country, as "those mean women," "those base women," "those low women." as before stated, they were ladies with the best of characters,--earnest christian workers, invited to the interviews by the mother and warden, and always having them in the presence of the latter. these visits were for a most praiseworthy purpose. if it is ever right for a high-minded, upright, christian lady to call on the fallen for the purpose of helping them rise from their degraded state, those ladies are to be commended for the efforts they made in behalf of those prisoners. but these men were forced to suffer no little abuse in relation to those visits,--not by fellow prisoners, understand. they were taunted in the most vulgar, low, indecent language. one day it went so far with one, that he became aroused beyond endurance, and replied, "you know that is a ---- ---- lie," filling the blanks with two most profane words as qualifying "lie." on my next round he told me his trouble, what he had said, how he was being assailed, and that he probably must relinquish all idea of being any better. i replied, "don't you understand what all this is for? it is the work of satan, for your destruction. they would excite you to anger and turn you to your old life of profanity and wickedness; if possible, sink you as low as ever. you have but one course to pursue, and that is, to pay no attention to them. let them say what they may, give it no more notice than the idle wind. be sure and not suffer yourself to become irritated, or say a word in return, and they will probably leave you. but if not, endure it patiently, and pray god to forgive what you have done amiss and keep you in the future." in following this course, he succeeded better. . _alleged prison conspiracy._ the next one who left made no complaint of the living, he had been sick and received all the food he desired, but he asserted that trouble was brewing at the prison; that they were planning to kill the warden. i made light of the idea as something of his own conjuring up, that the prisoners would not undertake such a matter. finally he said, "mark my words, chaplain, there will be blood shed over there within a month." this man was a singular genius, and i thought he might wish to start such a story to nettle the warden. besides, they were as vigilant as possible at the prison, and the inmates would find them alert, should they attempt to rise. from all considerations, i thought it not worth while to speak of the case to any. still, it would do no harm to prepare and deliver a discourse from the text, "vengeance is mine and i will repay, saith the lord," designing to show the impolicy of attempting to take vengeance into one's own hands, and that vengeance should be left for god to repay.--the discourse was given, and things passed on as usual, no signs of an outbreak appearing, and i finally gave the matter up as one of the man's imaginings. but, the next spring, one of the prisoners, when leaving, alluded to a combination of a number, the year previous, and said considerable preparation for the work had been made, but after hearing that sabbath's discourse, so many abandoned the project that the leaders had to relinquish their effort. this was repeated in substance by another. hence, after all, it appeared that what the first man said may have been true, and that, possibly, my poor labors may have been of service to the warden, perhaps saved his life. certainly, i did what i could. . _national prison reform congress._ in october this body assembled for deliberation at cincinnati, o., it being the first gathering of the kind. delegates were present from a large number of the united states, also from the british provinces and south america, but i was the only one from new hampshire. the great, central ideas pervading the body were the finding of the best method of prison management and how to introduce this to general and uniform use. all the subjects so earnestly grappled there, would hinge around these. the field was somewhat widely examined and much discussion awakened,--discussion earnest, though courteous. the religious element largely predominated, and great harmony prevailed. true, an atheist attempted to throw in a firebrand by making a cat's paw of the jew, but wholly failed, not exciting a single remark in reply. a u. s. judge was present, several state judges, a number of governors and ex-governors, lawyers, clergymen, philanthropists in private life and prison officials, showing that the move had taken strong hold of that class, especially, which will push it forward. those prison officers present who had ever persisted in the knock-down argument of former generations, were moved forward many years. i thought of n. h., and wished that some of her fossils could have been present and become vitalized. what a blessing it would be to the state! the points considered and settled, so far as that body could settle them, were drawn up in thirty-seven articles for general distribution. one set forth reform as the paramount object of imprisoning, another, that kindness and humane treatment should prevail in all prison management. but the reader would be well repaid by sending for the "transactions" of the body, a work of some seven hundred pages, and carefully perusing it. it will cost three dollars, and is to be had of rev. e. c. wines, d. d., no. bible house, n. y. the convention was not only pleasant in itself, but also in its surroundings. the city extended it a welcome through an excellent address by the mayor, inviting the body to a dinner and visit to its public institutions and places of interest, and furnishing coaches to convey the members. it also provided a convenient hall for the sittings. a number of the city societies also invited us to their gatherings. this congress arranged for its perpetuity by becoming an incorporate body in some state and holding its sessions biennially. this has been consummated by obtaining a charter in the state, of new york, ex-governor seymour being president, and rev. e. c. wines, cor. secretary. it also took incipient steps for an international congress to be held in london, england, choosing dr. wines also as commissioner to carry the proposal into effect. . _money-making and punishing, the paramount objects in our prison management._ for a time, i had been at a loss about the real objects of the present manner of conducting prison affairs, but it had become evident that money-making and punishing were those objects. to the former the prison agent and warden seemed bending their united energies as best they could. they would make a better exhibit of gains than ever before, a great compliment to the one as a financier and to the other as a prison manager. to this end, they would bend their efforts in purchasing and disbursing, having, to appearance, left all moral considerations out of the question. i was informed that the warden said, "i will clear five thousand for the state this year, if i have to use up every man in doing it." then punishment was to go hand and hand with this gain making, as the warden was reported as saying to the prisoners, "i mean to use you so that you will not wish to come back," meaning, of course, usage beyond what the law and courts contemplate. . _waste paper in the cells._ the warden's clearing the cells of this has been spoken of and a connected point, i could not comprehend. in the course of months, all became clear. the fly leaves of the library books, and some of the other leaves, were gone, which told the story. had it been the season previous, i should have detected the matter sooner and stopped it, but now i could not. then, when the general repairs were made to the library, i found that many of the books had been lost, to avoid which, in the future, i adopted a new method here, of charging every book let out and crediting its return. but this required no little increase of labor, in consideration of which, the former warden furnished me an assistant in the book charging and book inspection. on two saturdays after the new warden came in, i asked for the usual assistance, but, from what passed, i found it best to ask no more for aid, and decided to do the work myself as best i could, continuing the account keeping, however, though with no possibility of the former inspection. i supposed the warden desired me to curtail the book changing, for, passing the table one day, loaded with books ready for the hall, he said, "why, chaplain, the men don't need all those books." my reply was, "they called for them all." "well," said he, "they can not read them;" meaning, as i took it, that i should not furnish so many. but i was particular to give out all called for, a more generous supply, it is true, than formerly, for the purpose of keeping the men engaged and quiet under his peculiar management. . _defective beds and bedding._ those iron cross bars to the bedsteads cut the straw, hence the former warden made it a point to refill the beds once a quarter, but the latter filled them perhaps once in six months. indeed, some would be neglected till nothing could be found in the bed-tick but a mass of chaff-like substance to which the straw had been reduced, thus leaving the occupant with little besides the bare slats on which to sleep. men would at times complain that, from that cause, they could obtain but little rest at night, and were in the morning so sore and stiff that, for a time, it would be difficult for them to move. during the fall they did not attend to the needed general mending and refitting of the old comfortables and bedspreads, though some were ragged and filthy, or worn so thin as to be but little better than so many strainers. the cells on the lower floor were exceptions. but few of these were used. all the beds were kept well filled; having good spreads, sheets and pillow cases. they made a few comfortables for these unused beds, and indeed all these cells were kept in good order, nicely dusted, &c., and the doors were set open by day for visitors to admire. hence, i would hear them crying out, "how nice you keep things here! what comfortable beds! how neat!" i would think within,--not aloud, for that would not do,--"o that you could look into those higher up. you might cry out, 'pig's nests!'" these new comfortables were made only two-thirds the usual width, answering well for an unused bed. still i did occasionally see one on a bed in use. as i was informed, a gentleman from outside had a view of those upper cells, the warden saying, in excuse for their condition, that he put the more slovenly in them, those who would not keep their cells in order. but the real truth of that matter is, some of the neatest men occupied those higher cells intermingled with those not so neat, the men being located as to their cells according to their position at work in the shop. the sheets were so scarce as not to afford a full change for washing, requiring some to use dirty sheets, for a time, from another's bed, though less dirty than their own. the former warden had been aiming to have, so far as could be, two suits to a man, a common, every day suit, and one better for sabbaths, &c., it being thought that this would tend to refine and elevate the prisoners. hence, he left them with a generous supply, well fitted up. but it would need more or less renewing and refitting in the fall, which it did not receive, but was made to answer by patching. hence, patched and ragged clothes would be of no uncommon occurrence, as all became thin from long wear, the under-clothing, especially, much needing repairs and renewing. the main seamstress left the next april, and told me that after this warden came in, up to that time, they had made one new suit and one other jacket, the new suit for the newmarket murderer, who was too large for any they had on hand. . _cracked wheat dinner._ in the fall, there was much complaint among the prisoners that their monday dinner, which they formerly prized as the best in the week, had been changed to a dish that few liked and many could not eat. it was boiled cracked wheat with a little meat chopped in, no sauce or other relish upon it. i mentioned the case to the doctor, who said, "they purchased a quantity of potatoes, half a peck of which i took to my house and cooked, finding only one or two, among the whole, fit to put into the human stomach. hence, i looked over my army dietary, found the cracked wheat answered a good purpose, and proposed it here." the potatoes were watery. my attention had now been so loudly called to the prison living by the complaints of those liberated, that i determined to observe for myself, so far as opportunity might offer, keeping my own counsel in this as in all other matters, that i might be the better prepared to judge of the truthfulness of their stories. notwithstanding the cracked wheat, those potatoes were set before them. if not at this meal, they were at others, but largely returned untouched. the substituted dish would also be regularly returned by a large number. but why purchase these potatoes "not fit to be put into the human stomach"? true, many such were in the market, but there were good ones, too, though costing more money. families in the city found no difficulty about obtaining a good article. these, of course, came at a low figure, favoring here, as did everything else, this money-making idea. . _bad fish, &c._ in the fall, the agent informed me, he had made for the state what he considered a great bargain, in the purchase of between one and two tons of fish. he said, "i found this in the hands of a man who had attempted to prepare it after a certain patent, but had, some way, missed his point and could not sell it. had he succeeded, it would have brought thirteen cents a pound. he offered it to me for three. i took some to the prison, and they said that they could use it, hence, i purchased the whole." he further remarked, that the article was covered with a reddish mold. this, i was informed, is a sign of decay in fish. he also alluded to the great reduction in price he obtained on his prison supply of molasses.--it should be understood that this is used at all times in prison, on bread, as a substitute for butter. after this, those leaving prison had these additional grounds for complaint. they complained, also, that the tobacco was very bad in quality and scant in quantity, the very cheapest article. one said that the scent of the fish carried into his cell at noon, would not be gone on his return at night. a woman, a waiter on the prison family table at the time of the purchase of the fish, informed me of its ordeal there. nothing having been said to call her attention that way, but of her own accord, she said, "they bought a lot of bad fish at the prison, and the warden would have some prepared for the family table. he ate of it himself, pronounced it good, and wished the deputy, guards and overseers to eat of it also; but they would not, though he offered one a dollar, if he would." now, as this woman's story was true as to the purchasing of the article and its quality, we have every reason to suppose it true in other respects. one said of the cracked wheat, that he could not force it down; it would made him sick; that others about him were similarly effected in their attempts to eat of the article. . _prison suffering from cold during the winter of ' & ' ._ from the character of the food and clothing, the one not fitted to generate the needed supply of warmth within, nor the other to give the requisite protection without, the men, to pass the rigors of winter, especially such as that of ' and ' , without suffering, would need an unusually generous supply of artificial heat in the hall and shop. but instead of that, they were forced to experience the biting reality of a cutting off here, too, the place being too important for money-saving not to be used. true, it would cost something, but the custom had been to keep the hall comfortable through cold weather. early in the morning they would let the steam into the shop and have that warm when the men were ready to commence their work, and keep it so during the day. but a different policy had now been adopted. the present fall had nearly passed and no steam had been admitted into these apartments at all, the cook-room and reception-room drawing from the waste steam and engine boilers. people outside had long been using fires constantly and freely. at length, a remark of the warden to company, revealed the theory he was pretending then to act upon. the temperature, at the time, was low in the hall, and some excuse evidently appeared to be needful. the remark was this: "i have not let the heat into this hall yet, for i think it best to do with that as people ought to do with regard to under-clothing, keep it off as late as possible in the fall, and it will do them more good in winter. and, besides, these stones were so heated up last summer, that they have not become fully cooled yet." "what a happy thing for the men, when shivering here, as they do with the cold, could they find some of that stored up heat," thought i. but they could not, and hence were called to experience a severe foretaste of what lay before them in still colder weather. but at length the hall boiler was set to work, bringing warmth and gladness to the men. and how cheerful and thankful they appeared! it was really a comfort to witness their relief, as i went about my labors. this, however, was only for a few days, for a great drain was being made upon the wood-pile, incurring too large a draft upon the prison gains to be endured. the boiler was stopped, to be run no more for the winter, dependence for heat here, in the future, to be had upon the steam, waste or otherwise, from the shop boilers, and even that but sparingly. the custom adopted was to let the steam into the hall pipes just before the men were to enter from work, could it be spared from the cook room, sometimes perhaps ten or fifteen minutes, and then turned off early in the evening. that, of course, could do but little good, and hence a really keen atmosphere would at times be felt in the hall, causing much suffering there. how great the contrast to that of the office, which was so warm that the occupants would be at work with coats off; or the reception room, where i would perspire in labor upon my books, and enter the hall to find it much like going directly out of doors. twice i thus took severe colds, after which i usually wore an overcoat to this apartment during the severe weather. when those keen nights came on, some of the men would beg of me most pitiably for more bed-clothing, asserting that they were suffering alive, it sometimes seeming as though they must perish. i could only direct them to the warden or deputy for this. one said, "i have asked the warden, who replied, 'you have more clothes on your bed now than you ever had at home,' and passed on." this man had one of those strainer-like spreads and another somewhat thicker, doing well enough for early fall, but not a suitable protection in such weather. another said, "suffering so with cold that sleep is out of the question, i arise, dress, wrap about me what bedding i have, and walk my cell for the night, in that way keeping as much as possible from suffering." the first evening after hearing these earnest pleadings, i met the steward and asked if he could not furnish these men with more clothing, with the answer, "the fact is, these fellows are down on the warden and determined to keep asking for something." to which i replied, "they very much need more clothing, and must greatly suffer without it." he answered, "oh, our soldiers in the army suffered a great deal more than these fellows do, and you thought nothing of that. the fact is, you have too much feeling for these men." i left, with the remark, "i think we ought to have some humanity about us." thus was the attempt made to plaster over this outrageous cruelty by alluding to events which could not, in the very nature of things, be avoided. i say outrageous, for there was bedding enough on those unused beds, such as it was, to have done something towards relieving this suffering, but they would not permit them to have that. then new hampshire possessed wood and water enough to keep that room comfortable. if the boiler needed repairs, workmen for doing that were at hand; or, if it needed renewing, that could have been easily accomplished. or they might have set large coal stoves at work. but all did not thus lack for bedding. some, by oversight or favoritism, had a surplus, using comfortables as a substitute for straw. a man thus supplied sent one of his extra number to the relief of another, as this sufferer subsequently informed me. on those cold sabbaths, the men would wrap their bed clothing about them, sit reclining on their beds, and read. the warden would not allow the shop to be warmed at all. those cold mornings and those cold days it was excessively severe. the overseers had to bundle up with extra clothing to prevent suffering. one day the men had become too much benumbed to work and the foreman stopped the machinery, let the steam into the shop, thawed them out, and then went on again. having heard the warden say that the water in their reservoir was low, causing him fears of its failing, and meeting the governor, to his inquiry about our prison affairs, i alluded to the coldness there and the warden's remark, and received the reply, "why, it won't do to let the men suffer with the cold. if need be, he must haul water from the river," and he sent the warden a letter to that import. but no water was hauled, and no amelioration had from the cold till, at length, when the severest weather had nearly passed, one of the council visited the prison and ordered a coal stove to be placed in a part of the hall, which gave a measure of alleviation. still the men continued to suffer more or less till the change of weather brought the desired relief. they will ever look back to that as a suffering winter. the women probably suffered less from the cold than the men. still, they were put on short allowance and were obliged to carry their wood up those two flights of stairs, taking it from quite a distance out of doors, some of it being very large. one of those cold sabbaths, entering their room for meeting, i found it so cold as to endanger my health, and, not then knowing the restrictions, i attempted to kindle the fire, but found only a few coals in the stove and one large stick in the box, which i placed with the coals, but with little effect. we had short exercises, and i left them to endure this temperature as best they could. the women would watch the warden and steal a little extra, when he stepped out of sight, thus occasionally enjoying the genial warmth; if detected, however, to receive a gratuitous lecture. finding, at length, that this extra labor was preying sadly upon their health, and having repeatedly importuned the warden for relief in vain, they turned to his wife, who informed him of the real effects being produced, with the assurance that the continuance of this drudgery would shortly bring the sufferers upon beds of sickness, requiring him to hire outside help, to care for them and perform the tasks in which they had failed. this gained the victory, but not till great injury had been done to the victims, the strongest, on whom the burden of carrying the largest had fallen, having thus laid the foundation for weeks of severe sickness and leaving prison an invalid, though previously a robust, healthy woman. . _lighting the hall._ the candles having been banished from the cells, the gas was set at work when evening arrived. but at length the men began to complain of the great strain upon their eyes, and finally of failing sight. advising them to lay aside reading and study till relief could be had, i reported the matter to the doctor, and, i think, to the governor. not seeing any remedial move, however, i resorted to the dollar and cent consideration, and, on investigating, found that, while they were paying $ per month for that poor light, i could light the cells with candles, three a week to a cell, probably for fourteen dollars. i offered to obligate myself to do it for twenty, and receive only the actual cost whatever it might be below; also to see that no additional trouble came from the melting of the tallow. this argument prevailed, and the warden was ordered to furnish the candles, though he allowed only two a week to a cell. some of the men were amused and some provoked at the manner of his announcing the change: "i have concluded to furnish you with candles, for your good, and hope you will use them as such;" for, it seems, they knew by what means the relief had come, though how i never understood. . _the aid of the association to released prisoners, and warden's course._ the association proved itself as advantageous to the discharged prisoners as the most ardent laborer for its establishment had hoped. an unusually large number left prison the present year, forty-two. in warm weather many would not require pecuniary aid, while others would. thus, one required cooper's tools to the amount of six and one-half dollars; another, a railroad pass to ohio, for twelve dollars; a third, a pass to wisconsin, at thirty-one dollars; a fourth, carpenter's tools at six dollars; then smaller sums, here and there. the wisconsin man left prison sick, and must have been a public charge here, while his friends would give him a home, if with them, though unable to pay his fare thither. the association had not arranged for furnishing the men with clothing, supposing the state would properly attend to that, as previously, through her warden. but as the winter now approached, the society found itself driven to the necessity of helping in this, too, by the fact that the present warden would furnish the men with only the same outfit as in summer, the under-clothes they might happen to have on at the time, added. and, in making out this summer suit, he would construe the letter of the law in the superlative degree, which says, "a suit of cheap clothing,"--he obtaining the cheapest, the most miserably poor. to illustrate, a man left prison in one of those suits, and, before walking a mile, was obliged to call and borrow sewing implements to repair them. the day after, another left, and had worn the shirt furnished him about one day, when, taking him to a shop for the purpose of trying on a coat, i found that one sleeve of the shirt had wholly parted from the body, and the other about half. another man had worn his pants less than twelve hours when they needed mending. i went to the shop-keeper and lectured him for such dealing, to which he replied, "i have to be governed by the price the warden will pay. he will not pay for anything better. if he would, i should furnish a better article, and prefer that to this method." at almost every turn i was met with this money-making system. well, this could be endured in warm, balmy weather, though truly annoying to the poor fellows; but in the full rigors of the winter of ' and ' , it was cruel, to say the least. let us take a few specimens of this practice. in nearly the severest weather of that winter, a man came to me from the prison to be sent home, some two hundred miles beyond bangor, me. as i looked at him i was perfectly astonished that we had a man among us who would think, for a moment, of sending away a dependent, human being, and sickly, too, in such a plight; a rather thin coat, vest and pants that might last him two or three days; no collar, cravat, mittens, overcoat, or boots, but brogans, and those not mates, one of which so pinched his foot that he was forced to remove it shortly after coming in. his person and clothes were filthy indeed, not having seen water for weeks. i could but exclaim, "what a condition! the law says, 'a suit of cheap clothing suited to the season,' and this is such a suit!" in addition to all this, as the man asserted, the warden asked him, on passing out, "how long do you think it will be before you will contrive to get back here again?" was not that cool? he himself robbing the fallen one of his just due, a suit of comfortable clothing fitted to the season, and turning him away under those circumstances which would almost of necessity force him to steal to avoid perishing, and then taunt him with such a question? as yet, our association had not practiced clothing the men, and of course the warden had no reason to suppose we should. keeping my feelings under calm subjection, i went to the prison and asked him if he did not purpose to furnish the man with boots, overcoat, &c., to which he responded in his short, pompous way, "no; when i was deputy here, the men were sent out in just what they happened to have on at the time." after talking till evidently of no further avail, i remarked, "i am a native of new hampshire, and have some regard for the honor of my state, and i will never disgrace it by sending a man to maine in such a plight as you propose. i shall fix him up." to which he answered, "i would not carry the matter too far." well, i did not carry the matter too far, but took the man to the store, shivering by the way, and purchased for him the needed articles, cheap but good,--boots $ . , overcoat $ . , and so on,--and returned home with him, where he cast off his "filthy rags," took a warm bath, donned his new under-clothes and came out feeling like a different man, though feeble. he took a bad cold that day by being out in his thin apparel, and passed a hard night, leading us to fear that he would have a fever. but his anxiety helped him the next morning, when he set off, the railroad men giving him a free pass, thus showing that humanity was not all dead in this region. soon another was released in a somewhat worse condition, as to clothing, than the above, though with better health. his drawers had one leg wholly minus, the other coming down nearly to the knee, what pretended to remain being in tatters. two from western maine were pardoned one evening and went away early the next morning in the suit given by the warden, without my knowledge. the severe weather must have caused them no little suffering, especially as they must end their journey by a long walk through a deep snow, with their brogans, and one of them was a sickly man. another, liberated without my knowledge, started on foot for providence, r. i., to follow the railroad track. learning the fact in a few moments, i hastened after him, but to no avail. i heard that his outfit was similar to those above described. i should have clothed him comfortably and furnished a pass by rail, had i overtaken him. the warden now maintained that he had no concern with the men after leaving prison, and usually took no pains to inform me of their departure; hence, if i did not keep a close watch myself, more or less would leave without my knowledge. my practice usually was to obtain a list each month, from the deputy, of those who would leave during the four following weeks. the reader will see that i had a good opportunity of knowing the state of the men's under-clothing, from those thus leaving; and further, i would find more or less mending their clothes on the sabbath. one day a man was at work on his pants, which had become perfectly indecent to wear. on a week day, finding a man in bed in his cell, i inquired if he was sick, to which he replied, "no, i am having my pants mended." another man brought out the shoes he had been accustomed to wear in prison. no, he could not do that; but they came out; how, i never knew, and he brought them to me. it would be difficult to tell which most abounded, holes or leather. i knew they were his, for i had often seen them on his feet in the prison; though they appeared much worse on a near inspection than at a distance. an aged prisoner, whose feet were large and lame, wore his shoes sandal fashion, tying them on with such strings as he could find. when i would ask him how he did, he usually replied, "oh, lame and suffering terribly with my feet." having nothing but his stockings to protect them from the cold, this must have been severe in winter, though, when in the shop, his fellow prisoners would heat bits of plank and pass to him, on which he could stand and thus be relieved in a measure. i asked him if he could not wear his shoes in the usual way, to which he said, "no, they are too small. had i very large ones i could. i have asked for such, but they will not obtain me any." the requisite shoes must have been made purposely for the convict, large and of very soft leather, costing, no doubt, more than ordinary shoes. but they would have brought great relief to an old, suffering man. but our prison aid association, notwithstanding its efforts for good, met those who opposed it. hence, one told me that the concern was organized for the purpose of running an opposition to the prison, all i could say to which was, "if helping the men, as above described, be running an opposition to the prison, it was organized for that very purpose; otherwise, not." but the man was, no doubt, nettled that the prisoners were looked after on leaving prison, and not permitted to go as the warden provided. some, again, pretended that the influence of the association was in favor of having the prisoners remain in and about concord. this was the very thing we labored against, or one of them, at least. the agent, and every active member, invariably used their influence in favor of their going to other places, and especially to keep them away from their old haunts and associations. i knew, however, that there were influences used here, and among prison officers, too, to keep men in the city. some, for whom i had provided good places away, were tampered with and thus influenced to remain. . _lecturing for the prison aid association._ to widen the influence of this body and become personally acquainted with places where we could send our men for suitable employment and care, the idea was conceived of giving occasional lectures, in favorable localities within the state, on the interests in question. for this purpose, i went out four times during the winter. besides treating upon the objects and needs of the association, i alluded to some of the prison matters, such as the proposition in the governor's then late message for the management of the institution to be put under a permanent board, the responsibility of which the legislature largely shirked, by turning the whole matter into the hands of the governor and council;--for reasons given, the very place where it should not be;--expressed the hope that the next legislature would do its full duty upon the matter; referred also to the much needed repairs just made, and hoped they would be carried still further, improving the manner of lighting the prison by having a small gas jet at each cell, also provide a library room, &c.; but of course i wholly avoided alluding to the internal management of matters at the institution. my attention was called particularly to this point, however, in one place, by the question being publicly asked by a gentleman, "how are the prisoners treated there?" in reference to which i begged the gentleman to excuse me from answering his question, as i wished to keep the mind on other points. that was true, but it was not the whole of the truth. the question itself was not a proper one to answer then in that place. could i have conscientiously said, "well," it would have been done in a moment and been all right, but that i could not do, and besides, i hoped that our rulers would soon get their eyes opened, or the next legislature put things on a proper basis and matters pass off without having anything publicly said. indeed, i knew but little then of the prison workings in comparison with what i afterwards learned. . _prison correspondence under the new rule._ the former warden had solicited me to assist in the correspondence, and i would write for a prisoner occasionally, but pass it to the warden for his examination, till he said, "you need not pass them to me, send them yourself. you know what to write just as well as i do." hence, i sent a very few in the course of a year without his examination. the reader will understand that all letters, to and from a prisoner, must be thoroughly examined, that nothing prohibited may pass. they are allowed to speak of personal family matters, but nothing of general, secular affairs. the prisoner would not be permitted, of course, to express any dissatisfaction at prison fare or treatment. the new warden put the entire matter of correspondence into the hands of his deputy, without asking me to do anything about it. hence, when subsequently solicited to pass a letter as before, i would answer, "i have no right to do that, and can not. you must pass your letter to the deputy." on one occasion, being rather hard pressed to step over the bounds and pass a line, with the assurance it should never be known, &c., &c., i gave the decided negative, adding, "it makes no difference whether known or unknown, the step will be violating the prison rule and my purpose is so to proceed that at all times and under all circumstances, i can say with a clear conscience, i have duly observed every rule." this ended all attempts to influence me in that direction. still, i supposed it proper and nothing inconsistent with good prison order, for me to speak of a prisoner's health and success to a friend whom i met outside and to the prisoner of having met the friend and of personal family concerns; or to encourage the prisoners to write to their friends, if thus requested by letter; or to write to friends myself, by request of the prisoners. i did something in this line a very few times, perhaps not a half dozen in all. meeting a sister of a prisoner out of the city, one day, i answered her earnest inquiries about his health, and his reform efforts, carrying back to him also a word about her health and a request that he write and send to the new place to which she was about to locate. a man had a petition before the governor and council for pardon. as agent for our association, i inquired of him if he had friends to whom he could go, if successful, or what arrangement he would need made for him. he answered that he left friends in england, years before, knew not whether then living or dead, but he would like to return to them if living. writing as he directed, i soon received a reply stating that some were living, and some were gone, and the earnest desire that he return home at once to see his father alive, of which i informed him, and on account of which his pardon was soon granted, and he left. finding a man, who had been here a number of months, in a gloomy and despairing state because friends had not written him since being here, thus giving him reason to feel that they had cast him off, in which case he could not think of living, i wrote to these friends, urging them to what they ought to have performed before. soon he addressed me, when passing, with a tone of cheer unknown in him since entering prison: "chaplain, my folks have not cast me off. i have received a good letter from them. they will stand by me, which makes me feel a thousand dollars better." nor has he learned how his friends were stirred to write. thus, in a few cases, i acted in this direction and that for the purpose of removing anxiety without and securing cheer and quietness within, though making no allusions to the one about prison managing or to the other of secular affairs. - . _chaplain under a system of espionage._ the former warden had been accustomed to keep his eyes upon the officers, as well as upon the men, to know that everything was moving orderly. the new incumbent took the same course, the correct one so far as that was concerned, in order to keep all matters in the prison perfectly straight. nor did it lay me under any restraint, as i wished to do right, for the place, in everything, even though no eye might be upon me. my only anxiety in the course would be that i might so walk as to have my steps appear as they really were. hence, my conduct there was constantly as though under the strictest inspection. and, of course, under these circumstances, i would do nothing but what i supposed to be correct, even if otherwise inclined. thus, having passed a number of months with our new warden, a prisoner said, one day, as i approached his cell, "be careful, chaplain; they are watching you to see if they can't find some cause for turning you out." asking no questions, i passed on, not knowing what he meant. but it started a new idea. "am i under a system of especial surveillance?" i then recollected having seen the guards frequently about where i would be hearing lessons, though i had not noticed but that they were looking after the men. by giving attention now, however, it was plain to see that they were listening to what i said. at length an overseer left the prison, and, on leaving, unfolded to me the whole matter,--that they were set by the warden to watch my actions, note with whom i conversed, hear what was said, put it down, and report to him. he said, "i was set evenings to watch you from the guard-room, through the spy-hole, but never found anything to report." learning this, i could but exclaim, "consistency indeed! the warden can furnish men enough for a system of espionage over me in the hall, when toiling under such disadvantages and fatigues to help the convicts in their efforts for knowledge, but will not spare even one to guard in the chapel, where i could teach with comparative freedom from all these drawbacks." usually, in this cell instruction, we spoke very low, just to hear each other and thus not disturb those in near cells, or interfere with the rule about stillness in the apartment; but, after this discovery, when seeing the guards hanging about, i would purposely speak loud enough for them to hear, and also when the warden himself would be listening to my sabbath school instruction. and they had the privilege of hearing as good, wholesome truths as i was capable of bringing out. . _the chaplain's pacific efforts severely taxed._ we are beings of want, and if locked in a cell unable to provide for ourselves, it is wonderful to think how many things we should need to have furnished by others, or suffer. true, we can curtail our wants to a number very much fewer than artificial life would claim, but, when coming to the indispensables, they are not a few. hence, prisoners, under the kindest treatment and well-furnished with food, clothing, warmth, and all that nature would seem to crave, will need to call more or less frequently for attentions, or find themselves lacking not a little. but under the saving system of this year, calls from the cells must multiply, and, if unheeded, give occasion for uneasiness, angry feelings and disorder. hence, under such circumstances, the chaplain would naturally be called into the most active service. for, if we can not offer a man food enough to satisfy the cravings of his appetite, the next thing is to reconcile his mind to going without, or so engross his thoughts, that he shall not so keenly feel the gnawings of hunger. or, if one is cold, and we can not bring the means of warmth, by presenting a satisfactory excuse or interesting the intellect, we may do him essential service in helping him calmly endure what he otherwise could not. precisely on these principles i acted, and engrossed the prisoner's attention as earnestly and interestingly as possible, always, when practicable, taking special pains to immediately furnish the thing called for; or to excuse, when i could; or turn one's sufferings to as profitable a lesson as could be, to him. hence, when the cold was reigning almost unmitigated in the cells, for a few days, i would repeat to one and another what i heard the warden say, that "the water was low and he feared it would wholly fail." among the replies, one said, "well, then, we must bear it the best we can, though it is hard." one day, coming to a man's cell to hear a lesson, he said, "i have no lesson, i have been in the solitary. they did so and so to me, at which i got mad, and would not do as they wished, and they put me in there." i thought it likely, from the circumstances, that the impatience of an officer and his irritating course had much, too much, to do with the matter. but that was not for me to hint at, even. i rather said, "well, you say you got mad and have been in the solitary. see what you have suffered for getting mad. how much better for you to govern your temper. you know where you are, what you did to bring yourself here. you understand what is required, and that refusal on your part is of no avail. now, why not govern yourself, no matter what they say? if you really think they bear hard upon you, control your angry passions, and do what they require as cheerfully and promptly as possible. thus, you can become accustomed here to governing yourself, that, when you go out, you will be the better able to meet the vexations of the world. now, will you not try this course?" he replied, "i don't know, chaplain, it is a hard case." in a few days he remarked, "chaplain; i have been almost constantly thinking of what you said the other day, have come to the conclusion that your way is the best, and am resolved to attempt putting it in practice." with most hearty congratulations on his new resolve, i left him again. some weeks after i received from his lips this satisfactory report: "well, chaplain, i have been practicing your method since our last conversation, and find it works like a charm. i have but little trouble now, and am determined to keep on as i have begun." thus he proceeded till released. this man was naturally irritable and easily angered. he had not previously labored to control himself in regard to this important point; but now, when summoning all his better powers to the task, he resolutely addressed his mind to it, and a noble victory was his. there was another man here who also could be easily aroused, but was perhaps still more stubborn, when angry. he, too, had been an inmate of the solitary more or less. to him i appealed in a manner similar to the above, and, after persistent labors, succeeded in inducing him to earnestly try the proposed course, and with like results. but he was a man who needed frequent encouragement to help him calmly endure the vexations and annoyances almost constantly surrounding him. hence, he maintained his self-control and kept from trouble while he had one to labor for his continuance in well-doing, but afterwards he fell into difficulty again, and would consequently become an inmate of the solitary. thus i proceeded, and, by assiduous efforts, robbed this dark abode of many hours of occupancy. there were others not rendering themselves liable to the dungeon, but who would become filled with angry, revengeful emotions at what they were forced to endure. i would labor to induce these to use what they experienced as a means of self-culture, to leave the acts of others in the hands of god, submit calmly to what they could not avoid, do their own duties faithfully, and in all things keep themselves strictly in the right. thus i was almost constantly called to speak a word here and a word there to a pacific end, and labored untiringly in that direction. in the women's department, also, these efforts were found needed. one of the inmates, whom we will call k., had often caused them no little trouble. with all their efforts, she would contrive to keep almost a constant broil among them. hence, i decided to see what could be done, in her case, by moral and religious efforts. therefore, one sabbath, after our usual service, i remained awhile for personal conversation with the inmates respecting their desires and feelings on the subject of reform, purposely coming to k. last. after conversing awhile with her on religious subjects, i came to the direct inquiry, "now, k., will you not turn from your former course and seek to become a true christian?" she looked upon me as though perfectly astonished at the question, and answered, "why, chaplain, that would be of no sort of use. here i have been going on in my career of life these twenty years, and, should i attempt to turn now and become good, no one would put the least confidence in me. it is of no kind of use." i labored to assure her that she was mistaken in this idea, that would she truly repent and turn from evil, people would see it, and learn to confide in her the same as in others who had reformed, also asserting that she had the power for making of herself a most excellent, useful woman, if she would use it aright. i referred to what she might have been, what she had lost, how much she had suffered, the condition to which she had brought herself, and the prospect still before her, if she went on. at length the tears began to glisten in her eyes; she yielded and said, "chaplain, i will try." the next sabbath i asked her how she succeeded, with the answer, "not much, but i am trying the best i can." retiring from their room, i asked the attendant how they had prospered the past week. "oh," said she, "first rate. we have had a perfect reformation. everything has been peaceful and quiet, no fretting and scolding,--a perfect change." and so it was when i left the prison. but i learned that k., after my leaving, became discouraged, was thrown from the track and returned to her former habits. and no wonder, there was so great a lack of prudence and skill in managing there, so much of a vexatious character. my position was one of difficulty, needing all the wisdom and discretion i could command. the prisoners were looking to me for direction on the one hand, while jealous watchfulness followed every step on the other. thus i went on, constantly doing what i could for the best good of the institution in whatever way practicable. no matter what course others took concerning me or the prison, my duty was to act with fidelity and in the fear of god, which i endeavored sacredly to do. one rule i constantly carried with me, never deviating from it on any occasion, which rule was, not to give a word, or hint even, against any prison officer or prison move. this seemed essential to the best being of the prisoner. for, if really wronged, my deviation from that rule would tend to impress him more deeply, make him feel his wrong more keenly, and excite to greater irritability, resulting, on his part, perhaps, in more disorderly acts, and, consequently, greater trouble. then, on my own part, such a deviation must be perfect suicide, so far as the plan might be concerned, showing the authorities conclusively that i was unfit for the position, and giving them the most urgent reasons for putting another in my place. a moderate share of common sense would teach one to keep very wide of such deviation. then it could be of no avail. if censurable things were being done in the prison management, the rulers were the parties for one to approach respecting them, those having the power to apply the remedy. . _death of gideon sylver._ this man had been in the army, was a good soldier, strong and vigorous; very quiet and obedient; faithful to his task and never complaining, but seemed intent on doing the best he could to please those over him and thus share their good will. he was set to carrying lumber in and out of the dry room, exposed to extremes of heat and cold, at times perhaps having wet feet from want of proper shoes, till, failing in health, complaining of distress about the chest, the doctor ordered him to lighter and less exposed work, when he was set to running a planer, said, however, to be a very hard machine to run, though subsequently made easier by rollers attached. here he grew no better, but had severe attacks. one day, in his distress, he fell on his knees, girding his arms about him and groaning repeatedly. the deputy took him from the shop and returned him relieved. but soon he wholly failed, was taken away for the last time and kept in his cell, part of the time quiet and then groaning more or less intensely. to my inquiry about the locality of his distress, he put his hand over the left lung. sabbath evening, feb. th, i think, his distress came on with great severity, he, making no little ado, said, to my inquiry whether he needed anything more, "i have a powder to take, which will no doubt relieve me," and appeared disposed to make the best of his condition. meeting the steward, i asked if all was being done for the man that could be, with the answer, "yes, i think there is. the fact is, not much ails him. he is nervous; thinks he is dreadful sick, and makes a great ado." i passed on, thinking that sylver must be a very sick man notwithstanding these views, that, when one naturally so patient and quiet makes such demonstrations, there must be reason for immediate assistance. it seemed to me that the hospital was the proper place for him, and that he ought to be there receiving suitable warmth and close attention. but understanding that i might say no more, and meddle no farther, i retired, feeling that the man was in a forlorn condition. the cold in the hall was not as severe now as formerly, for the weather had become milder without, and that coal stove, before referred to, stood not far from sylver's cell. this helped in a measure, but came short of the warmth needful to a sick man like him. things passed thus, with more or less of his moaning when i was in, till wednesday evening, on which, by reason of the prayer meeting, i did not visit the apartment. thursday noon i heard no moaning, but when the men had retired for their work, i called to visit the sufferer and found his cell empty, he having been carried to the hospital. i went to my dinner, purposing to return and visit the hospital immediately after; but, being detained, at length saw a coffin carried to the prison, and, on inquiry, learned that sylver was dead. he died a few minutes past twelve, when i was known to be at work in the hall, but nothing was said to me about the event. how my heart sank within me, though, of the events of that terrible wednesday night, i then knew nothing. the facts subsequently came to light in their revolting features. they were gathered from the steward, overseers, guard and released prisoners, investigated with all care, and are, no doubt, correct, as follows: sylver grew worse wednesday evening, groaning often. the steward came, and, after giving him the usual attention, said, "now, sylver, there is no use in your making such a fuss as this. dry up and go to sleep." sylver replied, "i would, if i could; but my sufferings are so great i can't help it;" to which the steward responded, "yes, you can, if you only think so. dry up, if you don't want to go into the solitary," and left, with the groans falling on his ears as he passed from the apartment. at nine the night watch went to his task in the hall, and found the inmate almost incessantly groaning, with interludes of prayer,--"lord have mercy on me; do help me; forgive my sins," and so on, also suffering intensely with the cold, locked in his cell that none could approach him in attempts at relief. the watchman's heart was stirred, for humanity's promptings were not dead in him. he looked about for something that might afford warmth to the agonized man, and found some bricks, which he warmed and passed through the grating to the sufferer, who for a time had strength to take and place them around him for relief. the other prisoners could not sleep. raps would be heard from one and another for the watch to go to them and explain. others would cry out, "call the deputy and have that man cared for." at about eleven, the prisoners began to stir determinedly, when the watch called a guard and sent for the deputy to come and care for sylver. but he gave no heed to the summons, except to send the guard back to the hall, who went to the sick man's cell, made efforts to still him, and left. those near said they heard the word _gag_ there used, and understood that the sufferer was receiving threats of being gagged, in case he did not stop his noise. as the guard retired from the hall, all hope of relief for the doomed one came fully to an end, he being now literally left to his fate. he would still engage in prayer,--"lord, have mercy on my soul; lord, why won't they come and do something for my relief?" had the cell door been left unlocked, the watch could have done much more towards affording the needed warmth, and been more effective in efforts for his relief. but that privilege would not be allowed. at length the man became too weak and exhausted to take and use the proffered bricks, which ended the offices of kindness the watch was struggling to perform. finally, the moaning grew more and more faint, and was of such a tone as to give clear indication that death had commenced its work. the sad hours wore slowly away. the morning finally arrived, and the men were called to their tasks, the now feeble moans dying upon their ears as they passed out. at length, when suiting his convenience, the warden went to the dying man's cell. seeing the result of their work, he hastened for the doctor, whom he found just starting on an imperative call. but he hurried to the prison to see the man a moment and direct the means to be used till his return. he found him thoroughly cold, as though dead, and ordered him to be taken at once to the hospital, the most vigorous rubbing to be used by two men, and other means for restoring warmth. for a time he revived somewhat, but these efforts, however beneficial they might have been in season, were of no avail now, for death soon closed the scene. the brothers, summoned by a telegram, were present in a few hours. a post-mortem examination was had, at which one asked, "what was the matter with the man?" to which the doctor answered, "probably some difficulty about the heart." an invited physician responded,--"from what i hear, i think it a clear case of congestion of the lungs;" one of the worst cases of which, it was found to be. a consulting physician said that the case must have been a number of days in progress. the reader must make his own comment on this whole affair.[ ] my feelings were never more stirred. we were terribly shocked at pike's murder of the browns, those feeble, old people. but he dispatched them at once; neither, perhaps, experiencing a moment's sensibility of suffering. true, the man lived a number of hours, but was probably not sensible of pain. but sylver, in his agonies, begging and pleading for help, was forced to pass that terrible night carefully locked in his cell, and no heed given to his cries. had they ended his sufferings with a single blow, without any threats of the dungeon or gag, he would have been thereby saved from the piercing agonies of those slowly dragging hours. would not that have been compassion in comparison with what they did? but one says, "that would have been murder." true, and what was that treatment in reality? with due care and attention the man might have recovered, but they so proceeded that it was absolutely impossible for him to live. no man with a lung difficulty could survive such treatment. the blow of an ax, severing his head from his body, could have been no surer means of death. [footnote : important facts on this matter are withheld in the narrative above, as the possessors were unwilling, at the examination, to divulge them publicly except under the shield of an oath.] i know the deputy attempted to exonerate himself from blame before the governor and council, by asserting that the guard, sent for him, failed to do his errand correctly, and that he understood himself called to still the noise among the men, and for this sent the guard back. had that really been the case, why did not the guard go among the men and endeavor to still them? why go to sylver's cell and expend his efforts there? or, admitting the deputy's statement to be true, did that help the matter for him in the least? if summoned by the watch to quell a rising tumult, was he, as an officer, acting the part of duty by remaining quietly in bed and sending nothing but a guard to the work, who could effect no more than the watch himself? all the circumstances combined in forcing one, understanding the matter, to the conclusion that they acted knowingly and intentionally respecting the man. do not understand me as charging them with intentionally and deliberately murdering their victim, for this i do not, but that he fell a sacrifice to a system of prison management that they were intent on establishing; a system under which the officers are to be the sole judges of the prisoners' needs, use them as they may choose, put them in whatever condition they may see fit, and they in turn not allowed to utter a word, nor give the slightest expression of feeling any more than the dumb, driven ox. if they die, "it is of no account; he is only a prisoner," as an officer said to me, respecting another who had died. on entering the hall the evening after sylver's cruel death, i found the prisoners greatly excited. one exclaimed, as loud as he thought prudent, "murder! murder! they have murdered one of our number." another remarked, "well, we see what the fate of any of us may be, if taken sick." marked anxiety was depicted upon all their countenances; and who would wonder? . _the sylver case excitement and hearing before the governor and council._ the brothers were greatly aroused at what they could see and gather about this death, felt that deep iniquity had been practiced in connection with it, and resolved on a criminal prosecution of the warden. but, finding, from legal counsel, that they probably could not make a case in that line hold, they were thrown into doubt respecting what to attempt. meanwhile the story of the affair spread in the community, carrying with it exaggerated reports, that "sylver was really murdered; was gagged and left to die alone," and thus on. when passing the streets in the city, i would be inquired of, if such were really the facts, to which i would respond in the negative, that he died in the hospital with attendants about him, but could explain no farther. execrations at the prison management were often heard. whether true or not, i never ascertained, but report had it, that the doctor felt called upon to demand an investigation of the affair before the governor and council, and that the warden favored looking into the other departments, and so a hearing was appointed to be had at the council chamber one friday evening, in the latter part of february, or in early march. i was summoned to be present, but with no intimation for what purpose. the sylvers, when cherishing the idea of a criminal prosecution, had looked about a little for evidence, and had secured the statements of an overseer at the prison, when the death occurred, written out in the form of an affidavit and sworn to before a justice of the peace, and also those of a released prisoner. these were in the hands of the lawyer they had employed, or purposed to employ, to manage for them. this lawyer appeared, but it was understood that the brothers had become disheartened and ceased to interest themselves in looking up evidence, preparing for a thorough investigation of the death in question; why, we know not. none were put on oath, hence the hearing failed of bringing out important matter, as the men having it, would not divulge unless under oath. i was called on first to testify and asked to state about the sylver case, but, as before related, i then knew but little of material value. the transactions of that wednesday night, i had, at that time, heard something of, but to me they were only matters of report, and among the points requiring the efficacy of the oath to bring them out. hence, i could say nothing of them. i was asked some questions about the prison living, but on points concerning which i knew but little, and then was turned directly to my own prison management. it seemed by the questioning that, in this summary manner, with no opportunity to prepare for defense, i was virtually put on trial for a violation of prison rules on two points,--the correspondence, and passing information to prisoners,--and called on to testify against myself. but i had nothing to cover up, had acted in all cases as i thought to be right, so frankly stated my whole proceedings in the matters, as near as i could recollect on the spur of the moment, and also explained my motives, excepting that i could not, of course, allude to anything of the warden's procedure as making my efforts especially needful to the best order of the prison. no one else was called to testify on these points; but i was kept standing during the narrations and questionings till so far exhausted that, perhaps between ten and eleven, i had to ask the privilege of sitting. then i was called on to state about my lecturing for the prison aid association, whether i had alluded to the prison or not. having become somewhat confused in mind, for the time, i could not recollect a single allusion i had made, and therefore answered unqualifiedly, "i have not," not thinking to say, "i have not to my present recollection." the governor replied, "there must be some mistake in the matter, for i have received two letters from places where those lectures were given, stating differently," and he called for another witness. as to the sylver matter, the effort was made to leave the impression on the mind that the patient really died of a heart difficulty, though he probably would have died of the congestion, but not so soon. no pretense, however, was made that any unhealthy condition was found about the heart, except in the attending physician's assertion, that, on puncturing the pericardium; a little gas, as he thought, whizzed out, and that he recollected of having read in two medical works, of cases where such a gas collection had proved fatal. the physicians whom the sylvers employed on the post mortem, were not present, and hence no light was gained from that source. the lawyer presented the written statements of the released prisoner, referring to the death, the cold, food matters, &c., at the prison, but this was summarily swept from the board by the testimony of the steward: "there is not a word of truth in his statement." i happened to know personally, then, that some of the points in that statement were true, and what i did not know myself agreed exactly with the general testimony of the men leaving prison. but i was not referred to on the point and thus that testimony was useless. the affidavit from the overseer, i think, was not presented. at about two o'clock at night, the hearing was adjourned until the next monday evening, after which i arranged with the governor to see him monday, p. m. i saw the letters referred to, which contained the grossest misrepresentations, uttering sentiments i never thought of, or, if i had, should not have expressed there, unless demented. i went home with a strong conviction that efforts were being made, by whom i knew not, to turn the whole force of thought upon me and make of me a scape goat in the matter. i retired, but not to shut my eyes in sleep for the night. for a time my mind remained in confusion about those lectures, but after resting awhile, and the excitement had passed off, all came clearly to view, as given on a former page. . _preparing for the adjourned session._ saturday morning i wrote to a few understanding and reliable gentlemen, who heard the lectures in question, alluded to the letters and their allegations, and by return mail received answers, asserting that, as nearly as they understood, and by inquiry from others who heard, no such ideas were received as charged in the missives, giving some ideas that were uttered, a very different sentiment from the letters, and what no one could censure. that day, i met the writer of one of those letters in the city, and to my inquiry, he replied, "oh, i did not hear the lecture, or know anything about what was said, personally; but my son was present, and gave me what information i had." i could but think, "a bright son that!" in the afternoon, i called on the governor as appointed, and found him very much excited over the matter. he talked almost incessantly for a long time, but occasionally giving me opportunity for putting in a word. i attempted to assure him that he was laboring under a great mistake about my acts at the prison, that i had not been guilty of anything he had in mind, and that he must have been misinformed. but my assurances seemed to carry but little weight. he finally said, "mr. quinby, your management at the prison has caused me more trouble and anxiety than all my state business put together." i was perfectly astonished. there were my incessant and most arduous labors for peace and quietness in the institution, my great painstaking, with the sole view of leading the prisoners to do right in every respect, with never a hint from me, to a prisoner, of disapprobation of any prison officer or his acts,--with never a word of dispute between any of us as officers, besides my careful observance of all the prison rules to the letter, as i understood them, to which i had ever felt impelled by a sense of duty, and on which, for a long while, i had felt the importance of double and thribble care. how could my management in these things cause the governor such trouble and anxiety? the truth now flashed in mind, that setting the guards and overseers to watch me, had its purpose. then, there must have been a long and persistent course of running to his excellency with a tissue of misrepresentations. had it really befallen me as it befel the man going down from jerusalem to jericho? things certainly looked in that direction, and perhaps it was nothing more than might have been anticipated; for, if one would persistently slander innocent ladies, it would be natural for him to misrepresent me. if, at every opportunity, he would defame the character of another, could i rationally suppose that mine would be any safer in his hands? having left the governor with the settled conviction that my days of incessant prison toil were virtually ended, a gentleman of influence in the place, rode up to me in haste, with the remark, "step aboard, mr. quinby, you must have legal counsel in these matters. a combination is formed to crush you, and the really guilty go free. i have volunteered to engage such lawyers, and they wish to see you at once to learn the true state of things and how to take hold of the case." though i insisted that it would be of no avail, he gave no heed to that, and soon landed me at the proposed office door. i related, in brief, the general facts as they had occurred, and the interview just had with the governor, to which the eldest of the number replied, "your case is a foregone conclusion. it is already decided. you can not do a thing." but another proposed to consult with the attorney already in the work, and arrange as thought advisable. returning home, i found a friend waiting to inform me of the proffered service of still another lawyer. thus friends were aroused and clustered around ready to help, as i had not anticipated. no little excitement prevailed in the place. . _the adjourned hearing._ i went to this with ideas clear, thoughts collected, mind pretty thoroughly aroused, and feeling ready to attempt a vindication of the right. being again called on first, i commenced, referred to the assertion that i made the previous evening about not alluding to the prison in my lectures, that i was wrong in this, that i did refer to it, stating on what points, and the sentiments uttered, presenting the letters that i had received, showing that i uttered no such ideas as alleged, and gave a general outline of my reform moves at the prison and the motives that impelled me to voluntarily assume such excessive labors, closing thus: "and now, gentlemen, if, after doing all this, i am to be crushed, it will be a hard case." they now referred to the other cases on which but little more was brought out. before closing, one of the council, turning to me, remarked, "now, mr. quinby, if you know of anything wrong at the prison, not here developed, we wish you to be free and state it, for we desire to understand the truth." but i did not think it best for me to say anything farther then, for, if i did, it would be opening a square fight with the warden, which i by no means desired, and for which i did not feel myself prepared. it would have been really stepping forward as leader in the matter, a position which i did not wish. then, again, as i supposed, such prejudice had somehow been aroused against me, that, should i attempt to make further development, it would be of little or no use, and perhaps be worse for the cause than my silence. besides, i hoped that the time would come, and that not far distant, when our rulers would have their eyes opened, and matters be so effectually sifted as to find the real truth. thus, the hearing closed, and we left the deliberating body to make up judgment, which was that "no blame is to be attached to any one," or to that amount. this was just as i had anticipated respecting the sylver case, the food, &c., for the investigation really amounted to little in those respects. i was truly disappointed, however, concerning myself, not that any wrong, or even a shadow of it, was brought against me, but, as i judged from the governor's remarks and the general drift of things, that certain ones had worked underhandedly, and so effectually as to render my removal a sure matter. but they did not succeed. . _motives for desiring the chaplain's removal._ one asks, "what could be the motive of any for seeking your removal, if you had uniformly proceeded at the prison as before set forth?" that was the puzzle to me, for not a word had been said in that direction, except the note of warning from the prisoner, till conversing with the governor, and then nothing specific; hence, i was left wholly to conjecture. my persistent effort to keep alive, as far as possible, what i could of the reform system of the past year, was, no doubt, repulsive to the warden, and in order to be rid of that, he would need to be rid of me. this might be one motive. again, no little stir was being made in the city about prison usages, prison suffering, &c. probably he thought i was at the bottom of that; that i wrote down facts inside, and divulged them outside. hence, the nettling that one of my practices caused. occasionally, i would be solving a long question in arithmetic for the prisoner at the striking of the signal for retiring to the shop, at which i would step aside, sit down, finish my solution, return the slate to the prisoner's cell, and leave. i also, at times, noticed that the deputy was watching me far more earnestly than the men. then the question was asked at the hearing, what i was writing on these occasions. now, if he considered me as the cause of this stirring up, he, of course, would wish me away. this would be a strong motive. but i was not. true, i wrote the stories of a number of the men, as they came out, or till all were found telling over and over the very same thing, in substance. these, however, i laid away in my drawer, saying nothing about them to any one. but these men would also call on their former sabbath school teachers, or other acquaintances they had met in prison, and relate to them their stories, and thus they spread. neighbors would call at my house, and be talking these matters over, i being as reticent as possible, but would not come out squarely and lie in the matter by contradicting the accounts. and, further, the points which i had brought to the governor's notice were, without doubt, unsatisfactory to the warden. then, also, my fitting up the prisoners as they left. he perhaps desired a man for the place, who might wish it so much as to be willing to pass on with doing but little of what i was attempting. for months i supposed these the great motives which prompted that removal. but the next year i learned of another and perhaps greater than either of these. a man, retiring from prison, said to me, "chaplain, how amused we would feel sometimes, last year, when you were preaching, at the appearance of the warden, to see him turn pale, and then red, and hitch on his seat. we understood it." another, usually present, not a prisoner, said also that he had noticed the same thing. at the time in question, i was treating upon the moral code from sabbath to sabbath, and would, in one discourse, take up lying, and point out as clearly as i could its influence upon the one practicing it, and upon society in general; then, perhaps, stealing, or swindling and thus on. in these efforts, i was intent on discharging my duty to the prisoners, on leading them from those sins, having nothing to do in the matter with the warden as to any of his steps in life. if personal applications were made, i was not responsible for that. i arranged for no such purpose. but when the man, on his release, made the remark given, the idea flashed in my mind that here was a stirring motive to efforts for getting rid of me, with the hope of obtaining one who might be willing, on coming to certain sins, to let the plow of truth turn out, and not go straight through. whether that running to the governor and that stirring him up so greatly, was prompted by one or another of the above reasons, or all combined, or something else, still, i never ascertained. had charges been preferred against me openly and squarely, i could have met them face to face, known what was what, and shown their falsity. but as things were, i was left in the dark as to how to proceed, and to what conclusions i should come as to the motives prompting to the struggle to my disadvantage. . _chaplain's change of course and the question as to who should conduct the prison correspondence._ after this hearing, i decided to change my course in two respects, the one about going out to lecture on association matters, the other about writing to prisoners' friends. these i wholly abandoned. true, nothing was said to me suggestive of these changes, nor had i taken any wrong step on the points, but, in the investigation, i was led to see that these were _the_ sources whence misconception would be the most likely to arise, and where evil-minded persons might pretend a wrong, with some show of plausibility, without really any shadow of grounds in truth. i would not only shun every evil, but every appearance of evil, or what might be construed into an appearance. great sensitiveness pervades too many minds on the idea of attempting to show benevolence to a released prisoner, they holding it as a wrong to society. these will not hear on the subject understandingly, but with prejudice and a proclivity to misrepresent. though the class does not embrace, in its numbers, the more intelligent, worthy citizens, yet it contains more or less who possess the power of casting mists of blindness before the well-disposed and honest seekers for the right. in this class, we find the ideas of the brutal and vindictive freely cropping out in their utterances. "those fellows ought to suffer. they were put in prison for punishment, now let them have enough of it, so that they may thus learn to do better, no matter if it were ten times worse." these persons seem to think that the correct way of prison management would be to select the most hard-hearted, cruel men of the state for officers, and deliver the convicts into their hands, for them to exercise their brutal feelings upon as fully and freely as they may choose. these points, then, evidently need to be agitated in the state, by lecturers and through the press, but it were better that this work be done by others than by the prison chaplain. the loss of my occasional writing was severely felt, especially by outside friends. thus, on fast day of ' , a prisoner wrote a letter to a sister in the west, and asked for an envelope and stamp that he might send it, but weeks and months passed and none were forthcoming. there was the idea, "you must not ask a second time." the sister became deeply troubled at not hearing from or about the brother, not knowing whether he were dead or alive, and wrote to me, earnestly beseeching to be informed. but as i was now under the ban, i did not answer her. she also wrote to the ex-warden, but he was away and did not answer. in the fall, when that gentleman of concord was chosen warden, she wrote to him, but, as he was sick and knew nothing of the matter, he did not respond. and no doubt she also wrote to the warden himself; but probably has not heard to this day. formerly, i should have written her something like this: "your brother is alive, in usual health, and progressing well. don't be over-anxious till he may write you." in this way i could have satisfied her, measurably, at least with no reflection, in any way, on prison management. this neglect of the deputy seemed the more cruel from the fact that the man was a most faithful, obedient prisoner, and that this sister had previously furnished him with ample writing materials, that he might write frequently with no expense to the state, which materials the warden had confiscated on coming into office. in connection with this matter, the important question comes up, in whose hands, really, should the prison correspondence be placed?--in those of the warden or chaplain? the correspondence, to be well managed, requires no little labor, especially if the inmates are permitted to write as they should and receive answers in return. if, in the warden's hands, it would tend to crowd other business too much, or itself be too much neglected, the latter having been the fact. to avoid all this, in various places, they put the management in the hands of the chaplain. this would seem the more appropriate, being rather in his line of duty, and more easily performed by him. a schedule of the points of information, which should be allowed to pass, could be marked out by the competent authority and laid before him for his guidance, that matters might be correct in that respect. this question ought to receive the careful attention of our law-makers, for proper letter writing should not be restricted in any degree in the prison. good letters from home and friends will bring with them no little reformatory power and influence to quietness and order. indeed, the privilege, by proper management, can be made a great force in disciplinary efforts among the prisoners. . _change, for a time, in the warden's management._ shortly after the death of sylver, a man, occupying a cell near by, was taken sick, but could sit up the most of the time. as he said, the warden went to him and remarked, "i am warden here. be free, and ask for whatever you need, and you shall have it." he permitted this man to sit with his cell door unlocked, and to go to the stove when he chose, and, to all appearance, properly cared for him, giving reason for much commendation. true, he was shortly to leave prison, and his statement would go towards counteracting the reports of prison cruelty circulating outside, and some were uncharitable enough to contend that this was the object of the better treatment. one evening, about this time, i found a prisoner in his cell appearing as though he could live but a few hours, and perhaps minutes, unless immediately attended to. he had been in the hospital a number of weeks with a lung difficulty and, though he had not recovered, was transferred sometime that day, i think, to his cell,--to a colder atmosphere. here, he found it difficult to speak or breathe. i hastened to the warden for him to attend to the matter. he hurried for the physician, who soon arrived, and had the sufferer returned to the hospital, where he died some weeks after. this was one of my only three requests or suggestions that were granted or favorably attended to by the warden while i was under him. true, i was not denied many times, for i early learned not to propose anything or make any request, except when absolutely needed. this changed course in the warden, however, did not continue many weeks. that hearing and its acquittal had passed, and the sylver affair was dying away, when, at length, i thus found him returned to his former spirit. though early in the season, on a warm day, he had divested the sick of their flannels, and i suppose all other prisoners. soon the weather became cooler, and i found a sick man in the hospital suffering greatly for want of his flannels, which articles, as he asserted, he had not previously been without, summer or winter, for twenty years. he was trembling with the cold, which much enhanced his distress. going to the warden, i presented the case, and received the reply, "if he wants his flannels, let him ask the doctor." he could meddle in the matter enough to divest the man of the needed articles, but would not move to put them on, and thus mitigate his sufferings. it was then early in the afternoon, and the man would have to suffer till the next forenoon, the usual time for the doctor to make his visit. when he came, as i was informed, he lectured them severely for removing the flannels at all. . _the fate of henry stewart and others._ henry was said to have been exceedingly unfortunate in his parents, they having been largely chargeable with his proclivities to evil. he was highly excitable, easily thrown into a perfect phrensy of passion, insane at times, and, on the whole, very difficult to manage, requiring a large amount of patience and skill in those over him. they needed to study his peculiarities and accommodate their treatment to his particular case, much the same as would the driver of a vicious, balky horse. the former managers had so treated him, that he had really improved, and his condition was appearing more and more hopeful. but in the new order, where officers were not expected to bother themselves over peculiarities, it was different with henry. though laboring with faithfulness generally, what was bred within would appear in outward acts. when a spell came on, they would "shake him up," as the deputy said (the import of which i did not fully understand), and put him in the solitary. at length his insanity, or whatever had impelled him, would pass off, and he come out in his right mind. confinement to his cell would probably have been just as effective in securing his good deportment and less injurious to his health. whenever i visited him, he would appear hopeful, tell what a good boy he proposed to be, how he meant to live, and not get into any more trouble; that he should soon be out, and would then strive to be a good man. many air castles the poor fellow thus built, but to see them fall. the prison fare and general management was now highly unfavorable to his proclivities, tending constantly to make them worse. men repeatedly told me that the officers would severely beat him, and that he was sadly abused. one day, in a freak of insanity or anger, he struck his overseer to the floor with a bed-post, coming within a hair's breadth of ending his life, and was aiming a second blow, which a fellow prisoner arrested, and thus saved the overseer. henry was put in the solitary, and i know not how long kept there, nor how used; but when, at length, i found him in his cell, he was greatly changed. i was perfectly astonished! he was not only insane, but changed in physical appearance; shrunken in flesh and with a strange expression of countenance. for a time, i could hardly believe it was henry, but finally had to admit that it was really he. i have seldom seen one with a fever change more for the time. soon his insanity took a boisterous turn by night, keeping the other prisoners all awake, which induced them for a time to confine him to the solitary during these hours, and keep him in his cell by day. but his howls so disturbed the prison family, that they next resorted to keeping him in the shop by night, lying upon his back, his feet chained together, with a post between them. thus, they continued for a season, but finally, the governor sent him to the insane asylum. shortly after, i was speaking to one of henry, in hearing of the warden, as being insane, to which he replied, "no, he is not insane. he is ugly, of which i could have cured him, had his time not been so near out." i thought, "you _would_ have cured him by death, and were very near it." as he was taken to the asylum, the warden said to me, "chaplain, i wish it understood that he is taken out to be tried for attempting to kill his overseer," thereby expressing the desire, as i understood it, for me to give that version of the matter to the prisoners. "what an idea!" i answered in my mind, "the chaplain going about lying for the warden!" fisher was naturally of a low order of mind, but still possessed knowledge enough to work well at many things under the direction of another, was to come out the early part of march, but whom i missed from his cell a while previous, and, from his long absence, began to suppose they had sent him off unbeknown to me. but the day previous to the expiration of his sentence, i found him again in his cell, completely demented. i was told by more than one, that his overseer, attempting to direct him in a certain way about his work and not succeeding, seized him by the collar, plunged him head foremost to the floor, and then jerked him about, he probably now uttering some disrespectful words; then the deputy was called and took him to the solitary, i was also informed, and plunged him against the outer prison door, on the way, with such force as to push it open. when first finding him in his cell, as stated, i asked where his father lived, and he answered, "enfield," as i understood it. but after that, i could not obtain even a sound from his lips. he kept almost constantly spitting, would frequently laugh to himself, but i could learn nothing about his legal residence. i was expected to care for him, and would not turn him loose to suffer and perhaps perish; but i found that i should be liable for damage, should i send him to another town. true, the state, by her prison management, had reduced him to this wretched condition, and ought to bear the expense of maintaining him, but there was no law or provision for that. hence, finding it my only safe and legitimate course, i obtained a decree from the probate judge, took him to the insane asylum, and notified the commissioners of that county, of the same. no doubt, with proper prison fare and treatment, both of these men might have come out able to earn their living, under proper guardians, which they would have needed; and that the fate of both was directly chargeable to the prison treatment. there was one, also, who left after my departure from prison, belonging to another state, who had become nearly as demented as fisher. hence, they obtained for him a railroad pass, and put him on board the cars with a label fastened upon his arm, directing him to be transferred to such a state and town, where his friends were supposed to live. he, too, i doubt not, was reduced to that demented condition by the prison treatment for he was far from such a state at the beginning of the year. . _warden's want of courtesy to prisoners' visitors._ by rule, no friend is allowed to see a prisoner except in presence of the warden or a subordinate that he may hear whatever is said. the time allowed for a visit is usually short, and the parties, of course, wish to make the most of every moment. but no little complaint was made, that, when the interview was in the warden's presence, he would engross much of the time in recounting his exploits in prison management, the disorders he found, the corrections he had made, how they would deceive his predecessor, but could not deceive him, and the like. no matter how far one had come, or at what expense, he would, perhaps, be treated thus. some, on going away, having had an opportunity of saying but few words to the prisoner whom they visited, would utter remarks which were anything but complimentary to the man thus imposing upon them, as they regarded it, and to the state for allowing such things to occur. . _effects of the new order upon the prisoners._ the mental effects have been spoken of in three cases. these were the most marked of that type. the effects on the physical system were also very apparent. it could not be otherwise, for the men lost no little flesh. one man said he weighed himself about the time the order in question commenced, and found his weight some one hundred and eighty pounds. he left after being under the system a little more than six months, and had lost some twenty-five pounds in weight. and i should judge this to be a fair general average, according to their appearance, of the change in most of the prisoners.[ ] [footnote : the bill of fare at the prison for this year can not be given, as it was not, to the writer's knowledge, published.] and why not this result? a large number did not pretend to eat any dinner on mondays, and many more ate but little. there was such a general carrying back of the food at this meal, that i decided to count particularly and see exactly what the facts were. on two consecutive mondays in april, i think, i did this and found a dozen or over, not even taking their dishes to their cells, so had nothing to eat; thirty-two each day, returned their basins, all, i think, with the bit of bread gone, a large number not having touched the wheat part, some having eaten a very little, and others more, but all returning more or less of that; then the dishes of the remaining prisoners would be empty. those were the only days i counted so carefully in the spring, but judged them to be fair samples for that time of the year. but the number was not small who did not pretend to take this meal while the cracked wheat appeared. then, as informed, they would pursue a similar course with certain other meals, for instance, when the fish was served. some would not take the soup meal. the sabbath morning repast of baked beans was ever spoken of as good, satisfactory both in quality and quantity. one man said his custom was to save some of the beans as a relish for his meals early in the week. the peas were complained of as bad. one overseer said to a prisoner, who was making his dinner of these, "i would as soon take so much shot into my stomach." the lack of vegetables was severely felt, especially that of onions, though i was informed they purchased a bushel, or so, in the winter, of very small onions, or scullions, as many call them. in the spring, i found a man in his cell sick, who said he was having symptoms of the scurvy, a difficulty he had in the army, that he was suffering much for the want of vegetables, and that he knew of others also suffering from these scurvy symptoms. the warden, of course, well knew of this dislike of the food, but the men must take what he allowed or go without. a man asserted, on leaving prison, that the warden said to him, "all i have against you is, that you would not take your rations better." he replied, "i purposed to obey the prison rules, but did not feel myself bound to eat what i could not relish." one who was sick in his cell with a dispeptic difficulty, said he could not take brown bread as it soured on his stomach, but could eat white bread, for which he had asked, but to no purpose. i mentioned the matter to the steward, asking if he could not have the white bread. he answered, "no. they indulged him in that under the former administration and he thinks he must continue to have it, but now every one is to fare alike, so he must take his chance with the rest." but the reader will ask, "did not this warden allow the men who chose, to take anything extra?" certainly. the former custom had been to place brown bread, cut in slices, near the rations, each man having the privilege of taking as many slices extra as he might choose. or, he would convey dishes with extra rations to certain cells afternoons if requested, or when the occupants were to work extra evenings. this warden allowed any, desiring, to take of the brown bread extra, but only one slice each. i would now, also, though very seldom, see dishes of cracked wheat setting on the beds as extra rations, or basins of hash-skins.--the reader understands that, in making hash, more or less will dry, or burn upon the sides of the kettle, leaving a thick skin when all the eatable part is removed.--this skin, scraped from the kettle, composed these hash-skins, perfectly dry as husks. this was to save everything and have nothing wasted.--the reader will understand again, that when distributing books to the cells, and looking after the books, i could not avoid seeing these things. with the failing flesh also went the strength to work. a man described the effect on himself, thus: "on first going into the shop after eating, i feel quite vigorous for my task, but soon a peculiar goneness comes on, and finally becomes so that what i do is through fairly driving my system." he had been very vigorous, able to go through almost anything, but what he had passed here proved sufficiently powerful to bring him down. an overseer told me, that the men in his division became so weak that it required great effort on his part to keep some of them at their task, they being hardly able to stand up by their machines. but his duty forced him to keep them there as long as they could do anything, though a part became unable to accomplish more than one quarter of their ordinary work. his heart would really ache for the fellows. it should be recollected that everything in the shop, but tending them, is done by machines, each operation having a machine for performing it, the business of the prisoners being to pass the articles to and from the respective workers. hence, the amount of work turned out did not, of course diminish in proportion with the failing strength of the workmen, as must have been the case in the old method of hand planing, sawing, &c. i subsequently learned that food would be carried into the shop for the suffering men, but i know not to what extent. at first mentioning, i thought that it could not have been done, and expressed the doubt, but my informer explained how, showing a perfectly feasible way. the effect of the new system was plainly visible, too, on the health of the men. this, of course, could not be avoided. a man, who was very healthy, and vigorous to work when it commenced, ran through the winter into early spring when he began signally to fail, said he could not eat the rations any longer, and went without food of any amount, still constantly performing his task, till his system entirely broke down, and he was taken to the hospital for a drugging course, the doctor remarking to me that he had "failed with no apparent cause." i think the want of food was sufficient cause. had he received proper care and suitable aliment, he would, doubtless, have been spared this sickness. i was informed that, when he was near death's door, he was pardoned, to die with his friends. another, who had fallen a victim to prison treatment and was in the last stages of consumption, said to me, "had they used me as well when i was in health and able to work as they now do, i should not have been here at this time." calling the next day, i learned that he had received pardon and been carried home, that he might die there. his stay, i learned, was very short. how many of these pardons were granted in view of death, i never knew. they were gratifying to friends most certainly, but would make the prison mortality appear smaller than it really was. for, surely, if a man sickened in prison and received pardon as above, his demise should of right be set down as among the prison deaths. a man came out in the spring, having been a prisoner one year; was well and robust when entering, but the ordeal of the winter brought on a rheumatic difficulty, so that towards its close he was really sick, and, as he remarked, solicited the warden for the privilege of laying off and doctoring a little, with the answer, "i know what the matter is with you, you wish to get rid of work; you can go to the shop;" and he was given no respite, nor was anything done for him while there. he went home so used up, that, as his father asserted, it did not seem that he could have lived at the prison but a few weeks longer. he revived, however, with home air and home treatment, worked considerably through the summer, but, as fall came on, had a return of the rheumatic trouble contracted in prison, with which he suffered many months, and died. a number of others, too, on their leaving, i found completely broken down, who were sent away to friends, or places of their usual abode, to be maintained by relatives or at public expense. a man, when leaving, said that he had there sometimes been forced to work, when so sick that five dollars a day would have been no temptation to him for thus laboring. one was reported to me as having been kept to his machine till fainting, and then carried to the hospital. one, with a consumptive difficulty, not able to work in the shop, was put in the cook-room to do what he could there, and kept at his task till, one sabbath eve, he was taken to the hospital where he died the next tuesday morning. but why pursue this dark recital? all such management, of course, made the prison sickness appear less in the physician's account than the reality. it seemed fortunate to the men that the term of sentence to many so expired as to leave them under this rule but a comparatively short time. in conversation with an overseer here, who had large experience, the idea was started as to how long time would be required for the system reigning at the prison this year to use up completely the number it commenced with, could all have been kept truly under its influence, with no respite or mitigation. his conclusion was some two years. nor could i think he was much out of the way, that is, take the case as it bore on a large share. the system left its legitimate effects on the minds of the inmates, aside from driving to insanity and idiocy, namely, irritability, angry feeling, or moroseness. under the former rule, the men, when leaving, would generally express much gratitude towards officers and friends for the interest taken in their welfare, apparently filled with a hope and inspiration here gained, prompting them to strive for their own best good, from which no little advantage, to them, might be hoped. but under this rule, how different! men fully admitting the justice of their sentence, and having come with the purpose of serving it out submissively, and with not a word of fault-finding, would go away complaining of the wrongs done them in the general prison fare, their hearts filled with bitter feelings, prompting them to execrate those from whom they had suffered these wrongs, and curse the state for putting such men in power over the prison. one who was so reduced that he found it a task to walk about, remarked, on leaving, "i have some accounts to settle with them over there" (meaning the warden and deputy), "and if i recover, i shall return to concord and settle with them. i will have my pay unless they are the strongest." some would leave with the feeling of _don't care_ as to what course they should take. what was said above as to losing flesh among the prisoners, should be taken with some exceptions. the cooks could manage to satisfy their demands of appetite. so also could those doing common chores. some were naturally very small eaters, and some would eat all furnished them, however prepared. the females had such food as went to the warden's table, and, so far as i learned, what they needed, and ever appeared in good heart, except when sick. a female prisoner, for some offence, was condemned to her cell for a week and to feed on the rations from the other part, which was held by her probably as a god-send rather than a punishment, for it gave the females the very opportunity desired for really seeing on what the men had to live. after this, when a woman left she was not slow in her declamations against the miserable fare of the men, and how they must of necessity suffer. . _comparative prison order for the two years._ some represent that the present warden found great abuses in the prison, all of which he has corrected. no doubt, this idea has quite extensively prevailed, and that interested parties have taken no little pains to extend the impression as widely as possible. let us, then, look to the point with care, and give full credit for whatever has been gained in that direction. the warden banished from the prison all bouquets and flowers, and talked of them in the most sneering manner, contending that the practice of presenting them to prisoners was the most outrageous wrong. he has put an end to all attendance, from the city, upon prison meetings of every class, except when he may give special invitation himself; has abolished all lecturing to the inmates by outsiders; and would have abolished the secular school, but for the persistent efforts of the chaplain; has ended the custom of having the female prisoners assemble with the males in the chapel sabbath mornings for worship, requiring all moral efforts made for them to be put forth in their work room. he has also ended all funeral observances at the prison, cut off all distribution of religious tracts to the prisoners, and all trinkets or trinket-making in the cells, and has forbidden the receiving of presents from friends, excepting tobacco, &c. if there were prison abuses in any or all of these, he has effectively corrected them, and should receive the full credit. then there were those two orders which he established in the shop, and he should be credited with whatever good they secured. the one was, that a man, meeting company in a door or pass-way, must turn and face the wall till they had passed, thus professedly not seeing them, though, before turning, he must have enjoyed the sight of all. the other rule was, that the men, when waiting for work, must stand at their machines, and by no means sit down. in respect to account-keeping, no comparison can be made, for, previous to the service of this warden, the arrangement had been entered into for him to have no concern with that, the financial matters being attended to by an agent. we come next to the behavior of the prisoners, the great point really to be looked at,--the one which outsiders, no doubt, always suppose to be meant, when reading or hearing about gains in prison order. in the chapel, with the most critical observation and careful weighing, i could not discover the slightest difference. the behavior was good, equally good at all times, in both years. so, also, in the hall, as far as my knowledge extended. as to the shop, i could not pretend to judge from personal observation, but an overseer, who served under both, gave me all needed information. he said, that he found it more difficult to keep order in his division the second year than during the first; that some were more excitable, revengeful, inclined to vent their spite on their machines, if nothing else; to throw those out of order and break things generally, costing him far greater effort to manage them. the uniform testimony of the men leaving prison has been in the same direction,--that they were more inclined to watch their overseers and take the advantage to commit little misdemeanors, as would naturally arise from this increased prompting to vent their ill-feelings. so far as i learned, more contraband information was smuggled in during the second than the first year; certainly i heard it often alluded to. they would hint at outside matters that i knew nothing of, and in a way that showed considerable knowledge of them. take an illustration: the day after pike's nomination as governor, a prisoner said, half inquiringly, "well, it seems that pike is nominated." i could not say "no," in truth, and, from my position, was not allowed to say, "yes." hence i answered, in a joking way, "how much you think you know about the outside world;" to which he replied, "i do know. i had a paper brought me that very afternoon, before it was dry, giving an account of the whole proceedings. he will be elected, too, and we shall have different fare at the prison."--what one knew would be communicated to others, so, of course, this fact was generally understood among the inmates. i have since learned, that, during the second year, a somewhat regular correspondence was carried on between the two wings, three couples, i think, thus making their arrangements for marriage, to be consummated shortly after their release. and the enjoyment to them was, that some of these letters were passed directly before the warden's face and eyes, without his notice. one letter from the south wing was miscarried, and fell into his hands, for which the sender was locked up and thus gained the knowledge, above referred to, of the men's rations. but, nothing daunted at the fate of this missive, she prepared another and sent it before her release, or very soon after, which passed in safety. besides this irregularity, parties in prison corresponded with those even out of the state, giving a pretty full account of the prison management, a friend of mine being shown quite a pile of these letters. hence, taking all things into account as to the deportment of the prisoners, we are forced to the conclusion that no improvement was secured the second year over the first, but rather a loss, that is, so far as i saw or heard. the warden, of course, did his best towards preventing all prison abuses, for he considers himself a very smart prison officer, so shrewd that no prisoner can get the advantage of him. but he sometimes found more than his match. some thought it not a very hard matter to "pull the wool over his eyes." the question has more than once been asked, "is it possible that he can be so befogged?" why not? he is an old man, between seventy and eighty, of great self-esteem, perhaps entering his dotage. if such a man be placed in so responsible a position, what may we expect? . _good traits in the warden for prison service._ he possessed two most excellent and important traits for a prison officer. he was usually at his post, would be but seldom away and then only for a short time, but once, i think, for a few days, during the year. he would also be almost constantly looking after things himself, not leaving matters altogether to subordinates. true, some would complain of finding him in unsuspected and rather out-of-the-way places, but it taught them ever to be on the alert, ready for inspection at all times. while, however, these traits, with a moderate share of judgment, would qualify one for running a steam engine, other and still higher and more important qualities are needed for managing a prison. . _chaplain's inability to prevent knowing more or less of the prisoner's troubles and the prison management._ if the chaplain is alive to the prisoners' moral needs, their sorrows of heart and intent on affording the requisite advice, in searching for knowledge how to direct his words, he will often, of necessity, learn more of things in general than he desires. the case of the young man spoken of in sec. , who had been in the solitary and gave this as an excuse for no lesson, is in point. he was making no complaint, but simply excusing himself. this plea, however, brought with it an idea that no little lack of prudence may have existed in a point of prison management, but of which i could not judge without knowing further circumstances. thus there are numerous incidental ways by which knowledge will come to mind unbidden. men, thinking themselves ill-treated, or who see others wronged, will speak of these things before he can stop them, and thus some knowledge of wrong, perhaps, is gained. for example: a man in his cell, no little excited, commenced: "how my blood boiled this afternoon at seeing them throw s., that sick man, on those timbers, and hurt him so." but just as soon as i saw his drift, i called out, "hold on. you know i must not hear about that." before i could stop him, however, enough was in the mind to raise the supposition that the feeble one was being abused, which idea subsequently received confirmation from the fact of his death. . _secular school success._ my course was to commence at no. and call at every cell in succession, where the inmate would engage in study, till arriving at no. , and then over again in regular order, being able, to "go the rounds," as we called it, about twice a week, each receiving my attention only so often. i had quite a variety of exercises. two commenced their alphabet, although some twenty-four years old. a number took reading in easy sentences, with spelling. some thirty took arithmetic in its various stages, a few, as in the year previous, taking it up in review a while before leaving. a number in this branch made good proficiency, considering their disadvantages. two took book-keeping, one doing but little, the other obtaining such a knowledge of the science as to prepare him to keep books passably well. but this was under difficulties. having no blanks for practice, i obtained for him three large slates, one for day book and so on. but soon i found him with blanks all ruled. true, they were made of brown wrapping paper, on which he would write with a pencil. asking no questions, i looked to his work as he pushed on with all energy and determination. no one could be more diligent. one, having been a machinist, expressed a desire, a while previous to his liberation, for an opportunity to practice somewhat on mechanical drawing. i obtained some patterns, carrying him one at a time. he would copy them with great exactness, and had been called on occasionally to draw working patterns for machinery in the shop. how lamentable that a man of his talents should go into service. one took latin, went through the grammar, and became able to read somewhat in the reader. he expressed a determination to obtain an education, when released, for which he was striving, when last heard from. one, a house painter by trade, took arithmetic, and english grammar. he was quick to learn, and a keen, smart fellow. he frequently expressed the wish that he could learn something of ornamental painting, and thus be able to work on signs and fancy carriages, when liberated. i, of course, could do nothing for him at that, directly. but it occurred to me that perhaps i could, in a measure, indirectly. i could perhaps start him somewhat in penciling, thus leading his mind to a practical knowledge of making the sketches and outlines of what he would wish to paint. this idea he grasped with avidity, commencing, in a drawing-book that i furnished him, on simple outlines, thence to shading, and finally to foliage, showing as good improvement as is usually found in our schools. and this exhibited the more talent in him from the fact that i could give only a few general hints at the work, from what i had gathered by hearing teachers when directing their pupils. hence, when coming to difficulties, he was left to work upon them as best he could, till conquered. having a work on perspective, from which i had gained a few ideas, i gave him some hints on that. but we had nothing to practice upon but the inside of the prison, the walls and windows. he labored somewhat on the idea of the vanishing point, and that of the diminution of the angle of vision as distance increases. thus, the reader will see, our school took a somewhat wide range. i would interest the mind, so far as could be, in what would profit, and thus beget a love for truth and turn the attention away from wrong. with the wholesome ideas gathered in these studies, i would also inculcate the moral, to elevate the thoughts and heart to the truly good. here, i constantly kept in view the idea of the best interest of the prisoner and the state. this labor was most fatiguing. standing there at the cell doors with no means of sitting, i would, at times, become so completely exhausted as to be obliged to retire to rest a while. then, taking the air from the cells would occasionally be most repulsive and injurious to health, the whole weakening to the system. i attempted to have a short school exercise with the females twice a week, but word soon came that they could not be spared for that, and the effort was abandoned. the pupils did as much, perhaps, as could rationally be expected, under the circumstances. could we have had the school in the chapel, greater results would have crowned our efforts, with much less labor. though i was wholly cut off at first from having an evening school in the chapel, near the latter part of january, the warden informed me that i might have one there on thursday evenings, if i would give up the prayer meeting, but not to begin till warmer weather. i could not harbor the idea, for a moment, of relinquishing the prayer meeting, and supposed i must wait for the proposed thursday evening effort till the warden moved. at length, i found that he was waiting for me, when it was too late to move in the matter at all. indeed, had we attempted the effort when first spoken of, it would probably have been more trouble than benefit. as to the penciling, nothing was said by any in disapprobation of it, yet, after that hearing, with the thought that possibly this might be one of the points of offense, i took from him all the materials except, perhaps, the slip on perspective, which he greatly regretted. . _sabbath school success._ the prison year commences the first of may. the former warden continued some ten weeks into the second year, during which time the sabbath school attendance remained as usual, averaging eighty-six. on the first sabbath of the new order nearly the same number were in attendance. but many had no teachers provided, and i could have nothing to do about arranging for the school's best interest.[ ] the following sabbath brought a great falling off, still greater the next, and so on. in a few weeks the warden peremptorily dismissed one of the teachers he had invited, telling him that if he would call at another time, he would give his reason. [footnote : in speaking of the sabbath school teachers employed, page , the author intended to say, such a number that each teacher could have a guard stand by him and see that nothing contraband passed.] at first, a prisoner would occasionally ask a question, as usual, and a little discussion spring up; but the warden at once crushed all this, requiring the teachers simply to put the questions as in the book and the pupil to give the answer and nothing more. the number continued to fall off until it went below thirty, giving me fears that none would attend, all my efforts for their continuance being of no avail. no excuse would usually be given. but one said, "i won't attend with such a warden," and i judged this the general reason. at length i found uneasiness pervading the teachers, one having determined to resign; but i entreated him to remain for the sake of the prisoners and the sabbath school, for, if he left, his class would follow, dropping the number to twenty or under, and all would be likely to take the same course. he did not feel satisfied with laboring under such circumstances, with a guard, may be a mere boy, at his side to watch him, and he, perhaps, turned off as unceremoniously as the other. he preferred going of his own accord. but my plea prevailed, and he remained. the average attendance after the advent of the new order was forty-eight; for the whole year, fifty-seven. . _religious success._ the contrast between the religious element of the present year and that of the past was painful. still, among those who at first gave up all hope of struggling against the tide, a few were induced to forsake that ground and struggle on; thus we hope something of the past was saved. in my discourses i felt impelled to dwell more largely on the moral code, to which the inmates gave respectful attention. the prayer meetings were well attended, though but few of the inmates would take any part. one of the sabbath school teachers was usually present, and labored with good effect. we took up more of the time in bible exposition, which would occasionally seem to awaken some interest. as to our true religious success this year, or the real good accomplished, none but that being who knows all things can decide. one thing is certain, much earnest, prayerful effort to that end was made, much hard labor performed. but it is difficult rowing against wind and tide. still, we probably shared in as large success as could reasonably be looked for under all the circumstances. . _lack of truthfulness at the prison._ we are often told that no confidence can be placed in the word of a prisoner. but in my experience under the new rule, i was taught the sad lesson that i could place no greater confidence in the assertions of some of the officers. a complaint of this character had repeatedly been made by released prisoners. still, it required personal experience to enable me to appreciate its full and lamentable force. hence, the shock i felt at the virtual request of the warden for me to join in the falsehood course, by telling the prisoners that henry stewart, when removed to the insane asylum, was taken out to be tried for attempts to murder his overseer.--then, again, there were the assertions i repeatedly heard the warden make to prison visitors, on passing through the cook-room. "we give the prisoners good food and enough of it. we purchase the best of articles the market affords, and have the food well prepared." he would repeat this in earnestness and apparent sincerity, as though he really believed it himself.--subsequently, a gentleman of the city, of undoubted veracity, being about to visit the parents of a prisoner, called and asked the warden how he was, with the answer, "he is all right; you may tell his folks that he is all right." in a few days after, it was found that, at the very time of this assertion, the man was so sick that the doctor had nearly given him over to die. then i would sometimes smile and sometimes feel sorrowful at his changeable appearance; perhaps if one of influence and authority came in, he would put on peculiar airs of suavity, and expatiate upon how things were and should be in prison, while one without that influence might enter and receive entirely different treatment. i here see how our rulers may have been led on at times, unaware of the true state of things in the institution. how easy to cover up! then in the female department, i called for a convict in order to arrange for her disposal on leaving prison, and was told, "the assistant is in the city with the key to their apartment, therefore you can not see the woman." but how was i surprised shortly to learn that, at the moment of this assertion, the assistant was in the kitchen at work, and known to be there by my informant. is it any wonder that such people disbelieve in prison reform? . _reported quarrel between the warden and chaplain._ the idea has been circulated, how extensively i know not, that the warden and chaplain had a quarrel between them at the prison. it seems to have pervaded some minds in the legislature at concord in ' , being used to the disadvantage of a bill before that body in regard to the prison, the fate of which perhaps was made to turn on that. no doubt a certain concord gentleman, who had an ax of his own to grind in connection, knows very well how this report was made so prevalent. whether he or another started it, i know not. but that idea had not the slightest foundation in truth. the circumstances of our official intercourse in all that passed, have been faithfully set forth in the preceding pages, and the reader can see for himself that there was no quarreling. when the warden told me to "bring the key back and not touch it any more," i did as required, without uttering a word. when i told him what i should do about fixing up the maine man before sending him away, his remark was in no fault-finding tone. when he pointed out my work at first, and in our connected colloquy, all our words were civil and courteous, no unpleasantness in tone; and when he informed me on the point of the man's glasses and the sick man's flannels, i gave him no unkind answer. and where was the quarreling? nowhere. it did not exist. he taught me my bounds after the manner he did, and i accepted them and conformed my moves thereto with not a lisp of fault-finding. he never spoke a word in disapprobation of what i was doing, but that all was agreeable to his mind. again, where was that place of quarreling? not in the prison between the warden and chaplain. whenever we met, it was on the most civil terms, we invariably passing the compliments of the day. true, we each had our notions on prison reform, he thinking that attempts in that direction are useless, that, when one has fallen into prison we can not reform him, that punishment is _the_ great mission of the prison, and thus on; i, supposing that reform is practicable, that we should faithfully use all available means for it, and make it the paramount object of imprisoning. on the question of prison order we were exactly alike in sentiment,--perfect order, strict discipline,--though, perhaps, varying as to the ultimate results, he securing that as a deterrent to crime; i, as an important and indispensable element in reform, leading the once erring to that state of mind in which he will hate wrong and love right. then, as we had not a word of debate over our differing ideas, so there was no clashing in carrying them out. the warden established his line of policy, as he had a legal right, then i surveyed the ground and decided to go on with my reform efforts, so far, with respect to time and place, as i could consistently with his arrangements, at all times looking to the best prison order, and at no time to interfere with any of his moves. this was our prison quarreling, and the whole of it; a very peaceful affair. how happy, if all quarrels were of this character! i felt assured that, though what i was endeavoring to promote in our prison was held by those at present in the ascendant as being an interloper in such an institution, and wholly out of place there, truth would at length prevail. prudent labors, persevering efforts, patient waiting and firm trust in the great leader, would now, as ever before, result in the triumph of the right. with such views i daily toiled in quietness, interfering with nobody around me. . _prison report for ' ._ i had looked for a pretty free use of whitewash in this, but it goes immeasurably beyond my anticipations. i really expected to find some regard for truthfulness in the statement of facts. but, in my astonishment at reading, i would inquire, "have i fallen into a general confusion of names? is black indeed white?" let us read, p. ,--"he [the warden] ... spends his whole time in and about the institution, not having been absent to the value of half a day since he entered upon his duties." thus we have it. sum up the time spent by the warden during the year in going to the p. o., or in calls out on business, or errands, or attending meeting on the sabbath, or journeying to new york even, and the whole does not amount to "the value of half a day." this prepares us for any statement we may find. if we admit that, we can anything. let us, then, look at the food question. on page . we have,--"the food furnished the prisoners has been selected with more than ordinary care and great pains have been taken in having it well cooked and served. we have a regular weight from which the rations are made, and any man, wishing for more than the regular allowance, is always furnished with an extra quantity." p. ,--"the warden is not only valuable as a disciplinarian but is economical in his management of the affairs of the prison, at the same time allowing to the prisoners liberal rations of food of the best quality, but none to waste." this can be admitted just as easily as the quotation preceding. how rejoiced the prisoners would have been to realize the truthfulness of this assertion one short week,--"selected with more than ordinary care!" "regular weight!" "liberal rations of food of the best quality!" that will do,--decaying fish, potatoes "not fit to put into the human stomach," and all. but when the report comes to the chaplain it uses a black wash with quite as unsparing a hand, thus, (p. ) "but the warden has not had that sympathy and assistance from the chaplain, which should be mutually rendered to each other by officers of the prison. the chaplain, for reasons best known to himself, has not acted in harmony with the warden in the discharge of his various duties, a matter very essential to the discipline of a prison. he has on the other hand, manifested peculiarities of his own which have been very detrimental to the discipline, and, we have reason to believe, have caused some uneasiness among the prisoners, which has made it more difficult for the warden, and, in some instances, causing punishment which would otherwise have been avoided." but let us read what the warden says (p. ),--"in conclusion, i desire to express my thanks to all the officers connected with the institution, for the prompt, cheerful and efficient manner in which they have discharged their several duties." the chaplain was one of those officers. what, then, shall we believe? who tells the truth? what has become of straightforward dealing? where is that trait once called honor among men? the reader, having fully informed himself of the real facts, will pronounce the above charge against the chaplain as unqualifiedly untrue from beginning to end. but one says, "that first assertion must be true. the warden could not have shared your sympathy in his acts." no, that first assertion is not true. it is equally false with all the rest, that is, in the sense of the writer, which evidently is that the chaplain did not sympathize with the warden in his desires for order, and labor with him to that end. order is the first thing to be sought in prison as everywhere else. it has my fullest sympathy and for the very purpose of helping towards it, under this warden, i voluntarily undertook what i did. "the warden has not had that assistance from the chaplain," &c. the reader has seen the chaplain putting in a pacific word here and there, doing all he could to interest the mind in its privations, helping men keep down their angry passions, robbing the solitary of its occupants, excusing, entreating, helping to order in every way possible, and is held up in that light. "not acted in harmony." not a discordant word or step is the truth. "manifested peculiarities of his own." peculiarities! what were they? honest devotion to duty and not an eye to personal popularity; most arduous toils engaged in for helping to the best interest of the prison; patient efforts for reforming and elevating the fallen. all i said or did there would come within some of these points. were those peculiarities? what then must be the character of the prison management? if the chaplain's moves were held as peculiarities it could have been only from contrasting the animus and acts of those who ruled with his. they would hold the prisoners as so many "dumb, driven cattle;" he, as human beings, with instincts of reason to be addressed and emotions of right to be stirred; they, in all cases, would move their brute fears, threaten, scold, drive; he, a part of the time at least, would appeal to the manhood sentiments, persuade, entreat, expostulate; they would regard them as morally hopeless, to be cruelly treated, and made money of; he, as those for whom hope lives, and on whom redeeming influences should be used, and efforts made for coining from them gold purer than earth affords. nor are these moves of the chaplain peculiarities in many other states, if in n. h. nor are they original with him. other minds had brought out such ideas and pushed them somewhat widely into public acceptance, and he was only attempting to introduce something of their benign influence here. "detrimental to discipline." what gross darkness! "made it more difficult for the warden." change "difficult" to "easy" and the truth would be told. "causing punishment." what an idea! the chaplain saw the changes attempted to be brought upon the prisoners, and thought he understood something of the effects which the move would produce on their minds and the results likely to follow. he knew that to some extent he had the confidence of the men, that they were looking to him as their friend, and as working for their best good; that, therefore, he could, by carefully using his influence in a quiet, unassuming way, help slide the matters round the very sharp corner which was being turned, and thus, on the one hand, make things more endurable to the inmates, and, on the other, easier for the rulers. with an eye single to this purpose he acted, and has the satisfaction of possessing pretty clear evidence that he prevented a measure of trouble in the prison, and thus rendered the warden some aid at least, and made his task somewhat easier. indeed, he did what he could in that direction, though with no blowing of trumpets. and, after doing all this, to be held up in this light by the agent is a pretty hard cut. now, one of two things is true in regard to all the quotations above made. the assertors either believed they were telling the truth or they did not. if the former be taken, if they really thought they could purchase the articles they did and from them make the best quality of food; if they really supposed the chaplain's moves were as deleterious as they represent, what does it show in regard to their judgment as fitting them for place and trust? or, if the other, what of their character as to truth and veracity? let them take which horn of the dilemma they may choose. one perhaps says, "the writers were so informed about the chaplain." could that be any extenuation of their wrong? if such insinuations had been made to them, why did they not first give some intimation of it to him, thus giving him the opportunity of showing their falsity? why did they not have the parties face to face, and thus learn the truth? but, instead of this, they published what they did, and that to the injury of an innocent man, so far as their influence could go. but what could have impelled the assertors to such a course? the author does not pretend to know, but it looks as though the object was in this way to push the chaplain to resign, and they thus be rid of those reform efforts. hence p. ,--"the prison is a penal institution, and is intended for punishment, not primarily as a reformative one, as some people think." here is, undoubtedly, the key to this raid on the chaplain. but what is its full import? these reformers fully believe that the sentence of the court must be strictly carried out, and that, too, as an element of reform. the above sentence must mean that the prisoner is put there to be punished as the state directs by its laws and courts, and, in addition, for the managers to "use him so that he will not wish to come back," or to punish him as they may choose. if the sentence means anything, it must mean that. this being the true way, let us have it so understood, and, next summer, let the legislature recognize the idea by a specific act, and then let the judge change his sentence accordingly, putting it, "your sentence is, that you be confined at hard labor in the state prison at concord for ---- years, and that you there be further punished at the discretion of the prison officers acting for the time being." let this be announced to all evildoers; and, further, let the warden, agent and all, give a true account of the severity of their several punishments, to be published yearly, that the prison may thus appear as deterring to crime as possible. away with this covering up and pretending to the best living and best usage generally, thus making the institution appear so attractive. a lady visited a friend there and returned, having been made, by the warden's palaver, perfectly reconciled to the friend's condition, remarking, "they are kept so well there, and used so kindly, that one can not feel bad at all about a friend in the prison, except from the fact that he can not have his liberty to go out as he chooses." i protest against such proceedings. but let the truth stand forth, just as it is, that the wicked may really know upon what they must depend. why not put out the sentiment squarely that reform moves have no place in the prison? let us be truthful in this, too. then dismiss the chaplain and save that expense to the state, for he can be of no use. it is made evident that the writers would banish from prison all reform moves from this assertion, p. ,--"we think, sometimes, the matter of reform or sympathy for the prisoners is carried so far, in attempting to reform, as to lead the prisoners to believe that they are injured persons instead of transgressors, which is, in our opinion, wrong, and has a bad tendency." is not the writer here a little muddled? or would he hold up these reformers as so absurd a set as to think of reforming men by making them believe they are good already and really sinned against? indeed, would not the labors of such men of straw be bad? true, the writer pretends to found his objections to the reform efforts on the fact that they are carried too far, not perhaps, feeling exactly ready, at this late day, to come out squarely against efforts to raise the fallen, and to induce the erring to become good citizens. no, but it is "carrying the matter too far." just as though we could go too far in efforts for saving the drowning man. away with such a sham! this indirect charge must have been aimed at the chaplain, for he was the only prison officer, that year, who could rightly be accused of such a crime as attempting reform moves. we are again told that mr. p. had brought the institution to where it was "with firmness, but with kindness and a christian spirit," which unfolds the writer's views of "kindness" and the "christian spirit." no doubt the prisoners were just wicked enough to say, "lord, deliver us from all such 'christian spirit.'" we are further assured, that mr. p. "has accomplished wonders in this direction, for, in our view, there is now no better disciplined prison in the n. e. states." that is a very comfortable feeling, very much more so than the emotions of some, who, going into others states, are made to blush at the taunts thrown out about our prison management, that "such things will do for you n. h. folks, for those so far on the background." but let us turn to the financial part of the report. long before the document made its appearance, it had been heralded far and wide in the papers that those now running the prison had made it produce a clear gain of over five thousand dollars in nine months. of course, making this announcement was for personal popularity. let us look at the figures after the report comes to hand. number of prisoners, males and females. profits reported for nine months and twenty days, $ . , including $ . paid on roofing shop. without deducting this item, we have $ . gain over the real running expenses, which, for a whole year, would amount to $ . . let us compare this with the gain of the massachusetts state prison for ' , that report being at hand. its number of inmates were . if our prisoners gained what they are represented, then , in that proportion, would gain $ , . , without considering the advantage in larger numbers. reckoning that in, it would raise this gain to some $ , , no doubt, the gain of massachusetts in proportion to ours. but what was her gain? it was $ , . , ours being, in proportion, more than three times as much as hers, we thus leaving her all out of sight. the writers say, p. , in regard to mr. p., "his management has been perfectly satisfactory to your committee. the results of his administration are the most conclusive proofs of its efficiency." do any wonder that the committee should be satisfied with such showing, if looking to nothing but to the dollars and cents? but does not the announcement itself show an aggravated wrong to the prisoners, or a false representation? it must be one or the other, if not both. there is no possible way to accomplish all this by honest shrewdness in financiering and rightful treatment to the convicts. all articles of food have their market value. if really suitable for use, the value is fixed for the time being, from which no material deduction can be had. things have their wholesale and retail prices. true, these vary more or less, from accidental causes, such as the abundance or scarcity of the article, the state of the money market, or the season of the year. buyers, by watching these accidental influences, may purchase more or less to their advantage. and one can look to these points, and profit from them, as well as another. prison providers, especially in large establishments, will purchase, of course, at wholesale, and those at charlestown enjoy quite as good advantages, to say the least, for sharing in these accidentals as those at concord; and they no doubt look out quite as shrewdly. if, however, one is willing to turn from articles fit for use, he can find those as cheap as he desires, going down from thirteen cents to three or one, if he likes. then this boast of great gains at our prison gives a suspicious look, to say the least. if we allow for all that cruel cutting off, previously depicted, and even more, that would not bring the accounts to what would appear probable. the agent, in purchasing legitimate articles, manifested no skill beyond others. he certainly ran behind on wood as as i happened to learn by experience. the man who furnished the prison with this, agreed to supply some for me, of the same quality and price, but failed to bring it at the time, which forced me to look elsewhere for what i needed and which i found, with no extra painstaking and at a bargain, reckoning price and quality, better by one dollar at least per cord. but if this withholding from the prisoners what they so greatly needed and what was their just due, will not bring the accounts within the region of probability, to what source shall we look for the discrepancy? let us examine the accounts carefully and see what we thus find. true, it is said, "figures won't lie," but men, when disposed, may so use them as to lead wide of the truth. in our examination we find the same dealing as before pointed out. important items of expense in running the institution are deliberately omitted in reckoning. thus, there is the warden's salary of $ , the chaplain's, $ , printing the report, $ , , appraisers', $ , amounting to $ , . subtracting this from the pretended gain, $ , - , , gives , . let us see what this would be with the charlestown number of men, $ , , , over two times the comparative gain at charlestown, a very large margin to be accounted for in our withholding. certainly we can not afford to boast very loudly over these figures, but should rather blush. the reader should bear in mind, that the prisoners are let at both places on contract, ours at ninety cents per day, and those in massachusetts for over one dollar, so that her prison managers enjoy an advantage over ours for rolling up gains. and when we talk of gaining more than twice as much as she, we have reason to fear that those hearing us will say, that too many of those dollars were ground out of the flesh, and blood, and sinews, and life even of the prisoners,--not a very welcome sentiment. . _efforts of the prison aid association for legislation in favor of the prison._ the governor, in his message of ' , proposed that the prison be put under the management of a board especially appointed to that purpose. but, instead of this, and in connection, making such other provisions for the institution as were really needed, the legislature simply passed the whole matter over into the hands of the governor and council, as this board, an improvement somewhat, no doubt, over the former system, but an arrangement, which, in the views of many of our best citizens, carries with it grave objections. the board, thus constituted, is a changeable body, the members never remaining in office more than two years, and sometimes but one. as a result, the prison must necessarily be managed largely by the inexperienced, for the men, generally, no doubt, come to the office without having given any special attention to the subject. this is much like setting a company of untaught landsmen to navigate a ship. again, the prison is liable to no little changeableness in its mode of being directed, a great detriment to its welfare, unless it be from bad to good. men will possess their varying notions, and some, though lacking a knowledge of the best prison interests, will persist in having their peculiar views put in practice, however conflicting and contradictory. it is also now liable to be left largely in the hands of the warden to be run as he wills, besides being exposed to the unfavorable effects of political party influence. finally, the institution can receive only its part of the largely divided attention of its managers, and thereby, at times, be liable to inconvenience. but the best interest of the prison evidently demands the control of men especially adapted to their task, men who shall form a body with all possible permanence, possess ripe experience, be free in their rule from partisan control, who shall make the institution their speciality, and manage after some fixed policy involving the most enlightened principles, principles of true reform. the association took up these matters, and for the purpose of obtaining legislation looking as undividedly in this direction as possible, appointed a committee, of which rev. mr. sanborn of concord served as chairman, who should, after due investigation and correspondence with other states, prepare the requisite bill for legislative consideration. after much labor, the following, as subsequently amended, was presented to the legislature at its session in ' . state of new hampshire. in the year of our lord one thousand eight hundred and seventy-one. an act in relation to the penal institutions. _be it enacted by the senate and house of representatives in general court convened:_ section . there shall be a board of directors of prisons to consist of five persons appointed by the governor, by and with the advice and consent of the senate, who shall hold office for five years, except that the five first appointed shall hold their office for , , , and years respectively, the commission of each designating his term of office. thereafter one director shall be appointed annually in the month of june, to hold his office five years. such board shall have charge and superintendence of the state prison, and shall have such power, and perform such duties in respect to county jails, the reform school and other penal and reformatory institutions within the state, as the legislature may by law impose upon it. the board may, from time to time, elect from its own members or otherwise, a secretary, who shall perform such duties as the board may prescribe, and shall receive such salary as the legislature may determine. the other members of the board shall receive no compensation, other than reasonable and other traveling expenses, while engaged in the performance of official duty. and the limit of such expenses shall be in amount ---- to each individual, which shall not be changed except at intervals of five years. section . such board shall have power, i. to appoint the warden, deputy warden, chaplain, physician and surgeon of the state prison, and shall have power to remove either of such officers, for cause only, after opportunity to be heard in his own defense upon written charges. all other officers and guards of the prison shall be appointed by the warden thereof, and shall be removable at his pleasure. ii. to define the powers, duties and compensation of such officers, except the compensation of the warden. iii. to establish by-laws for the government of the prison. iv. to provide for the purchase of all articles necessary for the use of the prison, or the health and comfort of the officers and prisoners. v. to provide for the sale of all articles manufactured in the prison or not needed for the use thereof. vi. to make contracts, if expedient, for the support and employment of the prisoners or any portion of them. vii. to make all necessary additions, alterations and repairs within the prison or its inclosure. viii. to provide such books and instruction as may be considered necessary for the convicts. ix. to draw its warrant through its secretary upon the state treasurer in favor of the warden for all appropriations made by the legislature for the state prison. section . such board shall visit the state prison at least once every month, and oftener, when thought necessary, for the purposes of ascertaining whether the laws, rules and regulations are faithfully observed. section . the governor may remove either of the directors of the prison for malfeasance or misfeasance in office, after having furnished him with a copy of the charges against him, and giving him an opportunity to be heard in his own defense. section . all acts and parts of acts, inconsistent with this act, are hereby repealed, and this act shall take effect from and after its passage. this bill was presented and went to the judiciary committee of the house, a body composed of two ex-judges and other gentlemen of influence, all of whom favored it, some saying to me, privately, that it was the very thing needed. the committee reported it unanimously. it passed the house with no opposition, and so also the senate, the final vote having been taken when some private interest in concord started up to defeat the measure and induced a member of the senate to move a reconsideration of that vote. his move prevailed, and the bill was referred back to the senate committee, before which this interest appeared in objection to the measure, while friends were present in its advocacy. the committee again reported unanimously in favor of the passage of the document, but on taking final action it was postponed to the next session of the legislature. here was the point where the story circulated of the warden and chaplain quarrel, that this bill was the embodiment of certain peculiar notions of the latter which he was pushing to the disadvantage of the former, muddling some of the senate, and thus leading them to think it not best to be "mixed up in the matter," and so to vote that the measure be put over. it is wonderful to think how slight an influence will sometimes thwart an important measure in passage at the legislature. a mere whisper of some whim, a little prejudice against another, perhaps may put it all aside. how little attention is given to merit! this is true even of hon. senators. to one of these i spoke about his vote within ten minutes after he had given it, and he replied,--"i don't know, i am sure, how i voted, for i did not care anything about it." the fact is, this bill did not originate with me. i had nothing to do with it, not being on the committee who framed it. but, as agent of the association, i spent more or less time at the state house, looking after the interest of the measure. the next session the bill came up in the senate again, and, through the same interest as before, probably, it was indefinitely postponed and another put on passage in its stead, which went to the house committee on prisons. but they did not think it worthy of being reported, and that died. a member of the committee remarked that it appeared to be a scheme started by one for the purpose of making a comfortable place for himself. and he, no doubt, had the right of it, for the prominent provision was that the board should consist of three, one of whom must be a resident of concord, and not be allowed over four hundred dollars. that would be a nice thing for the concord man. thus matters stand at present so far as legislation is concerned. if the reader will give attention to the bill above presented, he will see that it is very comprehensive, and might easily be carried out. it contemplates the needed permanence, each member being in long enough to obtain large experience in prison management, yet changing sufficiently often to avoid the ill effect of remaining in office too long. it further contemplates small expenses, as each member of the board is to charge nothing for his time. it has been suggested that the bill be further amended, by striking out the words "and other instruction," in article viii., and inserting the following section after sec. , thus, section : this board shall consider the reform of the prisoners the paramount object of the prison, and shall secure to them such secular, sabbath school, moral and religious instruction as, in their view, shall be most conducive to this end, but not therein to conflict with the labor interests of the institution. one objects to the above bill, that, as it proposes no compensation for the time spent by the members of the board, men of efficiency can not be found to act upon it. if the concern is to be run simply for money-making, that would be the fact; and of right should be. but, when we come to labors for raising these fallen ones from their crimes and degradation to uprightness and a higher life, in a word, to make true men and women of them as we ought, it is quite another thing. in that case we have men, good and true, men fully qualified for the task; men who, while carrying out the primary objects of the prison,--good order, good discipline and true reform every way,--would also present the best truthful show of legitimate gains in dollars and cents. certainly it is demeaning to our state to think otherwise. we have men among us, of noble minds and large hearts, who, by honest industry and true integrity of purpose, have raised themselves to that position in the public estimate where they deservedly share the fullest confidence of their fellows, for ability and fidelity to the highest and purest aims, and who feel that they owe it as a gratuity to society to lend a measure of their talents in managing her public interests. hence, no difficulty is found in obtaining men to act with the highest efficiency as trustees to our colleges and seminaries without compensation. so, too, enough can be found really fitted to run the prison as proposed. another objection to the bill has been, that it does not make it obligatory for one of the directors to reside in concord. as the object of the legislation is for the special advantage of the prison, rather than to make a place for a certain concord gentleman, it was not thought needful to insert such a limitation. then, again, railroad facilities are so great as to do away with the need of such an enactment. that whole matter can be safely left in the hands of the appointing power, who should look for the best men to the position. but the bill, with the connected ideas, is here placed before the reader, with the ardent hope that it will be thoroughly studied by him, improved where it can be, or a better one substituted, and thus the best system of prison management practicable be hit upon and made a law as soon as may be, thereby running the institution on principles commensurate with the prevailing intelligence of our people, the genius of our christian civilization, and in keeping with the times in which we live and what is being accomplished in other states. . _experience with the new government._ in june, ' , the democratic rule gained the ascendency at concord. when the new rulers became established in their places, and were able to give attention to prison matters, the governor sent for me to call at the council chamber, which i did. his desire, as well as that of his council, was to know really about the state of things at the prison. it seemed that statements had been made to them tending to show something of their true character. i gave some general intimations as i understood matters, but could not, from the circumstances, enter into particulars as on the preceding pages; and, indeed, had not then so learned some of the facts that i was at liberty to speak of them. they professed a determination to have the prisoners properly treated, with enough to eat and of good food, though the governor said he had not posted himself on prison matters at all, not thinking it worth while from the circumstances. it will be understood that he was elected, not by the popular vote, but by the legislature, and, previous to its assembling, he could put but little confidence in his election there. . _chaplain determines to have an investigation into the charges against him in the prison report, but relinquishes the idea._ on reading the prison report for that year, i felt not only shocked at the character of its general statements, so far as the warden and committees were concerned, but also determined on having an investigation into the charges against me. touching one's character in that way is no trifling matter, and i did not feel like sitting quietly down under representations so entirely false. had i been guilty, i would have borne the deserved rebuke without a murmuring word. some proposed that the new governor and council make a general investigation of the prison matters, and i put this in with the rest. but they were not inclined to that unless parties preferred charges, in which case they would hear and consider them. hence, i decided to call for a hearing on those allegations, and prepared the papers according to legal advice, but thought best, before sending them in, to consult certain influential friends in the place about attempting the move, and received a decided remonstrance against it; they arguing that the step would stir up strife, make divisions and party alienations; that, in the uncertainty of things, i had no assurance of obtaining satisfaction, and the like. supposing this to be given in sincerity, and that, perhaps, it might be for the best, i gave the matter up, and threw aside my papers. . _anniversary of p. a. association for ' and remarks on our jails._ this was held in the representatives' hall, at concord, the second tuesday evening of june. ex-gov. smyth, president in the chair. attendance not large. the agent gave a full report of the past year's doings, showing that good success had attended their efforts, and that the enterprise was taking hold of the public mind in a measure, though with some opposition. it had been a year of planning, commencing and going forward as a new struggle in the state; the object of the association being to aid those released from prison by furnishing them with good, immediate employment, under proper influences and with suitable surroundings, helping with money only as indispensable, and then not intrusting it to those aided to disburse. an important beginning had been made, much hard work performed, and a measure of good evidently accomplished, giving favorable indications for the future, with the needed energy and effort. only $ . of the $ appropriated by the state had been expended. in preparing this report, the agent had written to all the jails in the state, proposing over thirty questions for answers, in order to develop the state of crime and the penal working in our commonwealth. only a part responded, but enough to furnish us with important subjects for study and effort. the good of society, the welfare of the state, loudly call for our better minds, our more influential workers to give most earnest attention to these matters. we should here make a great effort for improvement; an effort entered into by ministers of religion and those of justice, legislators and all. woman, also, should come to the help. as now managed our jails are prolific schools of crime. the old, hardened offender and the young, in comparative innocence, are huddled together, the latter to be taught in deeds of wrong and adroit methods of performing them of which he had never dreamed before; instruction that, perhaps, fires his mind to enter these ways of sin as a business for life. does not this look to the need of a classification, in these institutions, that we now have not? in some cases the women's cells are in the same wards with the men's, and they can freely talk together, though locked in separately, and probably never allowed to associate further. but there is a living remembrance of wrong, daily seen in concord, which should cause us to blush, in the person of an unfortunate boy, who had his birth in jail, the mother having been in durance there one year previously as a candidate for state prison,--another sad lesson for comment and remedial labors. our jails are cultivators of indolence. men, women and children are locked in there with no useful employment,--except in that at manchester,--nothing to do but to impart and study lessons of crime; and some manage to remain there the most of the time, preferring this to honest labor. these all go to swell the burdens of the tax-payer. why not have some sort of industries connected with these places? set these fellows at work on something. keep them out of idleness, so far as can be. if the employment does not bring in largely of dollars and cents, it will, in what may be better. and are not some of our jails themselves nuisances, a disgrace to the state? we need, at least, two work-houses. they may not be of great expense at ornamenting, but appropriate, substantial, fitted every way to their use. then fill them with this vagabond population now floating back and forth between the establishments catering to vice and the jails. give them really corrective sentences. modify essentially this short-time-sentence system. if one's wrong habits are not corrected by one sentence, let the next be longer, or till thoroughly reformed, reform being the object aimed at. then should we take the keepers of these rum-shops, billiard-saloons, gambling-dens and houses of ill-fame, with those of their frequenters that need be, and put them here at work, too. this would be a wonderful purifier of society. give each a dose, say of six months, when, if that don't cure, repeat it till the work is accomplished in them also. then, here are numerous other connected questions for us to study, discuss and settle in regard to securing a general punitive system, a system in advance of what we now possess, more corrective of crime. and what shall be done for those children coming up in idleness, ignorance and vagrancy? . _fourth of july at the prison in ' ._ the observance this year was in exact contrast with that of last, the one bringing gratification and pleasure, the other, gloom and punishment. the workmen and other help desired prison work to cease that day, for their enjoyment, which was granted. but, instead of studying any means for giving a moment's pleasure to the inmates, they were locked in their cells for the day. but i spent the hours with them, going from cell to cell, and making efforts for removing the intolerable tedium, not unfrequently hearing the contrast between the last fourth and this, alluded to with deep sighs. it would have been great relief to them could they have continued their work in the shop for the day. hence, the remark of one and another, "how cruel to keep us shut up here!" "oh, how much more agreeable to be out at work!" "i would rather work four times as hard as usual than be confined here." thus, they expressed themselves. if punishment was the purpose, that was effectively obtained. . _chaplain's removal from office._ the custom had been for the chaplain to remain in office till resigning, or for an indefinite period. this seems to be needful, if he is the right man, for it takes time for him to become acquainted with the inmates and establish himself in their confidence. frequent changes in this office is bad policy. after serving in the place a while and finding so much interest connected with this department of labor, i decided to throw my whole energies into the work for a time and see what fruits could be gathered therefrom. i was also at no little labor and painstaking in a change of location, moving near the institution, to be in close proximity to my work. things progressed till, a few weeks after the march election of ' , a democratic neighbor remarked that, should his party come into power, i should have a competitor, the next summer, for my office. it was understood that the competing gentleman's plea was, that, more than twenty-five years previously, he had been appointed to the place and served nine years, but when the democratic party lost the power, he was set aside; yet he had been living all these eventful years true to those principles, and now on the party's return to power he should be restored also to his former place. it was understood, too, that he had received the promise of the position on this contingency. the new governor obtained his election, after which democratic friends of the city and elsewhere assured me that my place would not be disturbed, especially as i was doing so much for the prisoners; and one of their leading men undertook to attend to the matter when the governor and council should come to the prison questions, and present the general wish from all parties that i remain. i proceeded with my usual work for six weeks, when, just at night, one day, i received word that i had been dismissed. directly referring this to that gentleman, "why," said he, "that is a mistake. this very afternoon, not two hours ago, at the council chamber, they assured me they should not act on the prison offices till their next meeting some two weeks ahead." but notwithstanding his assurances, the step was taken just on the heel of their adjournment. on inquiring of a councilman, if, in this dismissal, they had been influenced in any measure by the aspersions in the report, he said they had not; that they did not doubt but that i had been faithful in my duty, assuring me that the reason was wholly political; to which i had no excuse to offer, as i had been guilty of voting the republican ticket; and if i must be dismissed on that ground, of course no more words were needed. but there did seem a lack of straightforwardness for them to move as they did in the matter without giving this gentleman the opportunity of presenting what he wished. the gentleman appointed was a good man, but feeble, and acknowledged to a friend that he could not do what had been done for the prisoners the previous year. but the idea seemed to prevail that he could do what was desired by the warden. hence, as is understood, the secular school is largely a thing of the past, and finally the sabbath school is given up. now, this is a very nice place for him in his advanced years, he being over seventy, where he has no care, and but little labor. but what of the effects upon the inmates thus left with so much idle time on their hands? anything but good. a young man, the previous year, was quiet and orderly, closely attentive to his studies, making good advancement; but, when left with all these unemployed moments, he turned his thoughts to planning an outbreak, was arrested in the execution, and for months condemned to the ball and chain. whereas, had his mind been kept employed as formerly, no doubt he would have continued quiet. does it pay thus to cut off educational and moral privileges and share such results? . _prison fare under the new government._ i did not serve under this government for a period sufficiently long to enable me to learn from personal observation very much as to what would be gained in the fare of the prisoners, but thought some steps were being taken in the right direction. the cracked wheat dinner was abolished for meat and potatoes. the evening after, i found the prisoners rejoicing over it. one exclaimed, "_didn't_ we have a good dinner, to-day? they have put away that wheat stuff, and now give us good meat and potatoes. oh, _isn't_ it good?" a woman, leaving prison, gave us an account of the warden's scolding, that councillor ---- "was about poking his nose into everything." this, if true, gave signs of a determination to know and remedy matters. but they had to work under difficult circumstances. they did not begin sufficiently near the bottom. as informed, they went quite thoroughly into fitting up the clothing and bedding,--a welcome move, for no set of fellows ever needed it more. the next winter, however, i said to a man who was leaving, "you fare better over there this year than last, do you not? you are kept warmer, are you not?" to which he answered, "i don't see much difference." certainly, i was looking for a different answer from this, and did not know what to make of it. . _the warden question._ it was supposed and reported that the warden would be removed; then we learned that the political muddle prevented, some contending for a straight, out-and-out democrat, others, for a labor reformer, the party with whom they had bargained and thus gained the power. then there was another element which seemed largely to prevail, and which some thought acted more powerfully than all others,--the fear as to how the prison accounts would stand at the end of the year. they had found out the condition of things in the prison, and learned something of how they had been run the previous year, and had every reason to suppose that they could not possibly make so large a show of gains as was then made. a highly important matter to them, for, should they run behind, their opponents would, of course, use it to their party disadvantage in future political campaigns. what could they do in the matter? of course, the most feasible way was to keep the same warden, with the hope, by his manipulating, of a less falling off; or the fact of their having made no change here, would blunt the force of the falling-short argument materially. hence, party interests would prompt them, on the one hand, to remove the chaplain for a partisan; and on the other to retain the warden for his aid to them politically. thus, it seemed that party considerations ruled the whole matter, and that the rulers, instead of rising to the true dignity of their position, and inquiring about the real interests of the prison, the best man for the place, bowed obsequiously to the shrine of party. true, late in the fall, or in early winter, they moved in the matter by appointing a gentleman of concord to the wardenship, but under such circumstances, that he could not, for a moment, think of accepting, though doubtless he would have improved matters had he done so. . _experience at the prison subsequent to dismissal._ this experience was limited, but sufficient to open another dark chapter in the history of poor human nature. i still acted as agent to the association. in august, a man was to leave, concerning whom they started the story that an indictment was made against him, ready for his arrest on leaving prison; but they promised that if he would leave within a half hour after his dismissal, he could go safely. i had a place for him near a friend with whom relatives had deposited money on his account, but whose locality i supposed he did not know. very early, on the morning of his release, i, by a message, solicited the warden to forward him to me, so that i could send him on the five o'clock train. but seeing nothing of him, i at length went to the prison office and asked the warden if he would please let the man out, as i could send him by the next train. he answered, "he has gone, sir; went this morning at five, for new york." i now turned to the deputy as usual previously, and asked, "will you please furnish me with a list of those going out this month?" he answered, "no, sir;" when the warden said, "you have had enough to do with the prisoners, already. you are not to have any more concern with them." i answered, "very well," and, turning to go out, remarked to a man about to leave, for whom i had a place in readiness, "come to me as you leave here, and i will give you directions as to where to go." the deputy followed me, indulging in a tirade of most abusive language. as he finished the words, "you had better not be over here making a fool of yourself, but keep away lest you get kicked out," i had arrived at the top of the stairs, where i stopped, supposing he proposed to kick me down, remarking, in a subdued tone of voice, nothing frightened or excited, "here i am. if you wish to kick me down stairs, you can. i came in civilly on business, supposing, as a citizen, i had a right to that." the deputy ejaculated, "a d----d poor citizen," the warden also having followed, and joining freely in the vituperation. seeing no active signs of putting the threat in practice, i started on and came safely away, but was subsequently informed by one then standing at the foot of the stairs, that he kicked towards me, when i had taken a few steps. but he did not hit or injure the object of his rage. in this experience i was more fortunate than a guard, who, as he asserts, when leaving service there, was followed to the front door and kicked down the steps by the warden, upon the ground, the foot hitting his back and causing such lameness that he had not then, after four months, recovered. he was purposing to prosecute the warden for damages. thus, while they have smiles and words of suavity for some, they can deal freely in such abuse to those who doubt their highest perfection. now, if they would treat me and others thus, what would they do to the prisoners? one will say, "they were irritated towards you, for you had told the governor and council about the prison management." that was no doubt the fact. and they will become irritated with the prisoners also, who are helplessly in their power, where they can treat them as they please. as to the two prisoners, whether the one pretended that he would go to n. y., and took passage accordingly, or was forced to that, i never knew. but he would have taken passage to any place the warden proposed, in order to escape from his hands, as, through his influence, he doubtless feared the arrest. for the ticket, the warden expended the man's five dollars allowed by the state, and advanced him five more, probably supposing that it would be paid him by the association. the man, as i learn, rode until he felt safe from being seized, when he left the cars, traveling on foot for lack of means to go by public conveyance, and, at length, arrived at this friend's, in as bad a plight, probably, as any before spoken of. he said he had been sick, confined to his cell for weeks, was neglected, and sometimes was not furnished with water to wash for days together. the warden, himself, accompanied the second man to a place in the city, and put him to work as he had previously arranged. soon hearing of his locality, i called, found his new pants with a bad rent, after only part of a day's wear, and furnished him with suitable clothing, pointing out the place also of my arrangement to which he could go, or remain where he was. another leaving prison, and calling on me, remarked, "i asked the warden where you lived, to which he answered, "i don't know;" an additional specimen of the truthfulness there. but one queries, "why was the warden determined that you should not see the men coming out?" he could have had but one reason, the fear that they would tell me the stories of their sufferings. the one ticketed for n. y., i learn, gives some spicy accounts. . _prison report for ' ._ this claims a better financial show than that of the previous year. thus says the warden, p. , "i am permitted to record another year of financial success." then the committee, p. , "the financial affairs are in a highly prosperous condition. you will find, by looking at the treasurer's report, that there has been a net gain, to the state, of $ , , , after paying all outstanding bills, which is a greater gain than the previous year, considering the less number of convicts and the larger outlay for clothing, &c. when we consider the large appropriations that have been required from year to year to run the prison, it must be encouraging to the tax-payers of the state to know that the prison has added the two past years, $ , to the revenue of the state, with no outstanding bills, and no complicated matters to embarrass the institution." this, surely, is a glowing picture; one so greatly enjoyed by its authors, that it would seem almost too bad to spoil it by letting in a gleam from the light of truth. we see from the report that our present managers here follow closely in the footsteps of their immediate predecessors as to their statement of financial facts, though intent on outdoing them in appearances at least. like them, they reckon only a part of the expense in running the prison, leaving out the warden's salary, and other large items, and thus pretending the gains to be what they are not. they could equally as well have omitted the sums paid the physician, deputy, guards and overseers, thereby making the figures indicate a gain of over twenty thousand for the two years, instead of over ten thousand. the principle of statement would have been the same and equally truthful. it certainly appears as though they were straining every nerve to secure the greatest personal and party popularity on the dollar and cent question. nor would we, by any means, censure them for that, provided they proceed with a due regard to truthfulness, the rights of the prisoner and the best interest of the state. but the people can justly require them to give these a proper place in their plannings and efforts. the pecuniary question is of high import and not to be lost sight of for a moment, but should not be allowed to swallow up every other interest with a miser's greed and with even a measure of disregard for what is really true. in estimating the entire amount of expense to the community, this year, in running the prison, of right we should reckon a somewhat large item not above alluded to, the sum expended in caring for those made invalids the past year by the prison management, and thus sent out to the public charge. of these there are probably six at least,--those two sent to the insane asylum, and four others. thus, deducting all the real expenditures, but a small list of gains are left. to be able the better to judge comparatively and see the drift of things in our prison management, let us select the more important items from the reports of the years ' , ' and ' , forming them into a table, taking the average number of the prisoners for each year, obtained by adding the numbers at its beginning and end, and dividing by two. under the food and clothing items, let us insert what they pay in massachusetts state prison per day for food, and per year for clothing, to a prisoner or per capita: . . . average number, - - - expense for overseers and guards, $ , $ , $ , " physician, " provisions, , , , " " per capita, " " per day, per capita, - - " " per day in mass. prison, - - " fuel and lights, , " clothing, , , , " " per capita, " " in mass. prison, " library, " ordinary repairs, , , , earnings of convicts, , , , " " per capita, this table tells its own story and is in perfect unison with all that has been uttered on former pages. the guards and overseers, the same in number, and with no additional labors, receive increased pay from year to year. nor has there been any going up in the scale of wages outside to cause a demand for this. nor were they more experienced and intelligent, thereby claiming higher compensation. many were mere boys, some not overstocked with intelligence. they had one boy of seventeen for overseer in the shop. the physician's pay has also received a yearly rise in the scale, though with a large diminishing in numbers of prisoners and, as the report says, a remarkably healthy state among them. how can we reconcile this? true, the first year he attended only when called, and subsequently every morning. but why the difference between the second and third years with the fewer men and alleged healthy state? this is what needs explaining. but we find the food expense going the other way,-- , - and - per day to a man. what a cutting off! will it go on thus till the story of hierocles about the man's horse shall be verified in our prison? so, also, of the lighting and fuel with no change of space to be warmed,--$ , , $ and $ . no wonder there was such suffering from cold that second winter, before pointed out. then what of the third? no change in the prices of the market can account for this variance. it must have been sheer withholding the necessaries of life. we see that the charlestown food allowance per day, for those years respectively, was,-- , - and - , increasing a trifle. nor does any great extravagance appear in that first year with us, nineteen cents, one cent lower than authors say should be, though one higher than massachusetts. the allowance to the library is also suggestive,--$ , $ and . true, during the first year the library was repaired, enlarged and newly catalogued, but the second year the appropriation was about what is annually demanded for keeping the books properly replenished and in suitable order. it is as small a sum as should be thought of. that cypher, therefore, for the third year, shows an unwarrantable neglect. these figures are especially suggestive, too, on the educational and moral points, perhaps a good index of them. and what a show! down, down! what a picture for new hampshire! grant that the chaplain preaches to the men sabbath mornings, meets them in the prayer-meetings, &c., to what does it amount in the midst of such surroundings? true, it gratifies them to assemble, hear the human voice, and sing. that is about all the good that can be looked for under the circumstances. the labor figures, too, are expressive,--$ , $ and $ , what each earned per year; poorer fare and more work. we admit that this rise may, in part, be credited to the fact that, from the former warden's suggestion, our rulers had arranged for the doctor to visit the prison daily and examine the cases desiring excuse from work, by real or pretended sickness, with the anticipation of saving more or less labor, which that warden supposed he had lost from being left himself to do this excusing, and without medical advice, which measure commenced when the new warden came in. but, besides this, enough remains unaccounted for in that way, no doubt, to render it highly probable that too many of those complaining of having been driven to work when sick, had just cause for such complaints. those figures on repairs are important,--$ , , $ , and $ , . that first year made the last of those spent in that general fitting up, enlarging and repairing as preparatory to running the institution at more income, less expense, and, consequently, larger gains than ever before, thus laying the foundation for its present prosperity. those sums for the second and third years would have been mere trifles but for keeping the shop appliances in repair, and that of the first very much less. now that the contractor keeps these appliances in order himself, this repair bill for a long while to come should be very small. hence, when we hear the laudations of the present apparent financial prosperity of the prison over that of a few years ago, we are not to infer that those former rulers were any the less shrewd, far-seeing, or energetic in financial matters than those of later date, but that the latter are only reaping from what the former sowed. the table shows us how the increased gains are secured; mostly by withholding the necessaries of life from the men, and yet driving them to more work. but we turn from examining this table more directly again to the prison report of ' . it says,--"as complaint has been made that the prisoners were not properly fed and clothed, or that the food was deficient in quantity and quality, we say to you that we think no prisoners in this country are so well fed and clothed as the convicts of the new hampshire state prison." what shall we think concerning the judgment of those writers? it seems that they have become conversant with the prison fare in all the states of our country, and, after careful examination, have deliberately formed the opinion that the fare in the n. h. state prison, at ten and one-half cents per day, is really better than that elsewhere at eighteen cents. then again, ibid: "no article of food has been furnished by us that was not good, sweet and wholesome; and as good in quality as will average upon the tables of the tax-payers of the state. the remarkably healthy look of the convicts is plain proof that they are well cared for, have a plenty to eat, and that which is good." it seems that the authors of this part of the report have not only traveled far and wide over our country and surveyed each prison, but have also called on every tax-payer of our state, scrutinized their tables carefully, and found that their average living costs not over ten and one-half cents per day to each individual. when found they time for all this? or are we to understand that they are purposely using the whitewash their predecessors left? the chaplain is again, in this report, brought forward thus, pp. and ,--"at the commencement of our labors as prison committee there was a want of harmony between the former chaplain and the officers of the prison, which seemed to us against the interests of the prison, and ought, in some way, to be removed. we could see no way to obviate this difficulty other than the removal of the warden or the chaplain. after due consideration, with the best information we could get, we thought best to recommend the removal of the chaplain and the appointment of mr. smith to that office. by this change harmony was at once restored. mr. smith has rendered faithful and effective labor, to the entire satisfaction of the committee and officers of the prison. mr. smith's prison experience, together with the deep interest he has for the welfare of the prisoners, seems to indicate him to be the right man in the right place." "rather hard on the former chaplain," said one of our editors. but what shall we believe? one of the subscribers to this article told him that he was removed on purely political grounds, as previously narrated. then there was that corroborative assertion by the democratic neighbor that mr. smith had received the conditional promise. now this declaration is published to the world. where is the truth? were they unwilling to put it out squarely that they had made a political foot-ball of the prison? or would they rather sacrifice the character and reputation of an innocent man, who had labored as best he could for the good of the institution? they pretend to have acted in view of a difficulty between the chaplain and warden, and "with the best information we could get, we thought best to recommend the removal of the chaplain." where did they obtain that information? there was, of course, but one source, and, from a year's experience, the writer understands something of its character, that it would not be impossible for men regarding themselves rather shrewd to leave, wholly misconceiving the real truth. but what shall we say of this course of condemning a man unheard, and on ex parte assertions? is that the part of honorable dealing? but the whole subject is left with the reader to pass judgment upon in view of the facts already set before him. . _international penitentiary congress, london, july - , ._ this resulted from the move already spoken of at the gathering in ohio in ' . dr. wines, there selected to the important work of bringing about the proposed assemblage, received due governmental qualifications by a commission from our president according to a special act of congress, the secretary of state also opening the way by communicating with the various governments represented at washington, respecting the great subject. on this mission, the dr. visited europe in ' , received a cordial welcome from the various governments, and found them generally in readiness to enter heartily into the move. after due consultation, london was settled upon as the place of meeting, a committee, to provide for which and facilitate its general objects, was chosen in london with the right hon. sir walter crafton as chairman and edwin pears, barrister at law, secretary. this committee is represented as composed of all political parties, with lord carnarvon really at the head, similar committees being formed in most of the other countries moving in the enterprise. to prepare work for the congress and secure its objects, a circular was addressed to the various states containing thirty prominent questions on imprisoning and its connected points, for answer. on assembling, this body found itself composed of delegates duly commissioned from twenty-two different governments, russia and turkey included, all the states of europe represented but portugal, delegates present from india, victoria and other british colonies, south america, and eighteen of our united states, then representatives from various penitentiaries, benevolent societies for giving aid to released prisoners, magistracies, &c., &c., in number, a gathering the like of which, in some respects, had never been held. here were judges, professors of criminal law, prison managers, philanthropists, and various gentlemen skilled in the working of criminal jurisprudence. here the commissioned dignitaries from kings and emperors found themselves met with delegates from voluntary associations and democratic institutions. how could they, in justice to their dignity, submit to this? but the matter was amicably adjusted, and all came upon a democratic level and acted in the greatest harmony,--an important gain to manhood. the meeting was held at a hall of the middle temple; at the opening, earl carnarvon presiding and making the inaugural address, giving welcome to the foreign delegates and making numerous important suggestions. at the next session dr. wines presided, and gave an address full of information as to the purpose of calling this congress and the objects to be gained,--a universal harmony in prison managing, which managing should have certain broad principles underlying, permeating and vivifying it. at a soiree given by the english committee to foreign visitors, the prince of wales and suit attended, thus showing the sanction of the english government to the congress. this sanction was also expressed by the attendance at one session of the home secretary of state, right hon. austin h. bruce, giving an official welcome to the gathering, and expressing a hope of being materially profited by the deliberations. the meeting, on the whole, was an important affair, of high interest from beginning to end. its transactions are published in a volume of pages, to be had of rev. dr. wines, new york. then one of the commissioners from new hampshire, mr. allen folger, wrote out a synopsis of the doings, which has been published in a pamphlet of pages, by the authority of our state, for distribution, showing the interest our governor and council take in these matters. the questions before spoken of were taken up by each country and elaborate answers given, papers were read upon them and thorough discussion had. the order was not to take any votes but to bring in facts of the various prison workings, to interchange views, criticise and thus sift out the best, in which, evidently, great enlightening of mind was obtained, and a great advancement made in the right direction. on page of transactions we have the following reform sentiments: "man, in the state of penal servitude, is no longer a thing, but a moral being, whose liberty human justice has not the right to confiscate absolutely and irrevocably, but only within the limits required by the protection and security of social order. the logical sequence of this view is, that it is the duty of society to reform the criminal during his temporary privation of liberty, since, in this way only can the peril of his relapse be successfully combatted, and the public safety effectually maintained. the reformation of imprisoned criminals is not, therefore, in our day, a work of philanthropy, but an obligation of the state." in one or two prisons they have been so successful in reform efforts, that, having taken some of the very worst criminals, they have led them to such order and good behavior, as to be able to dispense with locks and bars, rendering the prison more like a great family, kindness being the great controlling element. in the abridged report of the proceedings of the international congress, under the head of "cumulative imprisonment," we learn that the following question was submitted, and several important suggestions followed its presentation. question: ought prisoners on reconviction to be subjected to more severe disciplinary treatment than on the first sentence? it was opened by m. peterson, of bavaria, who maintained that cases required treatment according to the degree of demerit shown on the prisoner's trial, and therefore, that instead of laying down one principle, the right course was to leave the judges to decide what should be done in each case. m. ploos van amstel, of holland, and m. stevens, of belgium, advocated a merciful treatment as likely to have more effect than severity. mr. aspinall, of liverpool, read resolutions which the liverpool magistrates had passed, to the effect that it was desirable that cumulative principles should be applied to the punishment of all crimes and offences, and that the magistrates should be empowered to transfer well conducting and deserving prisoners to homes for the remainder of their sentences. voluminous statistics showed that there were numerous reconvictions up to seventy times, and that the conclusions arrived at, by the magistrates, was that it would be better for the prisoners and better for society if the cumulative principles were carried out. dr. guillaume, of switzerland, mentioned his experiences in some of the cantons of his country, which had led him to the conviction that it was better to give the reconvicted such sentences as would enable the prisoner to learn a trade, by which he could earn his living in the labor market without being obliged to fall back upon the lines of crime, than to give short and severe punishments, which, by including a lessened diet, sent the criminal back into the world, not only unimproved in morals, but deteriorated physically. it would seem, according to his views, that the design of imprisoning is, to bring back to society those once injurious, but who are now changed to good citizens. mrs. julia ward howe, of massachusetts, advocated the merciful and kindly treatment as being the way to make a permanent impression upon the criminal classes. m. robin, of france, stated that his experience led him to set his face against all pains and penalties in prison, as against christian principles, and advocated the teaching of trades. all in all, strict adherence to christian principles should be at the bottom of the treatment of criminals. count de foresta, of italy, held that the question was rather one of law than prison discipline. he urged that there was a line of prison discipline beyond which it was impossible to go without turning the discipline into cruelty. another question touching "prison labor," was brought forward and considered, as follows: question: "should prison labor be merely penal, or should it be industrial?" it was opened by the reading of a long and interesting paper by mr. frederick hill, brother of the late celebrated recorder of birmingham. the substance of the paper was that labor, to be made useful and productive, follows natural laws, which are the same in prison as out of prison; that it is an advantage to the prisoner to fit him for usefulness and to make more easy his reform; that it will help pay the cost of his conviction and imprisonment; that upon release, he will be better armed against relapse into crime, as well as much better prepared to obtain an honest living than those whose labor has been merely penal; that the pains and privations necessarily attendant on the process of moral reformation are so great as to make it unnecessary, for the maintenance of the principle of deterrence, to superadd artificial pains and penalties. colonel colville, governor of colbath fields prison, one of the largest london prisons, spoke very strongly against the tread-mill system of punishment which is in nearly all the prisons of england, and almost unanimously condemned by the prison officials. the general opinion of the congress was in conformity to views expressed by the speakers mentioned. under the question touching the moral value of visitation of the prisons by women, we find the following sensible views expressed: "while the character of the visiting women depends upon chance, they are as likely to be indiscreet, and to interfere unwisely as otherwise. if they were selected as men are, or ought to be, for their fitness, their work would be done with good judgment and discretion. then, again, criminal men separated from their families and from all gentle influences, need the ministry of good women for their reformation. the motherly influence of pure, gentle women will sometimes control and subdue the violent, when even blows would fail to do so." the whole force of the international congress went in favor of the idea of _reforming_ the prisoners. for this the body advocated stimulating the prisoners' self-interest, thus: "in this way, the prisoner's destiny during his incarceration should be placed, measurably, in his own hands; he must be put into circumstances where he will be able, through his own exertions, to continually better his condition. a regular self-interest must be brought into play. in the prison, as in free society, there must be the stimulus of some personal advantage accruing from the prisoner's efforts. giving prisoners an interest in their industry and good conduct tends to give them beneficial thoughts and habits, and what no severity of punishment will enforce a moderate personal interest will readily obtain." they also advocated using the moral force: "in criminal treatment, moral forces should be relied on with as little admixture of physical force as may be; organized persuasion to the utmost extent possible should be made to take the place of coercive restraint, the object being to make upright and industrious _freemen_, rather than orderly and obedient _prisoners_. brute force may make good prisoners, moral training alone will make good citizens. to the latter of those ends the living soul must be won; to the former, only the inert and obedient body. to compass the reformation of criminals, the military type in prison management must be abandoned, and a discipline by moral forces substituted in its place. the objects of military discipline and prison discipline, being directly opposed to each other, can not be pursued by the same road. the one is meant to train men to act together, the other to prepare them to act separately. the one relies upon force, which never yet created virtue; the other on motives, which are the sole agency for attaining moral ends. the special object of the one is to suppress individual character and reduce all to component parts of a compact machine; that of the other is to develop and strengthen individual character, and, by instilling right principles, to encourage and enable it to act on these independently." they tell us again "that the self-respect of the prisoner should be cultivated to the utmost and every effort be made to give back to him his manhood." "there is no greater mistake in the whole compass of penal discipline, than its studied imposition of degradation as a part of punishment. such imposition destroys every better impulse and aspiration. it crushes the weak, irritates the strong and indisposes all to submission and reform. it is trampling, where it ought to raise, and is therefore as unchristian in principle as it is unwise in policy." farther, "the system of prison discipline must gain the will of the convict. he is to be amended, but this is impossible with his mind in a state of hostility. no system can hope to succeed which does not secure this harmony of wills, so that the prisoner shall choose for himself what his officer chooses for him. but to this end the officer must really choose the good of the prisoner, and the prisoner must remain in his choice long enough for virtue to become a habit. this consent of will is an essential condition of reformation, for a bad man can never be made good against his will. nowhere can reformation become the rule instead of the exception, where this choice of the same things by prison keepers and prison inmates has not been attained." they assert, too, that the officers should possess a hearty desire and intention to accomplish the object of reform in the prison. regarding these officers they also say thus: "in order to the reformation of imprisoned criminals, there must also be in the minds of prison officers a serious conviction that they are capable of being reformed, since no man can heartily pursue an object at war with his inward beliefs; no man can earnestly strive to accomplish what in his heart he despairs of accomplishing. doubt is the prelude of failure; confidence a guaranty of success. nothing so weakens moral forces as unbelief; nothing imparts to them such vigor as faith. 'be it unto thee according to thy faith,' is the statement of a fundamental principle of success in all human enterprises, especially when our work lies within the realm of mind and morals." finally, they assure us that "work, education and religion (including in this latter moral instruction) are the three great forces to be employed in the reformation of criminals." conclusion. the two systems of prison management, previously alluded to, are now before the reader so far as these pages have elucidated, the _reformatory_ on the one hand, and the _punitive and money-making_ on the other. and which do you prefer? will your choice be for the honest effort to raise up the fallen, to do our duty to the erring, to throw what influences can be about these disturbers of society to lead them to become upright citizens? or, will it fall upon the crushing, cruel, vindictive course, the process of making them more debased, sordid, revengeful? do you prefer manhood-producing with its benign effects, or money-making attended with the blighting of the higher aspirations of the soul? this subject has been taken up in the narrative form, that the writer could the more easily, by incidents, and in the briefest way, bring out the peculiarities of the two systems in their workings and the animus impelling them. he has brought forward nothing in the line of facts and incidents except what had come under his own observation, or been so reported to him that he had no doubt of its truthfulness. many of the incidents in part ii. he would gladly have passed in silence, regretting exceedingly the necessity of bringing them out. but a solemn sense of duty seemed to impel him to this task. he has delayed any move hoping the turn of events would excuse him from penning these truths for the public eye. but his conscience and his god will condemn him, if longer delayed. he has brought forward names with no unkind feeling, or purpose to expose or wound, but to show the way things have moved. no matter what course others may have taken towards him, he has endeavored studiously to follow the exhortation he has so often given to the prisoners in yielding all that into the hands of god, for his disposal. this matter is now before the people. will you not study the questions carefully and act? will not ministers of religion and of law, merchants and artisans, all those in the various industries of life, men and women come to the help? true, the latter, however pure and exalted, is now forbidden entrance to the chapel in labors of love for the fallen men. hence, that somewhat recent shock to the community in the stern refusal of elizabeth comstock's request for permission to address the inmates on their moral and religious interests. how long shall such things be in our prison? how long shall the light of science, of morality and of pure religion be virtually shut out from that abode? how long shall we work so as to make bad men worse, hard hearts harder, the depraved more iniquitous, the pestiferous more destructive to the safety and quietness of society? till the people shall stir effectively, make their voice heard and their power felt. why not change our system of imprisoning and put it fully on that of reform? why not adopt the course of dismissing prisoners only on condition of good evidence of reform and on further condition of being returned in case of relapse into crime? why not arrange for those who will not reform, as some will not, to serve in prison for life, thus freeing society of their depradations? then why not use them humanely while keeping their time occupied in useful employment, still permitting each to enjoy the means of mental, moral and religious culture. many, thus situated would, no doubt, live really good, pious lives, who, from their moral weakness, could not resist the temptations to crime which are met on every hand without. to such, the prison should act as a kind, beneficent guardian. transcriber's note: the following typographical errors which were present in the original edition have been corrected. in the table of contents, "b. and e's request" was changed to "b. and e.'s request". in part i, chapter , a missing quotation mark was added after "managing penal institutions". in part ii, chapter , a missing quotation mark was added after "correction of prison abuses". in part ii, chapter , "laborers in she school" was changed to "laborers in the school". in part ii, chapter , "a line of sustantial agreement" was changed to "a line of substantial agreement". in part ii, chapter , "on said of the cracked wheat" was changed to "one said of the cracked wheat". in the original text, two chapters were numbered . the second of these has been renumbered - (which matches the numbering in the table of contents). in part ii, chapter - , a missing quotation mark was added after "a system of especial surveillance". in part ii, chapter , "had they endeed his sufferings" was changed to "had they ended his sufferings". in part ii, chapter , "asked to state about the silver case" was changed to "asked to state about the sylver case", and "the patient really died of a heart difficult" was changed to "the patient really died of a heart difficulty". in part ii, chapter , a missing quotation mark was added after "take anything extra", and a missing comma was added between "irritability" and "angry feeling". in part ii, chapter , a missing quotation mark was added after "it seems that pike is nominated". in part ii, chapter , "they were no inclined to that" was changed to "they were not inclined to that". in part ii, chapter , a quotation mark preceding "one exclaimed" was deleted. in part ii, chapter , "prison report for " was changed to "prison report for ' ", and a missing quotation mark was added after "no complicated matters to embarrass the institution". in part ii, chapter , "the teaching of rades" was changed to "the teaching of trades", a quotation mark following "without turning the discipline into cruelty" was deleted, "should it beindustrial" was changed to "should it be industrial", a quotation mark was added following "industrial", a quotation mark was deleted following "views expressed by the speakers mentioned", and a quotation mark was added following "to act on these independently". note: project gutenberg also has an html version of this file which includes the original illustration. see -h.htm or -h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/ / / / / / -h/ -h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/ / / / / / -h.zip) the wall between * * * * * by sara ware bassett the taming of zenas henry the wayfarers at the angel's the harbor road the wall between * * * * * [illustration: and now, by some miracle, here were the blossoms of martin's raising. frontispiece. _see page ._] the wall between by sara ware bassett with frontispiece by norman price boston little, brown, and company copyright, , by sara ware bassett. all rights reserved published august, "such are the miracles men call lives." --edward rowland sill. contents chapter page i a modern richelieu ii the howes iii lucy iv the episode of the eggs v a clash of wills vi ellen encounters an enigma vii the unraveling of the mystery viii when the cat's away ix jane makes a discovery x a temptation xi the crossing of the rubicon xii the test xiii melviny arrives xiv a piece of diplomacy xv ellen's vengeance xvi lucy comes to a decision xvii the great alternative xviii love triumphant the wall between chapter i a modern richelieu the howe and webster farms adjoined, lying on a sun-flooded, gently sloping new hampshire hillside. between them loomed the wall. it was not a high wall. on the contrary, its formidableness was the result of tradition rather than of fact. for more than a century it had been an estranging barrier to neighborliness, to courtesy, to broad-mindedness; a barrier to friendship, to christian charity, to peace. the builder of the rambling line of gray stone had long since passed away, and had he not acquired a warped importance with the years, his memory would doubtless have perished with him. all unwittingly, alas, he had become a celebrity. his was the fame of omission, however, rather than of commission. had he, like artist or sculptor, but affixed his signature to his handiwork, then might he have sunk serenely into oblivion, "unwept, unhonored, and unsung." but unfortunately he was a modest creature. instead, he had stepped nameless into the silence of the hereafter, leaving to those who came after him not only the sinister boundary his hands had reared, but also a feud that had seethed hotly for generations. if within the narrow confines of his last resting place he had ever been conscious of the dissension for which he was responsible and had been haunted by a desire to utter the magic word he had neglected to speak in life, he at least gave no sign. his lips remained sealed in death, and his spirit was never seen to walk abroad. possibly he retired into his shroud with this finality because he never found it imperative, as did hamlet's ghost, to admonish posterity to remember him. only too well was he remembered! the howes and websters who followed him hurled against the sounding board of heaven the repeated questions of who built the wall, and whose duty was it to repair it. great-grandfather jabez howe quibbled with great-grandfather abiatha webster for a lifetime, and both went down into the tomb still quibbling over the enigma. afterward grandfather nathan howe and grandfather ebenezer webster took up the dispute, and they, too, were gathered into the beyond without ever reaching a conclusion. their children then wrangled and argued and slandered one another, and, like their forbears, retired from the field in impotent rage, leaving the combat a draw. in the meantime the outlines of the ancient landmark became less clear-cut. rocks toppled from its summit; yawning gaps marred its sharp edges; and at its base vines and growing things began to creep defiantly in and out the widening fissures that rent its foundation. almost imperceptibly year by year dissolution went on, the crude structure melting into picturesqueness and taking on the gentle charm of a ruin until martin howe and ellen webster, its present-day guardians, beheld it an ignominious heap of stone that lay crumbling amid woodbine and clematis. far more beautiful was it in this half-concealed dilapidation than ever it had been in the pride of its perfection. then it had stood boldly out against the landscape, naked and aggressive; to-day, clothed in nature's soft greenery, it had become so dim a heritage that it might easily have receded into the past and been forgotten had not the discord of which it had become the symbol been wilfully fanned into flame. as in a bygone age one runner passed a lighted torch on to another, so did one generation of howes and websters bequeath to the next the embers of a wrath that never died. each faction disclaimed all responsibility for the wall, and each refused to lay hand to it. adamantine as was the lichen-covered heap of granite, it was of far more mutable a quality than were the dispositions of those who had so stubbornly let it fall into decay. time's hand had softened the harsh stone into mellow beauty; but the flintlike characters of the howes and websters remained uncompromising as of yore. and now that martin howe and ellen webster reigned in their respective homesteads, neither one of them was any more graciously inclined toward raising the fallen boundary to its pristine glory than had been their progenitors. but for their obstinacy they might have agreed to dispense with the wall altogether, since long ago it had become merely an empty emblem of restriction, and without recourse to it each knew beyond question where the dividing line between the estates ran; moreover, as both families shunned the other's land as if it were plague-ridden territory there was scant temptation for them to invade each other's domains. but the man and the woman had inherited too much of the blood of the original stock to consider entering into an armistice. they had, it is true, bettered their predecessors to the extent of exchanging a stilted greeting when they met; but this perfunctory salutation was usually hurtled across the historic borderline and was seldom concluded without some reference to it. for ellen webster was an aggravating old woman dowered with just enough of the harpy never to be able to leave her antagonist in peace if she saw him at work in his garden. "mornin', martin," she would call. "good mornin', miss webster." "so you're plowin' up a new strip of land." "yes, marm." "i s'pose you know it would save you a deal of cartin' if you was to use the stones you're gettin' out to fix up your wall." then the hector would watch the brick-red color steal slowly from the man's cheek up to his forehead. to pile the stones on the heap so near at hand would, he recognized, have saved both time and trouble; nevertheless, he would have worked until he dropped in his tracks rather than have yielded to the temptation. _his_ wall, indeed! the impudence of the vixen! angry in every fiber of his body, he would therefore wheel upon his tormentor and flash out: "when you see me tinkerin' your tumbledown wall, miss ellen webster, i'll be some older than i am now. i've work enough of my own to do without takin' in repairs for my neighbors." at that he would hear a malicious chuckle. for some such response ellen always waited. she liked to see the fire of rage burn itself through martin's tan and feel that she had the power to kindle it. he never disappointed her. sometimes, to be sure, she had to prod him more than once, but eventually his retort, sharp as the sting of an insect, was certain to come. from it she derived a half-humorous, half-vindictive satisfaction, for she was a keen student of human nature, and no one knew better than she that after the cutting words had left his lips proud-spirited young martin scorned himself for having been goaded into uttering them. a tantalizing creature, ellen webster! silent, penurious, shrewd to the margin of dishonesty; unrelenting as the rock-fronted fastnesses of her native hills; good-humored at times and even possessed of swift moods of tenderness that disarmed and appealed--such she was. she stood straight as a spruce despite the burden of her years, and a suggestion of girlhood's bloom still colored her cheek; but the features of her crafty countenance were tightly drawn; the blue eyes glinted with metallic light; and the mouth was saved from cruelty only by its upward curve of humor. she had been an only daughter who since her teens had nursed invalid parents until death had claimed them and left her mistress of the homestead where she now lived. there had, it is true, been a boy; but in his early youth he had shaken the new hampshire dust from off his feet and gone west, from which utopia he had for a time sent home to his sister occasional and peculiarly inappropriate gifts of mexican saddles, sombreros, leggings, and indian blankets. he had received but scant gratitude, however, for these well-intentioned offerings. it had always been against the traditions of the websters to spend money freely and ellen, a webster to the core, resented his lack of prudence; furthermore the articles were useless and cluttered up the house. possibly the more open-handed thomas understood the implied rebuke in the meager thanks awarded him and was hurt by it; at any rate, he ceased sending home presents, and by and by ellen lost trace of him altogether. years of silence, unbroken by tidings of any sort, followed. ellen had almost forgotten she had a brother when one day a letter arrived announcing his death. the event brought to the sister no grief, for years ago thomas had passed out of her life. nevertheless the message left behind it an aftermath of grim realizations that stirred her to contemplate the future from quite a new angle. she had never before considered herself old. now she suddenly paused and reflected upon her seventy-five years and the uncertainty of the stretch of days before her. through the window she could see her prosperous lands, her garden upon the southern slope of the hill where warm sun kissed into life its lushly growing things; her pasture pierced by jagged rocks, and cattle-trampled stretches of rough turf; her wood lot where straight young pines and oak saplings lifted their reaching crests toward the sky; her orchard, the index of her progenitor's foresight. all these had belonged to the websters for six generations, and she could not picture them the property of any one bearing another name; nor could she endure the thought of the wall being sometime rebuilt by an outsider. what was to be the fate of her possessions after she was gone? suppose a stranger purchased the estate. or, worse than all, suppose that after she was dead martin howe was to buy it in. the howes had always wanted more land. imagine martin howe plowing up the rich loam of her fields, invading with his axe the dim silences of her wood lot, enjoying the fruit of her orchard, driving his herds into her pasture! fancy his feet grating upon the threshold of her home, his tread vibrating on her stairways! the irony of it! martin was young. at least, he was not old. he could not be more than forty. he might marry sometime. many a man more unapproachable even than martin howe did marry. and if he should marry, what would be more likely than that he would give to his maiden sisters--mary, eliza, and jane--the howe farm and take for his own abode the more spacious homestead of the websters? ellen's brows contracted fiercely; then her mouth twisted into a crooked smile. what a retribution if, after all, it should be martin whose fate it was to rebuild the wall! why, such a revenge would almost compensate for the property falling into his hands! suppose it should become his lot to cut away the vines and underbrush; haul hither the great stones and hoist them into place! and if while he toiled at the hateful task and beads of sweat rolled from his forehead, a sympathetic and indulgent providence would but permit her to come back to earth and, standing at his elbow, jeer at him while he did it! ah, that would be revenge indeed! then the mocking light suddenly died from the old woman's eyes. maybe martin would not buy the farm, after all. or if he did, he might perhaps leave the wall to crumble into extinction, so that the rancor and bitterness of the howes and websters would come to an end, and the enmity of a hundred years be wasted! would not such an inglorious termination of the feud go down to history as a capitulation of the websters? why, the broil had become famous throughout the state. for decades it had been a topic of gossip and speculation until the howe and webster obstinacy had become a byword, almost an adage. to have the whole matter peter out now would be ignominious. no. though worms destroyed her mortal body, the hostility bred between the families should not cease. nor should her ancestral home ever become the prey of her enemies, either. rising decisively, ellen took from the mahogany secretary the letter she had received a few days before from thomas's daughter and reread it meditatively. twice she scanned its pages. then she let it drop into her lap. again her eyes wandered to the stretch of land outside across which slanted the afternoon shadows. the day was very still. up from the tangle of brakes in the pasture came the lowing of cattle. a faint sweetness from budding apple trees filled the room. radiating, narrowing away toward the sky line, row after row of low green shoots barred the brown earth of the hillside with the promise of coming harvest. it was a goodly sight,--that plowed land with its lines of upspringing seeds. a goodly sight, too, were the broad mowings stirring gently with the sweep of the western breeze. ellen regarded the panorama before her musingly. then she seated herself at the old desk and with deliberation began to write a reply to her brother's child. she was old, she wrote, and her health was failing; at any time she might find herself helpless and ill. there was no one to care for her or bear her company. if lucy would come to sefton falls and live, her aunt would be glad to give her a home. "as yet," concluded the diplomat, with a machiavelian stroke of the pen, "i have made no will; but i suppose i shall not be able to take the webster lands and money with me into the next world. you are my only relative. think well before making your decision." after she had signed and blotted the terse missive, ellen perused its lines, and her sharp eyes twinkled. it was a good letter, a capital letter! without actually promising anything, it was heavy with insidious bribery. be the girl of whatsoever type she might, some facet of the note could not fail to lure her hither. if a loyal webster, family obligation would be the bait; if conscientious, plain duty stared her in the face; if mercenary, dreams of an inherited fortune would tempt her. the trap was inescapable. in the meantime to grant a home to her orphan flesh and blood would appeal to the outside world as an act of christian charity, and at the same time would save hiring the help she had for some time feared she would be driven to secure,--a fact that did not escape the woman's cunning mind. she was not so strong as formerly, and of late the toil of the farm taxed her endurance. there was milking, sewing, the housework, and the care of the chickens; enough to keep ten pairs of hands busy, let alone one. oh, lucy should earn her board, never fear! as nearly as the aunt could calculate, her niece must now be about twenty years old,--a fine, vigorous age! doubtless, too, the girl was of buxom western build, for although thomas had not married until late in life, his wife had been a youthful woman of the mining country. this lucy was probably a strapping lass, who in exchange for her three meals would turn off a generous day's work. viewed from every standpoint the scheme was an inspiration. ellen hoped it would not fail. now that she had made up her mind to carry through the plan, she could not brook the possibility of being thwarted. once more she took the letter from its envelope and read it. yes, it was excellent. were she to write it all over again she could not improve it. therefore she affixed the stamp and address and, summoning tony, the portuguese lad who slaved for her, she sent him to the village to mail it. for two weeks she awaited an answer, visiting the post office each day with a greater degree of interest than she had exhibited toward any outside event for a long stretch of years. her contact with the world was slight and infrequent. now and then she was obliged to harness up and drive to the village for provisions; to have the horse shod; or to sell her garden truck; but she never went unless forced to do so. a hermit by nature, she had no friends and wanted none. her only neighbors were the howes, and beyond the impish pleasure she derived from taunting martin, they had no interest for her. the sisters were timid, inoffensive beings enough; but had they been three times as inoffensive they were nevertheless howes; moreover, ellen did not care for docile people. she was a fighter herself and loved a fighter. that was the reason she had always cherished a covert admiration for martin. his temper appealed to her; so did his fearlessness and his mulish attitude toward the wall. such qualities she understood. but with these cringing sisters of his who allowed him to tyrannize over them she had nothing in common. had she not seen them times without number watch him out of sight and then leap to air his blankets, beat his coat, or perform some service they dared not enact in his presence? bah! thank heaven she was afraid of nobody and was independent of her fellow men. save for the assistance of the hard-worked tony whom she paid--paid sparingly she confessed, but nevertheless _paid_--she attended to her own plowing, planting, and harvesting, and was beholden to nobody. the world was her natural enemy. to outwit it; to beat it at a bargain; to conquer where it sought to oppress her; to keep its whining dogs of pain, poverty, and loneliness ever at bay; to live without obligation to it; and die undaunted at leaving it,--this was her ambition. the note she had mailed to her niece was the first advance she had made toward any human being within her memory; and this was not the cry of a dependent but rather the first link in a plot to outgeneral circumstances and place the future within her own control. she prided herself that for half a century she had invariably got the better of whosoever and whatsoever she had come in contact with. what was death, then, but an incident, if after it she might still reign and project her will into the universe even from the estranging fastnesses of the grave? therefore the answer from lucy was of greater import than was any ordinary letter. it would tell her whether the initial step in her conspiracy to triumph over destiny was successful. what wonder that her aged fingers trembled as she tore open the envelope of the message and spread the snowy paper feverishly on the table? summit, arizona, may , . dear aunt ellen: i can't tell you what a surprise it was to hear from you, and how much greater a surprise it was to have you ask me to come and live with you. i had decided to go abroad and do red cross work, and was about to accept a position that had been offered me when your letter arrived. ("humph!" murmured ellen.) but you write that you are alone in the world and not very well, and this being the case, i feel my place is with you. you are my only relative, and i should be a very poor-spirited webster indeed did i not acknowledge that your claim comes before any other. therefore i shall be glad to come to new hampshire and avail myself of your hospitality. i presume you have found, as i have, that living entirely for one's self is not very satisfactory after all. since my father's death i have had no one to look after and have felt lonely, useless, and selfish in consequence. i am certain that in attempting to make you happy, i shall find happiness myself, and i assure you that i will do all i can to be helpful. if all goes well i should arrive at sefton falls in about ten days. in the meantime, i send my warmest thanks for your kindness and the affectionate greetings of your niece, lucy harmon webster. after she had finished reading the letter, ellen sat tapping her foot impatiently upon the floor. she was nettled, angry. she did not at all relish having this child turn the tables on her charity and make of it a favor. as for the girl's sentimental nonsense about its not being satisfactory to live alone, what was she talking about? living alone was the most satisfactory thing in the world. did it not banish all the friction of opposing wills and make of one a monarch? no, she did not like the letter, did not like it. if this lucy were sincere, she showed herself to be of that affectionate, conscientious, emotional type ellen so cordially detested; besides, she held her head too high. if on the other hand, she were shamming, and were in reality endowed with a measure of the howe shrewdness, that was another matter. her aunt laughed indulgently at the girl's youthful attempt at subterfuge. she hoped she was humbugging. worldly wisdom was an admirable trait. had not the websters always been famed for their business sagacity? she would far rather find thomas's daughter blessed with a head than with a heart. but the letter proved that the child was still a novice at the wiles of the world, dissemble as she would. had she been older and more discerning, she would have realized she had not actually been promised anything, and she would not have been decoyed into journeying hundreds of miles from home to pursue the wraith of an ephemeral fortune. chapter ii the howes within the confines of his own home martin howe, as ellen webster asserted, was a czar. born with the genius to rule, he would probably have fought his way to supremacy had struggle been necessary. as it was, however, no effort was demanded of him, for by the common consent of an adoring family, he had been voluntarily elevated to throne and scepter. he was the only boy, the coveted gift long denied parents blessed with three daughters and in despair of ever possessing a son. what rejoicings heralded his advent! had half the treasures an eager father and mother prayed heaven to grant been bestowed upon the child, he would unquestionably have become an abnormality of health, wealth, and wisdom. but destiny was too farseeing a goddess to allow her neophyte to be spoiled by prosperity. both his parents died while martin was still a pupil at the district school, and the lad, instead of going to the city and pursuing a profession, as had been his ambition, found himself hurried, all unequipped, uneducated and unprepared, into the responsibilities of managing the family household. farming was not the calling he would have chosen. he neither liked it, nor was he endowed with that intuitive sixth sense on which so many farmers rely for guidance amid the mazes of plowing and planting. by nature, he was a student. the help he had sporadically given his father had always been given rebelliously and been accompanied by the mental resolve that the first moment escape was possible, he would leave the country and its nagging round of drudgery and take up a broader and more satisfying career. to quote martin's own vernacular, farming was hard work,--_damned hard work._ it was not, however, the amount of toil it involved that daunted him, but its quality. he had always felt a hearty and only thinly veiled contempt for manual labor; moreover, he considered life in a small village an extremely provincial one. it was just when he was balancing in his mind the relative advantages of becoming a doctor or a lawyer, and speculating as to which of these professions appealed the more keenly to his fancy, that fate intervened and relieved him of the onerousness of choosing between them. martin could have viewed almost any other vocation than that of farmer through a mist of romance, for he was young, and for him, behind the tantalizingly veiled future, there still moved the shadowy forms of knights, dragons, and fair ladies; but with the grim eye of a realist, he saw farming as it was, stripped of every shred of poetry. blossoming orchards and thriving crops he knew to be the ephemeral phantasms of the dreamer. farming as he had experienced it was an eternal combat against adverse conditions; a battle against pests, frosts, soil, weather, and weariness. the conflict never ceased, nor was there hope of emerging from its sordidness into the high places where were breathing space and vision. one could never hope when night came to glance back over the day and see in retrospect a finished piece of work. there was no such thing as writing _finis_ beneath any chapter of the ponderous tome of muscle-racking labor. the farmer stopped work at twilight only because his strength was spent and daylight was gone. the aching back, the tired muscles, could do no more, and merciful darkness drew a curtain over the day, thereby cutting off further opportunity for toil until the rising of another sun. but although night carried with it temporary relief from exertion, it brought with it little peace. as one sat at the fireside in the gathering dusk, it was only to see in imagination a sinister procession of specters file past. they were the things that had been left undone. on they swept, one unperformed task treading upon the heel of its predecessor. there still remained potatoes to spade, weeds to pull, corn to hoe. a menacing company of ghosts to harass a weary man as his eyes closed at night and confront him when he opened them in the morning! and even when, with the zest the new day brought, he contrived to mow down the vanguard of the parade, other recruits were constantly reënforcing its rear ranks and swelling the foes arraigned against the baffled farmer. struggle as he would, the line was sometimes longer at evening than it had been at dawn. what wonder that a conscientious fellow like martin howe felt farming less a business to be accomplished than a choice of alternatives? what rest was there in sleep, if all the time one's eyes were closed a man was subconsciously aware that cutworms were devouring his lettuce and that weeds were every instant gaining headway? even the rhythm of the rain was a reminder that the pea vines were being battered down and that the barn roof was leaking. yet to flee from this uncongenial future and seek one more to his liking did not occur to martin howe. he had been born with an uncompromising sense of duty, and once convinced of an obligation, he would have scorned to shirk it. the death of his parents left him no choice but to take up his cross with new england spartanism and bear it like a true disciple. all the howe capital was invested in land, in stock, and in agricultural implements. to sell out, even were he so fortunate as to find a purchaser, would mean shrinkage. and the farm once disposed of, what then? had he been alone in the world, he would not have paused to ask the question. but there were mary, eliza, and jane,--three sisters older than himself with no resources for earning a living. even he himself was unskilled, and should he migrate to the city, he would be forced to subsist more or less by his wits; and to add to his uncertain fortunes the burden of three dependent women would be madness. no, the management of the family homestead was his inevitable lot. that he recognized. what the abandonment of his "castles in spain" cost martin only those who knew him best appreciated; and they but dimly surmised. resolutely he kept his face set before him, allowing himself no backward glances into the _dolce-far-niente_ land left behind. as it was characteristic of him to approach any problem from the scholar's standpoint, he attacked his agricultural puzzles from a far more scientific angle than his father had done, bringing to them an intelligence that often compensated for experience and opened before him vistas of surprising interest. he subscribed to garden magazines; studied into crop rotation and the grafting of trees and vines; spent a few months at college experimenting with soils and chemicals. he investigated in up-to-date farming machinery and bought some of the devices he felt would economize labor. gradually the problem of wresting a living from the soil broadened and deepened until it assumed alluring proportions. farming became a conundrum worthy of the best brain, and one at which the supercilious could ill afford to scoff. martin found himself giving to it the full strength both of his body and mind. by the end of the first year he had become resigned to his new career; by the end of the second interested in it; by the end of the third enthusiastic. in the meantime, as season succeeded season, the soil he had so patiently tended began to give him thanks, returning ever increasing harvests. the trees in the old orchard bent under their weight of apples; the grapevines were lush with fruit. the howe farm acquired fame in the neighborhood. the boy was proud of his success and justly so. not alone did it represent man's triumph over nature, but it also meant the mastery of martin's own will over his inclinations. and all the while that he was achieving this dual victory he was developing from a thin, over-grown lad into a muscular young giant,--keen-eyed, broad-shouldered, deep-chested, strong-armed. he was lithe as an indian and almost as unwearying. if through the cross rifts of his daily routine there filtered occasional shadows of loneliness, he only vaguely acknowledged their existence, attributing his groping longing for sympathy to the lack of male companionship and the uncongeniality that existed between himself and his sisters. he had, to be sure, a few masculine acquaintances in the village, but most of them were older and less progressive than he, and they offered him little aid in his difficulties. having farmed all their lives and been content with the meager results they had obtained, they shrugged their shoulders at martin's experiments with irrigation and fertilizer, regarding his attempts as the impractical theories of a fanatic. of youth, sefton falls contained only a scattering, the more enterprising young men having gone either to the city or to the war. thus bereft of friends of his own sex, and turned back from a professional or a soldier's career by duty's flaming sword, martin reverted to his own home for comradeship. but here, alas, he was again disappointed. mary, eliza, and jane were not of a type to fill the void in his life that he sought to have filled. it would be unfair to say he had not a warm regard for his sisters, for he was a person of inherent loyalty, and ties of blood meant much to him. had he not sacrificed his own dreams that his family might retain their old home? nevertheless one may have a deep-rooted affection for one's kin and yet not find them congenial; and martin was compelled to acknowledge that mary, eliza and jane--estimable women as they were--had many fundamental characteristics that were quite out of harmony with his ideals of life. it was possible their faults were peculiar to the entire feminine race. he was not prepared to say, since his knowledge of the sex had never extended beyond the sill of his own doorway. but whether general or particular, the truth remained that the mental horizon of his sisters, bounded as it was by the four walls of the kitchen and such portion of the outside world as could be seen from its windows, was pitiably narrow. beyond the round of their daily duties none of the three women had an interest in life. over and over again they performed their humdrum tasks in the same humdrum fashion, arguing over each petty detail of the time-worn theme until he marveled they could retain a particle of zest for routine they never varied from year to year. reading and experimenting brought a freshness to his work that stimulated detours into untraveled paths. but mary, eliza, and jane never sought out the uncharted way. evidently monotony suited their stolid temperaments; or if it did not, they never rebelled against it or tried to shake off its fetters. matter-of-fact, timid, faithful, capable, middle-aged,--they were born to be plodders rather than explorers. martin admitted that to their undeviating system he owed a great measure of the comfort and tranquillity of his well-ordered house, and hence he struggled earnestly not to complain at the bondage that resulted from their cast-iron methods. long since he had despaired of expecting adaptability from them. they must cling to their rut or all was _lost._ once out of their customary channel, and they were like tossing ships, rudderless and without an anchor. their solicitude for him was another source of exasperation. there were days when the brute in him rose and clamored to strike mary for tagging at his heels with coats and medicines, and eliza for her lynxlike observation of every mouthful he ate. but he curbed the impulse, shamefacedly confessing himself to be ungrateful. had his tolerance been reënforced by insight, he would have understood that the very qualities which so exasperated him sprang from his sister's laudable desire to voice a gratitude they could not put into words by neglecting no act which would promote his welfare; but martin, alas, was not a psychologist, and therefore was unable to translate his annoyances in these interpretative terms. in truth, what mary, eliza, and jane were as individuals concerned him very little. he always thought of them as a composite personality, a sort of female trinity. nevertheless mary, eliza, and jane howe were not a trinity. they were three very distinct beings. mary had had spinsterhood thrust upon her. at heart she was a mother, a woman created to nurse and comfort. her greatest happiness was derived from fluttering about those she loved and waiting upon them. had she dared, she would have babied martin to an even greater extent than she did. as it was, when she was not at his elbow with warmer socks, heavier shoes, or a cup of hot coffee, she was worrying about mary and eliza, brewing tonics for them, or putting burning soapstones in their beds. it was a pity life had cheated her of having a dozen babies to pilot through the mazes of measles and whooping cough, for then mary would have been in her element. yet nature is a thing of inconsistencies, and through some strange, unaccountable caprice, mary's marital instincts stopped with this fostering instinct. in every other respect she was an old maid. men she abhorred. like jennie wren, she knew their tricks and their manners--or thought she did--which for all practical purposes amounted to the same thing. had it been necessary for her to prove some of the theorems she advanced concerning the male sex, she would have been at a loss to do so, since the scope of her experience was very limited. nevertheless, with genuine howe tenacity, she clung to her tenets even though she was without data to back them up. eliza, on the other hand, had in her girlhood been the recipient of certain vague attentions from an up-state farmer, and these had bared to her virgin imagination a new world. true, the inconstant swain had betaken himself to the next county and there wed another. but although the affair had come to this ignominious end and its radiance had been dimmed by the realities of a quarter of a century of prosaic life, eliza had never allowed time to obscure entirely the beauty of that early dream, nor the door thus opened into the fairy realms of romance to be wholly closed. though she knew herself to be old, silver-haired, and worn, yet within the fastnesses of her soul she was still young and waited the coming of her lover. the illusion was only an illusion--a foolish, empty fantasy. however, it helped her to be content with the present and harmed no one. that eliza had never quite "quit struggling" was borne out by the ripples into which she coaxed her hair and by the knot of bright ribbon she never failed to fasten beneath her ample chin. of the trio, jane was the best balanced. although the youngest of the sisters, it was to her judgment they were wont to appeal in times of stress. she was more fearless, more outspoken; and any mission she undertook was more certain of success. therefore, when it became necessary to present some cause to martin, it always fell to jane's lot to act as spokesman. once when a controversy concerning ellen webster had arisen, jane had actually had the temerity to denounce her brother's attitude to his face, declaring that should the old woman fall ill she would certainly go and take care of her. martin had met her defiance with rage. the websters and all their kindred might die before he would cross their threshold or allow any of his family to do so. before the violence of his wrath, mary and eliza, who within their souls agreed with jane, quailed in terror; but jane was undaunted. this lack of what martin termed _proper pride_ in his sisters was a source of great disgust to him. he was quite conscious that although they did not openly combat his opinions, they did not agree with him, and not only regretted being at odds with their neighbors but also condemned his perpetuation of the old feud as unchristian. hence it was a cause for much rejoicing to his mind to reflect that one male howe at least survived to bolster up a spineless, spiritless, and decadent generation. to love one's enemies was a weak creed. martin neither loved them nor pretended to. never, never, would he forgive the insults the websters had heaped upon his family. he wished no positive harm to ellen webster; but he certainly wished her no good. mary, eliza, and jane had too much timidity and too great a craving for peace not to conform outwardly at least to their brother's wishes. accordingly they bent their necks to his will; for did not martin rule the house? had you inquired of any of the sisters the howes' breakfast hour, you would have been told that breakfast was served when martin pleased. it was the sound of his step upon the stair that set preparations for the morning meal in motion. so it was with every other detail of the home. when he appeared in the doorway his handmaidens sprang to serve him, and so long as he lingered beneath the roof they stayed their impatient hands from any task that would create noise or confusion, and disturb his tranquillity. it was not until the ban of his presence was removed that they ventured to resume the mopping, dusting, or cooking in which they had been engaged before his entrance. it would have been interesting to know how martin explained to himself the lack of machinery in his household, and how he reconciled the spotlessness of his home with the apparent idleness of his sisters. his hearth was always swept; the dishes noiselessly washed; the beds made as if by magic; and the cleaning done without shadow of inconvenience to him. so long as these processes were not forced upon his consciousness and were faultlessly performed, he accepted the results without comment. but let one cog of the wheel slip, setting the mechanism of his comfort awry, and he was sure to mention it. possibly it was because he himself performed his out-of-door duties well that he demanded, and felt he had the right to demand a similar perfection within doors. in fact, he drew the lines of demarkation between the masculine and feminine spheres of service so sharply that his sisters would have died before they would have asked his aid in any domestic difficulty. faithfully he met every obligation he considered to be within a man's province,--bringing wood, coal, and kindlings with the courtesy of a courtier; but the fowl browning in the oven might have burned to ebony before martin would have lifted a finger to rescue it. to oversee the cooking was not his duty. no autocrat ever reigned with more absolute power than did martin howe; and no monarch ever maintained a more sincere faith in his divine right to rule. he simply set the crown of sovereignty upon his own brows because he believed it to belong there. and had his faith in his destiny wavered, there were always his slaves mary, eliza, and jane to bow their foreheads in the dust at his feet and murmur with true oriental submissiveness: oh, king, live forever! his lordship being thus acknowledged, was it any wonder that martin cast about himself a mantle of aloofness and dignity and rated as trivial the household routine and petty gossip of his sisters? when he listened to their chatter at all it was with the tolerance of a superior being toward a less intelligent rabble. hence when he returned from the field one night and was greeted by the breathless announcement that a strange young woman with her trunk had just arrived at the websters', it was characteristic of him to quiet the excited outburst of his sisters with the chilling and stately reply: "what does it matter to us who she is, or what she's come for? ellen webster's visitors are no concern of ours." chapter iii lucy in the meantime the being whom martin had dismissed with this majestic wave of his hand stood in the middle of the webster kitchen, confronting the critical eyes of its mistress. "yes, aunt ellen," the girl was saying, catching the elder woman's stiff fingers in hers, "i'm lucy. do you think i look like dad? and am i at all what you expected?" ellen drew her hands uncomfortably from the impulsive grasp but did not reply immediately. she was far too bewildered to do so. lucy was not in the least what she had expected,--that was certain. in the delicate oval face there was no trace of thomas's heavily modeled features; nor was lucy indebted to the websters for her aureole of golden hair, the purity of her blond skin, or her grave brown eyes. thomas had been a massively formed, kindly, plain-featured man; but his daughter was beautiful. even ellen, who habitually scoffed at all that was fair and banished the æsthetic world as far from her horizon as possible, was forced to acknowledge this. in the proudly poised head, the small, swiftly moving hands, and the tiny feet there was a birdlike alertness which was the epitome of action. the supple body, however, lacked the bird's fluttering uncertainty; rather the figure bespoke a control that had its birth in an absence of all self-consciousness and the obedience of perfectly trained muscles to a compelling will. without a shadow of embarrassment lucy endured her aunt's inspection. "anybody'd think," commented ellen to herself in a mixture of indignation and amusement, "that she was a princess comin' a-visitin' instead of bein' a charity orphan." yet although she fumed inwardly at the girl's attitude, she did not really dislike it. spirit flashed in the youthful face, and ellen admired spirit. she would have scorned a cringing, apologetic webster. unquestionably in her niece's calm assurance there was no hint of the dependent. as she stood serenely in the center of the room, lucy's gaze wandered over her aunt's shoulder and composedly scanned every detail of the kitchen, traveling from ceiling to floor, examining the spotless shelves, the primly arranged pots and pans, the gleaming tin dipper above the sink. then the roving eyes came back to the older woman and settled with unconcealed curiosity upon her lined and sharply cut features. beneath the intentness of the scrutiny ellen colored uneasily. "well?" she demanded tartly. lucy started. "you seem to have made up your mind about me," went on the rasping voice. "am i what _you_ expected?" "no." the monosyllable came quietly. "what sort of an aunt were you lookin' for?" lucy waited a moment and then replied with childlike directness: "i thought you'd be more like dad. and you don't look in the least like an invalid." "you're disappointed i ain't sicker, eh?" commented ellen grimly. "no, indeed," answered lucy. "i'm glad to find you so strong. but it makes me feel you do not need me as much as i thought you did. you are perfectly able to take care of yourself without my help." "oh, i can take care of myself all right, young woman," ellen returned with an acid smile. "i don't require a nurse--at least not yet." lucy maintained a thoughtful silence. "i don't quite understand why you sent for me," she presently remarked. "didn't i write you i was lonesome?" "yes. but you're not." ellen laughed in spite of herself. "what makes you so sure of that?" "you don't look lonesome." again the elder woman chuckled. "mebbe i do, an' mebbe i don't," she responded. "anyhow, you can't always judge of how folks feel by the way they look." "i suppose not." the reply was spoken politely but without conviction. "an' besides, i had other reasons for gettin' you here," her aunt went on. "i mentioned 'em in my letter." "i don't remember the other reasons." ellen stared, aghast. "why--why--the property," she managed to stammer. "oh, that." the words were uttered with an indifference too genuine to be questioned. "yes, the property," repeated ellen with cutting sarcasm. "ain't you interested in money; or have you got so much already that you couldn't find a use for any more?" the thrust told. into the girl's cheek surged a flame of crimson. "i haven't any money," she returned with dignity. "dad left me almost penniless. his illness used up all we had. nevertheless, i was glad to spend it for his comfort, and i can earn more when i need it." "humph." "yes," went on lucy, raising her chin a trifle higher, "i am perfectly capable of supporting myself any time i wish to do so." "mebbe you'd rather do that than stay here with me," her aunt suggested derisively. "maybe," was the simple retort. "i shall see." ellen bit her lip and then for the second time her sense of humor overcame her. "i guess there's no doubtin' you're a genuine webster," she replied good-humoredly. "i begin to think we shall get on together nicely." "i hope so." there was a reservation in the words that nettled ellen. "why shouldn't we?" she persisted. "i don't know." "don't you like your aunt?" "not altogether." the audacity of the reply appealed to the older woman, and her eyes twinkled. "not altogether, eh?" she echoed. "now i'm sorry to hear that because i like you very much." lucy smiled. it was a radiant smile, disclosing prettily formed white teeth and a lurking dimple. "that's nice." "but you ain't a-goin' to return the compliment?" "not yet." it was long since ellen had been so highly entertained. "well," she observed with undiminished amusement, "i've evidently got to be on my good behavior if i want to keep such an independent young lady as you in the house." "why shouldn't i be independent?" a few moments before ellen would have met the challenge with derision; but now something caused her to restrain the retort that trembled on her tongue and say instead: "of course you've got a right to be independent. the folks that ain't ought to be made way with." her affirmation surprised her. she would not have confessed it, but a strange sense of respect for the girl before her had driven her to utter them. lucy greeted the remark graciously. "that's what i think," she replied. "then at least we agree on somethin'," returned ellen dryly, "an' mebbe before i put my foot in it an' lose this bit of your good opinion, i'd better take you up to your room." she caught up the heavy satchel from the floor. "oh, don't," lucy protested. "please let me take it. i'm used to carrying heavy things. i am very strong." "strong, are you?" questioned ellen, without, however, turning her head or offering to surrender the large leather holdall. "an' how, pray, did you get so strong?" she passed into the hall and up the stairs as she spoke, lucy following. "oh, driving horses, doing housework, cooking, cleaning, and shooting," the girl replied. then as if a forgotten activity had come to her mind as an afterthought, she added gaily: "and sawing wood, i guess." "you can do things like that?" "yes, indeed. i had to after mother died and we moved to bald mountain where dad's mine was. i did all the work for my father and ten mexicans." "you? why didn't your father get a woman in?" lucy broke into a merry laugh. "a woman! why, aunt ellen, there wasn't a woman within twenty miles. it was only a mining camp, you see; just dad and his men." "an' you mean to tell me you were the sole woman in a place like that?" lucy's silvery laughter floated upward. "the ten mexicans who boarded with us were engineers and bosses," she explained. "there were over fifty miners in the camp besides." stopping midway up the staircase ellen wheeled and said indignantly: "an' thomas kep' you in a settlement like that?" "who?" "your father." "why not?" "'twarn't no place for a girl." "it was the place for me." "why?" "because dad was there." something in the reply left ellen wordless and made her continue her way upstairs without answering. when she did speak, it was to say in a gentler tone: "mebbe you'll like the room i'm going to give you. it used to belong to your dad when he was a little boy." she lifted the latch of a paneled door and stood looking into a large bedroom. the sun slanted across a bare, painted floor, which was covered by a few braided rugs, old and worn; there was a great four-poster about which were draped chintz curtains, yellowed by age, and between the windows stood a mahogany bureau whose brasses were tarnished by years of service; two stiff ladder-back chairs, a three-cornered washstand, and a few faded photographs in pale gilt frames completed the furnishings. with swift step lucy crossed the room and gazed up at one of the pictures. "that's dad!" ellen nodded. "i'd no idea he was ever such a chubby little fellow. look at his baby hands and his drum!" she paused, looking intently at the picture. then in a far-away tone she added: "and his eyes were just the same." for several minutes she lingered, earnest and reminiscent. "and is this you, aunt ellen?" she asked, motioning toward another time-dimmed likeness hanging over the bed. "yes." a silence fell upon the room. ellen fidgeted. "i've changed a good deal since then," she observed, after waiting nervously for some comment. "you've changed much more than dad." "how?" curiosity impelled her to cross to lucy's side and examine the photograph. "your eyes--your mouth." "what about 'em?" "i--i--don't believe i could explain it," responded lucy slowly. "mebbe you'd have liked me better as a little girl," grinned her aunt whimsically. "i--yes. i'm sure i should have liked you as a little girl." the reply piqued ellen. she bent forward and scrutinized the likeness more critically. the picture was of a child in a low-cut print dress and pantalettes,--a resolute figure, all self-assurance and self-will. it was easy to trace in the face the features of the woman who confronted it: the brows of each were high, broad, and still bordered by smoothly parted hair; the well-formed noses, too, were identical; but the eyes of the little maiden in the old-fashioned gown sparkled with an unmalicious merriment and frankness the woman's had lost, and the curving mouth of the child was unmarred by bitter lines. ellen stirred uncomfortably. as she looked she suddenly became conscious of a desire to turn her glance away from the calm gaze of her youthful self. yes, the years had indeed left their mark upon her, she inwardly confessed. she did not look like that now. lucy was right. her eyes had changed, and her mouth, too. "folks grow old," she murmured peevishly. "nobody can expect to keep on looking as they did when they were ten years old." abruptly she moved toward the door. "there's water in the pitcher, an' there's soap and towels here, i guess," she remarked. "when you get fixed up, come downstairs; supper'll be on the table." the door banged and she was gone. but as she moved alone about the kitchen she was still haunted by the clear, questioning eyes of the child in the photograph upstairs. they seemed to follow her accusingly, reproachfully. "drat old pictures!" she at last burst out angrily. "they'd ought to be burnt up--the whole lot of them! they always set you thinkin'." chapter iv the episode of the eggs the next morning while ellen stood at the kitchen table slicing bread for breakfast, lucy, her figure girlish in a blue and white pinafore, appeared in the doorway. "good morning, aunt ellen," she said. "you will have to forgive me this once for being late. everything was so still i didn't wake up. your nice feather bed was too comfortable, i'm afraid. but it shan't happen again. after this i mean to be prompt as the sun, for i'm going to be the one to get the breakfast. you must promise to let me do it. i'd love to. i am quite accustomed to getting up early, and after serving breakfast for twelve, breakfast for two looks like nothing at all." as she spoke she moved with buoyant step across the room to the table. "shan't i toast the bread?" she inquired. "i ain't a-goin' to toast it," returned ellen in a curt tone. "hot bread an' melted butter's bad for folks, 'specially in the mornin'." lucy smiled. "it never hurts me," she replied. "nor me," put in her aunt quickly. "i don't give it a chance to. but whether or no, i don't have it. when you melt butter all up, you use twice as much, an' there ain't no use wastin' food." "i never thought about the butter." "them as has the least in the world is the ones that generally toss the most money away," the elder woman observed. the transient kindliness of the night before had vanished, giving place to her customary sharpness of tone. lucy paid no heed to the innuendo. "i might make an omelet while i'm waiting," she suggested pleasantly. "dad used to think i made quite a nice one." "i don't have eggs in the mornin', either," replied ellen. "don't you like eggs?" "i don't eat 'em." "how funny! i always have an egg for breakfast." "you won't here," came crisply from her aunt. lucy failed to catch the gist of the remark. "why, i thought you kept hens," she said innocently. "i do." "oh, i see. they're not laying." "yes, they are. i get about four dozen eggs every day," retorted ellen. "but i sell 'em instead of eatin' 'em." as comprehension dawned upon lucy, she was silent. "folks don't need eggs in the mornin' anyway," continued ellen, still on the defensive. "this stuffin' yourself with food is all habit. anybody can get into the way of eatin' more 'n' more, an' not know where to stop. bread an' coffee an' oatmeal is all anybody needs for breakfast." if she expected a reply from her niece, she was disappointed, for lucy did not speak. "when you can get sixty-six cents a dozen for eggs, it's no time to be eatin' 'em," ellen continued irritably. "you ain't come to live with a rockefeller, miss." receiving no answer to the quip, she drew a chair to the table and sat down. "you'd better come an' get your coffee while it's hot," she called to lucy. slowly the girl approached the table and seated herself opposite her aunt. the window confronting her framed a scene of rare beauty. the webster farm stood high on a plateau, and beneath it lay a broad sweep of valley, now half-shrouded in the silver mists of early morning. the near-at-hand field and pasture that sloped toward it were gemmed with dew. every blade of tall grass of the mowing sparkled. even the long rows of green shoots striping the chocolate earth of the garden flashed emerald in the morning sunlight; beyond the plowed land, through an orchard whose apple boughs were studded with ruby buds, lucy caught a glimpse of a square brick chimney. "who lives in the next house?" she inquired, in an attempt to turn the unpleasant tide of the conversation. if she had felt resentment at her aunt's remarks, she at least did not show it. "what?" "i was wondering who lived in the next house." "the howes." "i did not realize last night that you had neighbors so near at hand," continued the girl brightly. "tell me about them." "there's nothin' to tell." "i mean who is in the family?" "there's martin howe an' his three sisters, if that's what you want to know," snapped ellen. lucy, however, was not to be rebuffed. she attributed her aunt's ungraciousness to her irritation about the breakfast and, determining to remain unruffled, she went on patiently: "it's nice for you to have them so near, isn't it?" "it don't make no difference to me, their bein' there. i don't know 'em." for some reason that lucy could not fathom, the woman's temper seemed to be rising, and being a person of tact she promptly shifted the subject. "no matter about the howes any more, aunt ellen," she said, smiling into the other's frowning face. "tell me instead what you want me to do to help you to-day? now that i'm here you must divide the work with me so i may have my share." although ellen did not return the smile, the scowl on her forehead relaxed. "you'll find plenty to keep you busy, i guess," she returned. "there's all the housework to be done--dishes, beds, an' sweepin'; an' then there's milk to set an' skim; eggs to collect an' pack for market; hens to feed; an'----" "goodness me!" "you ain't so keen on dividin' up, eh?" "oh, it isn't that," returned lucy quickly. "i was only thinking what a lot you had to do. no wonder you sent for me." it was a random remark, but it struck ellen's conscience with such aplomb that she flushed, dismayed. "what do you mean?" she faltered. as lucy looked at her aunt, she observed the shifting glance, the crafty smile, the nervous interlacing of the fingers. "mean?" she returned innocently. "why, nothing, aunt ellen. we must all work for a living one way or another, i suppose. if i prefer to stay here with you and earn my board there is no disgrace in it, is there?" "no." nevertheless ellen was obviously disconcerted. there was an uncanny quality in lucy that left her with a sense that every hiding place in her heart was laid bare. were the girl's ingenuous observations as ingenuous as they seemed? or were they the result of an abnormal intuition, a superhuman power for fathoming the souls of others? eager to escape the youthful seer, the woman pushed back her chair and rose. "i must go out an' see what that boy tony's up to," she said. "while i'm gone you might tidy up round here a bit. there's the dishes an' the beds; an' in the pantry you'll find the eggs with the cases to pack 'em in. an' if you get round to it you might sweep up the sittin' room." "all right." drawing on a worn coat ellen moved toward the door; when, however, her hand was on the knob, she turned and called over her shoulder: "the washin's soakin' in the tubs in the shed. you can hang it out if you like." lucy waited until she saw the angular figure wend its way to the barn. then she broke into a laugh. "the old fox! she did get me here to work for her," she murmured aloud. "anyway, i don't have to stay unless i like; and i shan't, either. so, aunt ellen webster, you'd better be careful how you treat me." with a defiant shake of her miniature fist in the direction her aunt had taken, lucy turned to attack the duties before her. she washed the dishes and put them away; tripped upstairs and kneaded the billowy feather beds into smoothness; and humming happily, she swept and polished the house until it shone. she did such things well and delighted in the miracles her small hands wrought. "now for the eggs!" she exclaimed, opening the pantry door. yes, there were the empty cases, and there on the shelf were the eggs that waited to be packed,--dozens of them. it seemed at first glance as if there must be thousands. "and she wouldn't let me have one!" ejaculated the girl. "well, i don't want them. but i'm going to have an egg for breakfast whether she likes it or not. i'll buy some. then i can eat them without thanks to her. i have a little money, and i may as well spend part of it that way as not. i suppose it will annoy her; but i can't help it. i'm not going to starve to death." during this half-humorous, half-angry soliloquy, lucy was packing the eggs for market, packing them with extreme care. "i'd love to smash them all," she declared, dimpling. "wouldn't it be fun! but i won't. i'll not break one if i can help it." the deft fingers successfully carried out this resolution. when ellen returned from the garden at noontime, not only was the housework done, but the eggs were in the cases; the clothes swaying on the line; and the dinner steaming on the table. she was in high good humor. "i forgot to ask you what you had planned for us to have this noon," explained lucy. "so i had to rummage through the refrigerator and use my own judgment." "your judgment seems to have been pretty good." "i'm glad you think so." "the websters always had good judgment," the woman observed, as she dropped wearily into a chair. "yes, you've got together a very good meal. it's most too good, though. next time you needn't get so much." lucy regarded her aunt mischievously. "probably if i'd been all webster i shouldn't have," she remarked demurely. "but half of me, you see, is duquesne, and the duquesnes were generous providers." if ellen sensed this jocose rebuke, she at least neither resented it nor paid the slightest heed to its innuendo. "the duquesnes?" she questioned. "my mother was a duquesne." "oh, she was?" "didn't you know that?" "yes, i reckon i did at the time your father married, but i'd forgot about it. thomas an' i didn't write much to one another, an' latterly i didn't hear from him at all." "it was a pity." "i dunno as it made much difference," ellen said. "likely he didn't remember much about his home an' his relations." "yes, indeed he did," cried lucy eagerly. "he used to speak often of my grandparents and the old house, and he hoped i'd come east sometime and see the place where he had lived as a boy. as he grew older and was sick, i think his early home came to mean more to him than any other spot on earth." "queer how it often takes folks to their dyin' day to get any sense," declared ellen caustically. "where'd your father pick up your mother, anyway?" lucy did not answer. "i mean where did he get acquainted with her?" amended ellen hastily. "you never heard the story?" "no." "oh, it was the sweetest thing," began lucy enthusiastically. "you see, grandfather duquesne owned a coal mine up in the mountains, and dad worked for him. one day one of the cages used in going down into the mine got out of order, and grandfather gave orders that it was to be fixed right away lest some accident occur and the men be injured. but through a misunderstanding the work was not done, and the next day the cage dropped and killed nine of the miners. of course the men blamed poor grandfather for the tragedy, and they marched to his house, intending to drag him out and lynch him. dad knew the truth, however, and he rushed to the place and held the mob back with his pistol until he could tell them the real facts. at first they were so angry they refused to listen, but by and by they did, and instead of killing grandfather they went and found the engineers who were to blame." ellen waited. "what did they do to them?" she demanded at last. "oh, they hung them instead of grandfather," answered lucy simply. "how many of them?" "i don't know. three or four, i guess." it was evident that lucy was quite indifferent to the fate of the unlucky engineers. "mercy on us!" ellen gasped. "but their carelessness caused the death of the other men. it was only fair." "so that's the way you settle things in the west?" "yes. at least, they did then." the mountain-bred girl obviously saw nothing amiss in this swift-footed justice. "and where did your mother come in?" asked her aunt. "why, you see, grandfather duquesne afterward made dad the boss of the mine, and when mother, a girl of sixteen, came home from the california convent, where she had been at school, she saw him and fell in love with him. grandfather duquesne made an awful fuss, but he let her marry him." lucy threw back her head with one of her rippling laughs. "he had to," she added merrily. "mother'd have married dad anyway." ellen studied the tea grounds in the bottom of her cup thoughtfully. how strange it was to picture thomas the hero of a romance like this! she had heard that once in his life every man became a poet; probably this was thomas's era of transformation. her reverie was broken by the gentle voice of lucy, who observed: "and that's what i'd do, too." "what?" inquired ellen vaguely. in her reverie about thomas she had lost the connection. "marry the man i loved no matter what anybody said. wouldn't you?" "i--i--don't know," stammered ellen, getting to her feet with embarrassment at having a love affair thrust so intimately upon her. "mebbe. i must go back now to tony an' the weedin'. when you get cleared up round here, there's plenty of mendin' to be done. you'll find that hamper full of stockin's to be darned." after ellen had gone out, lucy did not rise immediately from the table, but sat watching the clouds that foamed up behind the maples on the crest of the nearby hill. a glory of sunshine bathed the earth, and she could see the coral of the apple buds sway against the sky. it was no day to sit within doors and darn socks. all nature beckoned, and to lucy, used from birth to being in the open, the alluring gesture was irresistible. with sudden resolve she sprang up, cleared away the confused remnants of the meal before her, dashed to her room for a scarlet sweater, and fled into the radiant world outside. she followed the driveway until it joined the road, and then, after hesitating an instant, turned in the direction of the howe farm. a mischievous light danced in her brown eyes, and a smile curved her lips. the road along which she passed was bordered on either side by walls of gray stone covered with shiny-leaved ivy and flanked by a checkerboard of pastures roughly dotted with clumps of hardback and boles of protruding rock. great brakes grew in the shady hollows, and from the woods beyond came the cool, moist perfume of moss and ferns. the girl looked about her with delight. then she began to sing softly to herself and jingle rhythmically the coins in her pocket. it was nearly a quarter of a mile to the howes' gate, and by the time she reached it, her swinging step had given to her cheek a color that even the apple orchard could not rival. a quick tap on the knocker brought mary howe to the door. she was tall, angular, and short-sighted, and she stood regarding her visitor inquisitively, her forehead lined by a network of wrinkles. "could you let me have a dozen eggs?" asked lucy. mary looked at the girl in waiting silence. "i am miss webster's niece," explained lucy, with an appealing smile. "we live next door, you know. aunt ellen didn't seem to have any eggs to spare, so----" she stopped, arrested by mary's expression. "maybe you don't sell eggs," she ventured. "yes, we do," mary contrived to articulate, "but i don't know--i'm afraid----" she broke off helplessly in the midst of the disjointed sentence and, raising her voice, called: "eliza, is jane there?" "she's upstairs. i'll fetch her down," responded eliza, coming to the door. "what is it?" "it's miss webster's niece askin' for eggs." "miss webster's niece! ellen webster's?" the explanation had in it an intonation of terror. "yes." "my land, mary! what shall we do? martin will never----" the awed whisper ceased. "i'll call jane," broke off eliza hurriedly. lucy heard the messenger speed across the floor and run up the stairs. "i'm afraid i'm making you a great deal of trouble," she remarked apologetically. "no." "perhaps you haven't any eggs to spare." mary did not reply to the words; instead she continued to look with bewilderment at the girl on the doorstep. "did miss webster send you?" she at last inquired. lucy laughed. "no, indeed," she answered. "she didn't even know i was coming. you see, i only arrived from arizona last night. i've come to live with my aunt. we didn't seem to agree very well about breakfast this morning so i----" "oh!" the explanation was pregnant with understanding. "i just thought i'd feel more independent if i----" a swish of skirts cut short the sentence, and in another moment all three of the howe sisters were framed in the doorway. although a certain family resemblance was characteristic of them, they looked little alike. eliza, it was true, was less angular than mary and lacked her firmness of mouth and chin; but nevertheless the howe stamp was upon her black hair, heavy, bushy brows, and noble cast of forehead. it was jane's face, touched by a humor the others could not boast, that instantly arrested lucy's attention. it was a fine, almost classic countenance which bespoke high thinking and a respect for its own soul. the eyes were gray and kindly, and in contrast to the undisguised dismay of her sisters, jane's attitude was one of unruffled composure. "you want some eggs?" she began with directness. "if you can spare a dozen." "i reckon we can." "now, jane----" interrupted mary nervously. "do be careful, jane," chimed in eliza. "i have a right to----" but the resolute jane was not permitted to finish her declaration. "martin won't----" interpolated mary. "you know martin will be dretful put out," protested eliza at the same instant. "i can't help it if he is," asserted jane impatiently. "i ain't obliged to think as he does, am i?" "he'll be--oh, jane!" eliza implored. "i'll take all the blame." "i don't know what he'll say," pleaded mary. "well, i'm going to get the eggs, anyhow," announced jane, cutting short further argument by moving away. during this enigmatic dialogue, lucy's mystified gaze traveled from the face of one woman to that of another. what was it all about? and who was this martin that he should inspire such terror? "i'm afraid," she called to the retreating jane, "you'd rather not----" "it's all right, my dear," replied jane cordially. "we're glad to let you have the eggs. i'll get them right away. it won't take me a second." she disappeared behind the paneled door at the end of the hall, and presently mary and eliza, who had loitered irresolutely, uncertain whether to go or stay, followed her. left to herself, lucy looked idly across the sunny landscape. against the sky line at the top of the hill she could see a tall, masculine figure delving in the garden. "that must be martin-the-terrible," she observed. "he doesn't look like such an ogre." the banging of the door heralded jane's approach. she held in her hand a neatly tied package, and over her shoulders peered mary and eliza. "the eggs will be sixty-seven cents," jane said in a businesslike tone. "that is the regular market price. i'd carry the box this side up if i were you." lucy counted the change into the woman's palm. "you have such a pretty home," she murmured as she did so. "we like it," replied jane pleasantly. "i don't wonder. the view from this porch is beautiful. sometime i hope you'll let me come over and see you." lucy heard two faint simultaneous gasps. "i'd be glad to have you," came steadily from jane. "and i'd like you to come over and see me some day, too--all of you," went on the girl. "we don't have much time for goin' out," returned jane. "there's such a lot to do that----" she stopped, appearing for the first time to be confused. "i know there is," lucy assented serenely. "i am afraid i have kept you too long from your work as it is. you must forgive me. thank you very much for the eggs." she extended a slender hand, which jane grasped warmly. a smile passed between the two. but as lucy turned down the driveway and the door of the howe homestead closed, a tragic babel of voices reached her ear, piping in shrill staccato the single word: "jane!" chapter v a clash of wills when lucy reached home she found her aunt in the sitting room bending disapprovingly over the basket of undarned stockings. "i see you haven't touched these," she observed, in a chiding tone. "where've you been?" "i went to get some eggs." "eggs! what for?" "for my breakfast to-morrow. you said you couldn't spare any, so i've bought some." "where?" the word expressed mingled wrath and wonder. "next door." the woman looked puzzled. she thought a moment. "where'd you say?" she asked after a pause. "next door--at the howes'." "the howes'!" ellen fairly hissed the name. "you went to the _howes'_ for eggs?" "why not?" with a swift motion her aunt strode forward and snatched the box from lucy's light grasp. "you went to the howes--to the howes--an' told 'em i didn't give you enough to eat?" livid, the woman crowded nearer, clutching the girl's arm in a fierce, merciless grip; her blue eyes flashed, and her lips trembled with anger. "i didn't say you didn't give me enough to eat," explained lucy, trying unsuccessfully to draw away from the cruel fingers that held her. "what did you tell 'em?" "i just said you couldn't spare any eggs for us to use." "spare eggs! i can spare all the eggs i like," ellen retorted. "i ain't a pauper. if i chose i could eat every egg there is in that pantry." she shook her niece viciously. "i only sell my eggs 'cause i'd rather," she went on. "i thought you said we couldn't afford to have eggs when they where so high," explained lucy. "you said they were sixty-six cents a dozen." "i could afford to eat 'em if they was a dollar," interrupted ellen, her voice rising. "if they were two dollars!" "i didn't understand." "'tain't your business to understand," snapped her aunt. "your business is to do as i say. think of your goin' to the howes--to the howes of all people--an' askin' for eggs! it'll be nuts for them. _the howes._" the circling fingers loosened weakly. "i wonder," she continued, "the howes sold you any eggs. they wouldn't 'a' done it, you may be sure, but to spite me. i reckon they were only too glad to take the chance you offered 'em." "they weren't glad," protested lucy indignantly. "they didn't want to sell the eggs at all, at least two of them didn't; but the one called jane insisted on letting me have them." "what'd they say?" "i couldn't understand," lucy replied. "they seemed to be afraid of displeasing somebody called martin. they said he wouldn't like it." "martin wouldn't, eh?" ellen gave a disagreeable chuckle. "they're right there. martin won't like it. they'll be lucky if he doesn't flay them alive for' doin' it." "but why, aunt ellen? why?" inquired lucy. "because the howes hate us, root an' branch; because they've injured an' insulted us for generations, an' are keepin' right on injurin' an' insultin' us. that's why!" ellen's wrath, which had waned a little, again rose to a white heat. "because they'd go any length to do us harm--every one of 'em." again the grip on lucy's arm tightened painfully. dragging the girl to the window the old woman cried: "do you see that pile of stones over there? that's the wall the howes built years an' years ago--built because of the grudge they bore the websters, likely. did you ever look on such an eyesore?" "why don't they fix it?" asked lucy naively. "yes, why don't they? you may well ask that!" returned ellen with scathing bitterness. "why don't they? because they're too mean an' stingy--that's why. because they think that by lettin' it go to ruin an' makin' my place look like a dump heap, they can drive me to spend my money to do it, so'st they can save theirs. because they're such lyin', deceitful critters they actually pretend the wall don't belong to 'em anyhow--that it's mine! _mine!_ that's why. so they leave it there, lookin' like the devil's own playground, hopin' that some day i'll get so sick of seem' it that way that i'll build it up." she choked for breath. "but i shan't," she went on. "i never shall, long's i live. if i was to be drawn an' quartered i wouldn't do it. no. if martin howe thinks he's the only person in the world who can hold out for a principle, he's mistaken. i've got a will that can match his, match his an' beat it, too, an' he'll learn it sometime. i can put up with seein' that wall just as long as he can." a light of understanding began to break in on lucy's bewilderment. "i don't see----" she began, then halted before her aunt's stern gaze. "you don't see what? out with it." "i don't see why you couldn't build it up together." "you don't!" sneered ellen contemptuously, "you'd help those howes fix their wall, i s'pose, same's you'd go an' buy their eggs." the withering intonation of the words echoed through the room. "i'm goin' to tell you right now, lucy webster, that if you have a spark of pride, an atom of regard for your father, your grandfather, or your great-grandfather, you'll put all such notions as that plumb out of your head. you'll have no dealin's with the howes. you'll just hate 'em as your folks have always hated 'em; an' you'll vow from now on that if heaven ever gives you the chance you'll get even with 'em." the tense voice ceased. through the stillness the whispers of the great elm on the lawn could be heard blending with the song of a vesper sparrow. already twilight had folded the valley in mystery until only the peaks of the hills were tipped with light. contrasted with the peace of the night, man's strivings seemed peculiarly out of harmony. but to ellen's heart the scene brought no tranquillity. "now you know what your duty is," she concluded, with a final vindictive outburst. "if it is my duty," the girl answered, her eyes still upon the distant landscape. "of course it's your duty. there ain't no question about that." "each of us must settle with his own conscience what his duty is," lucy observed slowly. "not if it's been handed down to him," put in ellen quickly. "i guess your duty's chalked out for you pretty plain; an' i reckon if you're any sort of a webster you'll do it an' not go branchin' off followin' notions of your own--not after all these years." "i don't believe in keeping up traditions unless they are good ones." the older woman's lips tightened. "you mean you'd break off from what your folks thought?" "if i felt it to be right, yes." ellen drew a quick, impatient breath. "you mean to say you'd set yourself up as knowin' mor'n your people before you did?" "i believe each generation grows wiser, or ought to--wiser and kinder." "kindness has nothin' to do with it." "yes, it has," persisted lucy softly. "unless we become more kind, how is the world ever to become better?" "pish!" ejaculated ellen. "now see here. you ain't comin' into my house to preach to me. i'm older'n you, an' i know without bein' told what i want to do. so long's you stay under this roof you'll behave like a webster--that's all i've got to say. if you ain't a-goin' to be a webster an' prefer to disgrace your kin, the sooner you get out the better." "very well. i can go." there was no bravado in the assertion. had there been, ellen would not have felt so much alarmed. it was the fearless sincerity of the remark that frightened her. she had not intended to force a crisis. she had calculated that her bullying tone would cow rather than antagonize her niece. the last result on which she had reckoned was defiance. instantly her crafty mind recognized that she must conciliate unless she would lose this valuable helper whose toil could be secured without expense. "of course i don't mean--i wouldn't want you should go away," she hastened to declare. "i'm just anxious for you to do--well--what's right," she concluded lamely. lucy saw her advantage. "now, aunt ellen, we may as well settle this right now," she asserted. "i am quite willing to go back to arizona any time you say the word. i have no desire to remain where i am not wanted. but so long as i do stay here, i must be the one to decide what it is right for me to do. remember, i am not a child. i have a conscience as well as you, and i am old enough to use it." ellen did not speak. she realized that greek had met greek and in the combat of wills she was vanquished. nevertheless, she was not generous enough to own defeat. "s'pose we don't talk about it any more," she replied diplomatically. she was retreating toward the door, still smarting under the knowledge of having been vanquished, when her eye fell upon the box of eggs, which, in her excitement, she had forgotten was in her hand. a malicious gleam lighted her face. a second afterward there was a violent crash in the kitchen. "the eggs!" lucy heard her cry. "i've dropped 'em." the eggs had indeed been dropped,--dropped with such a force that even the cooperation of all the king's horses and all the king's men would have been useless. when lucy reached her side ellen was bending over the wreck on the floor, a sly smile on her lips. "they're gone, every one of 'em," she announced with feigned regret. "but it ain't any matter. you can have all, the eggs you want anytime you want 'em. i ain't so poverty-stricken that we can't have eggs--even if they are sixty-six cents a dozen." she got a cloth and began to wipe up the unsightly mass at her feet. "i paid sixty-seven cents for those," lucy said. "sixty-seven cents! how long have the howes been gettin' sixty-seven cents for their eggs, i'd like to know?" ellen demanded, springing into an upright position. "i couldn't say. jane told me that was the regular market price." "why didn't i know it?" her aunt burst out. "they must 'a' gone up a cent, an' i sellin' mine at the store for sixty-six! ain't it just like that meachin' elias barnes to do me out of a penny a dozen, the skinflint." in the face of the present issue, the battle between howe and webster was forgotten. to be cheated out of a cent by elias barnes and at the same time to have her business ability surpassed by that of martin howe! no indignity could have equaled it. "well, i'll get even with elias," she blustered. "i'm fattening some hogs for him, an' i'll tuck what i've lost on the eggs right on to 'em. he shall pay that cent one way or 'nother 'fore he gets through. he needs to think to beat me. sixty-seven cents, and i never knowin' it!" then the words brought still another bitter possibility to the woman's mind. "you didn't mention to the howes i was gettin' only sixty-six cents a dozen for eggs, did you?" she asked, wheeling on lucy. "no, i didn't speak of price." "that's good," said her aunt, slightly mollified. "at least martin howe can't go crowin' over me--that is, unless elias barnes tells him. 'twould be exactly like elias to do it. he is just that mean." although ellen did not own it, lucy knew that had the case been reversed, she would have been the first to crow unhesitatingly not only over elias but over martin. pityingly she looked at the old woman. "if you ever get the chance to speak to those howe women again," her aunt concluded, with affected nonchalance, "you might tell 'em we never used their eggs. you could say i smashed 'em. i'd like martin howe to know it." chapter vi ellen encounters an enigma nevertheless, in spite of this bellicose admonition, lucy had no opportunity during the next few weeks to deliver to the howes her aunt's message, for ellen, feeling that she was now blessed with an able assistant whose time must not be wasted, seized upon the mild may weather to deluge her home from top to bottom with soapsuds, sapolio, and fresh paint. from morning until night lucy worked, scrubbing and scouring, brushing and beating. as she toiled up the stairs, carrying pails of steaming water, she caught through the windows glimpses of the valley, its verdant depths threaded by the river's silvery windings. the heavens had never been bluer. everywhere gladness was in the air, and the thrill of it filled the girl with longing to be in the heart of its magic. ellen, however, was entirely oblivious to the miracle taking place in the universe about her. the glory of the awakening season, with its hosts of unfurling leaves and opening buds, was nothing to her. had she not been dependent on the sun to make her garden grow, she would probably never have lifted her face to its golden rays. only as nature furthered her projects did she acknowledge its presence. the howes seemed, to some extent at least, to share this disregard for the out-of-door world, for like ellen they, too, surrendered themselves to a household upheaval quite as merciless as that of the websters. no sooner would martin disappear with horse and plow in the direction of the garden than the three sisters could be seen feverishly dragging mattresses on to the piazza roof for a sunning; shaking blankets; and beating rugs. now and then, when the sound of their measured blows reached ellen's ears, she would leap to close the windows on the side of the house where there was danger of the howe germs drifting in and polluting the webster lares and penates. it was one day after being thus impelled that lucy was surprised to see her linger and stare intently. "what are them women a-doin'?" she exclaimed at last. "do come here, lucy." discarding her mop, the girl crossed the room. through the gaps in the trees mary, eliza, and jane howe were plainly visible. they had shovels in their hands and were struggling with the turf at the foot of the big linden tree beside the house. "they seem to be digging a hole," lucy said, after watching a moment. "what for, do you suppose?" ellen fidgeted at the casement for a short time and then disappeared, only to return with an old pair of field glasses. adjusting them to her eyes, she stared at her neighbors with unconcealed curiosity. "they _are_ diggin' a hole," she declared presently. "a good deep one; whatever can they be settin' out to do?" for an interval she looked on with interest. then suddenly she exclaimed in an excited voice: "they're goin' to bury somethin'! my land! what do you s'pose it is? somethin' all done up in a bag!" she forced the binoculars into lucy's hand. "you look and see if you can't make out." lucy scanned the scene with mild inquisitiveness. "they have a canvas sack," she said, "and evidently they are trying to bury it." she handed the glass back to ellen. "they act as if they were in an almighty hurry," observed ellen, as she looked. "they keep watchin' to see if anybody's comin'. likely they're afraid martin will catch 'em. i wish he would. what do you reckon is in that bag? i'd give worlds to know." "i can't imagine." lucy had returned to her cleaning and was busy wringing out the mop. the doings of the women next door failed to interest her. but not so ellen who, tense with speculation, hovered at the casement. "they've got the hole dug," she announced triumphantly, "an' they're lowerin' the bag into it. it must be heavy 'cause they seem to be havin' a hard time lettin' it down in. they act as if they were afraid to touch the thing. what can it be?" she repeated for the twentieth time. "i don't know," lucy replied wearily. she was tired and hungry and wished ellen would abandon spying on her neighbors and give her a helping hand. "yes," commented ellen from the window, "those women handle that bag as if they had a chiny image in it. i can't for the life of me figger out what can be in it." for an interval there was silence. lucy set the mop and pail out in the hall and began to clean the paint. "they've started to cover it up," chronicled ellen, after a pause. "they're shovelin' in the dirt--at least mary and jane are; eliza's stopped helpin' 'em an' gone to see if anybody's comin'. there's somethin' dretful queer about it all. don't you think so?" "i don't know," answered lucy a trifle impatiently. again ellen studied the distance. "look!" she cried an instant later. "look! 'liza's callin' an' motionin' to 'em. they're droppin' their shovels and runnin' for the house like a lot of scared sheep. probably martin's comin', an' they don't want him to catch 'em. there! what did i tell you? it _is_ martin. i can see him drivin' over the hill. watch 'em skitter!" lured more by the desire to see martin than to observe his panic-stricken sisters, lucy went to the window. it was even as ellen had said. there were the retreating forms of the three female howes disappearing in at the side door; and there was martin, his tall figure looming in sight at the heels of his bay mare. "he's a fine looking man, isn't he?" lucy remarked with thoughtless impulsiveness. "what!" "i say he is fine looking," repeated the girl. "what broad shoulders he has, and how magnificently he carries his head!" "you call that fine looking, do you?" sniffed her aunt. "yes. don't you?" "martin howe ain't my style of man." "but he's so strong and splendid!" "i never saw a splendid howe yet," was ellen's icy retort. she turned from the window, took up a cloth, and went to scrubbing the paint viciously. lucy, realizing the tactlessness of her observation, tried by light, good-humored chatter to efface its memory; but all attempts to blot it from her aunt's mind were useless, and the relations between the two women remained strained for the rest of the day. so strained and uncomfortable were they that lucy, wearied out by her hard work, was only too glad to bid ellen good night and seek her own room early. through its windows long shafts of moonlight fell across the floor, flecking it with jagged, grotesque images of the trees outside. once alone, she did not immediately start to undress, but lingered thoughtfully looking out into the night. every muscle in her body ached, and in her heart was a sinking loneliness. for the first time since her arrival at sefton falls she surrendered herself to the distaste she felt toward her aunt and her surroundings. could she stay, she asked herself. the narrowness of the environment raised an issue vital enough; nevertheless, grave as it was, it sank into insignificance when weighed against the vastly more potent factor of ellen's personality. the girl had come east with the intention of nursing and caring for her father's sister. she felt he would have wished her to come; and casting every other inclination aside, she had obeyed what seemed to her the voice of duty. but she had been misled, disappointed. none of her father's kindliness lurked in this embittered, malicious-matured woman, toward whom, although bound by ties of blood, she felt neither respect nor affection. nor did her aunt need her. after all, was it her duty to remain and waste her youth to no purpose? could she face the horror of a stretch of years that held in them no human sympathy? what should she do? what ought she to do? should she go or stay? as she lingered in the darkness, her weary head heavy against the window frame, she wrestled with the future and conscientiously tried to reach some conclusion. she was eager to do what was right. had ellen been sick or feeble, as she had been led to suppose, she would not have questioned leaving her, querulous and tyrannical though she was. but this woman was all-sufficient and needed no one. why should she bury her life in this cruel, rancorous atmosphere? would her own sweetness survive the daily companionship of such a person; rather, dominated by ellen's powerful character, might she not become inoculated by its poison and herself harden into a being as merciless and self-centered? so deep was her reverie that she did not hear the tap upon the door. a second afterward the knob turned softly and her aunt entered. "you ain't in bed?" she inquired in a high-pitched whisper. "no." "that's lucky, i hoped you wouldn't be. come in my room quick. i want you should see what the howes are doin'. they're out fussin' again over that thing they buried this afternoon." ellen was obviously excited. sure enough! from the window that looked toward the howe farm, three figures could be seen in the silvery light, grouped together beneath the old linden. they were armed, as before, with shovels, and all of them were digging. "it doesn't look as if they were filling in the hole," lucy remarked, interested in spite of herself. "they seem to be digging up what they buried." "that's just what i thought," responded ellen. "yes, they are shoveling the dirt out again," declared the girl. for quite a while the two stood watching the frenzied movements of their neighbors. then ellen gave a cry. "see! see!" she ejaculated. "they're histin' the bag out. did you ever see such doin's? i'd give my soul to know what they're up to. nothin' good, you may be sure of that--or they wouldn't take the dead of night to do it. there, they've got the thing out now, and two of 'em are tugging it off between 'em. the other one's fillin' in the hole and trampin' down the earth. seem's if i'd simply have to go over there an' find out what it's all about!" lucy smiled at her aunt's exasperated tone. "why don't you?" she asked mischievously. ellen gave a short laugh. "the only way the howes will ever get me on their land will be to chloroform me," said she grimly. "but i should like to know before i go to bed what they've been doin'. i s'pose it's no use to set up any longer, though, tryin' to figure it out. we'd both better go to sleep. good night." "good night," lucy returned. only too glad to escape, she hurried back to her own room, slipped out of her clothes, and was soon lost in heavy, dreamless slumber. the day had been a strenuous one, and she was very tired, so tired that she might not have been awakened promptly had she not stirred in her sleep and become dimly conscious of a flood of radiance upon her pillow. the morning sunshine was brilliant in the chamber, and standing in its circle of gold she beheld ellen. "it's six o'clock," she announced breathlessly, "an' i want you should get right up. martin howe's gone off to the village in his wagon, an' i can't help a-thinkin' that now he's out of the way them sisters of his will start doin' somethin' more with that bag." "what bag?" yawned lucy sleepily. "why, the bag they were buryin' last night." "oh, yes." slowly the girl's latent faculties aroused themselves. "you hurry up and dress while i go and watch," panted ellen. "be quick's you can, or we may miss somethin'." she went out, closing the door; but in a few moments her niece heard her shrill call: "they're comin' out with it! what'd i tell you? two of 'em have got it, carryin' it across the lawn. ain't you 'most dressed?" "yes, i'm coming." fastening her belt as she went, lucy hurried to her aunt's side. amid the sparkling, dew-kissed glory of early morning, she could plainly see the three howes making their way through the wet grass in the direction of their pasture. "bless me! if they don't mean to sink it in the brook!" whispered ellen. "oh, i never can stand this. i've got to foller 'em an' find out what they're doin'." "you wouldn't!" exclaimed lucy in dismay. "indeed i would," her aunt retorted. "i'd go to any length to see what's in that bag. if they were younger----" she broke off abruptly. "anyhow, it's somethin' they're ashamed of, i'm certain of that. they couldn't 'a' murdered anybody, i s'pose. bad's i hate 'em, i'd hardly think they're that wicked. still what can it be?" "i can't imagine." "well, i'm goin' to track 'em down, anyhow," ellen announced. "ain't you comin'?" "no." to spy on the actions of others did not appeal to the younger woman's honest mind. "you can get breakfast while i'm gone then," ellen said, catching up her coat, "and if i don't come back pretty soon, you go ahead and eat yours. i'd a thousand times rather ferret out what those howes are tryin' to bury than eat. i'd be willin' to starve to do it." chapter vii the unraveling of the mystery left to herself lucy stood for an instant watching her aunt's resolute figure make its way under the fringe of lilacs that bordered the driveway. then she turned her attention to preparing breakfast, and the howes and their mysterious doings were forgotten. in the meantime ellen walked on, skirting the shelter of the hedge until she came into the lee of a clump of elder bushes growing along the margin of the brook at the juncture of the howe and webster land. here she secreted herself and waited. the brook was quite deep at this point and now, swollen by the snows that had recently melted on the hillsides, purled its path down to the valley in a series of cascades that rippled, foamed, and tinkled merrily. as she stood concealed beside it, its laughter so outrivaled every other sound that she had difficulty in discerning the howes' approaching tread, and it was not until the distinct crackle of underbrush reached her ear that she became aware they were approaching. she peered through the bushes. yes, there they were, all three of them; and there, firm in their grasp, was the mysterious bag. it was not large, but apparently it was heavy, and they handled it with extreme care. "let's put it down," puffed mary, who was flushed and heated, "an' look for a good deep place. ain't you tired, 'liza?" "i ain't so tired as hot," eliza answered. "warn't it just providential martin took it into his head to go to the village this mornin'? i can't but think of it." "it was the luckiest thing i ever knew," assented mary. "i don't know what we'd 'a' done with this thing round the house another day. i'd 'a' gone clean out of my mind." "i still can't understand why we couldn't 'a' left it buried," eliza fretted. "i explained why to you last night," jane answered, speaking for the first time. "there warn't a spot on the place that martin might not go to diggin' or plowin' up sometime. he might even 'a' dug round the roots of the linden for somethin'. ain't he always fertilizin' an' irrigatin'? i didn't dare leave the bag there. if he'd 'a' gone stickin' a pick or a shovel into it sudden----" "i see," interrupted eliza. "'twas stupid of me not to understand before. 'course that wouldn't do. yes, i guess you were right. there ain't much to do but sink it in the brook. would you 'a' dreamed there could be anything in the world so hard to get rid of? all i've got to say is i hope neither martin nor old miss webster finds it. what do you s'pose they'd say?" "i wouldn't want martin to come on to it unexpected. 'twould worry me to death." eliza shuddered. "but you don't care about old miss webster," jane observed with a laugh. "i never wished miss webster ill, goodness knows that," returned eliza gravely. "none of us ever did 'cept martin, an' he's got no business to. i s'pose he'd like nothin' better than to have her run across this thing. you don't s'pose there's any danger that she will, do you, jane?" "danger of her findin' it?" "no. i mean danger of her gettin' hurt with it," explained eliza timidly. "mercy, no. how could it harm her if it was wet?" "i dunno," whimpered eliza. "i'm so scat of such things." "well, it's certainly made us trouble enough!" put in mary, with a sigh. "i've felt like a criminal ever since the thing came to light. it's seemed as if we'd never get rid of it." jane smiled. "i know it," she said. "who'd 'a' believed 'twould be so hard. when i think what we've been through tryin' to make way with it, i wonder folks ever are wicked. it's so much trouble. 'tain't half as easy as it looks. you've got to have your wits about you every second. this affair's taught me that. ain't i been all over the face of the earth tryin' to find a safe place to hide this pesky bag! first i tried the mountain. then i was afraid the woodcutters might find it, so i had to cart it home again. then it come to me to drive down to the river and dump it in. anybody'd have said that was simple enough. but halfway there, i met elias barnes walkin' to the village, an' he asked for a ride. i s'pose he couldn't see why i couldn't take him in; i had an empty seat an' had often done it before, so i had to. but when he started lightin' up his pipe----" "what did you do, jane?" cried mary. "i guess i nearly screamed," answered jane, laughing. "he looked some surprised; anyhow, i told him i just remembered somethin' i'd left behind, an' i drew up an' put him down quicker'n chain lightnin'. then i turned round and drove off lickety-split for home, leaving him stock still in the middle of the road starin' after me." "you showed good nerve, jane, i'll say that," mary declared with open admiration. "now if it had been me, i'd 'a' just given the whole thing away. i ain't no good at thinkin' quick." "well, we ain't got to think about it any more, thank goodness," jane exclaimed, rising from the grass and laying a hand on the bag. "let's put an end to the whole thing now and go home. take a holt of the other end, and we'll flop it in." "wait!" eliza protested, seized by a sudden idea. "well." "you don't s'pose there'll be any danger 'bout the cows drinkin' here, do you?" eliza inquired anxiously. "they do drink here, you know, and in the summer, when the water's low, they often wade right in. if they was to----" she stopped. "i never thought of that," jane said in a discouraged tone. "oh, my land, what are we going to do with it?" she let the bag sink to the ground and, straightening herself up, confronted her sisters. "we've simply got to get it off our hands before martin gets back." "oh, yes, yes!" pleaded mary, affrighted. "do something with it, jane, no matter what. i never could stand it to have it carted back to the house and hidden there. 'tain't safe. besides, in these days of german spies, 'twould be an awful thing to be found on us. s'pose the house was to be searched. we never could make the police believe how we came to have it. they might take us and shut us all up in prison--martin and all." her voice shook with terror. "i guess they wouldn't go arrestin' us, mary," declared jane soothingly. "still, i agree with you that it's just as well for us to be clear of such a thing; let me think." while she stood meditating her two sisters watched her with perturbed faces. "ellen webster's cows don't come up to this end of the pasture much, do they?" she remarked at last. "no. leastways i've never seen 'em here," replied mary. "then why don't we sink the bag just across the wall?" "on her land?" gasped eliza. "it wouldn't do any harm," argued jane. "she never comes up here, nor her cows nor horses either. we'll climb right over and dump the thing in. that'll settle martin's ever finding it, an' everythin'." "but s'pose----" eliza objected once more. "oh, 'liza, we can't stay here s'posin' all day!" jane declared decisively. "we got to put this bag somewheres, an' there ain't any spot that ain't got some out about it. we must take a chance on the best one we can find." "i'm frightened to death!" wailed eliza. "so'm i!" mary echoed. "oh, jane!" "no matter. pull yourself together," ordered jane sharply. "you two take a hold of the bag an' bring it along, while i climb the wall." ellen, stooping behind the elderberry bushes, held her breath. she saw jane clamber over the barrier and help mary and eliza to mount it and lower the sack into her hands; then, just when the three invaders were all ready to drop their mysterious gray burden into the stream, she stepped noiselessly into the open and said loudly: "what you doin' in my brook?" a cry rose from the two more timorous howes, and even jane paled a little. "what are you sinkin' in my brook?" repeated ellen. no answer came. angered by their silence, the woman stepped nearer. "what you got in that bag?" she demanded sternly. still there was no reply. "you ain't got nothin' good in it, i'll be bound," went on the tormentor. "if you had, you wouldn't be so mighty anxious to get rid of it. come now, long's you're intendin' to heave it into the water on my side of the wall, s'pose you let me have a peep inside it." striding forward, she seized a corner of the canvas roughly in her hand. there was a scream from the three howes. "don't touch it!" "keep away!" "you'd better leave it be, miss webster," jane said in a warning voice. "it's gunpowder." "gunpowder!" repeated ellen. "yes." "an' what, may i ask, are you doin' with a bag of gunpowder in my brook? plannin' to blow up my cows, i reckon." "no! no, indeed we're not!" protested mary. "we wouldn't hurt your cows for anything, miss webster," put in eliza. "humph! you wouldn't? still you don't hesitate to dam my brook up with enough gunpowder to blow all my cattle higher'n a kite." "we were only tryin' to----" began mary; but jane swept her aside. "hush, mary," she said. "you an' 'liza keep still an' let me do the talkin'." drawing herself to her full height she faced ellen's evil smile. "the day before yesterday, when we were cleanin' the attic, we found a little door under the eaves that we'd never come across before," she began desperately. "we discovered it when we were movin' out a big chest that's always stood there. we were sweepin' behind all the trunks an' things, an' long's we were, we decided to sweep behind that. 'twas then we spied the door. of course we were curious to know where it went to, an' so we pried it open, an' inside we found this bag together with an old rusty rifle. it must 'a' been there years, judgin' from the dust an' cobwebs collected on it. we were pretty scared of the gun," declared jane, smiling reminiscently, "but we were scared a good sight worse when after draggin' the bag out we saw 'twas marked _gunpowder._" she waited an instant. "we didn't know what to do with it," she went on, speaking more hesitatingly, "because you see my brother doesn't like us to turn the house upside-down with cleanin'; he hates havin' things disturbed; an' we were afraid he would be put out to find what we'd done. so we decided to wait till some time when he wasn't round an' make way with it." jane caught her breath. "we've tried lots of ways," she confessed wearily, "but none of 'em seemed to work. first i thought of hidin' it up near pine ridge, but i was afraid some woodsman might happen on it; then i started to take it down to the river in our wagon; but elias barnes would get in an' light his pipe, and i was so afraid a spark from it might----" "i wish it had!" interpolated ellen webster with fervor. "in order to get rid of him i had to turn round an' come back," narrated jane, paying no heed to the interruption. "then we tried to bury it, but afterward we dug it up for fear martin might plow it up sometime an' get----" "'twould 'a' been an almighty good joke if he had!" again piped ellen. "so there didn't seem to be any other way," concluded jane with dignity, "but to drop it in the brook; an', as you never seemed to use this end of your pasture, we decided to sink it here." the narrative was true, every word of it. ellen knew that. no one who looked into jane howe's frank face could have doubted the story. but ellen was an ungenerous enemy who saw in the present happening an opportunity to put a screw upon those who had been thus compelled to throw themselves upon her mercy. "so! that's how you lie out of it, is it?" she cried scornfully. "an' you expect me to believe a yarn like that! do you s'pose i don't know this country's at war, an' that the authorities are on the lookout for folks concealin' gunpowder in their houses? how do i know you weren't goin' to make the stuff into bombs, or carry it somewheres an' blow up somethin' or other with it?" "indeed, oh, indeed we weren't," mary cried, thoroughly alarmed. "oh, what shall we do!" eliza sobbed, wringing her hands. "nonsense," cut in jane. "you know perfectly well, miss webster, we ain't no german plotters. i'm sorry----" "you're sorry i caught you before you had a chance to drop that bag in my brook," said ellen, a twinkle in her eye. "i'll bet you are. have you thought that i can have you arrested for trespassing on my land?" "oh, jane!" the horrified voices of mary and jane greeted with concern this new danger. ellen was exulting in her triumph. "you can, of course, have us arrested if you wish to," said jane. "well, i ain't a-goin' to--at least i ain't, on one condition. an' i'll promise not to give you over to the police as spies, neither, if you do as i say." "what do you want us to do?" inquired mary and eliza breathlessly. jane was silent. "mebbe _you'd_ like to know the condition," sneered the old woman, addressing jane. she waited for a reply, but none came. ellen looked baffled. "you'd better accept the chance i give you to buy yourself off," she said. "that is my affair." "do, jane! do promise," begged mary and eliza. "please do, for our sakes." "very well," jane returned. "but i only do it to protect my sisters. what is the condition?" with head thrown back she faced ellen coldly. "the condition is that you take that bag of gunpowder back home to your brother martin an' tell him ellen webster sent it to him with her compliments. he can use it blastin' out stones to fix up his stone wall." then, with a taunting laugh, the woman turned and without more adieu disappeared in the direction of the webster homestead, leaving a speechless trio of chagrined howes behind her. chapter viii when the cat's away may came and went, and june, rich in days of splendor, made its advent, and still lucy caught only fleeting glimpses of the howes. martin, to be sure, was daily abroad, toiling with the zest of an amazon in garden and hay-field. against the homely background of stubble or brown earth, his sturdy form stood out with the beauty of a millet painting. but his sisters held themselves aloof, avoiding all possibility of contact with their neighbors. doubtless the encounter with ellen had left its scar; for against their will they had been compelled to take up the sack of powder and tug it homeward; and then, in compliance with their promise, deliver it over to martin who had first ridiculed their adventure; then berated them; and in the end set the explosive off so near the webster border line that its defiant boom had rattled every pane of glass in the old house. ellen had chuckled at this spirited climax to the episode. it was like martin, she said. but lucy regretted the whole affair and found difficulty in applauding her aunt's dramatic imitation of the affrighted howes and their final ignominious retreat. of course it was only to be expected that the women next door should resent the incident and that they should include her, innocent though she was, in this resentment. nevertheless, it was a pity that the avenue to further friendly advances between herself and them should be so summarily closed. lucy was very lonely. having been the center of a large and noisy household and received a disproportionate degree of homage from her father's employees, the transition from sovereign to slave was overwhelming. she did not, however, rebel at the labor her new environment entailed, but she did chafe beneath its slavery. nevertheless, her captivity, much as it irked her, was of only trivial importance when compared with the greater evil of being completely isolated from all sympathetic companionship. between herself and her aunt there existed such an utter lack of unity of principle that the chasm thereby created was one which she saw with despair it would never be possible to bridge. had the gulf been merely one of tastes and inclinations, it would not have been so hopeless. but to realize they had no standards in common and that the only tie that bound them together was the frail thread of kinship was a disheartening outlook indeed. it was true that as time went on this link strengthened, for ellen developed a brusque liking for her niece, even a shamefaced and unacknowledged respect. notwithstanding this, however, the fundamentals that guided the actions of the two remained as divergent as before, and beyond discussions concerning garden and home, a few anecdotes relating to the past, and a crisp and not too delicate jest when the elder woman was in the humor, their intercourse glanced merely along the shallows. over and over, when alone, lucy asked herself why she stayed on at sefton falls to sacrifice her life on the altar of family loyalty. was not her youth being spent to glorify an empty fetish which brought to no one any real good? but the query always brought her back to the facts of her aunt's friendlessness and infirmity. for defy time as she would, ellen was old and was rapidly becoming older. whether with the arrival of a younger and more energetic person she was voluntarily relinquishing her hold on her customary tasks, or whether a sudden collapse of her vitality forced her to do so, lucy could not determine; nevertheless, it was perfectly apparent that she daily attacked her duties more laggingly and complained less loudly when things were left undone. when, however, lucy tried to supplement her diminishing strength by offers of aid, ellen was quick to resent the imputation that she was any less robust than she had been in the past, and in consequence the girl confronted the delicate problem of trying to help without appearing to do so. parallel with this lessening of physical zeal ran an exaggerated nervous irritability very hard to bear. beneath the lash of her aunt's cruel tongue lucy often writhed, quivered, and sometimes wept; but she struggled to keep her hold on her patience. ellen was old, she told herself, and the self-centered life she had led had embittered her. moreover, she was approaching the termination of her days, and to a nature like hers the realization that there was no escape from her final surrender to death filled her with impotent rage. she had always conquered; but now something loomed in her path which it was futile and childish to seek to defy. therefore, difficult as was lucy's present existence, she put behind her all temptation to desert this solitary woman and leave her to die alone. was not ellen her father's sister, and would he not wish his daughter to be loyal to the trust it had fallen to her to fulfill? was she not, as a webster, in honor bound to do so? in the meantime, as if to intensify this sense of family obligation, lucy discovered that she was acquiring a growing affection for the home which for generations had been the property of her ancestors. the substantial mansion, with its colonial doorways surmounted by spreading fans of glass, its multi-paned windows and its great square chimney, must once have breathed the very essence of hospitality, and it did so still, even though closed blinds and barred entrances combined to repress its original spirit. already the giant elm before the door had for her a significance quite different from that of any other tree; so, too, had the valley with its shifting lights. she loved the music of the brook, the rock-pierced pasture land, the minarets of the spruces that crowned the hills. the faintly definable mountains, blue against the far-off sky, endeared themselves to her heart, weakening her allegiance to the barren country of her birth and binding her to this other home by the magic of their enchantment. here was the spot where her forefathers had lived and toiled. here were the orchards they had planted, the fields they had tilled, the streams they had fished, the hills they had climbed; and here was the house built by their hands, the chairs in which they had rested, the beds in which they had slept. her former life had contained none of these elements of permanence. on the contrary, much of the time she had been a nomad, the mining settlements that gave her shelter being frankly regarded as temporary halting places to be abandoned whenever their usefulness should become exhausted. but here, with the everlasting hills as a foundation, was a home that had been and should be. tradition breathed from the very soil, and lucy's veneration for the past was deep-rooted. therefore, despite her aunt's acrimonious disposition, the opposition of their ideals, despite drudgery and loneliness, she stayed on, praying each day for increased patience and struggling to magnify every trace of virtue she could discover in ellen. now that the planting was done, the weeding well in hand, the house-cleaning finished, the girl contrived to so systematize her work that she should have intervals of leisure to escape into the sunshine and, beneath the vastness of the arching heaven, forget for the time being at least all that was rasping and petty. it was absurd to be lonely when on every hand nature's voices spoke with understanding. was she joyous? the birds caroled, the leaves danced, the brook sang. was she sad? the whisper of the great pines brought peace and balm to her spirit. it was in search of this sympathy that she had set forth along the highway to-day. the late afternoon was a poem of mystic clouds and mysterious shadows. far off against the distant horizon, mountains veiled in mists lifted majestic peaks into the air, their summits lost amid swiftly traveling masses of whiteness; rifts of purple haze lengthened over the valley; and the fields, dotted with haycocks, breathed forth the perfume of drying grass. as lucy walked along she began singing softly to herself. her day's work was done; and her aunt, who had driven with tony to bring home a load of lumber from the sawmill, would not return until late in the evening. six delicious hours were her own to be spent in whatever manner her fancy pleased. it was an unheard-of freedom. never since she had come to sefton falls had she known such a long stretch of liberty. what wonder that she swung along with feet scarce touching the earth! a redwing called from the bracken bordering the brook, and the girl called back, trying to mimic its glad note. she snatched a flower from the roadside and tucked it in her hair; she laughed audaciously into the golden face of the sun. her exuberance was mounting to ecstasy when she rounded a curve and suddenly, without warning, came face to face with jane howe. the woman was proceeding with extreme care, carrying in either hand a large and well-heaped pail of berries. before lucy thought, she stepped forward and exclaimed impulsively: "do let me help you! they must be dreadfully heavy." "'tain't so much that they're heavy," jane answered, smiling, "as that they're full. i'm afraid i'll spill some." "give me one pail." "do you really mean it?" "of course. i'd be glad to take it." "all right," replied jane simply. "i'm sure i'd be only too thankful if you would. after trampin' miles to pick raspberries, you ain't so keen on losin' 'em when you're within sight of home." "indeed you're not," lucy assented. "these are beauties. where did you go for them?" "most up to the pine ridge you see yonder. i took my lunch an' have been gone since mornin'." "how i wish i could have gone with you!" "would you have liked to?" queried jane incredulously. "then i wish you might have. it was just the sort of a day to walk. i don't s'pose, though, your aunt would have spared you for an all-day picnic." there was a hint of scorn in the words. "i don't often have time to go far from the house," replied lucy gently, ignoring miss howe's challenge. "there is so much to do." "so there is," agreed jane hastily. "certainly we manage to keep busy all the time. when it ain't one thing, it's another. there never seems to be any end to it. but i did steal off to-day. the berries were really an excuse. of course we can make 'em into jam. still, what i really wanted was to get out in the air." "i've stolen off too," said lucy, with a smile. "my aunt and tony have gone over to the crossing for lumber and won't be back until dark, so i am having a holiday." jane was silent a moment. "why shouldn't you come over and have tea with us then?" she asked abruptly. "we're all alone, too. my brother's gone to the county fair an' ain't comin' back 'til to-morrow." lucy's eyes lighted with pleasure. "you're very kind," she cried, a tremor of happiness in her tone. "i'd love to come." they walked along, balancing their burden of berries and chatting of garden, weather, and housework. as they turned in at the howe gate, jane motioned proudly toward three rows of flourishing vines that were clambering up a network of sustaining brush. "those are our sweet peas," she remarked. "the first row is mary's; they're white. then come eliza's--pink ones. mine are purple. martin won't plant his over here. he has 'em longside of the barn, an' they're all colors mixed together. we don't like 'em that way, but he does. he's awful fond of flowers, an' he has great luck with 'em, too. he seems to have a great way with flowers. but he never cuts one blossom he raises. ain't that queer? he says he likes to see 'em growin'." they were nearing the house. "i reckon mary an' 'liza will be surprised enough to have me come bringin' you home," observed jane a trifle consciously. "we ain't done much neighboring, have we?" "no," returned lucy quickly, "and i've been sorry. it seems a pity we shouldn't be friends even if----" she stopped, embarrassed. "even if your aunt an' martin do act like a pair of fools," interrupted jane. "senseless, ain't it! besides, it ain't christian livin' at odds with people. i never did approve of it." "i'm sure i don't." jane nodded. "we imagined you were like that," she said. "i told mary an' 'liza so the day you come for the eggs. 'she ain't like her aunt,' i says to mary, 'not a mite; an' you can be pretty sure she won't be in sympathy with all this squabblin' an' back-bitin'.'" "indeed i'm not." "we ain't either, not one of us. we'd like nothin' better'n to be neighborly an' run in. it's the only decent way of doin' when folks live side by side. but martin wouldn't listen to our doin' it, even if your aunt would--which i know she wouldn't. he's awful set against the websters." "how silly it seems!" "that's what i tell him," jane declared. "of course your aunt's an old woman, an' 'tain't surprisin' she should harbor a grudge against us. but martin's younger, an' had oughter be more forgivin'. it's nonsensical feelin' you've got to be just as sour an' crabbed as your grandfather was. i don't humor him in it--at least not more'n i have to to keep the peace. but mary an' 'liza hang on to every word martin utters. if he was to say blue was green, they'd say so too. they'd no more do a thing he wouldn't like 'em to than they'd cut off their heads. they wouldn't dare. i 'spect they'll have a spasm when they see you come walkin' in to-night." "maybe i ought not to come," lucy murmured in a disappointed voice. "yes, you ought," jane said with decision. "why should we keep up a quarrel none of us approve of? martin ain't home. it's nothin' to him." "well, if you're sure you want me," lucy laughed and dimpled. "if i hadn't wanted you, you may be pretty sure i shouldn't have asked you," retorted jane bluntly. "mary an' 'liza will likely be scat to death at first, but they'll get over it an' thaw out. don't pay no attention to 'em." jane had ascended the steps and her hand was on the latch. "i feel like a child playing truant," said lucy, a flush of excitement tinting her cheek. "you see, my aunt wouldn't like my being here any more than mar--than your brother would." "what they don't know won't hurt 'em," was jane's brief answer. "oh, i shall tell aunt ellen." "i shan't tell martin. he'd rage somethin' awful." she threw open the door. lucy saw her stiffen with resolution. "i picked up miss lucy webster on the road an' brought her home to tea!" she called from the threshold. mary and eliza were busy at the kitchen table. at the words they turned and automatically gasped the one phrase that always sprang to their lips in every emergency: "oh, jane!" "martin's away an' so's ellen webster," went on jane recklessly. "why shouldn't we do a bit of neighborin' together, now we've got the chance?" "but--but martin!" eliza managed to stammer. "he'll never be the wiser--unless you tell him," replied jane merrily. "come, miss lucy, take off your hat an' make yourself at home. supper'll soon be ready, i guess." the phrase was a fortunate one, for it brought back to the disconcerted howes the memory of their domestic prowess, a thing in which they took great pride. by nature they were hospitable, and here was a chance to exercise that long unexercised faculty. mary bustled to the stove. "yes," she answered, "the biscuits are in the oven, an' i was just makin' the tea." then, as if emboldened by jane's attitude, she added timidly: "we're real glad to see you, miss webster; don't think we ain't." "yes," eliza echoed, "we really are." the first shock of the adventure having passed, it was amazing to see with what rapidity the howe sisters increased the warmth of their welcome. from the top shelf in the pantry they brought forth the _company preserves_; fruit cake was unearthed from the big stone crock in the dining-room closet; and, as a final touch to the feast, jane beat up a foamy omelet and a prune whip. in their enjoyment they were like a group of children, an undercurrent of delight in the forbidden tinging their mirth. lucy told stories of her western life, and the three women listened as if to the tales of sir john mandeville. the hours passed, twilight deepened, night fell, but the revelers heeded it not. what a sweet, wholesome evening it was! and how kindly, lucy thought, were these simple souls whose feeling toward every breathing creature was so benign and sympathetic. contrasted with the antagonistic atmosphere of the webster house, this home was like paradise. it restored her faith in human nature and in sefton falls. every one in the place was not, then, bitter and suspicious. what a comfort to know it! in the meantime mary, having reached a pitch of hilarity almost unprecedented, was starting to tell a story when suddenly her face stiffened and, turning white, she half rose from her chair. there was a scuffling of feet in the hall and in another instant martin howe entered. "the fair wasn't worth my stayin' to," he explained from the doorsill, "so i came along home to-night instead of waitin' till to-morrow. looks to me as if i was just in time for a snack of supper." standing in the lamplight, his stern face softened by a smile and a glow of good humor, he was attractive to look upon. the firm countenance was lined, it is true, but the lines gave it strength and brought into harmony the clear eyes, resolute mouth, and well-molded chin. he had a fine smooth forehead from which his black hair, lightly sprinkled with gray, was tossed aside in picturesque abandon. health and power spoke in every curve of the lithe frame and in the boyish grace with which he moved. with his coming a hush fell upon the room. had a group of conspirators been unexpectedly confronted with their own crimes, they could not have been more abashed than were the four women seated at the table. jane was the first to recover herself. in a voice that trembled but did not falter she said courageously: "miss lucy webster's havin' tea with us, martin." there was an awkward pause. lucy, whose glance had dropped to the floor, raised her eyes appealingly to the man's face; but she found in it no answering sympathy. in the short interval it had changed from geniality to a sternness almost incredible of belief. it was hard now--merciless. perhaps, to do martin justice, he could not have spoken at that moment had he tried. this creature, with her wealth of golden hair, her radiant eyes, flashed upon his vision with the glory of a new star. she was a phenomenon hitherto unknown. no matter what her name, the simple fact of her presence would have put to flight every other thought and left him dumb. the proudly poised head, the rounded white throat, the flushed cheek with its elusive dimples, the tiny hands were all marvels unfamiliar to martin howe. could this nymph, this dryad be a product of the same planet that had given birth to mary, eliza, and jane? with no attempt to conceal his artless scrutiny, he looked, and before his ingenuous wonder lucy felt her pulse bound. "i must go home," she said, struggling to appear composed and ignoring the speechless martin as if he were in reality as many miles away as she had supposed him. "i had no idea it was so late. good night and thank you for my pleasant evening." none of the howes attempted to stay her departure, although jane followed her with feigned imperturbability to the door, remarking by way of conversation: "it's dretful dark outside, ain't it?" lucy smiled. "yes, but i don't mind." to have escaped martin howe's eyes, which continued to rest upon her, she would have plunged into a den of lions. the beating of her heart, the burning of her cheek angered and disconcerted her. jane unfastened the door. then she started back in consternation. "mercy!" she cried. "it's rainin'!" "rainin'?" eliza exclaimed. "yes, pourin'. it's an awful shower." "oh, it doesn't matter," asserted lucy, impatient to be gone. "i never mind the rain." "but this is a regular downpour. you'll get wet to your skin," jane objected. "i ain't a-goin' to let you go out in it in that thin dress. ain't we got an umbrella somewheres, 'liza?" "i dunno," eliza answered vaguely. the sudden shower and the furious tossing of the trees did not impress themselves on her dull mind. only one thought possessed her brain,--the sinking dread of the moment when lucy should be gone and martin would empty the vials of his waiting wrath on all their heads. "indeed i don't in the least need an umbrella," lucy protested. "i'll run right along. please do not bother." "you'll get wet an' be sick," mary declared, launching into the conversation at the mention of possible chills and fevers. lucy laughed unsteadily. "oh, no, i shan't. good night." she had crossed the veranda and was at the brink of the flight of steps when heavy feet came striding after her. "wait! i'm goin' with you," said a tense voice. it was martin. "thank you very much, but i really don't need anybody." "i'm goin'," repeated the man doggedly. "i don't want you to," lucy returned curtly, nettled into irritability. "likely not," observed martin with stolid determination. "i wish you wouldn't," fretted lucy angrily. "i'd much rather----" it was like a child helplessly dashing itself against a wall. martin paid no attention to her protests. with a lighted lantern in one hand and an umbrella in his other, he set forth with lucy down the driveway. overhead the trees wrenched and creaked, and above the lashings of their branches the rain could be heard beating with fury upon the tossing foliage. once in the blackness lucy stumbled and, following the instinct for self-preservation, put out her hand and caught martin's arm; then she drew her hand quickly away. they proceeded in silence until they reached the gate at the foot of the long webster driveway; then the man spoke: "'tain't fur now," he said, halting short. "i'll give you the umbrella." he held it out to her. "but you'll get drenched." "no, indeed!" "but you will," insisted lucy with spirit. "no matter." "it is matter. besides, i can't see my way to the house without the lantern. it's dark as pitch." "take 'em both, then." "of course i shan't," replied the girl indignantly. "and anyway, if i did, i couldn't carry the two in this wind. if i can't have but one, i'd rather have the lantern." "that's nonsense!" martin returned. "what use was there in my bringin' you home if you get soaked now?" "but i can't see an inch before my face without a light." "just as you say, then. here it is." holding out the lantern, he took back the umbrella. "but you certainly are not going to leave me to go up that long avenue in the rain," burst out lucy. "you said you didn't mind rain," retorted the man ironically. he stood immovable in the torrent, but the lantern glow showed his face to be working convulsively. lucy, who could not believe that in the present emergency his stubbornness would persist, waited. "i ain't comin'," he remarked half to himself with dogged determination, as if he were bolstering up some inward wavering of principle. "i ain't comin'." the touch of her hand still vibrated upon his arm, and he could feel the flutter of her dress against his body. "i ain't comin'," he repeated between his closed teeth. "very well." with dignity, lucy picked up her limp skirts, preparatory to breasting the storm. "i _can't_ go with you," he suddenly burst out. "don't you see i can't?" a wailing cry from the wind seemed to echo the pain in his voice. the girl did not answer. refusing both the light and shelter he offered her, she stepped resolutely forth into the blackness of the night. helplessly he watched her go, the lantern's rays reflecting her white gown. "i shan't bother you again, mr. howe," she called bitterly. martin made no reply but raised the lantern higher that it might brighten the rough path. unheeding him, the girl stumbled through the darkness, the rain beating down upon her. as she neared the house a faint glow flickered through the shrubbery, making it evident that her aunt had already arrived home. nervously she mounted the porch and turned to look behind her. at the foot of the drive stood martin, the lantern high in his hands. now that lucy was safely within the shelter of her own domain, her sense of humor overcame her, and with an irresistible desire to torment him, she called mischievously from her vantage ground on the veranda: "thank you so much for bringing me home, mr. howe. can't i persuade you to come in?" there was a smothered exclamation of wrath in the distance, and she saw a gleam of light precipitate itself hastily into the road, where, for a moment, it flashed along the tree trunks, then disappeared. lucy laughed. ellen was in the kitchen when she entered. "where on earth have you been?" she demanded. "i should 'a' thought you might 'a' come back in time to start the fire up an' get supper. it's awful late. was it tony you was talkin' to outside?" "no." "it warn't?" she turned a hawklike glance on her niece. "who was it?" she asked inquisitively. "mr. howe." "mr. ho---- not _martin_ howe!" lucy nodded. "yes." "martin howe here--_on my land_! what was he doin'?" "he wasn't on your land," lucy said. "he left me at the gate. he was seeing me home. i've been there to supper." "what!" never had the girl heard so many sensations crowded into one word. there was surprise, unbelief, scorn, anger. but anger predominated. "an' how long, pray tell me, have you been goin' backwards an' forrads to the howes, an' consortin' with their brother?" "only to-night." ellen looked at her niece as if, had she dared, she would have torn her in pieces. "i s'pose it never entered your head it was a mean advantage for you to take when i was gone," she said shrilly. "you wouldn't 'a' dared do it if i'd been here." "i'm not so sure." the fearless response was infuriating to ellen. "well, i'll tell you one thing," she shouted, bringing her clenched hand down on the table with such force that every dish rattled. "you ain't to repeat this night's performance! if you ain't got pride enough not to go hob-nobbin' with my enemies, i'll forbid it for good an' all--forbid it, do you hear? i ain't a-goin'----" something in the quiet dignity of the girl before her arrested her tongue. her eye traveled over the white, rain-drenched figure. then the corners of her mouth twitched and curved upward. "so martin howe saw you home, did he?" she observed sarcastically. "much good his comin' did! had you tramped ten miles you couldn't 'a' got much wetter. i guess he needs some lessons in totin' ladies round same's he does in most everything else. i always said he didn't have no manners--the puppy!" chapter ix jane makes a discovery martin howe moved home as if in a trance, the voice of lucy webster ringing in his ears. he recalled every glance, every smile, every gesture of this enslaving creature, who, like a meteorite, had shot across his firmament, rocking its serenity with the shock of her presence. how exquisite she was! how wonderful! he had never realized there were women like that. was it to be marveled at that men pursued such enchantresses to the borderland of eternity? that they were spurred to deeds of courage; abandoned home, friends, their sacred honor; even tossed their lives away for such? lucy's advent seemed to mark a new era in existence. all that went before was not; and all that came after, apart from her, mattered not. only the vivid, throbbing present was of consequence, and the intensity of it swept him out of his balance with a force that was appalling. he was not the martin howe of yesterday, nor could he ever again be that happy, emotionless being. within him warred a tumult of new sensations that seethed, flamed, maddened, consumed. the fact that they were the fires of a volcano that must forever smolder its passion out did not at first impress his consciousness. all that he knew was that lucy webster was to him what no other woman had ever been or could be; she was his ideal, his mate, his other soul; the completing element of his incomplete nature. the emptiness of his life, of which he had hitherto been only vaguely aware, now translated itself into the concrete terms of heart, mind, and sex. he had been struggling to make of himself a whole when in truth he was but a half; to construct from imperfect parts a unit; and not sensing the hopelessness of the attempt, he had reaped only failure and disappointment. how blind he had been not to understand that alone he could never hope to still loneliness, heartache, and the stirrings of his physical nature. he had lived a life in which no one shared and with which no one sympathized. his fostering instincts had lain dormant until they had reverted to the receptivity of the protected rather than serving their natural functions and making of him a protector. all the masculinity of his being had been dwarfed, stifled. now it awakened, clamoring to possess, guard, cherish, worship. what an amazing miracle it was--what a glad, transforming touch of magic! he laughed in delight! years slipped from him, and his youth surged up in all its warmth and eagerness. why, he was a boy again! a boy at the threshold of life's wonderland. he was looking open-eyed into a garden of beauty where his foot had never trod. mystic realms were there, mazes of fairy dreams, lights and colors he had never seen. at last the place of his desire was before him. this other self, this woman, lucy webster,--the name brought with it an arresting chill that fell upon the fever of his passion with the breath of a glacier. the girl was a webster! she was of the blood of those he scorned and hated; of a kin with an ancestry he had been brought up to loathe with all his soul. had he not been taught that it was his mission to thwart and humble them? had he not continually striven to do so? he must have been bewitched to have forgotten the fact for an instant. no doubt this creature with her rare beauty was a decoy brought hither to tempt him to betray his heritage. ellen webster was quite capable of formulating such a scheme and setting it in motion, if only for the cruel pleasure of seeing him ensnared in its toils. perhaps even lucy herself was an accomplice in the plot. who could tell? to be sure she appeared artless enough; but what webster was to be trusted? and were she only the innocent tool of a more designing hand it redeemed her but little for, blameless or guilty, she was nevertheless a webster. no power under heaven could wipe out her inheritance; for the penalty of her blood she must pay the price. ah, how near he had come to playing the fool! was it not delilah who had shorn samson of his might? he, martin howe, to be false to his traditions, forfeit his pride, and become a spiritless weakling, forgetting his manhood in the smile of a woman! "bah!" he cried the word aloud into the teeth of the gale. to think he had almost walked blindfolded into the trap ellen webster had baited for him! ah, she should see he was not to be enticed away from the stronghold of his principles by any such alluring snare. what a sly old schemer ellen was! she would have liked nothing better than to behold him on his knees at the feet of this niece of hers and then wreck his hopes by snatching away every possibility of their fulfillment. perhaps she expected that with the girl's beauty as a bribe she could make him forget his dignity to the extent of rebuilding the wall. she was mistaken! he was not to be thus cajoled. he had already, to some extent, betrayed his vows that night by befriending lucy. bitterly he repented of his weakness. doubtless at this very moment ellen webster was exulting that he had so easily been duped and hoodwinked. hot anger sent the blood to his cheek. he had been blind to be thus caught off his guard. into what madness had this woman beguiled him! well, in the future the siren should chant her lorelei songs to deaf ears. her spell would be in vain. he had found himself now. his wayward feet had recovered their stand upon the solid rock of principle, from which for the moment they had been tempted into straying. he would demonstrate to this lucy webster that any friendliness between them was done and over. what an ass a clever woman could make of a man! that any one could so circumvent him was unbelievable. shaking the rain viciously from his umbrella, he mounted the steps, blew out the lantern, and stalked into the house. mary, eliza, and jane looked up expectantly as he entered. it was evident that a multitude of questions trembled on their lips. he hoped they would offer an apology or explanation for their conduct and thereby furnish him with the opportunity for berating them and relieving his soul of the bitterness that rankled there. to lash somebody, anybody, with his tongue would have been a solace. but although jane faced him defiantly, and mary and eliza with anticipatory timidity, no one of the three spoke. they seemed to be waiting for him to strike the first blow. twice he attempted it, assuming first an injured then an outraged attitude. but on second thought, he abandoned the attack. after all, what was there to say? should he rail at them for asking lucy to the house? the fair face with its uplifted eyes came before his vision. no, he was not sorry the girl had come. though he must never see her again, must never speak to her or touch her hand, he was glad he had been vouchsafed this one glimpse into paradise. he might forbid his sisters ever to have anything more to do with her. but he could not bring himself to do that either. and even suppose he were to make the demand. jane might refuse to comply with it. there was mutiny in her eyes, a mutiny he might not be able to suppress unless he resorted to drastic measures; and, smarting as he was from the scorn and humiliation of his recent defeat, he was in no mood to cut himself off from the only sympathy within his reach by creating a breach between himself and his sisters. therefore he loitered self-consciously before the stove as if to dry his wet clothing and then ambled across the room, remarking in offhand fashion: "it's settin' in for quite a rain." "yes, it's a hard shower," mary ventured, turning a puzzled glance upon her brother. "we need it though." "yes, the ground was like chalk," agreed martin. thrusting his hands into his trousers pockets, he took a few nervous strides around the room and, prompted by an impulse he could not have explained, he stopped and absently drew down the window shade on the side of the kitchen toward the webster homestead. "you didn't get any supper after all, did you, martin?" jane remarked presently. "why don't you let me bring you a piece of fruit cake an' a glass of milk?" "it would taste kinder good." although he had no wish for the food, the solicitude that accompanied the suggestion was just then very soothing. "we could cook you somethin'," jane said, rising. "no, no," broke out the man impatiently. "don't go fussin'. i don't want much. just get me anything you have handy." jane went to the pantry and returned with two thick slices of "war cake" and a tumbler of creamy milk. "this is the sort of cake you liked so much the other day," she said, putting it upon the table. "it's somethin' amazin' how it keeps moist. i s'pose it's the apple sauce in it." she watched him while he broke it listlessly into fragments. it was obvious that he was not hungry. "you're tired, martin," she murmured at last, in a gentle tone. "i guess i am a little." "the trip to the fair was a hard one, i'm afraid." again the man found comfort in her voice. "oh, no; not particularly hard," he answered with gruff kindness, "but the train was close an' dusty." there was a quality in the tone that caused jane to ponder. furtively she studied the bowed head, the twitching fingers, the contracted brow; nor did the jaded, disheartened droop of the mouth escape her. she could not recall ever having seen martin like this before. something must be weighing on his mind, something that had not been there when he had left home in the morning and had not been there when he returned. the shadow, whatever it was, had fallen since, and she felt it had some connection with the happenings of the evening. this unprecedented forbearance of his was a part of it. of that she was sure. what did it portend? was he angry? or had lucy webster dropped some remark that had shown him the folly and uselessness of his resentment? jane would have given a great deal to know just what had occurred on that walk in the rain. perhaps lucy had openly attacked martin's codes and forced a quarrel. she was fearless enough to do so; or perhaps she had simply reproached him and set him thinking. well, it was useless to ask questions. jane knew her brother too well to presume to do this. if he had come to his senses, so much the better. it was not to be expected that he would admit it. that was not his way. any change in his mental attitude would be quickly apparent, however, in his actions, his deeds confessing the faults his lips were too proud to utter. she must await developments. hence when he rose, she offered him her customary casual good night and listened to his slow tread upon the stairs. that unelastic step only served to further convince her that something recent and deep-acting had taken hold on the man and was tormenting him. she was roused from her musings by eliza's voice: "what can be the matter with martin?" she said in a tense whisper. "he never said a word. here i was shakin' in my shoes, dreadin' every minute to have him launch out in one of his tirades. you could 'a' knocked me over when he didn't do it." "maybe he's goin' to wait until to-morrow," mary replied. "no. he never waits," eliza declared. "when he's mad he lets fly while his temper is up. you know that as well as i do. there's no coolin' off with him an' then warmin' up the leavin's of his rage the next mornin'. he believes in servin' things hot an' fresh." "i never knew him to be so sort of cowed down," reflected mary. "you don't s'pose he's sick, do you, jane?" mary turned anxious eyes toward her sister. "of course not," jane retorted promptly. "don't go worryin', mary, an' start to brew him some thoroughwort in the hope of havin' him down with a fever." "i don't hope he'll have a fever," objected mary in an injured tone. jane laughed. "now you know you'd love to have martin sick so you could take care of him," said jane provokingly. "don't deny it." "jane howe!" "well, you would. but he isn't sick, mary. he's just tired. i wouldn't bother him about it if i was you. he hates bein' fussed over." a sudden light of understanding had broken in on jane's soul. it came like a revelation, in an intuitive flash, backed neither by evidence nor by logic. had she tried to give a reason for the astonishing conviction that overwhelmed her, she could not have done so. nevertheless she was as certain of it as she was that the night would follow the day. martin was neither hungry, angry, tired, worried, nor ill. _he was in love!_ chapter x a temptation martin was indeed in love! before a week had passed no one knew it better than he. during the solitary hours when his hands were busy thinning lettuce or weeding young corn, his mind had abundant leisure for reflection, and the theme on which his thoughts turned with increasing activity was always the same. defy fate as he would, he faced the realization that he loved lucy webster with every fiber of his being. it was a mad and hopeless affection,--one which, for the sake of his own peace of mind if for no other reason, it would be wiser to strangle at its birth. nevertheless, he did not strangle it; on the contrary, he hugged the romance to his breast and fed it upon all the tender imaginings of a man's first dream of love, conjuring before his vision one empty fantasy after another. it was evening, and under the silver light of a thin crescent hanging low in the heaven he paced beneath the trees, lucy upon his arm. or lovely with the freshness of early morning, she stood with him in the field, the brightness of her eyes as sparkling as the flash of the dew-drops on the grass. again she came before him, gliding quietly amid a maze of humble domestic tasks, transforming each with the grace of her presence. or perhaps she sat quietly watching the embers of a winter's fire that touched her hair to a glory of glinting copper. but wherever she moved, the land upon which she trod was _his_ land; the home where she toiled _his_ home; the hearth that warmed her _his_ hearth. there were long hours when he was alone in the twilight with only his pipe for company, when through the smoke he seemed to see her close beside him. sometimes she smiled down into his eyes; sometimes she raised her sweet lips to his; and once she came to him with madonna-like holiness, a sleeping child in her arms,--her child--and his. then martin would rouse himself to find his pipe smoldering, the lamp dim, and the chill of the night upon him. with an impatient shrug he would spring to his feet and tramp upstairs, hoping to find in slumber an escape from these fair but tormenting reveries. sleep, however, came but fitfully, and even from the sacred confines of its privacy it was impossible to banish subconscious mirages of the day. there was no place to which he could flee where thoughts of lucy webster did not pursue him. he saw her often now, very often, tripping buoyantly from house to barn, from barn to garden and back again, her round young arms bearing baskets of vegetables, or laden with shining milk pails. how proud her head! how light her step! one morning she skirted the wall so close that his whisper might have reached her had he chosen to speak. he could see the fringe of dark lashes against her skin, the rise and fall of her round bosom, the lilacs that filled her hands. but he did not speak and neither did she. in fact, she seemed not to see him, so busy was she toying with her flowers. she must be fond of flowers, for she was seldom without one tucked in her gown. these glimpses, however, were fleeting, and after he had yielded to the temptation of indulging in them he was wont to tax himself severely for his folly. was he not already tortured with pain too poignant to be endured? why rivet more tightly the fetters that goaded him? he had fled once and for all from circe's magic, vowing that never again should the sorceress work her charm upon him; and that vow he intended to keep. nevertheless, it did not prevent him from stealing an occasional peep at the enchantress, if only to assure himself that her spell was as potent and deadly as he had supposed it. surely, if he did not consort with her, looking could do no harm. therefore he indulged his fancy, watching lucy whenever she was within sight and each time becoming more helplessly entangled in her fascinations, until any escape from the thralldom of her beauty became impossible. his days were a cycle of tantalizing visions which ceased only with the coming of darkness; and when with the night he would have found release from their misery, it was only to discover that night an endless stretch of hours that intervened betwixt him and the moment when the visions might return again. poor martin! he endured a hell of suffering during those radiant summer days. he was melancholy, ecstatic, irritable by turns, ascending to the heights and plunging into the depths with an abruptness and unaccountability that was not only enigmatic to himself but to every one else with whom he came in contact. he kept mary in a ferment of excitement trying to devise remedies for his successive ills. one day she would be sure he needed a tonic to dispel his listlessness and with infinite pains would brew the necessary ingredients together; but before the draught could be cooled and administered, martin had rebounded to an unheard-of vitality. ah, she would reason, it must be his appetite that was at the bottom of the trouble. she must stimulate his desire for food. no sooner, however, was her concoction of herbs simmering on the stove than her erratic patient was devouring everything within sight with the zest of a cannibal. so it went, the affliction which oppressed him one day giving place to a new collection of symptoms on the morrow. "i'd have doctor marsh to him if i had any opinion of the man," remarked mary one night. "but i ain't ever been able to muster up my respect for that critter's principles since he left that medicine for 'liza marked _'keep in a dark place.'_ that was enough to shake my confidence in him forever. it was so under-handed. i'd rather had 'liza sick for the rest of her life than that she should 'a' been dosed up on some stuff we had to keep hidden away lest somebody see it. if he was ashamed of the medicine, or it was anything we'd hadn't ought to had, he shouldn't 'a' given it to us. i never said nothin' to nobody 'bout it, but i poured the whole bottleful down the sink, and told doctor marsh that he needn't come again. he pretended he couldn't see why, but i guess he understood, an' i hope the lesson did him good," concluded mary with righteous zeal. "so that was the reason doctor marsh stopped comin'!" jane exclaimed. "i always wondered. you never told me that before." "no," said mary with dignity, "i never did." "but, mary,"--jane broke into a laugh. "you needn't laugh, jane. it was a very serious matter." "if you'd only explained it, mary, i could have told you----" "that is precisely why i didn't explain it, jane," mary answered. "i knew you would interfere, an' i felt it was somethin' that laid between me an' my conscience. no matter what you'd 'a' said, i should 'a' felt the same way about it. matters of right an' wrong are the affairs of me an' my maker. nobody else on earth can settle 'em." there were instances when it was useless to argue with mary, and jane saw that this was one of them. had she so willed she could not only have cleared up the mystery about doctor marsh's medicine, but she could have furnished her sister with the key to martin's caprices, and thereby saved the metaphysician not only much worry but also much physical labor. mary and eliza, however, lived in such a miniature world that jane knew if martin's secret were divulged it would become the unending topic of conversation from that moment on. moreover, so intense would be his sisters' excitement concerning the affair, and so keen their interest and curiosity that they might blunder into destroying the delicate fabric of the romance altogether. hence jane kept her own council, speculating with amusement as to how long it would be before his two solicitous but blinded relatives should stumble upon the truth. in the meantime the neighboring between the two families, so bravely begun, was not continued. mary and eliza howe had not the courage or the initiative to attempt a second clandestine tea-party, much as they would have enjoyed it; and jane saw no use in urging lucy to the house. if martin decreed to further the affair, he was quite capable of doing so without any aid of hers; and if he ordained to abandon it, as he evidently did, wild horses could not turn him from his purpose. therefore jane gave up all her aggressive attempts to heal the breach between howe and webster, and contented herself with waving to lucy over the wall and calling a cheery greeting to the girl whenever she came within hailing distance. lucy was disappointed by this retreat of her neighbors into their former aloofness. of course their action was traceable to martin. it was his fault. no doubt he had gone home and berated his sisters for their friendliness and had so intimidated them that they had no choice but to bow to his will. jane was the only one of them anyway who had the spirit to defy her brother, and presumably she had decided that the game was not worth the candle. perhaps, too, she was right. to live in a daily purgatory made of life a sorry existence. she herself had found that out. her aunt was continually becoming more irritable and less sound of judgment, and there were times when lucy feared that the warped mind would give way under the strain of repeated paroxysms of anger. could ellen have been persuaded to surrender the management of her affairs entirely into her niece's hands, she might have been spared much annoyance; but frail as she was, she persisted in retaining to the last her scepter of supremacy. she went each day into the garden and put tony out of humor by finding fault with everything he did; having demoralized his temper, she would return to the house to rasp lucy's patience by heaping upon the girl's blameless head such remnants of wrath as she still cherished toward the long-suffering portugese. for sometime she had contented herself with this daily programme, not varying it by venturing away from the place, even to carry her garden truck to market. therefore lucy was astounded when one morning her aunt appeared at breakfast, dressed in her shabby black cashmere and wearing her cameo pin, and announced she was going to drive to town. "i've an errand to do," she said without preamble, "an' i shan't be home till noon. you needn't go falutin' over to the howes', neither, the minute my back is turned, as you did the last time i went off." lucy smiled good-humoredly. "i'm goin' to see a lawyer," her aunt went on. "lawyer benton." no reply appearing necessary, lucy did not speak. "well!" piped ellen, after waiting a moment. "well, what?" lucy asked. "ain't you got no interest in what i'm goin' for?" the woman demanded querulously. "i'm always interested in anything you wish to tell me," answered the girl, "but i thought it was not my place to inquire into your business." "it is my business, an' i can keep it to myself," said ellen tartly. "but i'll tell you this much--i'm goin' to get my will made." the hard blue eyes fixed themselves on lucy's face narrowly. "my will!" repeated ellen, a challenge in her tone. "i s'pose you thought it was all made long ago; but it warn't. i'm goin' to make it to-day." at a loss how to reply, lucy nodded. "you don't seem much concerned 'bout it," observed her aunt peevishly. "ain't you curious to know who i'm goin' to leave my property to?" "no." "you ain't!" "no." "s'pose i was to give it all to you." "that would be very kind." "yes, it would be--it would be kind," agreed ellen. "but mebbe i ain't a-goin' to. mebbe i'm goin' to will it to somebody else." "that's your affair." "i'll bet, for all your indifference, you'd be mad as a wet hen if i was to leave it to somebody else," went on the woman provokingly. "no, i shouldn't. why should i?" "'cause you're my next of kin. by rights it had oughter come to you, hadn't it?" "i don't know the new hampshire laws." with an admiring glance at her niece, ellen broke into an unpleasant laugh. "there's no trappin' you, miss lucy webster, is there?" she exclaimed, rising from her chair and clapping on her hat. "you're a cute one, an awful cute one!" "why?" "oh, you don't need to be told," chuckled ellen. "anybody as cute as you are, _knows._" with that she was gone. all the morning the girl busied herself within doors, exchanging one duty for another. toward noon, however, she made an excursion to the garden for lettuce and radishes. her pathway lay close to the wall, and on her return to the house she was amazed to see lying on the topmost stone of the ruined heap a mammoth bunch of sweet peas. there was no mistaking the fact that the flowers were intended for her, for her name had been hastily scrawled on a bit of crumpled paper and placed beside them. nothing could have surprised her more than to stumble upon this offering. evidently the blossoms had just been gathered, for the raindrops of the previous night still sparkled among their petals, jeweling with brilliancy their kaleidoscopic riot of color. she caught them up with delight, burying her face in their cool fragrance. where had they come from? she knew no one who raised sweet peas,--no one except the howes, and of course----she halted and blushed. could it have been the howes? "_mary's are white_" she heard herself automatically repeating in jane's phrases. "_'liza's pink, an' mine are purple. martin has his in another place, 'cause he likes all the colors mixed together. but he never picks his nor lets us. he says he likes to see 'em growin'._" and now, by some miracle, here were the blossoms of martin's raising, their prismatic tints exquisite as a sunset. it was like holding the rainbow in one's hands. she knew the howes too well to cherish for an instant the illusion that any of the three sisters had cut the flowers from the vines. they would not have dared. no. no hand but martin's had plucked them. with a strange fluttering of her heart, lucy carried the bouquet to her own room, a corner of the house where ellen seldom intruded. there she bent over it with a happy, triumphant little smile. then, from behind the shelter of the muslin curtain, she blew a kiss from her finger tips to mr. martin howe, who was hoeing potatoes on the hill, with his back set squarely toward the webster mansion. when ellen returned at noon, there was still a shell-like flush of pink on the girl's cheek and on her lips a smile for which her aunt could not account. "where you been?" inquired the woman suspiciously. "nowhere. why?" "you look as if somebody'd sent you a christmas tree full of presents." lucy laughed softly. "you ain't been to the howes'?" "i haven't been anywhere," repeated lucy, throwing up her chin. "i'm telling the truth." ellen eyed her shrewdly. "yes, i reckon you are," she observed slowly. "i ain't never caught you lyin' yet." then as if an afterthought had occurred to her, she added: "likely you've been thinkin' 'bout the will i've been makin'." she saw lucy open her lips, then close them. "i've got it all done," went on ellen audaciously. "it's drawn up, signed, an' sealed. in fact, i brought it home with me. here it is." tossing a large white envelope fastened with a splash of red wax upon the table, she peered at her niece. "i'm goin' to give it to you to keep," continued she in a hectoring tone. "it'll be like havin' pandora's box around. you can't open it, an' you'll have the continual fun of wonderin' what's inside." "i'd rather not take it." "but i want you to," asserted ellen. "i'm givin' it to you to take care of. it'll help to make life interestin'. besides, who knows but you may be tempted to break it open some night an' have a peep inside." craftily the old woman watched the girl. "or mebbe you'll tear it up," she mused. "who knows? then if i was to die, you could pretend i hadn't made no will." "take it back. i shan't keep it," lucy cried, moving toward the door. "afraid of yourself, eh?" "no." the monosyllable rang with scorn. "then prove it," sneered ellen. "give it to me." smiling evilly, her aunt pushed the packet across the table. there was a leer of triumph in the sharp-featured face. "i 'magine that 'twas gettin' as mad as you are now that kep' the websters from ever buildin' up that wall," she called after her niece, as lucy with crimson cheeks fled up the stairs, the long white envelope in her hand. chapter xi the crossing of the rubicon "i want you should go to the village to-day," announced ellen, making her appearance in lucy's room on a hot august morning a few weeks later. "tony's got to get the scythe mended an' have dolly shod. don't it beat all how somethin's always wearin' out? long's he's goin', you might's well drive along with him an' take the eggs an' corn i promised elias barnes. there's some more errands at the store i want done, too." "all right, aunt ellen." but the woman loitered. "if you don't want to hang 'round town till tony gets ready to come back, mebbe you could find somebody comin' this way who would give you a lift home. it seems sort of a shame to stay there wastin' the time you could be usin' here." lucy smiled at the characteristic remark. "an' if you didn't happen on any one," went on ellen, "likely you wouldn't mind walkin'; 'twould get you home quicker." "no, indeed. i always like a walk." "i reckon 'twill be warm." "i don't mind." "that's good." ellen was always gracious when her plans went to her satisfaction. "i want you to be ready to start right after breakfast," she added, as she went out the door. "the earlier you get off the earlier you'll be back again. i wish i could go myself an' dicker with elias. i would if it warn't that i have to tinker with that pesky cream separator." "is the cream separator out of order?" "yes," said ellen wearily. "trust that tony to bust everythin' he touches." she closed lucy's door with a spirited bang. the girl listened to her retreating footsteps and smiled softly. it was nothing new for ellen to be sending her to the village to transact the business she no longer felt able to attend to herself, but the subterfuges to which she resorted to conceal her real motive were amusing. lucy knew well that to-day, if it had not been the cream separator, something else equally important would have furnished the excuse for keeping her aunt at home. it seemed so foolish not to be honest about the matter. to pursue any other method, however, would have been quite foreign to ellen's policy, and therefore lucy, although not blinded by these devices to hide the truth, always pretended she was, and earnestly condoned with the old woman about the rebellious potato sprayer, the obstinate pump, or whatever other offending object chanced to be selected as the plea for casting her cares on younger shoulders. the trip to the village was tiresome; of that there was no doubt,--especially on a day that promised to be as hot as this one. already tremors of heat vibrated upward in waves from the piazza roof, and the sun's scorching rays pierced between the closed blinds. nevertheless, lucy did not regret the prospect of the morning's excursion. she so seldom had an opportunity to leave the house that any break in the monotony of her days, uncomfortable though it might be, was a welcome diversion. therefore she hurried her dressing and breakfast, and while dawn was still on the threshold, set off with tony in the dust-covered surrey that creaked its way along behind the stumbling gray mare. the coolness of night was over the awakening earth, although the mounting sun was speedily drinking up the dew and rousing the locusts into droning song. not a leaf stirred. through the shimmering atmosphere the valley, with its river yellow as a band of molten gold, lay listless in drowsy haze; but the birds, butterflies, and bees flitted among the flowers that bordered the roadside with an alertness which proved that they, at least, felt no lessening of zest for their honey gathering. "it's goin' to be an almighty hot day," observed tony who, after slapping dolly's broad back several times with the reins, had decided that further attempts to accelerate the mare's pace was useless. "yes, very hot." "i hope your aunt won't go pullin' that separator all to pieces while we're gone," the boy grumbled. "in the first place she ain't got a notion of how to put it together again; an' in the next place she ain't fit to go liftin' an' haulin' things about the way she does. she's gettin' to be an old woman. ain't she most eighty?" "she's not far from it," answered lucy. "well, if i was her age an' had her money, you wouldn't see me workin' as if a slave driver was standin' over me," the portuguese lad declared. "what good is it doin' her bein' rich, i'd like to know." "oh, i don't think she is rich," said lucy quickly. "folks say she is; that's all i know 'bout it," replied tony. "elias barnes was calculatin' one day down to the store that she must be worth thousands. i can believe it, too," added the boy significantly. "everything we've got on the farm is tied up with string, or hitched together with a scrap of wire. your aunt ain't fur gettin' a thing mended long's it can be made to hold together. 'bout everything on the farm wants overhaulin'. i'd give a fortune to see a smart man come in here an' set the place to rights. there's a lot of truck in the barn oughter be heaved out an' burned. 'tain't fit for nothin'. but miss webster would no more hear to partin' with one stick nor stone she owned than she'd cut off her head. she'd keep everything that belonged to her if it was dropping to bits." the boy paused. "well, there's one good thing," he added, smiling, "she can't take the stuff she's hoarded with her into the next world, an' when it falls to you you can do as you like with it." "falls to me?" "why, yes. 'course all your aunt's property'll be yours some day." "what makes you think so?" lucy asked, a suggestion of reserve in her tone. "who else is there to have it?" inquired tony, opening his eyes very wide. "ain't she already left it to you in her will?" "i don't know." "you don't!" lucy laughed at his incredulousness. "no." "well, they say down to the town that your aunt made her will 'bout three weeks ago. even lawyer benton himself admitted that much. folks saw miss webster goin' into his office an' questioned him. he warn't for tellin' anything 'til they nagged at him; then he did own that the farm an' everything else was left to _relatives_. elias barnes an' some of the others were mighty quick to hunt up who the webster relatives were. they were pretty sure you were the only one, an' it 'pears you are. so it's you will get the place an' the money, an' goodness knows, miss lucy, you've earnt it. the men all agreed to that." "you know, tony, miss webster is my aunt," began lucy in a warning voice, loyalty resenting this criticism. "yes, but there's aunts--an' aunts," interrupted the lad with a grin. "it's no use pretendin' you ain't drawn the devil of a one, 'cause i know. don't i live close at hand, an' ain't i got eyes?" lucy did not answer. they were nearing the village and to put an end to the conversation, she took out her list of errands and began to read it absently. but in the back of her mind she was turning over tony's remarks. she had never allowed herself to dwell on the time when the webster homestead would actually be her own. it seemed unfitting to plan on acquiring property that could only come to her through the death of another person. now, however, she suddenly gave her imagination rein and began to consider what changes she would make when the farm was really in her hands. the barn must be cleared out the first thing and be re-shingled. then she would strip the farm of its litter of rubbish and repair some of the tools and household furniture. what a delight it would be to renovate the old home with chintz hangings and fresh paint and paper! there were great possibilities for making the interior of the house attractive on a small expenditure of money. the time-worn mahogany was good, the proportions of the rooms pleasing, and the great fireplaces, several of which were now boarded up, were a distinct asset. of course she would have to have help with the work. it would be well to get a capable man to manage the garden for her--some strong, intelligent person, familiar with the problems of soil, fertilizer, and horticulture; a person, for example, like, well--like martin howe. a flood of color crept into her cheek. although she had never addressed a remark to martin since the night when he had abandoned her at the foot of the howe driveway to face the onslaughts of that drenching storm, she was perfectly aware that her goings and comings had become a matter of no little concern to the austere gentleman who dwelt on the other side of the wall. that he watched her she knew, for she had been feminine enough to trap him into changing his position that he might keep her in view. besides, was there not the miraculous bunch of flowers? she had, to be sure, never acknowledged them even by the lifting of an eyelash, nor had she proof that martin's hand had really put them within her reach; nevertheless, she could have staked her oath upon it. once she had almost defied his silence by thanking him; in fact, she had actually ventured to the confines of the webster land with this intention; but on arriving within range of his presence, her courage had deserted her. he looked so forbidding that a foolish agitation had swept over her, and compelled her to drop her eyes, and walk away in silence. she had never known herself to be so nervous before. one would almost think she was afraid of martin howe. how absurd! he was nothing to her, less than nothing. if she liked to study his fine, athletic figure and the free swing of his magnificent body as he worked, it was solely from an æsthetic standpoint. one seldom had an opportunity to see a man as perfectly molded as he. his face was interesting, too; not handsome, perhaps, but attractive. it was a pity it was so stern and set, for she was sure he could smile if he chose; indeed he had smiled that night when he had come home and been unconscious of her presence in the house. it had been a compelling smile, charming for its very rareness. she had often thought of it since and wished she might behold it again. of course she never would. yet it would be pleasant to do so. probably he smiled often at home,--even laughed sometimes. how she would like to hear him laugh,--just once. he was a very fascinating person,--purely as a character study, of course, nothing more. since, however, she was indulging in speculations concerning him, it would be amusing to know what he thought of her; for he did think of her, that was obvious. what motive prompted him to do it? perhaps he admired her, thought her pretty. if he did, why didn't he make some further effort to talk with her? usually men were only too eager to improve the acquaintance of girls they liked. it surely could do mr. martin howe no harm to call a good morning to her over the wall, as his sisters did, even if he did deplore the existence of the websters. then the tenor of lucy's arguments shifted. probably martin neither admired nor liked her. doubtless, along with her aunt and all that pertained to the hated blood, he despised her and simply watched her in disgust. but if so, why did he bother to send flowers to her? lucy shook her head. she was back at the point from which she had started and was no nearer a solution of martin howe and his baffling mental outlook. what did it matter anyway? what he thought or felt was no concern of hers, and she was silly to burden her mind with speculations that really interested her so little. by this time tony, who had lapsed into a silence as unbroken as her own, drew up at the smooth stone flagging before elias barnes's store and, leaping out over the wheel, helped his companion to dismount from the wagon and unload the farm produce they had brought with them for sale. "i'll get home somehow, tony," the girl said to him, as he prepared to drive off. "you needn't come for me." "all right, miss lucy, only i do hope you won't have to foot it back in this heat." "i shan't mind." "it's going to be a terrible day," insisted the lad. "them buzzin' locusts is enough to prove that. they're good as a thermometer." lucy laughed. "don't worry about me," she remarked kindly. "just as soon as i finish my errands i shall start home." "you'd be wise to." as the mare scuffed off down the road, amid a cloud of dust, lucy entered the store. a stuffy odor of coffee, molasses, and calico greeted her; so, too, did elias barnes, who came forward from behind the counter, extending his damp and sticky palm and showing every tooth that an expansive smile permitted. "so it's you, miss lucy," he observed with pleasure. "i was expecting to see your aunt. she was here the other day." "yes, she drove to town last friday." "came on an interestin' errand, too," chirped elias. "leastwise, i 'magine 'twas interestin' to you." he grinned slyly. "why?" "why?" repeated the man, taken aback. "because--well, ain't such things always interestin'?" "what things?" elias stared, uncertain as to how to proceed. was it possible the girl was ignorant of her aunt's mission? "mebbe you didn't know miss webster's errand in town," he began eagerly. "i know she went to see mr. benton and get her will made, if that is what you mean." "an' don't you call that interestin'?" demanded the discomfited elias. "not particularly." the storekeeper gasped. "likely the matter was all cut an' dried an' nothin' new to you," persisted he, with a wan, disappointed smile. "there warn't much choice left your aunt, fur as relatives went, was there? still, i reckon she couldn't 'a' found a better one to pass her property on to than you," concluded the man with a leer. "what makes you so sure she has passed it on to me?" inquired lucy, annoyed. "well, ain't she?" "i don't know." "you don't--by thunder! she ain't told you nothin'?" "certainly not." elias looked puzzled. "why," he said, "most folks thought that was the condition that brought you to sefton falls. surely nothin' but some sort of a reward, an' a big one, too, would coax a body to come an' live with such a----" "you forget you are speaking of my aunt, mr. barnes." "i guess i did forget it a mite, miss lucy," mumbled elias awkwardly. "i beg your pardon." the girl inclined her head. "suppose we leave personal matters now and settle our business," she answered, motioning toward the boxes, baskets, and egg cases tony had set inside the shop door. "here is the corn and the butter my aunt promised you, and here are twelve dozen eggs. if you will pay me for them, i will start back home before it grows any warmer." "lemme see," ruminated elias, "eggs is bringing----" "seventy cents." "ain't it sixty-nine?" "no." "i seem to have sixty-nine fixed awful firm in my head," protested elias tenaciously. lucy laughed. "you'll have to get it out then," she retorted good-humoredly, "for seventy cents is the market price." the firm answer told the shopkeeper that further bickering would be useless. "seventy cents then," he said reluctantly, opening his cash drawer. "it's robbery, though." "you're not often robbed, mr. barnes." "ain't i? well, if i ain't, it's 'cause folks know better than to try to do me. 'tain't often i'm beat in a bargain--only when i'm dealin' with a pretty woman an' give her the advantage." again he displayed his rows of teeth. "ladies first is my motto; an' heiresses----" "you haven't paid me for the corn or butter yet," cut in lucy impatiently. "five dozen ears of early corn and ten pounds of print butter." for a second time elias took from an infinitesimal crack in his money drawer another handful of change which he grudgingly counted into the girl's extended hand. "there you are!" he asserted, as if wiping some disagreeable thought triumphantly from his memory. "now we're square an' can talk of somethin' else." "i'm afraid i can't stop to talk to-day, mr. barnes, for i've got to get home. good-by and thank you," and with a smile that dazzled the confounded storekeeper, lucy sped out the door. elias, who was a widower and "well-to-do," was considered the catch of the town and was therefore unaccustomed to receiving such scant appreciation of his advances. "i'll be buttered!" he declared, chagrined. "if she ain't gone!" lucy was indeed far down the level road, laughing to herself as she thought of the discomfited elias. this was not the first time he had shown an inclination to force his oily pleasantries upon her; but it was the first time she had so pointedly snubbed him. "i hope it will do him good," she murmured half aloud. "i'd like to convince him that every woman in sefton falls isn't his for the asking." as she went on her way between the bordering tangle of goldenrod and scarlet-tinted sumach, she was still smiling quietly. the sun had risen higher, and a dry heat rose in waves from the earth. already her shoes were white, and moist tendrils of hair curled about her brow. before her loomed three miles of parching highway as barren of shade as the woodsman's axe could make it. the picture of ellen's cool kitchen and breezy porch made the distance at that moment seem interminable. there was not a wagon in sight, and unless one came along, she would have to trudge every step of the way home. well, there was no use in becoming discouraged at the outset of her journey, and she was not, although she did halt a moment to draw a crisp, white handkerchief from her pocket and fan her burning cheeks. she had no idea the walk was going to be so hot a one. despite her aunt's objections, she almost wished she had waited for tony. if only she could have the good luck to be overtaken by somebody! hark, did she hear wheels? yes, as good fortune would have it, from around the curve in the road behind her a wagon was coming into sight, the measured _clop, clop_ of the horse's feet reaching her distinctly. the cloud of dust that enveloped the approaching jehu made it impossible for her to see who he was; nevertheless, it did not much matter, for country etiquette stipulated that those traveling on foot were always welcome to the hospitality of a passing vehicle. therefore lucy sat down on the wall to await her oncoming rescuer. meanwhile the wagon came nearer. it contained a single occupant who was perched with careless grace astride a barrel of flour and appeared to be very much hedged in by a multifarious assortment of small packages and sacks of grain. it did not look as if there were room in the carriage for an additional ounce, and when the girl saw how crowded it was, her heart sank; then as she looked again, it bounded with sudden emotion, for the man who so jauntily urged forward his steed from his pinnacle on the barrel was none other than martin howe. resolutely lucy rose from the wall and, without a glance in the traveler's direction, set out at a sharp pace along the highway. she would not ask a favor of martin howe if she had to plod every step of the three scorching miles; and if he were brute enough to let her toil along in the heat--to walk while he rode--well, that was all she ever wanted to know about him. her heart beat tumultuously as she heard the wheels coming closer. the horse was beside her now, and the whirl-wind of dust his hoofs raised made her choke. would the wagon stop or go on? the horse's head passed abreast of her, then his white, lathered body. next the wagon came into sight, with martin sitting proudly and stiffly on his perch. afterward horse, wagon, and man rolled past, and the girl was left alone. her lip trembled. would he really leave her like this in the dust and heat? would he leave even his worst enemy? it was incredible a human being could be so heartless. and the humiliation of it! to tag along behind him on foot, smothering in his dust! rage possessed her. that should be the end of mr. martin howe! he was no gentleman. he was not even human. she sat down on the stone wall once more, waiting for him to disappear and the dust from his wheels settle. but to her surprise she saw him come to a stop in the road and, pivoting around on his perch, face her. lucy did not move. she watched him hesitate, waver, then dismount and come back through the dust. "if you're on your way home----" he began with clumsy gravity. the girl smiled up into his face. "if you're goin' back----" he repeated, and again got no further. she came to his rescue. "have you room to take me in?" "there ain't much room." she saw the flicker of a smile shadow his face. "still, if you don't mind bein' a mite cramped----" "i don't mind it at all unless it crowds you too much," answered lucy. "it is very kind of you." then she heard herself add without forethought: "i was afraid you were goin' by." "i ain't that much of a heathen, i hope," martin returned gruffly. although it was plain he was ill at ease, he helped her into the wagon, arranging the bags of meal solicitously that she might be as comfortable as possible. then he touched the horse with his whip, and they started off. "i'm so thankful to have a ride home," sighed lucy, after waiting a second or two and finding he had no intention of speaking. "it is very hot to-day." "so 'tis. but it is great weather for corn." "i suppose so," assented the girl. "how is yours coming on?" "pretty well. some blasted crow got a little of it at the beginnin'; but the rest of it is all right." "it was a shame you lost any of it." "i was a good deal put out myself. still, 'twarn't much, considerin' the size of the field." lucy dimpled. "your field is a wonderful sight from our house," she answered, "especially when the wind blows. you have a fine lot of oats, too. i love to watch the breeze sweep across it." "i do myself," agreed martin with increasing cordiality. "it's a pretty picture. there's lots of pretty pictures on a farm if you're lookin' for 'em," he added, stealing a glance at her. "your sweet peas were a pretty picture," ventured lucy mischievously. martin colored with confusion. he seemed at a loss how to reply. then, gathering courage, he remarked shyly: "you like flowers?" "i love them!" "some folks do," said he hurriedly. "i prefer to see 'em growin'." "yet you do cut them sometimes," persisted lucy playfully. "mighty seldom. only when it's good for the vines." again the glint of a smile brightened his countenance, and she saw him blush sheepishly. "i wish it would be good for them again sometime," said she, peeping up into his eyes. "don't you think there's danger of their goin' to seed?" she heard a short laugh, but he did not answer. instead, as if to change a dangerous topic, he asked: "how are you likin' sefton falls?" "oh, i think the place is beautiful. already i have become very fond of it. you must love every stick and stone within sight." "there was one while i didn't," martin drawled slowly. "but afterward, when i saw 'twas my duty to stay here, i got to feelin' different. i'd 'a' liked to have gone to the war. i was too old, though; besides, i had my sisters." "i know," murmured lucy with quiet sympathy. "you see, i had to make my choice, too. my aunt wrote that she needed me. it wouldn't have been right for me to desert her and go to france to nurse other people." "so it's because of her you're stayin' here?" "yes." martin did not speak again for some time; then he said in a tense, uneven voice that struggled to be casual: "if she was to die then, i s'pose you'd start back west where you came from." "i'm--not--sure." he waited as if expecting her to explain herself, and presently she did so. "i might decide to make my home here," she went on. "that is, if i could get some one to help me with the farm." there was no intimation of coquetry in the remark; merely simple fact. but the words wrought a miracle in the face of the man beside her. "do you like it that much?" he demanded eagerly. "i love it!" "miss webster has a fine place," ventured martin at length. "both of them are fine old places." he nodded. "but yours has been kept up better than ours," continued lucy. "you see, aunt ellen isn't strong like a man; and besides, she hasn't studied into new ways of doing things as you have. that's the interesting part of farming, i think, to use your brains and make two things grow where only one grew before. if i were a man----" she broke off, embarrassed by her own girlish enthusiasm. "what would you do?" inquired martin eagerly. "i'd do with our farm what you've done with yours. i'd get new tools, and i'd find out how to use them. it would be fascinating. but a woman can't----" "she can read just the same." "i haven't a man's strength," returned lucy, shaking her head gravely. "it's such a pity." "maybe not." the words slipped from his lips before it was possible for him to recover them. he flushed. "what!" exclaimed lucy. "maybe it's as well for you to stay as you were made," he explained in a strangely gentle voice. the girl turned her head away. they had reached the foot of the webster driveway, and unbidden the horse halted. but as lucy prepared to climb out of the wagon, the man stayed her. "i reckon there's some place i could turn round, ain't there, if i was to drive in?" he said recklessly. "oh, there's plenty of room," lucy answered, "only hadn't you better drop me here? my--my--aunt is at home." "i don't care," martin retorted with the same abandon. "i ain't goin' to have you plod up that long driveway in the broilin' sun--aunt or no aunt." he laughed boyishly. "it's awfully good of you. but please, if you mind coming, don't; for indeed i----" "you ain't your aunt," asserted martin with a shy glance into her face. lucy met the glance with a blush and a whimsical smile. "no, i'm not," she responded, "and sometimes i wish you weren't your father and your grandfather." "what do you mean?" "because if you were just _you_, you'd be more forgiving--i know you would." she saw him bite his lips and a dull red tinge his cheek. without answering he turned into the long avenue and presently drew up before the side door. "there you are!" he remarked stiffly. lucy did not need to look at him to sense that the kindliness had left his countenance, and his jaw had become grim and set. had she been able to read his thoughts, she would have realized that the short detour into ellen webster's territory had brought martin to himself, and that he was already deploring with inward scorn the weakness that had led him to do the thing he had pledged his word never to do. he could not even shunt off the blame for his act and say, as did his illustrious ancestor: "the woman tempted me and i did eat." no, he had open-eyed stalked voluntarily into temptation,--willingly, gladly, triumphantly. he had sinned against his conscience, his traditions, his forbears, and behold, angry as he was with himself for yielding to it, the sin was sweet. chapter xii the test martin had guided his horse round the triangle of sweet-williams and, still torn by conflicting emotions of ecstasy and self-reproach, was proceeding down the driveway when a cry of distress reached his ear: "martin--mr. howe!" he turned to see lucy webster beckoning frantically to him from the door. "come back, please," she cried. "hurry!" that she was excited was evident. indeed she must have been quite out of her mind to have called him martin in that shameless fashion. the fact that the name had slipped so spontaneously from her lips and that she hastened to correct her mistake caused the man to speculate with delight as to whether she was wont to think of him by this familiar cognomen. this thought, however, was of minor importance, the flash of an instant. what chiefly disturbed martin was the girl's agitation. bringing his horse to a stop, he sped back to where she was standing, and on reaching her side he was startled to see that the face but a short interval before so radiant had blanched to a deathly pallor. "my aunt!" she whispered in a frightened tone. "something terrible has happened to her!" if lucy entertained any doubts as to whether he would aid her in the present emergency she had either cast them aside or was determined to ignore such a possibility, for she held the door open with the obvious expectation that he would follow her into the house. a year ago, a month, nay--a week, he would never have consented to cross the webster threshold, let alone offer any assistance to its mistress; but the siren who beckoned him on had cast such a potent spell over his will that now without open protest, although with a certain inward compunction, he followed her through the hall into the kitchen. upon the floor was stretched ellen webster--crumpled, helpless, inert--her eyes closed and her stern face set as in a death mask. how long she had lain there it was impossible to tell. if she had called for succor it had been to empty walls. as with mingled sensations martin stood looking down upon her unconscious form, lucy threw herself upon her knees beside the woman and gently touched her wrists and heart. "she isn't dead," she murmured presently. "she must either have had a fall or some sort of shock. we must get her upstairs and send for a doctor." the "_we_" told martin that the girl had not even considered the chance of his refusing to come to her assistance. "tony is in the village," she went on, "and i don't know what i should have done but for you. how fortunate that you were here!" was it fortunate? martin asked himself. at last the moment for which he had longed and prayed had come,--the moment when the fate of his enemy lay in his hands, and it was within his power to grant or deny succor. there had never been a question in his mind what he would do should this opportunity arise. had he not declared over and over again that ellen webster might die before he would lift a finger to help her? he had meant it too. all the bitterness of his soul had gone into the vow. and now here he was confronted by the very emergency he had craved from fortune. the woman he hated was at his mercy. what should he do? should he stand stanchly by his word and let her life go out into the beyond when he might perhaps stay its flight? or should he weakly repudiate his word and call her from the borderland to continue to taunt and torment him? if a doctor were not summoned quickly she might die, and her death be upon his soul. did he wish to stain himself with this crime,--for crime it would be. was the revenge worth the hours of self-condemnation that might follow? who was he that he should judge ellen webster and cut off her life before its time? vengeance is mine: i will repay, saith the lord. the phrase rang insistently in martin's ears. he tried to stifle it--ignore it--but still the assertion continued to repeat itself within his consciousness. suppose, tempted by his weaker nature and the appealing eyes of lucy, he were to yield to his better self and adopt a merciful attitude, might not ellen be restored to health and jeer at him to the end of his days for his magnanimity? hers was not the creed "if thine enemy hunger." she would call him coward and accuse him of a feeble, intimidated will. were the case to be reversed, she would never curb her hatred to prolong his existence; of that he was certain. he could see her now bending over him, her thumb turned down with the majestic fearlessness of a cæsar. she would term her act justice, and she would carry out the sentence without a tremor. but now that the same chance had come to him, and he saw the old woman stretched before him, her thin white hair snowy against the wooden flooring, a vague pity stirred in his heart. death must come to us all sometime; but how tragic to have its approach unheralded, granting not an instant in which to raise a prayer to heaven. no, he could not let his worst foe go down to the grave thus. he was the captain of his own soul, but not of ellen webster's. he glanced up to find lucy's gaze fixed upon him. there was horror and anguish in her eyes, and he realized that she had read aright the temptation that assailed him. she did not speak, she seemed scarcely to breathe: but the pleading face told him that should he yield to his darker passions and show no pity, she would forever loathe him for his cruelty. plainly as he saw this, however, it was not to her silent entreaty that he surrendered. something deeper than love was calling him. "though i speak with the tongues of men and of angels and have not charity----" how persistently the sentences came to him! they seemed to echo from out his memory--in his mother's voice--the voice of a vanished past. she had taught him the words when he was a boy, and he had not thought of them since. why did they now surge into his mind to weaken his resolve and cause him to waver in his intention? he wished he could get away from lucy's eyes and the sight of the woman upon the floor. had his mother lived, she might sometime have been as frail as this and had hair as white. a sob broke from him, and he stooped over his fallen foe. "where do you want i should carry her?" he asked, raising the limp body in his arms. lucy did not answer at once, and when she did her reply was unsteady. "the room is at the head of the stairs," she said, struggling to speak in her customary tone. "maybe i'd better go first." the hushed intimacy of the tragedy suddenly brought the man and the woman very close together. she led the way and he followed with his helpless burden. the form he bore was not heavy. in fact, it was so fragile that it seemed impossible that it could harbor so much venom and hatred. ellen webster was, after all, nothing but an old, old woman. perhaps, he reflected, in a wave of regret, he should have realized this and made allowance for it. then a reaction from his tense emotion swept over him, and he thought with amusement how angry she would be should she suddenly regain consciousness and find herself within his grasp. but she did not come to herself, and when he laid her on the bed that lucy had prepared, she was still as unmindful of his touch as she would have been had the spirit within her really taken flight. martin did not linger now. his decision was made. "i'll step over home an' get the other horse an' team, an' fetch the doctor back," he said quietly. "i wish you would." she did not thank him, accepting the favor with the simplicity of a weaker nature that leans unabashed on a stronger. her dependence and her confession of it thrilled him with pleasure. she heard him creep cautiously down over the stairs and go out at the side door. then she turned her attention to making more comfortable the helpless woman upon the bed. when at length there was nothing more she could do, she sat down to wait the doctor's coming. the time dragged on. it seemed an eternity before help came. in the meantime ellen lay immovable as she had done from the first, her hard, sharp-cut features harder and more sharply defined in their pallor than the girl had realized them to be. in the furrowed brow, the deep-set eyes, the pitiless mouth there was not one gentle line which death could borrow to soften the stamp with which revenge and bitterness had branded her. so she would look in her coffin, lucy thought with awe. majesty might come into her face in the last great moment; but it would be the majesty of hate, not of love. what a sad, sad ending to a life! as the girl sat thinking of the friendless, isolated existence of the woman before her, she wondered idly what her aunt would have been, if, while her nature was still plastic, she had married and sacrificed her ego in years of service for others. ah, she would never then have come to this lonely, embittered old age! children would have prattled at her knee, and their children would have made glad the silent house. how full of joy and opportunity such an existence would have been! but these blessings, alas, had not been granted ellen. perhaps it had been her own fault. she may deliberately have thrust the gentle visitant, love, from her dwelling, and once repulsed he may never have sought again for entrance. or it might be the woman was one at whose door the god had never knocked. oh, the pity of it! for after all did life hold any gift so rare, so supreme, as the perfect devotion of a man and woman who loved one another. it must be a wonderful thing, that divine miracle of love. dreamily lucy's gaze wandered off to the sunny fields, and with solemn realization it came to her that should ellen die, they and all the webster lands would be hers, to do with as she pleased. there were so many things she had been powerless to get her aunt to do. the house needed repairs if it were to be preserved for coming generations: certain patches of soil had been worked too long and should be allowed to lie fallow; there were scores of other improvements she would like to see carried out. now she would be free to better the property as she saw fit. she would talk with martin howe about it. he was brimming with all the latest farming methods. she would get him to buy her a cultivator such as he used in his own garden, and a wheel-hoe. he could advise her, too, about plowing buckwheat into the soil. and martin would know what to do about shingling the barn and cementing the cellar. in fact, it was amazing to discover how inseparable martin seemed to be from her plans. he was so strong, so wise, just the type of man a woman could depend upon for sympathy and guidance. absently she twisted the ring on her finger. her mind had traveled to the events of the morning, to his battle with himself and final victory. how appealing had been his surrender! the stern personality had melted into a tenderness as winning as a child's. if he loved a woman and she loved him---- she started guiltily to find ellen staring at her with vague, troubled eyes. "where--where--am--i--?" asked the woman in a weak, quavering voice. "upstairs in your own room, aunt ellen," replied lucy gently. "how'd i come here?" "you didn't feel very well." "yes. i remember now. i fell, didn't i?" "i'm afraid so." "i was fussin' at somethin', an' it made me dizzy. 'twas the heat, i guess. where'd you find me?" "in the kitchen." "an' you managed to bring me here?" her niece hesitated. "yes," she answered firmly. ellen paused and with dread the girl awaited her next question. but no question came. either the clouded mind was in too vague a mood to grasp details, or the invalid did not care. she seemed to be thinking. "so i fell," she repeated at last. "yes." again there was a pause, and during the stillness lucy plainly heard the sound of approaching wagon wheels. it must be martin with the doctor. she rose softly. "where you goin'?" demanded her aunt. "just downstairs a minute. i think the doctor----" "you didn't send tony for the doctor!" the invalid exclaimed, a feeble querulousness vibrating in the words. "yes; i didn't know what else to do." "he can't help any." "perhaps he can." "i tell you he can't," snapped ellen. "i know well enough what's the matter with me without bein' told. i've had a shock. my feet are all cold and numb: i can't feel nothin' in 'em, nor move 'em. there ain't no remedy for that. you're only wastin' money gettin' the man here to tell me what i already know. i shan't see him." lucy waited a moment. "i'm sorry i sent for him if you don't want him," she said. "but now that he is here, don't you think he'd better come up? we don't need to have him come again." ellen did not respond at once. then with more animation than she had exhibited, she said: "i s'pose we'll have to pay him whether he comes up or not, so i may's well get my money's worth out of him. go and fetch him. he'll likely be tickled to death to see with his own eyes how bad off i am so'st he can go back an' blab the news in the village. folks will be thankful to have something new to talk about." lucy could not but smile at the characteristic remark. she went out and soon returned with doctor marsh tiptoeing gingerly behind her. he was a heavy, florid man whom the combination of heat and speed had transformed into a panting mechanism. mopping the beads of perspiration from his brow, he started to seat himself at ellen's bedside, but the woman waved him off. "don't come any nearer," she called, "and don't bring that bag of pills and plasters in here, either. i shan't need nothin' you've got. i know that well's you do; an' i know better'n you do that there ain't no help for me. you needn't stay, an' you needn't come in. good mornin'." having delivered herself of this ultimatum at a single breath, ellen turned her head and closed her eyes. the doctor looked at her in astonishment but did not move. "clip right along home," reiterated the sick woman without looking at the physician. "my niece'll pay you as you go out. i reckon you won't charge more'n half price, since you ain't done nothin'." "i usually have----" "mebbe. but this call ain't like your usual ones, is it?" "no," responded the doctor with dignity, "i can't say that it is." "then you can't expect to get so much for it," piped ellen triumphantly. "my niece will settle with you. give him a dollar, lucy--not a cent more. he'll have fun enough gossipin' about me to make up the rest of the fee." doctor marsh, his face a study in outraged decorum, stalked indignantly from the room. ellen, peeping from beneath her lids, watched him with satisfaction. "has he gone?" she demanded, when lucy returned. "yes." "thank the lord. the fool doesn't know anything, anyway. now you go back downstairs an' finish up your work. there ain't no call for you to be idlin' the day out, even if i am." "i don't like to leave you alone." "pooh, pooh! i can't no more'n die, an' if i was to start doin' that you couldn't stop me." lucy moved toward the door; then turning she remarked gently: "i'm so sorry, aunt ellen." "eh?" "i'm sorry you're ill." "are you?" questioned the old woman, searching the girl's face with her small, flinty eyes. "mebbe you are. you generally tell the truth. i guess if you do feel so, you're the only one; an' i don't quite see how even you can be." "i am." her aunt fingered the sheet nervously. "you're a good girl, lucy," she presently observed in a weary tone. "you won't lose nothin' by it, neither." embarrassed, her niece started from the room. "come back here a minute," muttered the woman drowsily. "i want to speak to you." lucy recrossed the threshold and bent over ellen, who had sunk back on the pillows and was beckoning to her with a feeble, exhausted hand. "you'll stay by me, won't you?" she pleaded in a whisper, for the first time displaying a consciousness of her helpless, dependent condition. "promise you won't desert me. i'm leavin' you the place an' ten thousand dollars." chapter xiii melviny arrives when lucy descended to the kitchen she was surprised to be confronted by jane howe. "martin told us your aunt was sick, so i came over to see what i could do," said the visitor softly. "i reckon you're all up in a heap. sickness makes a sight of trouble. i know what it is 'cause i've had it. let me take right hold and put the kitchen to rights for you." the words were hearty with sincerity, and the woman's intention of rendering neighborly assistance genuine, for she promptly produced a large pinafore from under her arm and proceeded to put it on. "you're just as good as you can be," lucy exclaimed. "but indeed i couldn't think of letting you do my work, especially on such a hot day as this." "why not? didn't i just tell you i came to help? if you wasn't to let me lend a hand when you were in a tight place, i'd feel it warn't kind of you," protested jane, aggrieved. "fetch the broom, an' i'll go straight to sweepin' up. my, but you have a fine big kitchen here, haven't you?" as she rolled up her sleeves she glanced about. "it's a monstrous house though," she went on a minute later. "you'll never be able to do all there'll be to do now, unless you have help. let alone the work, you never can manage to lift your aunt by yourself. i reckon you'll have to send for melviny grey." "and who, pray, is she?" "melviny? ain't you never heard of melviny?" jane regarded lucy with astonishment. "no." "oh, well, that's because you warn't born and raised here," she explained. "why, melviny's one of the institutions of sefton falls. nothin' goes on in the way of tribulation without melviny bein' to it." "oh, i see. she's a nurse." "no, you couldn't really call her that," replied jane thoughtfully. "an' still i don't know but you might as well tag her that way as any. 'twould be hard to tell just what melviny is. she ain't only a nurse, 'cause she's a dressmaker; an' she ain't exactly a dressmaker, 'cause she makes bonnets; besides that she cleans house for folks, puts up pickles, and tends all the new babies. melviny's just a sort of present help in time of trouble." lucy smiled. "i believe, too, she ain't busy just now--not more'n ordinarily busy, i mean," jane hastened to add quickly. "as i remember it, the bartons' baby's just come, an' the wheeler one ain't due yet; so i guess melviny's yours for the askin'. an' if you can get her, you'll have a whole team." "i don't know whether aunt ellen----" began lucy uneasily, but jane interrupted her: "oh, it ain't to be expected your aunt will want her," she cut in serenely. "she won't want anybody. 'twill drive her well-nigh crazy to think of spendin' the money. but 'tain't right for you to try to do all there is to be done alone, an' you mustn't undertake it. just go right ahead an' get somebody in, whether your aunt likes it or not. that's the way i'd do if it was martin. besides, 'tain't as if melviny was different. she fits in anywhere. she warn't ever known not to. she asks no questions an' has got no opinions. she just sorter goes along as if she was walkin' in her sleep, turnin' neither to the right nor to the left. whatever house she's in, it's all the same to her. i believe she'd jog up to a patient with a breakfast tray if the stairs was burnin' under her. nothin' moves her." there was a rippling laugh from lucy. "we'd have to have somebody like that," she said. "you certainly would," agreed jane. "that's why i feel melviny's just the one for you." "it is so good of you to be interested." "bless your heart, i reckon the whole town's interested in miss webster bein' took down," confessed jane naively. "but i don't deserve no credit for this plan; 'twas martin's idea." "mar--your brother's?" "yes. martin's awful upset 'bout your aunt bein' sick," announced jane. "he must 'a' heard it in the village when he was there this mornin', for the minute he got back he sent me over to urge you to get somebody in. 'course he wouldn't come himself. that would be too much to expect. but he actually said that if you decided to fetch melviny he'd go and get her--an' from him that means a heap. i 'most fell over backwards when he suggested it, for you know how martin feels toward your aunt." lucy nodded in confusion. she had an uncomfortable sense that she was not being quite frank with jane. "martin would do 'bout anything for you, miss lucy," the woman asserted in a sudden burst of confidence. "i----" a cry from upstairs cut short the sentence. "lucy!" "yes, aunt ellen, i'll be right there." "go right up: i'll finish things here," whispered jane hurriedly. "all is, if you want martin to go for melviny, you have only to say the word. you can wave a handkerchief out of the window, an' he'll understand." "where does miss grey----" "for the land sake don't call her that. nobody'd know who you meant, an' she wouldn't, either." "well, melviny, then--where does she live?" "down in the valley--king's hollow, they call it." "why, it's miles!" protested lucy in dismay. "i can't send your brother way down there. he's been doing nothing but errands all day." "i know it," jane replied. "he's been to town twice already. he came home this noon with a load of grain an' then changed horses an' went right back to the village again 'cause he forgot something. likely you noticed him drivin' past." the girl colored before jane's friendly glance. she longed to tell the whole truth, for by nature she was a person of great frankness. since, however, martin had not seen fit to enlighten his sisters, perhaps it was wiser that she should not do so. he may have had his own reasons for keeping them in ignorance. "lucy!" "yes, i'm coming, aunt ellen." "do go along," implored jane; "she may suspect something. i'll leave the house all picked up, tidy as a pin. you won't forget to wave to martin if you want him." "no. thank you a thousand times, ja--miss howe." "jane'll do," smiled the woman kindly. "i'm more used to it." catching her visitor's hand in a quick grasp, lucy pressed it warmly and then sped up the stairs. "whatever have you been putterin' about so long?" queried ellen petulantly. "i was clearing up." "that's good. i guess the place needed it," sighed her aunt. "i warn't half through straightenin' things in the kitchen. i thought i heard you talkin'." "heard me?" "probably 'twas a notion. my head kinder buzzes." then she suddenly turned suspiciously on the girl, adding sharply: "you ain't been over to the howes'?" "no." "that's right. an' don't you go, neither. we don't need no help from them." a pause followed. "did you want me for something?" lucy at last inquired, after waiting for her aunt to speak. "yes, i did." nevertheless ellen made no further remark for some time. finally she burst out fretfully: "i'm almighty afraid i'll have to hire in somebody, after all." the last two words were peculiarly illuminating. "you mean somebody to help?" "yes," grumbled the older woman with peevish shrillness. "we've got a pull ahead of us; i know that well enough. an' i s'pose you ain't got enough muscle to lift me. likely you couldn't even raise me up on the pillows if you was to try. how you ever got me upstairs beats all." lucy hastily turned her head aside. "they do say, though," continued ellen, "that sometimes when folks are scat to death they can do things they can't do any other time. you were scat, i s'pose." "yes, i was." "mebbe you was scat worse when you found i warn't dead," chuckled the sick woman disagreeably. the girl did not reply. ellen paused; then seemed to regret her ill humor. "now 'bout a woman----" she halted abruptly. "have you any one in mind?" lucy asked timidly. "no," returned ellen emphatically, "i haven't. i hate all the folks in this town about equally--that is, all except the howes," she concluded with significant emphasis. "isn't there a nurse in the village?" "there's melviny grey." "is she a nurse?" the girl inquired innocently. "melviny ain't never been classified," retorted ellen grimly. "she's neither fish, flesh nor fowl. she's taught school; laid out the dead; an' done the lord only knows what durin' her lifetime. she can turn her hand to most anything; an' they do say she's mum as an oyster, which is a virtue out of the common in a woman." "suppose i see if we can get her?" suggested lucy. "well," returned ellen, with a reluctant groan, "i reckon you'll have to. you can send tony for her when he gets back, though how he'll find her i don't know. you might's well hunt for a needle in a haystack as to track down melviny. she's liable to be most anywheres tendin' babies or trimmin' bunnits; an' tony's such a numskull." "i guess we can locate her." "well, pack him off anyhow, the minute he gets home; an' tell him not to do any unnecessary travelin', an' to keep where the ground is smooth if he can. there's no use wearin' out dolly's new shoes by trapesin' over the stones in 'em the first thing. don't be afraid to speak up good and sharp to tony. he's used to it an' understands it better. ain't it the devil's own luck i should be chained down here like this!" "maybe you'll be better before long." "don't be a fool," snarled ellen. "of course i shan't." she closed her eyes, and lucy saw her face first harden into a rebellious frown, then relax into sleep. as soon as the girl was quite sure she would not be heard, she went to the window and, drawing aside the curtain, waved her handkerchief. evidently martin howe was awaiting the signal, for on receiving it he sprang up from the chopping block where he was sitting and, returning the salute, disappeared into the barn from which he presently emerged with his surrey and bay mare. lucy lingered to see him rattle out of the yard and pass over the crest of the hill. then with a strange sense of comfort and companionship she went back to her aunt's room. she sat there until dusk, watching the sleeping woman upon the bed. then melvina arrived. she proved to be a large, placid-faced woman with a countenance from which every human emotion had been eliminated until it was as expressionless as a bronze buddha. if she had ever known sorrow, delight, affection, surprise, it was so long ago that her reactionary system had forgotten how to reflect these sensations. it was obvious that nothing concerned her outside her immediate calling and that she accepted this with a stoical immovability which was neither to be diverted nor influenced. taking lucy's hand in a loose, pudgy grasp she remarked: "a shock?" "yes, you see, my aunt----" "how old is she?" "a little over seventy-five. i was away and when i----" "first shock?" "yes." "where is she?" "upstairs. but before you see her i want to explain that she is a little--well, peculiar. you may find that she----" "i shan't pay no attention," replied melvina indifferently. "i've seen all sorts--fretters, groaners, whiners, scolders; they're all one to me. so you needn't give yourself any uneasiness." she spoke in a voice as humdrum and colorless as was her round, flabby face, and lucy smiled in spite of herself. "i fancy it isn't really necessary for me to tell you anything then," she answered good-humoredly. "of course you have had a wonderful chance to study personalities." "i never had a chance to study anything," responded melvina in a matter-of-fact manner. "all i know i've picked up as i went along." "by study i mean that you have had a wide opportunity to observe human nature," explained lucy. "if by human nature you mean folks, i have," melvina said in her habitual monotone. after answering the remark, however, she made no further attempt at conversation but lapsed into a patient silence, regarding lucy with her big, faded blue eyes. as she stood there, one gained an impression that she could have stood thus for an indefinite length of time--forever, if necessary. not once did her gaze wander to her surroundings, and when lucy conducted her to the room that had been assigned her she entered it without curiosity. "i hope you will be comfortable here," the girl murmured with a hostess's solicitude. "i shall be." "and if there is anything you want----" "i'll ask for it." although there was no rebuke in the utterance, before this monument of composure, lucy, like david copperfield in the presence of the waiter, suddenly felt very young. "thank you; i wish you would," she managed to stammer, hastily closing the door. she reflected with amusement, as she made her retreat, that there were several things she had intended to caution the new nurse not to mention, one being that it was martin howe who had brought her hither. but after having once seen melvina grey, such warnings became superfluous and absurd. there was no more probability of melvina's imparting to ellen the circumstances of her coming than there was of the rocks on the mountain side breaking into speech and voicing their past history. therefore she crept downstairs to the kitchen to prepare supper, pondering as she went as to how ellen and this strangely stolid attendant would get on together. "it will be like a storm dashing against granite cliffs," she thought whimsically. "well, there is one merciful thing about it--i shall not have to worry about melviny gossiping or telling tales." in this assumption lucy was quite right. melvina grey proved not only to be as dumb as an oyster but even more uncommunicative than that traditionally self-contained bivalve. notwithstanding her cheery conversation about the weather, the crops, sefton falls, the scenery, she never trespassed upon personalities, or offered an observation concerning her immediate environment; nor could she be beguiled into narrating what old herman cole died of, or whether he liked his son's wife or not. this was aggravating, for melvina had been two years a nurse in the cole family and was well qualified to clear up these vexed questions. equally futile, too, were ellen's attempts to wring from her lips any confidential information about the hoyles' financial tangles, despite the fact that she had been in the house during the tragedy of samuel hoyle's failure and had welcomed the hoyle baby into the world. "why, the woman's a clam--that's what she is!" announced the exasperated patient. "you can get nothin' out of her. she might as well not know anything if she's going to be that close-mouthed. i don't believe hot irons would drag the words out of her. anyhow, she won't go retailin' our affairs all over town after she goes from here; that's one comfort!" lucy endorsed the observation with enthusiasm. it was indeed just as well that melvina did not report in the sick room all that went on downstairs. what, for example, would have been ellen's feeling had she known that every morning some one of the howe sisters came stealing across the fields to help with the webster housework? and what would she have said on discovering that it was her hereditary enemy martin himself who not only directed the cultivation of her garden but assumed much of its actual work. ah, ellen would have writhed in her bed had such tidings been borne to her. she would, in truth, probably have done far more than writhe had she been cognizant that every evening this same mr. martin howe, arrayed with scrupulous care, leaped the historic wall and came to sit on the webster doorstep and discuss problems relative to plowing and planting. and if, as frequently happened, the talk wandered off from cabbages and turnips to sunsets and moon glades, and if sometimes there were conscious intervals when there was no talk at all, who was the wiser? certainly not ellen, who in her dim chamber little suspected that the pair who whispered beneath her window had long since become as oblivious to the fact that they were howe and webster as were romeo and juliet that they were montague and capulet. no, the weeks passed, and ellen lay in blissful ignorance that the shuttle of fate, ever speeding to and fro, was subtly entangling in its delicate meshes these heirs of an inherited hatred. martin's sisters saw the romance and rejoiced; and although she gave no sign, melvina grey must also have seen it. as for the man and his beloved, they dwelt apart in an ephemeral world where only the prosaic hours when they were separated were unreal. their realities were smiles, sighs, glances,--the thousand and one nothings that make up the joys and agonies of a lover's existence. thus the weeks passed. in the meanwhile, as a result of rest and good care, ellen steadily became stronger and soon reached a point where it was no empty platitude to assure her that she was really better. "i do believe we shall have you downstairs yet, aunt ellen," said lucy gaily. "you are gaining every minute." "it's time i gained," ellen retorted with acidity. "you're gainin' all right," echoed melvina. "i plan to have you settin' up soon. sometime, when you're havin' a good day an' feel real spry, i mean to hist you into a chair an' let you take a look at the view." the date for this innovation came sooner than either lucy or the optimistic nurse foresaw, for ellen continued to mend so rapidly that one afternoon, when twilight was deepening into purple, melvina proposed to attempt the experiment of moving the invalid. "how'd you like to try settin' up a spell to-night?" she inquired without preamble. "i'll get a chair ready, and fix you in it, an' shove you over to the window so'st you can look out. there ain't much to see, to be sure; still the change will rest you, an' mebbe you'll sleep better after it." ellen did not demur. melvina had proved herself a trustworthy pilot and demonstrated that her suggestions were worth considering. "all right," she replied. "only hadn't you better call lucy?" "what for?" "to help you." a contemptuous smile curled melvina's lips. "bless your soul an' body, i've no need of help," was her answer. "you don't weigh nothin', an' even if you did, i've moved so many folks that i wouldn't hesitate. you ain't afraid, are you?" "mercy, no." "there's no cause for you to be," went on the nurse reassuringly. "i know what i'm about. all you've got to do is to mind what i tell you." ellen's jaw squared itself. "i 'spect that's about all i'll ever do again," she returned in a biting tone. the proposed adventure subsequently resolved itself into a much simpler undertaking than it had promised, for ellen was light as a feather and melvina strong, deft, and experienced. hence without mishap the invalid was transferred to the big chair and rolled to the window, where she could look out on the valley melting into the shadows of evening. had she restricted her observations to the scenery she might have returned to her couch refreshed both in mind and body; but unluckily she chanced to let her glance wander to the garden, and there an astonishing sight met her eyes. in the seclusion of the lilac hedge stood two figures, that of a man and a woman. the man held in his hand a trowel and was transplanting in the rich brown soil some tender green things which the woman was handing him from a basket. the presence of a stranger who was apparently so much at home within her boundaries was in itself sufficient to arouse ellen's curiosity; but what whetted curiosity to indignation was the manner in which the pair were performing the simple task. even a person blind to romance and deaf to sentiment could not help realizing that the planting was a very immaterial part of the pastoral tableau, and there was much more significance in the drama than the setting out of young seedlings. fascinated, ellen gazed, her wrath rising. "melviny!" she burst out at last, "come here!" "yes, miss webster." "who's that out in the garden?" "where?" "over there near the lilac hedge," specified ellen impatiently. melvina rubbed her glasses then smothered a little gasp; but she quickly recovered her wonted stolidity. "it's miss lucy, i reckon," she said slowly. "but the man--the man!" persisted ellen. "who is he?" "oh, the man. that's mr. howe--the one that lives next door." "martin howe?" "yes, i believe they do call him martin," responded melvina imperturbably, resuming her interrupted task of turning the mattress and plumping its feathers into luxurious billows of softness. ellen did not speak immediately. when she did it was to ask: "what's martin howe doin' on my land?" "helpin', i s'pose," melvina replied with indifference. "he often does." "he comes over here an' works?" "yes, marm." ellen brought her fist down on the arm of the chair with an exclamation of anger. her lips were white, and she trembled. raising her unsteady finger, she pointed toward the unconscious culprits. "you go straight out there, melvina," she cried, "an' tell lucy i want her." "yes, marm." "hurry!" "yes." she watched while melvina plodded across the grass and delivered her message. instantly lucy dropped the basket and hastened toward the house. another moment the girl stood before her. "you're worse, aunt ellen?" she said, panting for breath. but ellen ignored the question. "what's martin howe doin' in my garden?" she demanded fiercely. lucy paled. "he came over to help me transplant the larkspur." "by what right does he come over here, i'd like to know?" no reply came. "has he been over before?" interrogated ellen ruthlessly. "yes." "when?" "oh, off an' on. he's been trying to help out since you've been ill." "help out!" repeated ellen scornfully. "the coward! he wouldn't have dared set foot on the place if i'd been well." "he isn't a coward!" lucy had drawn herself to her full height and now confronted her aunt with blazing eyes. ellen, however, was not to be deterred. "he _is_ a coward!" she reiterated. "a coward an' a blackguard! a curse on the howes--the whole lot of 'em!" "stop!" the intonation of the single word brought ellen's harangue to an abrupt cessation. "you shan't speak so of martin howe or of his family," cried the girl. "he is no coward. if he had been as small-minded and cruel as you, he would have left you to die on the floor the day you fell, instead of bringing you upstairs and going for a doctor--you, who have cursed him! you had better know the truth. did you think it was i who placed you on this bed? i couldn't have done it. i am not strong enough. it was martin--martin howe!" ellen stared stupidly. "i'd rather have died!" she muttered between clinched teeth. "yes, you would," retorted lucy. "you would rather have gone down to your grave with bitterness in your soul and a curse upon your lips than to have accepted aid from martin howe. you would not have helped him had he been in trouble. you would have been glad to see him suffer--glad!" the woman listened as if spellbound. "but martin howe is too much of a christian for that. yes, you can sneer. he is a christian and a gentleman. you are not worthy to touch the ground beneath his feet. he would not leave you without help. since you have been ill, he has given part of each day to working in your garden; and he is busy and tired, too. he's done it that your crops might not fail. it is martin howe that you have to thank for your harvest, whether you like it or not--martin howe!" breathlessly she paused. "you seem to have a terrible high opinion of martin howe," scoffed ellen, with scathing sarcasm. "i have." "likely you're in love with him," jibed the tormentor. "yes, i love him." the simple confession came proudly from the girl's lips. "an' he loves you, no doubt," continued the old woman with a laugh. "at least he's probably told you so." "no, he hasn't." "oh-ho! he hasn't, eh?" "no." "an' never will," shouted the harpy triumphantly. "he ain't marryin' no websters--don't you think it for one minute. he's just makin' a fool of you. that's his idea of revenge--your christian gentleman!" she rubbed her dank hands together. "i don't believe it." "you wouldn't be likely to," returned ellen sharply. "i didn't expect it. no girl is ever willin' to believe her lover's a scoundrel. but mark my words--martin howe is playin' with you--playin'--just the way a cat plays with a mouse. he's aimin' to get you into his clutches an' ruin you--wait an' see if he ain't. oh, he's a deep one, this gentleman you seem to think so much of!" "i'll not believe it," repeated lucy hotly. "you'd marry him, i s'pose," ellen hissed. "if he asked me, yes." "you traitor! an' you a webster!" "i don't care." the woman surveyed her niece in silence. "well," she said finally, "you can put your soul at rest. martin howe will never marry you--never! he would no more marry anybody of the webster blood than he'd hang himself. go on lovin' him if you want to. no good will come of it." with this parting prophecy ellen shut her lips, and lucy, throbbing from the stripes of the encounter and seeing further parley fruitless, slipped from the room and fled to the quiet of the still night's solitude. after she had gone and ellen was once more in bed, melvina tried in vain to quiet the increasing restlessness of her patient, but all attempts to soothe the invalid were without avail. tossing from side to side on the pillows, her fingers picking nervously at the coverings, ellen stared into the darkness, breaking from time to time into fragments of angry dialogue. the benediction of the evening's peace, musical with the rustling of leaves and laden with the perfume of blossoming vines, brought no solace to her heart. presently, unable to endure the silence longer, she started up. "melviny," she called to the woman sitting beside her. the nurse rose from the deepening gloom and stood erect in the moonlight, her figure throwing upon the whitewashed wall a distorted, specterlike silhouette. "yes, marm." "is lucy still outdoors?" "yes." ellen waited an instant; then she said: "there's somethin' in her room i want you should get for me." "all right, miss webster." "it's a long white envelope. you'll find it somewheres. it'll likely be in her desk or the table drawer. it's sealed with red wax. you'll know it when you come across it." although melvina nodded, she did not move. "you needn't be afraid to fetch it," explained ellen querulously. "it's mine. i gave it to lucy to keep for me." "i see." melvina started promptly on her quest. "don't be all night about it," was ellen's parting admonition. while the messenger was gone, the invalid gave vent to her impatience by drumming rhythmically on the wooden edge of the bedstead, and this measured tattoo increased in speed until it beat time with the feverish bounding of her pulse and the throbbing of her heart. "ain't you found it yet?" she shouted at last. "yes, i've just come on it. it was under----" "no matter where it was. bring it here." "i'm comin'." bearing the envelope, melvina appeared in the doorway. "let me see it," said ellen. she took it in her hand and, while melvina held the candle, examined the package critically. "humph!" she muttered. "it's good as new." for some unaccountable reason she seemed disappointed at the discovery. "now run downstairs and put it in the stove," she commanded excitedly. "wait till every smitch of it's burned up an' then come back." "yes, marm." but again melvina loitered. "i tell you the thing is mine to do with as i please," declared ellen angrily. "yes, marm." "ain't you going?" "y-e-s." as she heard the nurse's reluctant step on the stairs, an evil light came into the old woman's face. "i'll fix that!" she whispered aloud. it took melvina some time to fulfill her errand, but at length she returned, and the moment she was inside the door ellen's shrill query greeted her: "well, did you burn it?" "yes, marm." "every scrap of it?" "yes." "you didn't leave nothin'?" "no." the woman in the bed drew a satisfied breath. "that's all right then. now get me a drink of water, an' i'll go to sleep." the sleep she craved, however, did not come, for throughout the night she continued to move unceasingly. "your aunt didn't so much as close her eyes," announced melvina to lucy the next morning, while the two sat at breakfast. nevertheless, although she advanced this information, with characteristic secretiveness she said nothing of the happenings of the previous evening. truly if "whoso keepeth his mouth and his tongue keepeth his soul from troubles," melvina's eternal serenity of spirit was assured. chapter xiv a piece of diplomacy when lucy, radiant in her own happiness, entered her aunt's room, she was surprised to find that all ellen's recent anger had apparently vanished, and that she had dropped into a lethargic mood from which it was difficult to rouse her. it was not so much that the elder woman was out of temper--that was to be expected--as that she seemed to be turning over in her mind some problem which was either unsolved or unpleasant, and which knitted her brow into a web of wrinkles, forcing her lips together with an ominous curl. lucy, who stood at the table arranging a vase of freshly gathered pansies, furtively studied the invalid's sullen reverie. "how are you feeling to-day, aunt ellen?" she at last inquired with courageous effort. "no different." "melvina said she was afraid you did not have a comfortable night." the blue eyes flashed a suspicious glance of inquiry over the questioner's countenance, then closed wearily. "i didn't," was all she said. "i am sorry to hear that." the regret was uttered with gentle sincerity. in an existence cloudless as her own, magnanimousness required little effort. moreover, lucy was forgiving by nature; and had she not been, the helplessness and friendlessness of the lonely soul before her would have presented a powerful plea for pity. ellen did not respond to the words. "what was the trouble?" went on lucy, after waiting a suitable length of time and sensing that no answer was to be forthcoming. "were you in pain?" at the interrogation a flame of hatred leaped into the woman's face, flickered there, and then died down, leaving it cold and hard as marble. "i got to thinkin'," she returned briefly. "i hope what i said did not worry you, aunt ellen." "it did last night; but it don't now," responded ellen, with a disagreeable laugh. "that's good. i should be sorry to have been the cause of your lying here fretting." "i ain't doin' no frettin' now," repeated ellen. then, changing a subject both seemed to regard as a delicate one, she asked in a more natural tone: "what were you plannin' to do this mornin'?" "oh, just the regular things," lucy said cordially, glad to be once more on safer ground. "why?" "'cause i'm possessed of a hankerin' for some raspberries," said ellen. "i like 'em, an' i ain't had any for a long time. somehow it seems as if they'd taste awful good." lucy's face lighted. "why, i'd be glad to try and get some for you, aunt ellen," she cried. "you know i'd love to get anything you wanted if i could. i'm so pleased that you mentioned it." ellen twisted her head on the pillow and began outlining the figures on the counterpane with her long, misshapen finger. "i s'pose you couldn't find enough for a shortcake, could you?" she ventured skeptically. "i don't know but i could. at least, i could try. of course it's late in the season for them." the lean finger continued to follow the flowered design of the bedcovering. "there used to be some late ones up at the top of pine ridge," remarked the invalid casually. "that would be quite a walk though, an' likely further than you'd care to go." "no, indeed it wouldn't!" there was fervor in the protest. already visions of a morning in the blue and gold world were shaping themselves in the girl's mind. no doubt jane howe would go with her; probably martin would be too busy to leave his work; but if he were not, what a bit of paradise they could have together! ellen, who read her niece's thoughts almost as readily as if they had been openly expressed, smiled a malevolent smile. "it's a good four miles to the ridge," she remarked. "goin', comin', an' pickin' would take you the whole mornin', i reckon." "i'm afraid it would," agreed lucy. "could you spare me as long as that?" "yes. i don't need nothin'; an' if i do, melviny can get it. i'd rather have you go than not. if you could get me enough berries for a shortcake it would be worth it." the note of suppressed eagerness in the words caused lucy to regard her aunt with quick, indefinable suspicion. but ellen met the glance unflinchingly, and with a baffled sense of being mistaken the girl hurried from the room. when she returned shortly afterward and paused in the doorway, she presented a winning picture. she had donned a short khaki skirt and a pair of riding leggings such as she had been accustomed to wear in the west, and the broad sombrero crowning her golden hair outlined it like a halo. a simple blouse turned away to give freedom to the firm white throat completed the costume. dimpling with anticipation, she held up her tin pail. "i'm off, aunt ellen," she called. "you shall have your shortcake if there is a berry within five miles." the woman listened to the fall of the light step on the stairs and the fragment of a song that came from the girl's lips until the last note of the music died away; then she called melvina. "melviny!" "yes, marm." "i want you should find tony and tell him to harness up. there's somethin' i need done in the village." "all right, miss webster." "bring me a sheet of paper an' a pencil before you go." the nurse entered with the desired articles. "i'm sendin' to town for lawyer benton," announced the patient with elaborate carelessness. neither melvina's voice nor her face expressed the slightest curiosity. "there's some business i must see to right away, an' i reckon i may's well get it fixed up this mornin'." "yes, marm." "give tony this note for mr. benton and tell him to fetch him back soon's he can." nodding acquiescence, melvina disappeared. during the interval between the time the wheels rattled out of the yard and rattled in again, ellen fidgeted at a high-pitched excitement, starting nervously at every sound. sometimes she scowled; and once she burst into a harsh, cracked peal of laughter. her thoughts, whatever they were, seemed to amuse her vastly. the moment the tramp of the horse's hoofs sounded on the gravel outside, she was alert and called to melvina, stationed at the window: "is that tony?" "yes, marm." "has he got mr. benton with him?" "yes, miss webster. an' there's somebody else, too." "that's good. show mr. benton right up here. you needn't wait. i'll call you when i need you. let the other man sit in the kitchen 'til we want him." whatever the mysterious business was, it took no great while, for before an hour had passed melvina, waiting in the hall outside the chamber door, heard a shrill summons. "you can come in now, melviny," ellen said. "there's something here i want you should put your name to; an' you can fetch that man who's downstairs, an' tony." "all right." when, however, a few seconds later melvina, accompanied by the stranger and the wondering portuguese boy, entered the patient's room, it was mr. benton who stepped into the foreground and who came obsequiously forward, pen in hand, to address the attendant. "the paper which you are about to sign, miss grey," he began pompously, "is----" but ellen cut short his peroration. "it don't make no difference to melviny what it is, mr. benton," she said impatiently. "all she's got to do is to watch me write my name, an' then put hers down where you tell her, together with tony an' the other witness. that will end it." "but don't you think, miss webster, that in justice to miss grey, you should inform her----" "no, i don't," snapped ellen. "melviny don't care nothin' about my affairs. i'll write my name. then you can give her the pen an' let her sign. that's all she's got to do." although mr. benton was a man of heavy, impressive appearance, he was in reality a far less effectual person to combat opposition than he seemed, and sensing that in the present instance it was easier to yield than to argue, he allowed himself to be cowed into submission and meekly gave the pen to melvina who with blind faith inscribed her name on the crisp white paper in a small cramped hand. caleb saunders, the witness mr. benton had brought with him, next wrote his name, forming each letter with such conscientiousness that ellen could hardly wait until the painstaking and elaborate ceremonial was completed. "now let tony sign," she ordered imperiously. "he needn't stop to wash his hands. a little dirt won't be no hindrance, an' i'm in a hurry to get this thing out of the way so mr. benton can go back." yet notwithstanding ellen's haste, for tony to affix his name to the document in question proved to be little short of a life work. six times he had to be instructed on which line to write; and when on the seventh admonition his mind but vaguely grasped what was required of him, the lawyer took his stand at his elbow and with finger planted like a guidepost on the paper indicated beyond all chance of error where the signature was to be placed. when, however, the pen was redipped and upraised for the final legal touch, again it faltered. this time the delay was caused by uncertainties of spelling, which, it must be confessed, also baffled the combined intellects of the lawyer and the two women. paponollari was not a name commonly encountered in new england. the three wrestled with it valiantly, but when a vote was taken, and it was set down in accordance with the ruling of the majority, it was disheartening to discover that, when all was said and done, the portuguese lad was not at all sure whether tony was his christian name or not. "good lord!" ejaculated ellen when, after more debating, the signature was finally inscribed, "i'm clean beat out. why, i could have deeded away the whole united states in the time it's taken this lout of a boy to scribble his name. is it any wonder that with only a stupid idiot like this for help, my garden's always behind other folks', an' my chores never done?" then to the bewildered, nerve-wracked alien she thundered: "don't blot it, you fool!--don't blot it! can't you keep your fingers out of the wet ink? heavens, melviny, do get him out of here!" tony was only too ready to retire. the ordeal had strained his patience and had left his brain feeling the stress of unaccustomed exercise. therefore, allowing melvina to drive him before her much as she would have driven a docile jersey from a cabbage patch, he made his way downstairs, followed by the perspiring lawyer. it was not until both of them were safely on the road to the village, and the house had assumed its customary calm that lucy arrived, her hair tumbled by the wind and her eyes glowing like stars. "i've got your berries, aunt ellen," she said, holding aloft a pail heaped with fruit. "see what beauties they are! you shall have a royal shortcake." ellen's appreciation for some reason was, however, scanty and confused. she averted her glance from her niece's face, and even at noontime when the girl appeared bearing a marvelously baked and yet more marvelously decorated masterpiece of culinary art, she had not regained sufficient poise to partake of the delicacy in any mood save that of furtive and guilty silence. lucy, ever sympathetic, ventured the fear that the invalid was over-tired, and after the meal drew the shades that her aunt might rest. in the dim light ellen seemed more at ease and presently fell into a deep slumber that lasted until midnight and was broken only by some phantasy of her dreams which intermittently brought from her lips a series of muttered execrations and bitter, insinuating laughs. toward morning she roused herself and gave a feeble cry of pain. instantly alert, melvina hastened to her bedside. but by the time a candle was lighted all human aid was vain. ellen webster was dead. chapter xv ellen's vengeance it was useless to pretend that ellen's death did not bring to lucy webster a sense of relief and freedom. it was as if some sinister, menacing power that had suppressed every spontaneous impulse of her nature had suddenly been removed and left her free at last to be herself. until now she had not realized how tired she was,--not alone physically tired but tired of groping her way to avoid the constant friction which life with her aunt engendered. for the first few days after the funeral she kept melvina with her and did nothing but rest. then returning energy brought back her normal desire for action, and she began to readjust her plans. together the two women cleaned the house from top to bottom, rooting into trunks, chests, and cupboards, and disposing of much of the litter that ellen had accumulated. afterward melvina took her leave, and lucy turned her mind to renovations. she would have new paper and fresh paint, she decided; also the long-coveted chintz hangings; and to this end she would make an expedition to the village to see what could be procured there in the way of artistic materials. it might be necessary for her to go to concord, or even to boston for the things she wanted. in the meantime, since she was driving to town, perhaps she had better take along her aunt's will. there must be formalities to be observed regarding it, and although she was not at all sure what they were, mr. benton would of course know. but search as she would, the white envelope with its imposing red seal was nowhere to be found. she went through every drawer in her bureau, every pigeonhole in her desk; she ransacked closet and bookshelf; she even emptied all her belongings upon the bed and examined each article carefully to see if the missing document had by any chance strayed into a fantastic hiding place; but the paper failed to come to light. what could have become of it? the envelope had been there, that she knew. only a week ago she had seen it in the top drawer of her desk. she would stake her oath that she had not removed it. vague disquietude took possession of her. tony had always been honest, and of melvina's integrity there could be no question. as for ellen, had she not herself put the will into the girl's keeping--as a weapon with which to meet this very emergency? it was incredible, preposterous to assume that she had taken it back, especially when one considered her helplessness to do so unaided. that solution might as well be dismissed as ridiculous. the paper was lost, that was all there was to it. lost! in her own absent-mindedness, or in a moment of confusion and weariness, she had either accidentally destroyed it, or she had removed it from its customary place to a safer spot and forgotten where she had put it. yet, after all, how foolish it was of her to worry. doubtless mr. benton had a copy of the document, and if she made full confession of her stupidity he would know what to do. didn't lawyers always keep copies of every legal paper they drew up? they must of course do so. therefore without breathing a word of her troubles to the howes--not even to martin--she set forth to the village, her dreams of redecorating the house being thrust, for the time being, entirely into the background by this disquieting happening. mr. benton was alone in his stuffy little office when she arrived. evidently his professional duties were not pressing, for he was hunched up over a small air-tight stove and amid a smudge of tobacco smoke was reading "pickwick papers." at the entrance of a client, however, and this client in particular, he rose in haste, and slipping simultaneously into his alpaca coat and his legal manner--the two seemed to be a one-piece garment--held out his hand with a mixture of solicitude and pleasure. "my dear miss webster," he began. "i hope you are well. you have sustained a great loss since i last beheld you, a great loss." he drew forward a second armchair similar to the one in which he had been sitting and motioned lucy to accept it. "your aunt was a worthy woman who will be profoundly missed in the community," he continued in a droning voice. lucy did not answer. in fact the lawyer did not seem to expect she would. he was apparently delivering himself of a series of observations which came one after the other in habitual sequence, and which he preferred should not be interrupted. "death, however, is the common lot of mankind and must come to us all," he went on in the same singsong tone, "and i hope that in the thought of your devotion to the deceased you will find comfort." having now terminated the introduction with which he was accustomed to preface his remarks on all such occasions, he regarded the girl in the chair opposite him benignly. "i was intending to come to see you," he went on more cheerfully, and yet being careful to modulate his words so that they might still retain the bereavement vibration, "but you have forestalled me, i see. i did not wish to hurry you unduly." "i have been tired," lucy replied simply, "but i am rested now and quite ready to do whatever is necessary." "i am glad to hear that, very glad," mr. benton returned. "of course there is no immediate haste; nevertheless it is well to straighten out such matters as soon as it can conveniently be done. when do you contemplate leaving town?" lucy met the question with a smile. "oh, i don't intend to leave sefton falls," she said quickly. "i have grown very fond of the place and mean to remain here." "indeed," nodded mr. benton. "that is interesting. i am glad to hear we are not to lose you from the village." he rubbed his hands and continued to nod thoughtfully. "about how soon, if i might ask so personal a question, do you think you could be ready to hand over the house to the new tenant?" he at last ventured with hesitation. "i'm afraid i don't understand you." the lawyer seemed surprised. "you knew of your aunt's will?" "i knew she had made a will, yes, sir. she gave it to me to keep for her." "you were familiar with the contents of it?" "not entirely so," lucy answered. "i knew she had left me the house and some money. she told me that much." "u--u--m!" observed mr. benton. "but the second will--she spoke to you of that also?" "i don't know what you mean." "you were not cognizant that a few days before the deceased passed--shall we say, away"--he paused mournfully,--"that she made a new will and revoked the previous one?" "no." "no one told you that?" "no, sir." the lawyer straightened himself. matters were becoming interesting. "there was a second will," he declared with deliberation. "it was drawn up one morning in your aunt's room, with miss melvina grey, mr. caleb saunders, and the boy tony as witnesses." lucy waited breathlessly. "this will," went on mr. benton, "provides for quite a different disposition of the property. i must beg you to prepare yourself for a disappointment." the girl threw back her head. "go on, please," she commanded. "quite a different disposition of the property," repeated mr. benton, dwelling on the cadence of the phrase. "what is it?" the man delayed. "have you any reason to suppose, miss webster, that your aunt was--shall we say annoyed, with you?" "i knew she did not like the way i felt about some things," admitted lucy. "but did not some vital difference of opinion arise between you recently?" mr. benton persisted. "i spoke my mind to aunt ellen the other day," confessed the girl. "i had to." "ah! then that explains matters!" "what matters?" "the somewhat strange conditions of the will." having untangled the enigma to his own satisfaction, mr. benton proceeded to sit back and enjoy its solution all by himself. "can't you tell me what they are?" lucy at last inquired impatiently. "i can enlighten you, yes. in fact, it is my duty to do so." rising, he went to the desk drawer and made a pretense of fumbling through his papers; but it was easy to see that the document he sought had been carefully placed on the top of the sparse, untidy pile that cluttered the interior of the rickety piece of furniture. "perhaps," he remarked, "there is no real need to burden your mind with legal formalities; nevertheless----" "oh, don't bother to read me the whole will," broke out lucy sharply. "just tell me in plain terms what aunt ellen has done." it was obvious that mr. benton did not at all relish the off-handedness of the request. he depended not a little on his professional pomposity to bolster up a certain lack of confidence in himself, and stripped of this legal regalia he shriveled to a very ordinary person indeed. "your aunt," he began in quite a different tone, "has left her property to mr. martin howe." lucy recoiled. "to whom?" "to martin howe." there was an oppressive pause. "to martin howe?" the girl stammered at length. "but there must be some mistake." mr. benton met her gaze kindly. "i fear there is no mistake, my dear young lady," he said. "oh, i don't mean because my aunt has cut me off," lucy explained with pride. "she of course had a right to do what she pleased. but to leave the property to martin howe! why, she would scarcely speak to him." "so i have gathered," the lawyer said. "that is what makes the will so remarkable." "it is preposterous! martin will never accept it in the world." "that contingency is also provided for," put in mr. benton. "how?" "the property is willed to the legatee--house, land, and money--to be personally occupied by said beneficiary and not sold, deeded, or given away on the conditions--a very unusual condition this second one----" again mr. benton stopped, his thumbs and finger neatly pyramided into a miniature squirrel cage, over the top of which he regarded his client meditatively. his reverie appeared to be intensely interesting. "very unusual indeed," he presently concluded absently. "well?" demanded lucy. "ah, yes, miss webster," he continued, starting at the interrogation. "as i was saying, the conditions made by the deceased are unusual--peculiar, in fact, if i may be permitted to say so. the property goes to mr. martin howe on the condition that in six months' time he personally rebuilds the wall lying between the howe and webster estates and now in a state of dilapidation." "he will never do it," burst out lucy indignantly, springing to her feet. "in that case the property goes unreservedly to the town of sefton falls," went on mr. benton in an even tone, "to be used as a home for the destitute of the county." the girl clinched her hands. it was a trap,--a last, revengeful, defiant act of hatred. the pity that any one should go down into the grave with such bitterness of heart was the girl's first thought. then the cleverness of the old woman's plot began to seep into her mind. all unwittingly martin howe was made a party in a diabolical scheme to defraud her--the woman who loved him--of her birthright, of the home that should have been hers. the only way he could restore to her what was her own was to marry her, and to do that he must perform the one deed he had pledged himself never to be tempted into: he must rebuild the wall. otherwise the property would pass into other hands. nothing could so injure the howe estate as to have a poor farm next door. ellen of course knew that. ah, it was a vicious document--that last will and testament of ellen webster. mr. benton's voice broke in upon lucy's musings. "the deceased," he added with a final grin of appreciation, "appoints mr. elias barnes as executor, _he being_," the lawyer quoted from the written page, "_the meanest man i know_." thus did the voice of the dead speak from the confines of the grave! death had neither transformed nor weakened the intrepid hater. from her aunt's coffin lucy could seem to hear vindictive chuckles of revenge and hatred, and a mist gathered before her eyes. she had had no regrets for the loss of ellen's body; but she could not but lament with genuine grief the loss of her soul. chapter xvi lucy comes to a decision slowly lucy drove homeward, her dreams of rosy wall papers and gay chintz hangings shattered. thrusting into insignificance these minor considerations, however, was the thought of martin howe and what he would say to the revelation of ellen's cupidity. she would not tell him about the will, on that she was determined. she would not mention it to anybody. instead she would go promptly to work packing up her few possessions and putting the house in perfect order. fortunately it had so recently been cleaned that to prepare it for closing would be a simple matter. as for herself and martin, the dupes of an old woman's vengeance, both of them were of course blameless. nevertheless, the present twist of fate had entirely changed their relation to one another. when she had defied her aunt and voiced with such pride her love for the man of her heart, it had been in a joyous faith that although he had not made similar confession, he would ultimately do so. the possibility that he was making of her affection a tool for vengeance had never come into her mind until ellen had put it there, and then with involuntary loyalty she had instantly dismissed the suggestion as absurd. but here was a different situation. she was no longer independent of circumstances. she was penniless in the world, all the things that should have been hers having been swept away by the malicious stroke of a pen. it was almost as tragic to be married out of spite as out of pity. she knew martin's standards of honor. he would recognize, as she did, the justice of the webster homestead and lands remaining in her possession; and since the will stipulated that he must personally occupy these properties and could neither sell, transfer, nor give them to their rightful owner, she felt sure he would seize upon the only other means of making her freehold legally hers. whether he loved her or not would not now be in his eyes the paramount issue. in wedding her he would feel he was carrying out an act of justice which under the guise of affection it would be quite legitimate to perform. this solution of the difficulty, however, cleared away but the minor half of the dilemma. had she been willing to accept martin's sacrifice of himself and marry him, there still remained the wall,--the obstacle that for generations had loomed between the peace of howe and webster and now loomed 'twixt her and her lover with a magnitude it had never assumed before. martin would never rebuild that wall--never! had he not vowed that he would be burned at the stake first? that he would face persecution, nakedness, famine, the sword before he would do it? all the iron of generations of howe blood rung in the oath. he had proclaimed the decree throughout the county. everybody for miles around knew how he felt. though he loved her as man had never loved woman (a miracle which she had no ground for supposing) he would never consent to such a compromise of principles. the being did not exist for whom martin howe would abandon his creed of honor. she knew well that strata of hardness in his nature, the adamantine will that wrought torture to its possessor because it could not bend. even the concessions he had thus far made, had, she recognized, cost him a vital struggle. on the day of her aunt's seizure had she not witnessed the warfare between pity and hatred, generosity and revenge? the powers of light had triumphed, it is true; but it had been only after the bitterest travail; and ever since she had been conscious that within his soul martin had viewed his victory with a smoldering, unformulated contempt. even his attentions to her had been paid with a blindfolded, lethargic unwillingness, as if he offered them against the dictates of his conscience and closed his eyes to a crisis he would not, dared not face. it was one thing for her to light-heartedly announce that she loved martin howe and would marry him; but it was quite another matter for him to reach a corresponding conclusion. to her vengeance was an antiquated creed, a remnant of a past decade, which it cost her no effort to brush aside. martin, on the contrary, was built of sterner stuff. he hated with the vigor of the red-blooded hater, fostering with sincerity the old-fashioned dogmas of justice and retribution. "an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth" was a matter of right; and the mercy that would temper it was not always a virtue. more often it was a weakness. to be caught in ellen webster's toils and own himself beaten would, lucy well understood, be to his mind a humiliating fate. only a compelling, unreasoning love that swept over him like some mighty tidal wave, wrenching from its foundations every impeding barrier, could move him to surrender; and who was she to arouse such passion in any lover? she was only a woman human and faulty. she had indeed a heart to bestow, and without vain boasting it was a heart worth the winning; she held herself in sufficient esteem to set a price on the treasure. but was it jewel enough to prompt a man to uproot every tradition of his moral world for its possession? sadly she shook her head. no, martin would never be lost in a mood of such over-mastering love as this for her. if he made a proposal of marriage, it would be because he was spurred by impulses of justice and pity; and no matter how worthy these motives, he would degenerate into the laughing stock of the community the instant he began to carry out the terms of the will and reconstruct the wall. she could hear now the taunts and jests of the townsfolk. some of them would speak in good-humored banter, some with premeditated malice; but their jibes would sting. "so you're tacklin' that wall in spite of all you said, are you, martin?" "ellen webster's got you where she wanted you at last, ain't she, martin?" "this would be a proud day for the websters, martin!" there would even be those who would meanly assert that a man could be made to do anything for money. ah, she knew what the villagers would say, and so, too, would martin. how his proud spirit would writhe and smart under the lash of their tongues! neither pity nor love for her should ever place him in a position of such humiliation. before he was confronted by the choice of turning her out of doors, or marrying her and making himself the butt of the county wits, she must clear his path from embarrassment and be gone. she had a pittance of her own that would support her until she could find employment that would render her independent of charity. her future would unquestionably be lonely, since she must leave behind her not only the man she loved but the home about which her fondest dreams centered. nevertheless, she had never lacked courage to do what must be done; and in the present emergency the pride of the websters came surging to re-enforce her in her purpose. nobody must know she was going away--nobody. there must be no leave-takings and no tears. the regrets she had at parting with all she held dear she would keep to herself, nor should any of her kindly acquaintances have the opportunity to offer to her a sheltering roof as they had to old libby davis, the town pauper. laughing hysterically, she dashed aside the tears that gathered in her eyes. would it not be ironic if the webster mansion became a poor farm and she its first inmate? as for martin--a quick sob choked her. well, he should be left free to follow whatever course he ordained. perhaps he would scornfully turn ellen's bequest back to the town; perhaps, on the other hand, he would conquer his scruples, rebuild the wall, and become rich and prosperous as a result. with an augmented bank account and plenty of fertile land, what might he not accomplish? why, it would make him one of the largest land-owners in the state! a glow of pleasure thrilled her. she hoped he would accept the legacy; she prayed he would. then, even though she were lonely and penniless, she would have the satisfaction of knowing that what she had forfeited had been for his betterment. there would be some joy in that. to give over her ancestral homestead for a pauper institution that was neither needed nor necessary, and was only a spiteful device of ellen's to outwit her was an empty charity. having thus formulated her future action, lucy hastened to carry out her plans with all speed. before mr. benton imparted to martin the terms of the will, before any hint of them reached his ears, she must be far from sefton falls; otherwise he might anticipate her determination and thwart her in it. how fortunate it was that there was so little to impede her flight! all she owned in the world she could quickly pack into the small trunk she had brought with her from the west. not to one article in the house had she any claim; mr. benton had impressed that upon her mind. even the family silver, the little dented mug from which her father had drunk his milk had been willed away. however, what did it matter now? sentiment was a foolish thing. there would never be any more websters to inherit these heirlooms. she was the last of the line; and she would never marry. having reached this climax in her meditations, she turned into the driveway and, halting before the barn door, called to tony to come and take the horse. afterward she disappeared into the house. all the afternoon she worked feverishly, putting everything into irreproachable order. then she packed her few belongings into the little brown trunk. it was four o'clock when she summoned the portuguese boy from the field. "i want you to take me and my trunk to the station, tony," she said, struggling to make the order a casual one. "then you are to come back here and go on with your work as usual until mr. howe or some one else asks you to do otherwise. i will pay you a month in advance, and by that time you will be told what you are to do." tony eyed her uncomprehendingly. "you ain't leavin' for good, miss lucy?" he inquired at last. "yes." "b--u--t--t--how can you? ain't this your home?" "not now, tony." the bewildered foreigner scratched his head. the girl had been kind to him, and he was devoted to her. "i don't see----" he began. "by and by you will understand," said lucy gently. "it is all right. i want to go away." "to go away from here?" gasped the lad. lucy nodded. "is it that you're lonely since miss ellen died?" "i guess so." tony was thoughtful; then with sudden inspiration he ventured the remark: "mebbe you're afraid to stay alone by yourself in the house nights." "maybe." "you ain't seen a ghost?" he whispered. "i'm going away because of a ghost, yes," lucy murmured half to herself. "then i don't blame you," exclaimed tony vehemently. "you wouldn't ketch me stayin' in a house that was haunted by spirits. where you goin'--back out west?" "perhaps so." she helped him to carry the trunk out to the wagon and strap it in; then she got in herself. as they drove in silence out of the yard, not a soul was in sight; nor was there any delay at the station to give rise to gossip. she had calculated with such nicety that the engine was puffing round the bend in the track when she alighted on the platform. hurriedly she bought her ticket, checked her trunk, and put her foot on the step as the train started. waving a good-by to the faithful servant, who still lingered, she passed into the car and sank down into a seat. she watched the valley, beautiful in amethyst lights, flit past the window; then sefton falls, flanked by misty hills, came into sight and disappeared. at last all the familiar country of the moving panorama was blotted out by the darkness, and she was alone. her eyes dropped to the ticket in her lap. why she had chosen that destination she could not have told. it would, however, serve as well as another. if in future she was to be forever cut off from all she loved on earth, what did it matter where she went? chapter xvii the great alternative after lucy left the office, mr. benton sat for an interval thinking. then he yawned, stretched his arms, went to his desk drawer, and took out the will which he slipped into his waistcoat pocket. with hands behind him he took a turn or two across the room. he was a man not lacking in feeling, and impulses of sympathy and mercy until now had deterred him from the execution of his legal duties. since, however, it was lucy webster who had rung up the curtain on the drama in which an important part had been assigned him, there was no need for him to postpone longer the playing of his rôle. he had received his cue. his lines, he admitted, were not wholly to his liking--not, in fact, to his liking at all; he considered them cruel, unfair, vindictive. notwithstanding this, however, the plot was a novel one, and he was too human not to relish the fascinating uncertainties it presented. in all his professional career no case so remarkable had fallen to his lot before. when as a young man he had attacked his calling, he had been thrilled with enthusiasm and hope. the law had seemed to him the noblest of professions. but the limitations of a small town had quickly dampened his ardor, and instead of righting the injustices of the world as he had once dreamed of doing, he had narrowed into a legal machine whose mechanism was never accelerated by anything more stirring than a round of petty will-makings, land-sellings, bill collections and mortgage foreclosures. but at last here was something out of the ordinary, a refreshing and unique human comedy that would not only electrify the public but whose chief actors balked all speculation. he could not help owning that ellen webster's bequest, heartily as he disapproved of it, lent a welcome bit of color to the grayness of his days. ever since he had drawn up the fantastic document it had furnished him with riddles so interesting and unsolvable that they rendered tales of peter featherstone and martin chuzzlewit tame reading. these worthies were only creations of paper and ink; but here was a living, breathing enigma,--the enigma of martin howe! what would this hero of the present situation do? for undoubtedly it was martin who was to be the chief actor of the coming drama. the lawyer knocked the ashes from his pipe, thrust it into his pocket and, putting on his hat and coat, stepped into the hall, where he lingered only long enough to post on his office door the hastily scrawled announcement: "will return to-morrow." then he hurried across the town green to the shed behind the church where he always hitched his horse. backing the wagon out with care, he jumped into it and proceeded to drive off down the high road. martin howe was in the field when mr. benton arrived. under ordinary conditions the man would have joined him there, but to-day such a course seemed too informal, and instead he drew up his horse at the front door and sent jane to summon her brother. fortunately martin was no great distance away and soon entered, a flicker of curiosity in his eyes. the lawyer began with a leisurely introduction. "i imagine, howe, you are a trifle surprised to have a call from me," he said. "yes, i am a bit." "i drove over on business," announced mr. benton. nevertheless, although he prefaced his revelation with this remark, he did not immediately enlighten his listener as to what the business was. in truth, now that the great moment for breaking silence had arrived, mr. benton found himself obsessed with a desire to prolong its flavor of mystery. it was like rolling the honied tang of a cordial beneath his tongue. a few words and the secret would lay bare in the light of common day, its glamor rent to atoms. martin waited patiently. "on business," repeated mr. benton at last, as if there had been no break in the conversation. "i'm ready to hear it," martin said, smiling. "i came, in fact, to acquaint you with the contents of a will." yet again the lawyer's tongue, sphinxlike from habit, refused to utter the tidings it guarded. "the will," he presently resumed, "of my client, miss ellen webster." he was rewarded by seeing a shock of surprise run through martin's frame. "i don't see how miss webster's will can be any concern of mine," martin replied stiffly. the attorney ignored the observation. continuing with serenity, he observed: "as i understand it, you and miss webster were not----" he coughed hesitatingly behind his hand. "no, we weren't," cut in martin. "she was a meddling, aggravating old harridan. i hated her, and i'm glad she's gone." "that is an unfortunate sentiment," remarked mr. benton, "unfortunate and disconcerting, because, you see, miss ellen webster has left you all her property." "_me_! left _me_ her property!" the dynamic shock behind the words sent the man to his feet. mr. benton nodded calmly. "yes," he reiterated, "miss webster has made you her sole legatee." martin regarded his visitor stupidly. "i reckon there's some mistake, sir," he contrived to stammer. "no, there isn't--there's no mistake. the will was legally drawn up only a few days before the death of the deceased. no possible question can be raised as to her sanity, or the clearness of her wishes concerning her property. she desired everything to come to you." "let me see the paper!" cried martin. "i should prefer to read it to you." slowly mr. benton took out his spectacles, polished, and adjusted them. then with impressive deliberation he drew forth and unfolded with a mighty rustling the last will and testament of ellen webster, spinster. many a time he had mentally rehearsed this scene, and now he presented it with a dignity that amazed and awed. every _whereas_ and _aforesaid_ rolled out with due majesty, its resonance echoing to the ceiling of the chilly little parlor. as martin listened, curiosity gave place to wonder, wonder to indignation. but when at last the concluding condition of the bequest was reached, the rebuilding of the wall, an oath burst from his lips. "the harpy!" he shouted. "the insolent hell hag!" "softly, my dear sir, softly!" pleaded mr. benton in soothing tones. "i'll have nothin' to do with it--nothin'!" stormed martin. "you can bundle your paper right out of here, benton. rebuild that wall! good god! why, i wouldn't do it if i was to be flayed alive. ellen webster knew that well enough. she was perfectly safe when she left me her property with that tag hitched to it. she did it as a joke--a cussed joke--out of pure deviltry. 'twas like her, too. she couldn't resist giving me one last jab, even if she had to wait till she was dead and gone to do it." like an infuriated beast martin tramped the floor. mr. benton did not speak for a few moments; then he observed mildly: "you understand that if you refuse to accept the property it will be turned over to the county for a poor farm." "i don't care who it's turned over to, or what becomes of it," blustered martin. the attorney rubbed his hands. ah, it was a spirited drama,--quite as spirited as he had anticipated, and as interesting too. "it's pretty rough on the girl," he at last remarked casually. "the girl?" "miss webster." violently martin came to himself. the fury of his anger had until now swept every other consideration from his mind. "it will mean turning miss webster out of doors, of course," continued mr. benton impassively. "still she's a thoroughbred, and i fancy nothing her aunt could do would surprise her. in fact, she as good as told me that, when she was at my office this morning." "she knows, then?" "yes, i had to tell her, poor thing. i imagine, too, it hit her pretty hard, for she had been given to understand that everything was to be hers. she hasn't much in her own right; her aunt told me that." an icy hand suddenly gripped martin's heart. he stood immovable, as if stunned. lucy! lucy penniless and homeless because of him! little by little ellen's evil scheme unfolded itself before his consciousness. he saw the cunning of the intrigue which the initial outburst of his wrath had obscured. there was more involved in his decision than his own inclinations. he was not free simply to flout the legacy and toss it angrily aside. ellen, a richelieu to the last, had him in a trap that wrenched and wrecked every sensibility of his nature. the more he thought about the matter, the more chaotic his impulses became. justice battled against will; pity against vengeance; love against hate; and as the warring factors strove and tore at one another, and grappled in an anguish of suffering, from out the turmoil two forces rose unconquerable and stubbornly confronted one another,--the opposing forces of love and pride. there they stood, neither of them willing to yield. while love pleaded for mercy, pride urged the destruction of every gentler emotion and clamored for revenge. mr. benton was not a subtle interpreter of human nature, but in the face of the man before him he saw enough to realize the fierceness of the spiritual conflict that raged within martin howe's soul. it was like witnessing the writhings of a creature in torture. he did not attempt to precipitate a decision by interfering. when, however, he had been a silent spectator of the struggle so long that he perceived martin had forgotten his very existence, he ventured to speak. "maybe i'd better leave you to reconsider your resolution, howe," he remarked. "i--yes--it might be better." "perhaps after you've thought things out, you'll change your mind." martin did not reply. the lawyer rose and took up his hat. "how long before you've got to know?" inquired martin hoarsely. "oh, i can give you time," answered mr. benton easily. "a week, say--how will that do?" "i shan't need as long as that," martin replied, looking before him with set face. "i shall know by to-morrow what i am going to do." "there's no such hurry as all that." "i shall know by to-morrow," repeated the younger man in the same dull voice. "all the time in the universe won't change things after that." mr. benton made no response. when in his imaginings he had pictured the scene, he had thought that after the first shock of surprise was over, he and martin would sit down together sociably and discuss each petty detail of the remarkable comedy. but comedy had suddenly become tragedy--a tragedy very real and grim--and all desire to discuss it had ebbed away. as he moved toward the door, he did not even put out his hand; on the contrary, whispering a hushed good night and receiving no reply to it, he softly let himself out and disappeared through the afternoon shadows. if martin were conscious of his departure, he at least gave no sign of being so, but continued to stand motionless in the same spot where mr. benton had left him, his hands gripped tightly behind his back, and his head thrust forward in thought. silently the hours passed. the sun sank behind the hills, tinting the ridge of pines to copper and leaving the sky a sweep of palest blue in which a single star trembled. still martin did not move. once he broke into a smothered cry: "i cannot! my god! i cannot!" the words brought jane to the door. "martin!" she called. there was no answer and, turning the knob timidly, she came in. "oh!" she ejaculated. "how you frightened me! i didn't know there was anybody here. don't you want a light?" "no." "has--has mr. benton gone?" "yes." "that's good. supper's ready." "i don't want anything." "mercy, martin! you ain't sick?" "no." "but you must be hungry." "no. i'm not." still the woman lingered; then making a heroic plunge, she faltered: "there--there ain't nothin' the matter, is there?" so genuine was the sympathy beneath the quavering inquiry that it brought to martin's troubled heart a gratifying sense of warmth and fellowship. "no," he said, his impatience melting to gentleness. "don't worry, jane. i've just got to do a little thinking by myself, that's all." "it ain't money you're fussin' over then," said his sister, with a sigh of relief. "no--no, indeed. it's nothin' to do with money." "i'm thankful for that." nevertheless as he mounted to his room, martin reflected that after all it was money which was at the storm center of his difficulties. he had not thought at all of the matter from its financial aspect. yet even if he had done so in the first place, it would have had no influence upon his decision. he didn't care a curse for the money. to carry his point, he would have tossed aside a fortune twice as large. the issue he confronted, stripped of all its distractions, was simply whether his love were potent enough to overmaster his pride and bring it to its knees. even for the sake of lucy webster, whom he now realized he loved with a passion more deep-rooted than he had dreamed, could he compel himself to do the thing he had staked his oath he would not do? until this moment he had never actually examined his affection for the girl. events had shaped themselves so naturally that in cowardly fashion he had basked in the joy of the present and not troubled his mind to inquire whither the phantasies of this lotus-eater's existence were leading him. when a clamoring conscience had lifted up its voice, he had stilled it with platitudes. the impact of the crisis he now faced had, however, jarred him out of his tranquillity and brought him to an appreciation of his position. he loved lucy webster with sincere devotion. all he had in the world he would gladly cast at her feet,--his name, his heart, his worldly possessions; only one reservation did he make to the completeness of his surrender. his pride he could not bend. it was not that he did not wish to bend it. the act was impossible. keenly as he scorned himself, he could not concede a victory to ellen webster,--not for any one on earth. the jests of the townsfolk were nothing. he did not lack courage to laugh back into the faces of the jeering multitude. but to own himself beaten by a mocking ghost, a specter from another sphere; to relinquish for her gratification the traditions of his race and the trust of his fathers; to leave her triumphant on the field,--this he could not do for any woman living--or dead. ah, it was a clever net the old woman had spun to ensnare him, more clever than she knew, unless by some occult power she was cognizant of his affection for lucy. could it be? the thought arrested him. had ellen guessed his secret, and, armed with the knowledge, shaped her revenge accordingly? if so, she was a thousand times more cruel than he had imagined her capable of being, and it gave quite a different slant to her perfidy. suppose she had suspected he loved lucy and that lucy loved him. then her plot was one to separate them, and the very course he was following was the result she had striven to bring about. she had meant to wreck his happiness and that of the woman he loved; she had planned, schemed, worked to do so. martin threw back his head and laughed defiantly up at the ceiling. well, she should not succeed. he would marry lucy, and he would rebuild the wall: and with every stone he put in place he would shout to the confines of the universe, to the planets where ellen webster's spirit lurked, to the grave that harbored her bones: _amor vincit omnia!_ with jubilant step he crossed to the window and looked out. a slender arc of silver hung above the trees, bathing the fields in mystic splendor. it was not late. only the maelstrom of torture through which he had passed had transformed the minutes to hours, and the hours to years. why, the evening was still young, young enough for him to go to lucy and speak into her ear all the love that surged in his heart. they had been made for one another from the beginning. he would wed her, and the old homestead she venerated should be hers indeed. it was all very simple, now. with the abandon of a schoolboy he rushed downstairs, pausing only an instant to put his head in at the kitchen door and shout to jane: "i'm goin' over to the websters'. i may be late. don't sit up for me." then he was gone. alone beneath the arching sky, his happiness mounted to the stars. how delicious was the freshness of the cool night air! how sweet the damp fragrance of the forest! the spires of the pines richly dark against the fading sky were already receding into the mists of twilight. he went along down the road, his swinging step light as the shimmer of a moonbeam across a spangled pool. the webster house was in darkness. nevertheless this discovery did not disconcert him, for frequently lucy worked until dusk among her flowers, or lingered on the porch in the peace of the evening stillness. to-night, however, he failed to find her in either of her favorite haunts and, guided by the wailing music of a harmonica, he came at last upon tony seated on an upturned barrel at the barn threshold, striving to banish his loneliness by breathing into the serenity of the twilight the refrain of "home, sweet home." "hi, tony!" called martin. "do you know where miss lucy is?" "i don't, sir," replied the boy, rising. "she didn't 'xactly say where she was goin'." "i s'pose she's round the place somewhere." "land, no, sir! didn't she tell you? why, she went away on the train this afternoon." "on the train?" martin repeated automatically. "yes, sir." "when is she comin' back?" "she ain't comin' back," announced the portuguese. "she's goin' out west or somewheres to live." a quick shiver vibrated through martin's body, arresting the beat of his pulse. scarcely knowing what he did, he caught the lad roughly by the shoulder. "when did she go?" he demanded. "what time? what did she say?" tony raised a frightened glance to his questioner's face. "she went this afternoon," gasped he, "about five o'clock it was. she took the boston train. she said she guessed she'd go back out west 'cause she didn't want to stay here any more. she was afraid of ghosts." "ghosts!" tony nodded. "i'm to leave the key of the house at mr. benton's in the mornin' an' tell him everythin's cleaned up an' in order. an' miss lucy said i was to stay here an' go on with the work till you or somebody else told me to stop." without comment martin listened. slowly the truth made its impress on his mind. lucy had gone! gone! with the knowledge, all the latent affection he felt for her crystallized into a mighty tide that rushed over and engulfed him in its current. hatred, revenge, pride were no more; only love persisted,--love the all-powerful, the all-conquering, the all-transforming. lucy, dearer to him than his own soul, had gone. either in anger, or driven forth by maiden shyness, she had fled from him; and until she was brought back and was safe within the shelter of his arms, nothing remained for him in life. tony saw him square his shoulders and turn away. "good night, mr. howe," he called. "good night, tony." "any orders for to-morrow?" "no. go on with your work as usual. just be sure to water miss lucy's flowers." "i will, sir." "an' by the way. you needn't drive into town with that key. i'm goin' to mr. benton's myself, an' i'll take it." "all right." the boy watched martin go down the driveway; but at the gate the man wheeled about and shouted back: "you'll be sure not to forget miss lucy's flowers, tony." "i'll remember 'em." "an' if i should have to be away for a while--a week, or a month, or even longer--you'll do the best you can while i'm gone." "i will, sir." "that's all. good night." with a farewell gesture of his hand martin passed out of the gate. to have witnessed the buoyancy of his stride, one would have thought him victorious rather than defeated. the truth was, the scent of battle was in his nostrils. for a lifetime he had been the champion of hate. now, all the energies of his manhood suddenly awakened, he was going forth to fight in the cause of love. chapter xviii love triumphant serene in spirit, martin turned into the road, his future plain before him. he would search lucy out, marry her, and bring her back to her own home. how blind he had been that he should not have seen his path from the beginning! why, it was the only thing to do, the only possible thing! there might be, there undoubtedly would be difficulties in tracing his sweetheart's whereabouts, but he did not anticipate encountering any insurmountable obstacle to the undertaking: and should he be balked by circumstance it was always possible to seek assistance from those whose business it was to untangle just such puzzles. therefore, with head held high, he hastened toward home, formulating his plans as he went along. with the dawning of to-morrow's sun he must set forth for the western town which, if tony's testimony was to be trusted, was lucy's ultimate destination. it was a pity his fugitive lady had twelve hours' start of him. however, he must overtake her as best he might. it was unquestionably unfortunate too, that it was such a bad season of the year for him to be absent from home. harvest time was fast approaching, and he could ill be spared. but of what consequence were crops and the garnering of them when weighed against an issue of such life import as this? to plant and gather was a matter of a year, while all eternity was bound up in his and lucy's future together. in consequence, although he realized the probable financial loss that would result from his going on this amorous pilgrimage, the measure of his love was so great that everything else, even the patient toil of months, was as nothing beside it. it came to him that perhaps, if he confided his present dilemma to his sisters, they might come to his rescue, and in the exigency of sudden frosts save at least a portion of his crops from loss. they were fond of lucy. sometimes he had even thought they guessed his secret and were desirous of helping on the romance. at least, he felt sure they would not oppose it, for they had always been eager that he should marry and leave an heir to inherit the howe acreage; they had even gone so far as to urge it upon him as his patriotic duty. moreover, they were very desirous of demolishing the barrier that for so many years had estranged howe and webster. the more he reflected on taking them into his confidence, the more desirable became the idea, and at length he decided that before he went to bed he would have a frank talk with the three women of his household and lay before them all his troubles. if he were to do this he must hasten, for sefton falls kept early hours. when, however, he reached his own land, he found the lights in the house still burning, and he was surprised to see jane, a shawl thrown over her head, coming to meet him. "martin!" she called, "is that you?" the words contained a disquieting echo of anxiety. "yes, what's the matter?" "oh, i'm so glad you've got back!" she exclaimed. "i was just goin' over to the websters' to find you. a telephone message has just come while you've been gone. lucy----" "yes, yes," interrupted martin breathlessly. "there's been an accident to the boston train, an' they telephoned from the hospital at ashbury that she'd been hurt. they wanted i should come down there!" she saw martin reel and put out his hand. "martin!" she cried, rushing to his side. "is she much hurt? when did the message come?" panted the man. "just now," jane answered. "the doctor said her arm was broken an' that she was pretty well shaken up an' bruised. he didn't send for me so much because she was in a serious condition as because her bag with all her money an' papers was lost, an' she was worryin' herself sick over being without a cent, poor child. he didn't tell her he'd sent for me. he just did it on his own responsibility. oh, martin, you will let me go an' bring her back here, won't you? mary an' 'liza an' i want to nurse her, ourselves. we can't bear to think of her bein' a charity patient in a hospital." jane's voice trembled with earnestness. "yes, you shall go, jane," martin answered quickly. "we'll both go. i'll see right away if we can get watford to take us in his touring car. we ought to make the distance in four hours in a high-power machine." "mercy, you're not goin' to-night?" "i certainly am." "but there's no need of that," protested jane. "the doctor said lucy was gettin' on finely, an' he hoped she'd quiet down an' get some sleep, which was what she needed most." "but i'd rather go now--right away," martin asserted. "'twould do no good," explained the practical jane. "we wouldn't get to ashbury until the middle of the night, an' we couldn't see lucy. you wouldn't want 'em to wake her up." "n--o." "it'll be much wiser to wait till mornin', martin." "perhaps it will." the brother and sister walked silently across the turf. "i'm--i'm glad you're willin' we should take care of lucy," murmured jane, after an awkward pause. "mary, 'liza, an' i love her dearly." "an' i too, jane." the confession came in a whisper. if martin expected it to be greeted with surprise, he was disappointed. jane did not at first reply; then she said in a soft, happy tone: "i guessed as much." "you did." the man laughed in shamefaced fashion. "i ain't a bat, martin." again her brother laughed, this time with less embarrassment. it had suddenly become very easy to talk with jane. welcoming her companionship and sympathy, he found himself pouring into her listening ear all his difficulties. he told her of ellen's will; of the wall; of lucy's flight; of his love for the girl. how good it was to speak and share his troubles with another! "how like lucy to go away!" mused jane, when the recital was done. "any self-respectin' woman would have done the same, too. she warn't goin' to hang round here an' make you marry her out of pity." "but i love her." "yes, but how was she to know that?" "she must have known it." "you never had told her so." "n--o, not in so many words." "then what right, pray, had she to think so?" argued jane with warmth. "she warn't the sort of girl to chance it." "i wish i'd told her before." "i wish you had," was jane's brief retort. "you may have trouble now makin' her see you ain't marryin' her 'cause you're sorry for her." "sorry for her!" jane could not but laugh at the fervor of the exclamation. "my land! martin," she said, "i never expected to live to see you so head over ears in love." "i am." "i ain't questionin' it," was jane's dry comment. when, however, he set foot on the porch, his lover's confidence suddenly deserted him, and he was overwhelmed with shyness. "you tell mary an' 'liza," he pleaded. "somehow, i can't. tell 'em about the will an' all. you'll do that much for me, won't you?" "you know i will." the words spoke volumes. "that's right. an' be ready to start for ashbury on the mornin' train. we'd better leave here by six, sharp." "i'll be on hand. don't worry." "good night, jane." "good night." still jane lingered. then drawing very close to her brother's side, she added bashfully: "i can't but think, martin, that instead of puttin' up walls, ellen webster's will has broken some of 'em down." for answer martin did something he had never done before within the span of his memory; he bent impulsively and kissed his sister's cheek. then as if embarrassed by the spontaneity of the deed, he sped upstairs. * * * * * in the morning he and jane started for ashbury. the day was just waking as they drove along the glittering highway. heavy dew silvered field and meadow, and the sun, flashing bars of light across the valley, transformed every growing thing into jeweled splendor. martin was in high spirits and so was jane. while the man counted the hours before he would be once more at the side of his beloved, the woman was thinking that whatever changes the future held in store, she would always have it to remember that in this supreme moment of his life it had been to her that martin had turned. she had been his confidant and helper. it was worth all that had gone before and all that might come after. there was no need for conversation between them. the reveries of each were satisfying and pregnant with happiness. even after they had boarded the train, jane was quite content to lapse into meditation and enjoy the novelty of the journey. traveling was not such a commonplace event that it had ceased to be entertaining. she studied her fellow passengers with keenest interest, watched the pictures that framed themselves in the car window, and delighted in a locomotion that proceeded from no effort of her own. it was not often that she was granted the luxury of sitting still. they reached ashbury amid a clamor of noontide whistles, and took a cab to the hospital. here the nurse met them. "miss webster has had her arm set and is resting comfortably," announced the woman. "there is not the slightest cause for alarm. we telephoned merely because she was fretting and becoming feverish, and the doctor feared she would not sleep. the loss of her purse and bank books worried her. we found your address in her coat pocket. she was too dazed and confused to tell who her friends were." "is she expectin' us?" inquired jane. "no," the nurse answered. "the doctor decided not to tell her, after all, that we had telephoned. for some reason she seemed unwilling for people to know where she was. to be frank, we rather regretted calling you up, when we discovered how she felt about it. but the mischief was done then----" "it warn't no mischief," jane put in with a smile. "it was the best thing that could 'a' happened." "i'm glad of that." "could i see her, do you think?" demanded the visitor presently. "yes, indeed. she is much better this morning. perhaps, however, one caller at a time will be enough; she still has some fever." "of course." jane turned to martin; but he shook his head. "you go," he said. "i'll do whatever you want me to." "i'd rather you went first." "just as you say. i won't stay long though." after watching the two women disappear down the long, rubber-carpeted corridor, he began to pace the small, spotlessly neat office in which he had been asked to wait. it was a prim, barren room, heavy with the fumes of iodoform and ether. at intervals, the muffled tread of a doctor or nurse passing through the hall broke its stillness, but otherwise there was not a sound within its walls. martin walked back and forth until his solitude became intolerable. there were magazines on the table but he could not read. would jane never return? the moments seemed hours. in his suspense he fell to every sort of pessimistic imagining. suppose lucy were worse? suppose she declined to see him? suppose she did not love him? so sanguine had been his hopes, he had not seriously considered the latter possibility. the more he meditated on the thought of failing in his suit, the more wretched became his condition of mind. the torrent of words that he had come to speak slowly deserted his tongue until when jane entered, a quarter of an hour later, wreathed in smiles, he was dumb with terror. "she's ever so much better than i expected to find her," began his sister without preamble. "an' she was so glad to see me, poor soul! you can go up now with the nurse; only don't stay too long." "did you tell her----" began the discomfited martin. "i didn't tell her anything," jane replied, "except that i was going to take her home with me in a day or two." "doesn't she know i'm here?" "no." "you don't know, then, whether she----" "i don't know anything, martin," jane replied, nevertheless beaming on him with a radiant smile. "an' if i did i certainly shouldn't tell you. you an' lucy must settle your affairs yourselves." with this dubious encouragement and palpitating with uneasiness, martin was forced to tiptoe out of the room in the wake of his white-robed conductor. as he walked down the long, quiet hall, he said to himself that every step was bringing him nearer to the crisis when he must speak, and still no words came to his lips. when, however, he turned from the dinginess of the passageway into the sunny little room where lucy lay, he forgot everything but lucy herself. she was resting against the pillows, her hair unbound, and her cheeks flushed to crimson. never had she looked so beautiful. he stopped on the threshold, awed by the wonder of her maidenhood. then he heard her voice. "martin!" it was only a single word, but the yearning in it told him all he sought to know. in an instant he was on his knees beside her, kissing the brown hand that rested on the coverlid, touching his lips to the glory of her hair. jane, waiting in the meantime alone in the dull, whitewashed office, had ample opportunity to study every nail in its floor, count the slats in the slippery, varnished chairs, and speculate as to the identity of the spectacled dignitaries whose portraits adorned the walls. she planned her winter's wardrobe, decided what mary, eliza and herself should wear at the wedding, and mentally arranged every detail of the coming domestic upheaval. having exhausted all these subjects, she began in quite indecent fashion to select names for her future nieces and nephews. the first boy should be webster howe. what a grand old name it would be! she prayed he would be tall like martin, and have lucy's eyes and hair. ah, what a delight she and mary and eliza would have bringing up martin's son and baking cookies for him! it was just when she was mapping out the educational career of this same webster howe and was struggling to decide what college should be honored by his presence that martin burst into the room. a guilty blush dyed jane's virgin cheek. martin, however, took no notice of her abstraction. in fact he could scarcely speak coherently. "it's all right, jane," he cried. "i'm the happiest man on earth. lucy loves me. isn't it wonderful, unbelievable? we are goin' to be married right away, an' i'm to start buildin' the wall, so'st it will be done before the cold weather comes. we're goin' to leave a little gate in it for you an' mary an' 'liza to come through. an' we're goin' to put up a stone in the cemetery to lucy's aunt with: _in grateful remembrance of ellen webster_ on it." jane sniffed. "i can think of a better inscription than that," she remarked with unwonted tartness, lapsing into scripture. "carve on it: "he that soweth iniquity shall reap vanity; and the rod of his anger shall fail." the devil's disciple bernard shaw act i at the most wretched hour between a black night and a wintry morning in the year , mrs. dudgeon, of new hampshire, is sitting up in the kitchen and general dwelling room of her farm house on the outskirts of the town of websterbridge. she is not a prepossessing woman. no woman looks her best after sitting up all night; and mrs. dudgeon's face, even at its best, is grimly trenched by the channels into which the barren forms and observances of a dead puritanism can pen a bitter temper and a fierce pride. she is an elderly matron who has worked hard and got nothing by it except dominion and detestation in her sordid home, and an unquestioned reputation for piety and respectability among her neighbors, to whom drink and debauchery are still so much more tempting than religion and rectitude, that they conceive goodness simply as self-denial. this conception is easily extended to others--denial, and finally generalized as covering anything disagreeable. so mrs. dudgeon, being exceedingly disagreeable, is held to be exceedingly good. short of flat felony, she enjoys complete license except for amiable weaknesses of any sort, and is consequently, without knowing it, the most licentious woman in the parish on the strength of never having broken the seventh commandment or missed a sunday at the presbyterian church. the year is the one in which the passions roused of the breaking off of the american colonies from england, more by their own weight than their own will, boiled up to shooting point, the shooting being idealized to the english mind as suppression of rebellion and maintenance of british dominion, and to the american as defence of liberty, resistance to tyranny, and selfsacrifice on the altar of the rights of man. into the merits of these idealizations it is not here necessary to inquire: suffice it to say, without prejudice, that they have convinced both americans and english that the most high minded course for them to pursue is to kill as many of one another as possible, and that military operations to that end are in full swing, morally supported by confident requests from the clergy of both sides for the blessing of god on their arms. under such circumstances many other women besides this disagreeable mrs. dudgeon find themselves sitting up all night waiting for news. like her, too, they fall asleep towards morning at the risk of nodding themselves into the kitchen fire. mrs. dudgeon sleeps with a shawl over her head, and her feet on a broad fender of iron laths, the step of the domestic altar of the fireplace, with its huge hobs and boiler, and its hinged arm above the smoky mantel-shelf for roasting. the plain kitchen table is opposite the fire, at her elbow, with a candle on it in a tin sconce. her chair, like all the others in the room, is uncushioned and unpainted; but as it has a round railed back and a seat conventionally moulded to the sitter's curves, it is comparatively a chair of state. the room has three doors, one on the same side as the fireplace, near the corner, leading to the best bedroom; one, at the opposite end of the opposite wall, leading to the scullery and washhouse; and the house door, with its latch, heavy lock, and clumsy wooden bar, in the front wall, between the window in its middle and the corner next the bedroom door. between the door and the window a rack of pegs suggests to the deductive observer that the men of the house are all away, as there are no hats or coats on them. on the other side of the window the clock hangs on a nail, with its white wooden dial, black iron weights, and brass pendulum. between the clock and the corner, a big cupboard, locked, stands on a dwarf dresser full of common crockery. on the side opposite the fireplace, between the door and the corner, a shamelessly ugly black horsehair sofa stands against the wall. an inspection of its stridulous surface shows that mrs. dudgeon is not alone. a girl of sixteen or seventeen has fallen asleep on it. she is a wild, timid looking creature with black hair and tanned skin. her frock, a scanty garment, is rent, weatherstained, berrystained, and by no means scrupulously clean. it hangs on her with a freedom which, taken with her brown legs and bare feet, suggests no great stock of underclothing. suddenly there comes a tapping at the door, not loud enough to wake the sleepers. then knocking, which disturbs mrs. dudgeon a little. finally the latch is tried, whereupon she springs up at once. mrs. dudgeon (threateningly). well, why don't you open the door? (she sees that the girl is asleep and immediately raises a clamor of heartfelt vexation.) well, dear, dear me! now this is-- (shaking her) wake up, wake up: do you hear? the girl (sitting up). what is it? mrs. dudgeon. wake up; and be ashamed of yourself, you unfeeling sinful girl, falling asleep like that, and your father hardly cold in his grave. the girl (half asleep still). i didn't mean to. i dropped off-- mrs. dudgeon (cutting her short). oh yes, you've plenty of excuses, i daresay. dropped off! (fiercely, as the knocking recommences.) why don't you get up and let your uncle in? after me waiting up all night for him! (she pushes her rudely off the sofa.) there: i'll open the door: much good you are to wait up. go and mend that fire a bit. the girl, cowed and wretched, goes to the fire and puts a log on. mrs. dudgeon unbars the door and opens it, letting into the stuffy kitchen a little of the freshness and a great deal of the chill of the dawn, also her second son christy, a fattish, stupid, fair-haired, round-faced man of about , muffled in a plaid shawl and grey overcoat. he hurries, shivering, to the fire, leaving mrs. dudgeon to shut the door. christy (at the fire). f--f--f! but it is cold. (seeing the girl, and staring lumpishly at her.) why, who are you? the girl (shyly). essie. mrs. dudgeon. oh you may well ask. (to essie.) go to your room, child, and lie down since you haven't feeling enough to keep you awake. your history isn't fit for your own ears to hear. essie. i-- mrs. dudgeon (peremptorily). don't answer me, miss; but show your obedience by doing what i tell you. (essie, almost in tears, crosses the room to the door near the sofa.) and don't forget your prayers. (essie goes out.) she'd have gone to bed last night just as if nothing had happened if i'd let her. christy (phlegmatically). well, she can't be expected to feel uncle peter's death like one of the family. mrs. dudgeon. what are you talking about, child? isn't she his daughter--the punishment of his wickedness and shame? (she assaults her chair by sitting down.) christy (staring). uncle peter's daughter! mrs. dudgeon. why else should she be here? d'ye think i've not had enough trouble and care put upon me bringing up my own girls, let alone you and your good-for-nothing brother, without having your uncle's bastards-- christy (interrupting her with an apprehensive glance at the door by which essie went out). sh! she may hear you. mrs. dudgeon (raising her voice). let her hear me. people who fear god don't fear to give the devil's work its right name. (christy, soullessly indifferent to the strife of good and evil, stares at the fire, warming himself.) well, how long are you going to stare there like a stuck pig? what news have you for me? christy (taking off his hat and shawl and going to the rack to hang them up). the minister is to break the news to you. he'll be here presently. mrs. dudgeon. break what news? christy (standing on tiptoe, from boyish habit, to hang his hat up, though he is quite tall enough to reach the peg, and speaking with callous placidity, considering the nature of the announcement). father's dead too. mrs. dudgeon (stupent). your father! christy (sulkily, coming back to the fire and warming himself again, attending much more to the fire than to his mother). well, it's not my fault. when we got to nevinstown we found him ill in bed. he didn't know us at first. the minister sat up with him and sent me away. he died in the night. mrs. dudgeon (bursting into dry angry tears). well, i do think this is hard on me--very hard on me. his brother, that was a disgrace to us all his life, gets hanged on the public gallows as a rebel; and your father, instead of staying at home where his duty was, with his own family, goes after him and dies, leaving everything on my shoulders. after sending this girl to me to take care of, too! (she plucks her shawl vexedly over her ears.) it's sinful, so it is; downright sinful. christy (with a slow, bovine cheerfulness, after a pause). i think it's going to be a fine morning, after all. mrs. dudgeon (railing at him). a fine morning! and your father newly dead! where's your feelings, child? christy (obstinately). well, i didn't mean any harm. i suppose a man may make a remark about the weather even if his father's dead. mrs. dudgeon (bitterly). a nice comfort my children are to me! one son a fool, and the other a lost sinner that's left his home to live with smugglers and gypsies and villains, the scum of the earth! someone knocks. christy (without moving). that's the minister. mrs. dudgeon (sharply). well, aren't you going to let mr. anderson in? christy goes sheepishly to the door. mrs. dudgeon buries her face in her hands, as it is her duty as a widow to be overcome with grief. christy opens the door, and admits the minister, anthony anderson, a shrewd, genial, ready presbyterian divine of about , with something of the authority of his profession in his bearing. but it is an altogether secular authority, sweetened by a conciliatory, sensible manner not at all suggestive of a quite thoroughgoing other-worldliness. he is a strong, healthy man, too, with a thick, sanguine neck; and his keen, cheerful mouth cuts into somewhat fleshy corners. no doubt an excellent parson, but still a man capable of making the most of this world, and perhaps a little apologetically conscious of getting on better with it than a sound presbyterian ought. anderson (to christy, at the door, looking at mrs. dudgeon whilst he takes off his cloak). have you told her? christy. she made me. (he shuts the door; yawns; and loafs across to the sofa where he sits down and presently drops off to sleep.) anderson looks compassionately at mrs. dudgeon. then he hangs his cloak and hat on the rack. mrs. dudgeon dries her eyes and looks up at him. anderson. sister: the lord has laid his hand very heavily upon you. mrs. dudgeon (with intensely recalcitrant resignation). it's his will, i suppose; and i must bow to it. but i do think it hard. what call had timothy to go to springtown, and remind everybody that he belonged to a man that was being hanged?--and (spitefully) that deserved it, if ever a man did. anderson (gently). they were brothers, mrs. dudgeon. mrs. dudgeon. timothy never acknowledged him as his brother after we were married: he had too much respect for me to insult me with such a brother. would such a selfish wretch as peter have come thirty miles to see timothy hanged, do you think? not thirty yards, not he. however, i must bear my cross as best i may: least said is soonest mended. anderson (very grave, coming down to the fire to stand with his back to it). your eldest son was present at the execution, mrs. dudgeon. mrs. dudgeon (disagreeably surprised). richard? anderson (nodding). yes. mrs. dudgeon (vindictively). let it be a warning to him. he may end that way himself, the wicked, dissolute, godless-- (she suddenly stops; her voice fails; and she asks, with evident dread) did timothy see him? anderson. yes. mrs. dudgeon (holding her breath). well? anderson. he only saw him in the crowd: they did not speak. (mrs. dudgeon, greatly relieved, exhales the pent up breath and sits at her ease again.) your husband was greatly touched and impressed by his brother's awful death. (mrs. dudgeon sneers. anderson breaks off to demand with some indignation) well, wasn't it only natural, mrs. dudgeon? he softened towards his prodigal son in that moment. he sent for him to come to see him. mrs. dudgeon (her alarm renewed). sent for richard! anderson. yes; but richard would not come. he sent his father a message; but i'm sorry to say it was a wicked message--an awful message. mrs. dudgeon. what was it? anderson. that he would stand by his wicked uncle, and stand against his good parents, in this world and the next. mrs. dudgeon (implacably). he will be punished for it. he will be punished for it--in both worlds. anderson. that is not in our hands, mrs. dudgeon. mrs. dudgeon. did i say it was, mr. anderson. we are told that the wicked shall be punished. why should we do our duty and keep god's law if there is to be no difference made between us and those who follow their own likings and dislikings, and make a jest of us and of their maker's word? anderson. well, richard's earthly father has been merciful and his heavenly judge is the father of us all. mrs. dudgeon (forgetting herself). richard's earthly father was a softheaded-- anderson (shocked). oh! mrs. dudgeon (with a touch of shame). well, i am richard's mother. if i am against him who has any right to be for him? (trying to conciliate him.) won't you sit down, mr. anderson? i should have asked you before; but i'm so troubled. anderson. thank you-- (he takes a chair from beside the fireplace, and turns it so that he can sit comfortably at the fire. when he is seated he adds, in the tone of a man who knows that he is opening a difficult subject.) has christy told you about the new will? mrs. dudgeon (all her fears returning). the new will! did timothy--? (she breaks off, gasping, unable to complete the question.) anderson. yes. in his last hours he changed his mind. mrs. dudgeon (white with intense rage). and you let him rob me? anderson. i had no power to prevent him giving what was his to his own son. mrs. dudgeon. he had nothing of his own. his money was the money i brought him as my marriage portion. it was for me to deal with my own money and my own son. he dare not have done it if i had been with him; and well he knew it. that was why he stole away like a thief to take advantage of the law to rob me by making a new will behind my back. the more shame on you, mr. anderson,--you, a minister of the gospel--to act as his accomplice in such a crime. anderson (rising). i will take no offence at what you say in the first bitterness of your grief. mrs. dudgeon (contemptuously). grief! anderson. well, of your disappointment, if you can find it in your heart to think that the better word. mrs. dudgeon. my heart! my heart! and since when, pray, have you begun to hold up our hearts as trustworthy guides for us? anderson (rather guiltily). i--er-- mrs. dudgeon (vehemently). don't lie, mr. anderson. we are told that the heart of man is deceitful above all things, and desperately wicked. my heart belonged, not to timothy, but to that poor wretched brother of his that has just ended his days with a rope round his neck--aye, to peter dudgeon. you know it: old eli hawkins, the man to whose pulpit you succeeded, though you are not worthy to loose his shoe latchet, told it you when he gave over our souls into your charge. he warned me and strengthened me against my heart, and made me marry a godfearing man--as he thought. what else but that discipline has made me the woman i am? and you, you who followed your heart in your marriage, you talk to me of what i find in my heart. go home to your pretty wife, man; and leave me to my prayers. (she turns from him and leans with her elbows on the table, brooding over her wrongs and taking no further notice of him.) anderson (willing enough to escape). the lord forbid that i should come between you and the source of all comfort! (he goes to the rack for his coat and hat.) mrs. dudgeon (without looking at him). the lord will know what to forbid and what to allow without your help. anderson. and whom to forgive, i hope--eli hawkins and myself, if we have ever set up our preaching against his law. (he fastens his cloak, and is now ready to go.) just one word--on necessary business, mrs. dudgeon. there is the reading of the will to be gone through; and richard has a right to be present. he is in the town; but he has the grace to say that he does not want to force himself in here. mrs. dudgeon. he shall come here. does he expect us to leave his father's house for his convenience? let them all come, and come quickly, and go quickly. they shall not make the will an excuse to shirk half their day's work. i shall be ready, never fear. anderson (coming back a step or two). mrs. dudgeon: i used to have some little influence with you. when did i lose it? mrs. dudgeon (still without turning to him). when you married for love. now you're answered. anderson. yes: i am answered. (he goes out, musing.) mrs. dudgeon (to herself, thinking of her husband). thief! thief!! (she shakes herself angrily out of the chair; throws back the shawl from her head; and sets to work to prepare the room for the reading of the will, beginning by replacing anderson's chair against the wall, and pushing back her own to the window. then she calls, in her hard, driving, wrathful way) christy. (no answer: he is fast asleep.) christy. (she shakes him roughly.) get up out of that; and be ashamed of yourself--sleeping, and your father dead! (she returns to the table; puts the candle on the mantelshelf; and takes from the table drawer a red table cloth which she spreads.) christy (rising reluctantly). well, do you suppose we are never going to sleep until we are out of mourning? mrs. dudgeon. i want none of your sulks. here: help me to set this table. (they place the table in the middle of the room, with christy's end towards the fireplace and mrs. dudgeon's towards the sofa. christy drops the table as soon as possible, and goes to the fire, leaving his mother to make the final adjustments of its position.) we shall have the minister back here with the lawyer and all the family to read the will before you have done toasting yourself. go and wake that girl; and then light the stove in the shed: you can't have your breakfast here. and mind you wash yourself, and make yourself fit to receive the company. (she punctuates these orders by going to the cupboard; unlocking it; and producing a decanter of wine, which has no doubt stood there untouched since the last state occasion in the family, and some glasses, which she sets on the table. also two green ware plates, on one of which she puts a barmbrack with a knife beside it. on the other she shakes some biscuits out of a tin, putting back one or two, and counting the rest.) now mind: there are ten biscuits there: let there be ten there when i come back after dressing myself. and keep your fingers off the raisins in that cake. and tell essie the same. i suppose i can trust you to bring in the case of stuffed birds without breaking the glass? (she replaces the tin in the cupboard, which she locks, pocketing the key carefully.) christy (lingering at the fire). you'd better put the inkstand instead, for the lawyer. mrs. dudgeon. that's no answer to make to me, sir. go and do as you're told. (christy turns sullenly to obey.) stop: take down that shutter before you go, and let the daylight in: you can't expect me to do all the heavy work of the house with a great heavy lout like you idling about. christy takes the window bar out of its damps, and puts it aside; then opens the shutter, showing the grey morning. mrs. dudgeon takes the sconce from the mantelshelf; blows out the candle; extinguishes the snuff by pinching it with her fingers, first licking them for the purpose; and replaces the sconce on the shelf. christy (looking through the window). here's the minister's wife. mrs. dudgeon (displeased). what! is she coming here? christy. yes. mrs. dudgeon. what does she want troubling me at this hour, before i'm properly dressed to receive people? christy. you'd better ask her. mrs. dudgeon (threateningly). you'd better keep a civil tongue in your head. (he goes sulkily towards the door. she comes after him, plying him with instructions.) tell that girl to come to me as soon as she's had her breakfast. and tell her to make herself fit to be seen before the people. (christy goes out and slams the door in her face.) nice manners, that! (someone knocks at the house door: she turns and cries inhospitably.) come in. (judith anderson, the minister's wife, comes in. judith is more than twenty years younger than her husband, though she will never be as young as he in vitality. she is pretty and proper and ladylike, and has been admired and petted into an opinion of herself sufficiently favorable to give her a self-assurance which serves her instead of strength. she has a pretty taste in dress, and in her face the pretty lines of a sentimental character formed by dreams. even her little self-complacency is pretty, like a child's vanity. rather a pathetic creature to any sympathetic observer who knows how rough a place the world is. one feels, on the whole, that anderson might have chosen worse, and that she, needing protection, could not have chosen better.) oh, it's you, is it, mrs. anderson? judith (very politely--almost patronizingly). yes. can i do anything for you, mrs. dudgeon? can i help to get the place ready before they come to read the will? mrs. dudgeon (stiffly). thank you, mrs. anderson, my house is always ready for anyone to come into. mrs. anderson (with complacent amiability). yes, indeed it is. perhaps you had rather i did not intrude on you just now. mrs. dudgeon. oh, one more or less will make no difference this morning, mrs. anderson. now that you're here, you'd better stay. if you wouldn't mind shutting the door! (judith smiles, implying "how stupid of me" and shuts it with an exasperating air of doing something pretty and becoming.) that's better. i must go and tidy myself a bit. i suppose you don't mind stopping here to receive anyone that comes until i'm ready. judith (graciously giving her leave). oh yes, certainly. leave them to me, mrs. dudgeon; and take your time. (she hangs her cloak and bonnet on the rack.) mrs. dudgeon (half sneering). i thought that would be more in your way than getting the house ready. (essie comes back.) oh, here you are! (severely) come here: let me see you. (essie timidly goes to her. mrs. dudgeon takes her roughly by the arm and pulls her round to inspect the results of her attempt to clean and tidy herself--results which show little practice and less conviction.) mm! that's what you call doing your hair properly, i suppose. it's easy to see what you are, and how you were brought up. (she throws her arms away, and goes on, peremptorily.) now you listen to me and do as you're told. you sit down there in the corner by the fire; and when the company comes don't dare to speak until you're spoken to. (essie creeps away to the fireplace.) your father's people had better see you and know you're there: they're as much bound to keep you from starvation as i am. at any rate they might help. but let me have no chattering and making free with them, as if you were their equal. do you hear? essie. yes. mrs. dudgeon. well, then go and do as you're told. (essie sits down miserably on the corner of the fender furthest from the door.) never mind her, mrs. anderson: you know who she is and what she is. if she gives you any trouble, just tell me; and i'll settle accounts with her. (mrs. dudgeon goes into the bedroom, shutting the door sharply behind her as if even it had to be made to do its duty with a ruthless hand.) judith (patronizing essie, and arranging the cake and wine on the table more becomingly). you must not mind if your aunt is strict with you. she is a very good woman, and desires your good too. essie (in listless misery). yes. judith (annoyed with essie for her failure to be consoled and edified, and to appreciate the kindly condescension of the remark). you are not going to be sullen, i hope, essie. essie. no. judith. that's a good girl! (she places a couple of chairs at the table with their backs to the window, with a pleasant sense of being a more thoughtful housekeeper than mrs. dudgeon.) do you know any of your father's relatives? essie. no. they wouldn't have anything to do with him: they were too religious. father used to talk about dick dudgeon; but i never saw him. judith (ostentatiously shocked). dick dudgeon! essie: do you wish to be a really respectable and grateful girl, and to make a place for yourself here by steady good conduct? essie (very half-heartedly). yes. judith. then you must never mention the name of richard dudgeon--never even think about him. he is a bad man. essie. what has he done? judith. you must not ask questions about him, essie. you are too young to know what it is to be a bad man. but he is a smuggler; and he lives with gypsies; and he has no love for his mother and his family; and he wrestles and plays games on sunday instead of going to church. never let him into your presence, if you can help it, essie; and try to keep yourself and all womanhood unspotted by contact with such men. essie. yes. judith (again displeased). i am afraid you say yes and no without thinking very deeply. essie. yes. at least i mean-- judith (severely). what do you mean? essie (almost crying). only--my father was a smuggler; and-- (someone knocks.) judith. they are beginning to come. now remember your aunt's directions, essie; and be a good girl. (christy comes back with the stand of stuffed birds under a glass case, and an inkstand, which he places on the table.) good morning, mr. dudgeon. will you open the door, please: the people have come. christy. good morning. (he opens the house door.) the morning is now fairly bright and warm; and anderson, who is the first to enter, has left his cloak at home. he is accompanied by lawyer hawkins, a brisk, middleaged man in brown riding gaiters and yellow breeches, looking as much squire as solicitor. he and anderson are allowed precedence as representing the learned professions. after them comes the family, headed by the senior uncle, william dudgeon, a large, shapeless man, bottle-nosed and evidently no ascetic at table. his clothes are not the clothes, nor his anxious wife the wife, of a prosperous man. the junior uncle, titus dudgeon, is a wiry little terrier of a man, with an immense and visibly purse-proud wife, both free from the cares of the william household. hawkins at once goes briskly to the table and takes the chair nearest the sofa, christy having left the inkstand there. he puts his hat on the floor beside him, and produces the will. uncle william comes to the fire and stands on the hearth warming his coat tails, leaving mrs. william derelict near the door. uncle titus, who is the lady's man of the family, rescues her by giving her his disengaged arm and bringing her to the sofa, where he sits down warmly between his own lady and his brother's. anderson hangs up his hat and waits for a word with judith. judith. she will be here in a moment. ask them to wait. (she taps at the bedroom door. receiving an answer from within, she opens it and passes through.) anderson (taking his place at the table at the opposite end to hawkins). our poor afflicted sister will be with us in a moment. are we all here? christy (at the house door, which he has just shut). all except dick. the callousness with which christy names the reprobate jars on the moral sense of the family. uncle william shakes his head slowly and repeatedly. mrs. titus catches her breath convulsively through her nose. her husband speaks. uncle titus. well, i hope he will have the grace not to come. i hope so. the dudgeons all murmur assent, except christy, who goes to the window and posts himself there, looking out. hawkins smiles secretively as if he knew something that would change their tune if they knew it. anderson is uneasy: the love of solemn family councils, especially funereal ones, is not in his nature. judith appears at the bedroom door. judith (with gentle impressiveness). friends, mrs. dudgeon. (she takes the chair from beside the fireplace; and places it for mrs. dudgeon, who comes from the bedroom in black, with a clean handkerchief to her eyes. all rise, except essie. mrs. titus and mrs. william produce equally clean handkerchiefs and weep. it is an affecting moment.) uncle william. would it comfort you, sister, if we were to offer up a prayer? uncle titus. or sing a hymn? anderson (rather hastily). i have been with our sister this morning already, friends. in our hearts we ask a blessing. all (except essie). amen. they all sit down, except judith, who stands behind mrs. dudgeon's chair. judith (to essie). essie: did you say amen? essie (scaredly). no. judith. then say it, like a good girl. essie. amen. uncle william (encouragingly). that's right: that's right. we know who you are; but we are willing to be kind to you if you are a good girl and deserve it. we are all equal before the throne. this republican sentiment does not please the women, who are convinced that the throne is precisely the place where their superiority, often questioned in this world, will be recognized and rewarded. christy (at the window). here's dick. anderson and hawkins look round sociably. essie, with a gleam of interest breaking through her misery, looks up. christy grins and gapes expectantly at the door. the rest are petrified with the intensity of their sense of virtue menaced with outrage by the approach of flaunting vice. the reprobate appears in the doorway, graced beyond his alleged merits by the morning sunlight. he is certainly the best looking member of the family; but his expression is reckless and sardonic, his manner defiant and satirical, his dress picturesquely careless. only his forehead and mouth betray an extraordinary steadfastness, and his eyes are the eyes of a fanatic. richard (on the threshold, taking off his hat). ladies and gentlemen: your servant, your very humble servant. (with this comprehensive insult, he throws his hat to christy with a suddenness that makes him jump like a negligent wicket keeper, and comes into the middle of the room, where he turns and deliberately surveys the company.) how happy you all look! how glad to see me! (he turns towards mrs. dudgeon's chair; and his lip rolls up horribly from his dog tooth as he meets her look of undisguised hatred.) well, mother: keeping up appearances as usual? that's right, that's right. (judith pointedly moves away from his neighborhood to the other side of the kitchen, holding her skirt instinctively as if to save it from contamination. uncle titus promptly marks his approval of her action by rising from the sofa, and placing a chair for her to sit down upon.) what! uncle william! i haven't seen you since you gave up drinking. (poor uncle william, shamed, would protest; but richard claps him heartily on his shoulder, adding) you have given it up, haven't you? (releasing him with a playful push) of course you have: quite right too; you overdid it. (he turns away from uncle william and makes for the sofa.) and now, where is that upright horsedealer uncle titus? uncle titus: come forth. (he comes upon him holding the chair as judith sits down.) as usual, looking after the ladies. uncle titus (indignantly). be ashamed of yourself, sir-- richard (interrupting him and shaking his hand in spite of him). i am: i am; but i am proud of my uncle--proud of all my relatives (again surveying them) who could look at them and not be proud and joyful? (uncle titus, overborne, resumes his seat on the sofa. richard turns to the table.) ah, mr. anderson, still at the good work, still shepherding them. keep them up to the mark, minister, keep them up to the mark. come! (with a spring he seats himself on the table and takes up the decanter) clink a glass with me, pastor, for the sake of old times. anderson. you know, i think, mr. dudgeon, that i do not drink before dinner. richard. you will, some day, pastor: uncle william used to drink before breakfast. come: it will give your sermons unction. (he smells the wine and makes a wry face.) but do not begin on my mother's company sherry. i stole some when i was six years old; and i have been a temperate man ever since. (he puts the decanter down and changes the subject.) so i hear you are married, pastor, and that your wife has a most ungodly allowance of good looks. anderson (quietly indicating judith). sir: you are in the presence of my wife. (judith rises and stands with stony propriety.) richard (quickly slipping down from the table with instinctive good manners). your servant, madam: no offence. (he looks at her earnestly.) you deserve your reputation; but i'm sorry to see by your expression that you're a good woman. (she looks shocked, and sits down amid a murmur of indignant sympathy from his relatives. anderson, sensible enough to know that these demonstrations can only gratify and encourage a man who is deliberately trying to provoke them, remains perfectly goodhumored.) all the same, pastor, i respect you more than i did before. by the way, did i hear, or did i not, that our late lamented uncle peter, though unmarried, was a father? uncle titus. he had only one irregular child, sir. richard. only one! he thinks one a mere trifle! i blush for you, uncle titus. anderson. mr. dudgeon you are in the presence of your mother and her grief. richard. it touches me profoundly, pastor. by the way, what has become of the irregular child? anderson (pointing to essie). there, sir, listening to you. richard (shocked into sincerity). what! why the devil didn't you tell me that before? children suffer enough in this house without-- (he hurries remorsefully to essie.) come, little cousin! never mind me: it was not meant to hurt you. (she looks up gratefully at him. her tearstained face affects him violently, and he bursts out, in a transport of wrath) who has been making her cry? who has been ill-treating her? by god-- mrs. dudgeon (rising and confronting him). silence your blasphemous tongue. i will hear no more of this. leave my house. richard. how do you know it's your house until the will is read? (they look at one another for a moment with intense hatred; and then she sinks, checkmated, into her chair. richard goes boldly up past anderson to the window, where he takes the railed chair in his hand.) ladies and gentlemen: as the eldest son of my late father, and the unworthy head of this household, i bid you welcome. by your leave, minister anderson: by your leave, lawyer hawkins. the head of the table for the head of the family. (he places the chair at the table between the minister and the attorney; sits down between them; and addresses the assembly with a presidential air.) we meet on a melancholy occasion: a father dead! an uncle actually hanged, and probably damned. (he shakes his head deploringly. the relatives freeze with horror.) that's right: pull your longest faces (his voice suddenly sweetens gravely as his glance lights on essie) provided only there is hope in the eyes of the child. (briskly.) now then, lawyer hawkins: business, business. get on with the will, man. titus. do not let yourself be ordered or hurried, mr. hawkins. hawkins (very politely and willingly). mr. dudgeon means no offence, i feel sure. i will not keep you one second, mr. dudgeon. just while i get my glasses-- (he fumbles for them. the dudgeons look at one another with misgiving). richard. aha! they notice your civility, mr. hawkins. they are prepared for the worst. a glass of wine to clear your voice before you begin. (he pours out one for him and hands it; then pours one for himself.) hawkins. thank you, mr. dudgeon. your good health, sir. richard. yours, sir. (with the glass half way to his lips, he checks himself, giving a dubious glance at the wine, and adds, with quaint intensity.) will anyone oblige me with a glass of water? essie, who has been hanging on his every word and movement, rises stealthily and slips out behind mrs. dudgeon through the bedroom door, returning presently with a jug and going out of the house as quietly as possible. hawkins. the will is not exactly in proper legal phraseology. richard. no: my father died without the consolations of the law. hawkins. good again, mr. dudgeon, good again. (preparing to read) are you ready, sir? richard. ready, aye ready. for what we are about to receive, may the lord make us truly thankful. go ahead. hawkins (reading). "this is the last will and testament of me timothy dudgeon on my deathbed at nevinstown on the road from springtown to websterbridge on this twenty-fourth day of september, one thousand seven hundred and seventy seven. i hereby revoke all former wills made by me and declare that i am of sound mind and know well what i am doing and that this is my real will according to my own wish and affections." richard (glancing at his mother). aha! hawkins (shaking his head). bad phraseology, sir, wrong phraseology. "i give and bequeath a hundred pounds to my younger son christopher dudgeon, fifty pounds to be paid to him on the day of his marriage to sarah wilkins if she will have him, and ten pounds on the birth of each of his children up to the number of five." richard. how if she won't have him? christy. she will if i have fifty pounds. richard. good, my brother. proceed. hawkins. "i give and bequeath to my wife annie dudgeon, born annie primrose"--you see he did not know the law, mr. dudgeon: your mother was not born annie: she was christened so--"an annuity of fifty-two pounds a year for life (mrs. dudgeon, with all eyes on her, holds herself convulsively rigid) to be paid out of the interest on her own money"--there's a way to put it, mr. dudgeon! her own money! mrs. dudgeon. a very good way to put god's truth. it was every penny my own. fifty-two pounds a year! hawkins. "and i recommend her for her goodness and piety to the forgiving care of her children, having stood between them and her as far as i could to the best of my ability." mrs. dudgeon. and this is my reward! (raging inwardly) you know what i think, mr. anderson you know the word i gave to it. anderson. it cannot be helped, mrs. dudgeon. we must take what comes to us. (to hawkins.) go on, sir. hawkins. "i give and bequeath my house at websterbridge with the land belonging to it and all the rest of my property soever to my eldest son and heir, richard dudgeon." richard. oho! the fatted calf, minister, the fatted calf. hawkins. "on these conditions--" richard. the devil! are there conditions? hawkins. "to wit: first, that he shall not let my brother peter's natural child starve or be driven by want to an evil life." richard (emphatically, striking his fist on the table). agreed. mrs. dudgeon, turning to look malignantly at essie, misses her and looks quickly round to see where she has moved to; then, seeing that she has left the room without leave, closes her lips vengefully. hawkins. "second, that he shall be a good friend to my old horse jim"-- (again slacking his head) he should have written james, sir. richard. james shall live in clover. go on. hawkins. "--and keep my deaf farm laborer prodger feston in his service." richard. prodger feston shall get drunk every saturday. hawkins. "third, that he make christy a present on his marriage out of the ornaments in the best room." richard (holding up the stuffed birds). here you are, christy. christy (disappointed). i'd rather have the china peacocks. richard. you shall have both. (christy is greatly pleased.) go on. hawkins. "fourthly and lastly, that he try to live at peace with his mother as far as she will consent to it." richard (dubiously). hm! anything more, mr. hawkins? hawkins (solemnly). "finally i gave and bequeath my soul into my maker's hands, humbly asking forgiveness for all my sins and mistakes, and hoping that he will so guide my son that it may not be said that i have done wrong in trusting to him rather than to others in the perplexity of my last hour in this strange place." anderson. amen. the uncles and aunts. amen. richard. my mother does not say amen. mrs. dudgeon (rising, unable to give up her property without a struggle). mr. hawkins: is that a proper will? remember, i have his rightful, legal will, drawn up by yourself, leaving all to me. hawkins. this is a very wrongly and irregularly worded will, mrs. dudgeon; though (turning politely to richard) it contains in my judgment an excellent disposal of his property. anderson (interposing before mrs. dudgeon can retort). that is not what you are asked, mr. hawkins. is it a legal will? hawkins. the courts will sustain it against the other. anderson. but why, if the other is more lawfully worded? hawking. because, sir, the courts will sustain the claim of a man--and that man the eldest son--against any woman, if they can. i warned you, mrs. dudgeon, when you got me to draw that other will, that it was not a wise will, and that though you might make him sign it, he would never be easy until he revoked it. but you wouldn't take advice; and now mr. richard is cock of the walk. (he takes his hat from the floor; rises; and begins pocketing his papers and spectacles.) this is the signal for the breaking-up of the party. anderson takes his hat from the rack and joins uncle william at the fire. uncle titus fetches judith her things from the rack. the three on the sofa rise and chat with hawkins. mrs. dudgeon, now an intruder in her own house, stands erect, crushed by the weight of the law on women, accepting it, as she has been trained to accept all monstrous calamities, as proofs of the greatness of the power that inflicts them, and of her own wormlike insignificance. for at this time, remember, mary wollstonecraft is as yet only a girl of eighteen, and her vindication of the rights of women is still fourteen years off. mrs. dudgeon is rescued from her apathy by essie, who comes back with the jug full of water. she is taking it to richard when mrs. dudgeon stops her. mrs. dudgeon (threatening her). where have you been? (essie, appalled, tries to answer, but cannot.) how dare you go out by yourself after the orders i gave you? essie. he asked for a drink-- (she stops, her tongue cleaving to her palate with terror). judith (with gentler severity). who asked for a drink? (essie, speechless, points to richard.) richard. what! i! judith (shocked). oh essie, essie! richard. i believe i did. (he takes a glass and holds it to essie to be filled. her hand shakes.) what! afraid of me? essie (quickly). no. i-- (she pours out the water.) richard (tasting it). ah, you've been up the street to the market gate spring to get that. (he takes a draught.) delicious! thank you. (unfortunately, at this moment he chances to catch sight of judith's face, which expresses the most prudish disapproval of his evident attraction for essie, who is devouring him with her grateful eyes. his mocking expression returns instantly. he puts down the glass; deliberately winds his arm round essie's shoulders; and brings her into the middle of the company. mrs. dudgeon being in essie's way as they come past the table, he says) by your leave, mother (and compels her to make way for them). what do they call you? bessie? essie. essie. richard. essie, to be sure. are you a good girl, essie? essie (greatly disappointed that he, of all people should begin at her in this way) yes. (she looks doubtfully at judith.) i think so. i mean i--i hope so. richard. essie: did you ever hear of a person called the devil? anderson (revolted). shame on you, sir, with a mere child-- richard. by your leave, minister: i do not interfere with your sermons: do not you interrupt mine. (to essie.) do you know what they call me, essie? essie. dick. richard (amused: patting her on the shoulder). yes, dick; but something else too. they call me the devil's disciple. essie. why do you let them? richard (seriously). because it's true. i was brought up in the other service; but i knew from the first that the devil was my natural master and captain and friend. i saw that he was in the right, and that the world cringed to his conqueror only through fear. i prayed secretly to him; and he comforted me, and saved me from having my spirit broken in this house of children's tears. i promised him my soul, and swore an oath that i would stand up for him in this world and stand by him in the next. (solemnly) that promise and that oath made a man of me. from this day this house is his home; and no child shall cry in it: this hearth is his altar; and no soul shall ever cower over it in the dark evenings and be afraid. now (turning forcibly on the rest) which of you good men will take this child and rescue her from the house of the devil? judith (coming to essie and throwing a protecting arm about her). i will. you should be burnt alive. essie. but i don't want to. (she shrinks back, leaving richard and judith face to face.) richard (to judith). actually doesn't want to, most virtuous lady! uncle titus. have a care, richard dudgeon. the law-- richard (turning threateningly on him). have a care, you. in an hour from this there will be no law here but martial law. i passed the soldiers within six miles on my way here: before noon major swindon's gallows for rebels will be up in the market place. anderson (calmly). what have we to fear from that, sir? richard. more than you think. he hanged the wrong man at springtown: he thought uncle peter was respectable, because the dudgeons had a good name. but his next example will be the best man in the town to whom he can bring home a rebellious word. well, we're all rebels; and you know it. all the men (except anderson). no, no, no! richard. yes, you are. you haven't damned king george up hill and down dale as i have; but you've prayed for his defeat; and you, anthony anderson, have conducted the service, and sold your family bible to buy a pair of pistols. they mayn't hang me, perhaps; because the moral effect of the devil's disciple dancing on nothing wouldn't help them. but a minister! (judith, dismayed, clings to anderson) or a lawyer! (hawkins smiles like a man able to take care of himself) or an upright horsedealer! (uncle titus snarls at him in rags and terror) or a reformed drunkard (uncle william, utterly unnerved, moans and wobbles with fear) eh? would that show that king george meant business--ha? anderson (perfectly self-possessed). come, my dear: he is only trying to frighten you. there is no danger. (he takes her out of the house. the rest crowd to the door to follow him, except essie, who remains near richard.) richard (boisterously derisive). now then: how many of you will stay with me; run up the american flag on the devil's house; and make a fight for freedom? (they scramble out, christy among them, hustling one another in their haste.) ha ha! long live the devil! (to mrs. dudgeon, who is following them) what mother! are you off too? mrs. dudgeon (deadly pale, with her hand on her heart as if she had received a deathblow). my curse on you! my dying curse! (she goes out.) richard (calling after her). it will bring me luck. ha ha ha! essie (anxiously). mayn't i stay? richard (turning to her). what! have they forgotten to save your soul in their anxiety about their own bodies? oh yes: you may stay. (he turns excitedly away again and shakes his fist after them. his left fist, also clenched, hangs down. essie seizes it and kisses it, her tears falling on it. he starts and looks at it.) tears! the devil's baptism! (she falls on her knees, sobbing. he stoops goodnaturedly to raise her, saying) oh yes, you may cry that way, essie, if you like. act ii minister anderson's house is in the main street of websterbridge, not far from the town hall. to the eye of the eighteenth century new englander, it is much grander than the plain farmhouse of the dudgeons; but it is so plain itself that a modern house agent would let both at about the same rent. the chief dwelling room has the same sort of kitchen fireplace, with boiler, toaster hanging on the bars, movable iron griddle socketed to the hob, hook above for roasting, and broad fender, on which stand a kettle and a plate of buttered toast. the door, between the fireplace and the corner, has neither panels, fingerplates nor handles: it is made of plain boards, and fastens with a latch. the table is a kitchen table, with a treacle colored cover of american cloth, chapped at the corners by draping. the tea service on it consists of two thick cups and saucers of the plainest ware, with milk jug and bowl to match, each large enough to contain nearly a quart, on a black japanned tray, and, in the middle of the table, a wooden trencher with a big loaf upon it, and a square half pound block of butter in a crock. the big oak press facing the fire from the opposite side of the room, is for use and storage, not for ornament; and the minister's house coat hangs on a peg from its door, showing that he is out; for when he is in it is his best coat that hangs there. his big riding boots stand beside the press, evidently in their usual place, and rather proud of themselves. in fact, the evolution of the minister's kitchen, dining room and drawing room into three separate apartments has not yet taken place; and so, from the point of view of our pampered period, he is no better off than the dudgeons. but there is a difference, for all that. to begin with, mrs. anderson is a pleasanter person to live with than mrs. dudgeon. to which mrs. dudgeon would at once reply, with reason, that mrs. anderson has no children to look after; no poultry, pigs nor cattle; a steady and sufficient income not directly dependent on harvests and prices at fairs; an affectionate husband who is a tower of strength to her: in short, that life is as easy at the minister's house as it is hard at the farm. this is true; but to explain a fact is not to alter it; and however little credit mrs. anderson may deserve for making her home happier, she has certainly succeeded in doing it. the outward and visible signs of her superior social pretensions are a drugget on the floor, a plaster ceiling between the timbers and chairs which, though not upholstered, are stained and polished. the fine arts are represented by a mezzotint portrait of some presbyterian divine, a copperplate of raphael's st. paul preaching at athens, a rococo presentation clock on the mantelshelf, flanked by a couple of miniatures, a pair of crockery dogs with baskets in their mouths, and, at the corners, two large cowrie shells. a pretty feature of the room is the low wide latticed window, nearly its whole width, with little red curtains running on a rod half way up it to serve as a blind. there is no sofa; but one of the seats, standing near the press, has a railed back and is long enough to accommodate two people easily. on the whole, it is rather the sort of room that the nineteenth century has ended in struggling to get back to under the leadership of mr. philip webb and his disciples in domestic architecture, though no genteel clergyman would have tolerated it fifty years ago. the evening has closed in; and the room is dark except for the cosy firelight and the dim oil lamps seen through the window in the wet street, where there is a quiet, steady, warm, windless downpour of rain. as the town clock strikes the quarter, judith comes in with a couple of candles in earthenware candlesticks, and sets them on the table. her self-conscious airs of the morning are gone: she is anxious and frightened. she goes to the window and peers into the street. the first thing she sees there is her husband, hurrying here through the rain. she gives a little gasp of relief, not very far removed from a sob, and turns to the door. anderson comes in, wrapped in a very wet cloak. judith (running to him). oh, here you are at last, at last! (she attempts to embrace him.) anderson (keeping her off). take care, my love: i'm wet. wait till i get my cloak off. (he places a chair with its back to the fire; hangs his cloak on it to dry; shakes the rain from his hat and puts it on the fender; and at last turns with his hands outstretched to judith.) now! (she flies into his arms.) i am not late, am i? the town clock struck the quarter as i came in at the front door. and the town clock is always fast. judith. i'm sure it's slow this evening. i'm so glad you're back. anderson (taking her more closely in his arms). anxious, my dear? judith. a little. anderson. why, you've been crying. judith. only a little. never mind: it's all over now. (a bugle call is heard in the distance. she starts in terror and retreats to the long seat, listening.) what's that? anderson (following her tenderly to the seat and making her sit down with him). only king george, my dear. he's returning to barracks, or having his roll called, or getting ready for tea, or booting or saddling or something. soldiers don't ring the bell or call over the banisters when they want anything: they send a boy out with a bugle to disturb the whole town. judith. do you think there is really any danger? anderson. not the least in the world. judith. you say that to comfort me, not because you believe it. anderson. my dear: in this world there is always danger for those who are afraid of it. there's a danger that the house will catch fire in the night; but we shan't sleep any the less soundly for that. judith. yes, i know what you always say; and you're quite right. oh, quite right: i know it. but--i suppose i'm not brave: that's all. my heart shrinks every time i think of the soldiers. anderson. never mind that, dear: bravery is none the worse for costing a little pain. judith. yes, i suppose so. (embracing him again.) oh how brave you are, my dear! (with tears in her eyes.) well, i'll be brave too: you shan't be ashamed of your wife. anderson. that's right. now you make me happy. well, well! (he rises and goes cheerily to the fire to dry his shoes.) i called on richard dudgeon on my way back; but he wasn't in. judith (rising in consternation). you called on that man! anderson (reassuring her). oh, nothing happened, dearie. he was out. judith (almost in tears, as if the visit were a personal humiliation to her). but why did you go there? anderson (gravely). well, it is all the talk that major swindon is going to do what he did in springtown--make an example of some notorious rebel, as he calls us. he pounced on peter dudgeon as the worst character there; and it is the general belief that he will pounce on richard as the worst here. judith. but richard said-- anderson (goodhumoredly cutting her short). pooh! richard said! he said what he thought would frighten you and frighten me, my dear. he said what perhaps (god forgive him!) he would like to believe. it's a terrible thing to think of what death must mean for a man like that. i felt that i must warn him. i left a message for him. judith (querulously). what message? anderson. only that i should be glad to see him for a moment on a matter of importance to himself; and that if he would look in here when he was passing he would be welcome. judith (aghast). you asked that man to come here! anderson. i did. judith (sinking on the seat and clasping her hands). i hope he won't come! oh, i pray that he may not come! anderson. why? don't you want him to be warned? judith. he must know his danger. oh, tony, is it wrong to hate a blasphemer and a villain? i do hate him! i can't get him out of my mind: i know he will bring harm with him. he insulted you: he insulted me: he insulted his mother. anderson (quaintly). well, dear, let's forgive him; and then it won't matter. judith. oh, i know it's wrong to hate anybody; but-- anderson (going over to her with humorous tenderness). come, dear, you're not so wicked as you think. the worst sin towards our fellow creatures is not to hate them, but to be indifferent to them: that's the essence of inhumanity. after all, my dear, if you watch people carefully, you'll be surprised to find how like hate is to love. (she starts, strangely touched--even appalled. he is amused at her.) yes: i'm quite in earnest. think of how some of our married friends worry one another, tax one another, are jealous of one another, can't bear to let one another out of sight for a day, are more like jailers and slave-owners than lovers. think of those very same people with their enemies, scrupulous, lofty, self-respecting, determined to be independent of one another, careful of how they speak of one another--pooh! haven't you often thought that if they only knew it, they were better friends to their enemies than to their own husbands and wives? come: depend on it, my dear, you are really fonder of richard than you are of me, if you only knew it. eh? judith. oh, don't say that: don't say that, tony, even in jest. you don't know what a horrible feeling it gives me. anderson (laughing). well, well: never mind, pet. he's a bad man; and you hate him as he deserves. and you're going to make the tea, aren't you? judith (remorsefully). oh yes, i forgot. i've been keeping you waiting all this time. (she goes to the fire and puts on the kettle.) anderson (going to the press and taking his coat off). have you stitched up the shoulder of my old coat? judith. yes, dear. (she goes to the table, and sets about putting the tea into the teapot from the caddy.) anderson (as he changes his coat for the older one hanging on the press, and replaces it by the one he has just taken off). did anyone call when i was out? judith. no, only-- (someone knocks at the door. with a start which betrays her intense nervousness, she retreats to the further end of the table with the tea caddy and spoon, in her hands, exclaiming) who's that? anderson (going to her and patting her encouragingly on the shoulder). all right, pet, all right. he won't eat you, whoever he is. (she tries to smile, and nearly makes herself cry. he goes to the door and opens it. richard is there, without overcoat or cloak.) you might have raised the latch and come in, mr. dudgeon. nobody stands on much ceremony with us. (hospitably.) come in. (richard comes in carelessly and stands at the table, looking round the room with a slight pucker of his nose at the mezzotinted divine on the wall. judith keeps her eyes on the tea caddy.) is it still raining? (he shuts the door.) richard. raining like the very (his eye catches judith's as she looks quickly and haughtily up)--i beg your pardon; but (showing that his coat is wet) you see--! anderson. take it off, sir; and let it hang before the fire a while: my wife will excuse your shirtsleeves. judith: put in another spoonful of tea for mr. dudgeon. richard (eyeing him cynically). the magic of property, pastor! are even you civil to me now that i have succeeded to my father's estate? judith throws down the spoon indignantly. anderson (quite unruffled, and helping richard off with his coat). i think, sir, that since you accept my hospitality, you cannot have so bad an opinion of it. sit down. (with the coat in his hand, he points to the railed seat. richard, in his shirtsleeves, looks at him half quarrelsomely for a moment; then, with a nod, acknowledges that the minister has got the better of him, and sits down on the seat. anderson pushes his cloak into a heap on the seat of the chair at the fire, and hangs richard's coat on the back in its place.) richard. i come, sir, on your own invitation. you left word you had something important to tell me. anderson. i have a warning which it is my duty to give you. richard (quickly rising). you want to preach to me. excuse me: i prefer a walk in the rain. (he makes for his coat.) anderson (stopping him). don't be alarmed, sir; i am no great preacher. you are quite safe. (richard smiles in spite of himself. his glance softens: he even makes a gesture of excuse. anderson, seeing that he has tamed him, now addresses him earnestly.) mr. dudgeon: you are in danger in this town. richard. what danger? anderson. your uncle's danger. major swindon's gallows. richard. it is you who are in danger. i warned you-- anderson (interrupting him goodhumoredly but authoritatively). yes, yes, mr. dudgeon; but they do not think so in the town. and even if i were in danger, i have duties here i must not forsake. but you are a free man. why should you run any risk? richard. do you think i should be any great loss, minister? anderson. i think that a man's life is worth saving, whoever it belongs to. (richard makes him an ironical bow. anderson returns the bow humorously.) come: you'll have a cup of tea, to prevent you catching cold? richard. i observe that mrs. anderson is not quite so pressing as you are, pastor. judith (almost stifled with resentment, which she has been expecting her husband to share and express for her at every insult of richard's). you are welcome for my husband's sake. (she brings the teapot to the fireplace and sets it on the hob.) richard. i know i am not welcome for my own, madam. (he rises.) but i think i will not break bread here, minister. anderson (cheerily). give me a good reason for that. richard. because there is something in you that i respect, and that makes me desire to have you for my enemy. anderson. that's well said. on those terms, sir, i will accept your enmity or any man's. judith: mr. dudgeon will stay to tea. sit down: it will take a few minutes to draw by the fire. (richard glances at him with a troubled face; then sits down with his head bent, to hide a convulsive swelling of his throat.) i was just saying to my wife, mr. dudgeon, that enmity-- (she grasps his hand and looks imploringly at him, doing both with an intensity that checks him at once) well, well, i mustn't tell you, i see; but it was nothing that need leave us worse friend--enemies, i mean. judith is a great enemy of yours. richard. if all my enemies were like mrs. anderson i should be the best christian in america. anderson (gratified, patting her hand). you hear that, judith? mr. dudgeon knows how to turn a compliment. the latch is lifted from without. judith (starting). who is that? christy comes in. christy (stopping and staring at richard). oh, are you here? richard. yes. begone, you fool: mrs. anderson doesn't want the whole family to tea at once. christy (coming further in). mother's very ill. richard. well, does she want to see me? christy. no. richard. i thought not. christy. she wants to see the minister--at once. judith (to anderson). oh, not before you've had some tea. anderson. i shall enjoy it more when i come back, dear. (he is about to take up his cloak.) christy. the rain's over. anderson (dropping the cloak and picking up his hat from the fender). where is your mother, christy? christy. at uncle titus's. anderson. have you fetched the doctor? christy. no: she didn't tell me to. anderson. go on there at once: i'll overtake you on his doorstep. (christy turns to go.) wait a moment. your brother must be anxious to know the particulars. richard. psha! not i: he doesn't know; and i don't care. (violently.) be off, you oaf. (christy runs out. richard adds, a little shamefacedly) we shall know soon enough. anderson. well, perhaps you will let me bring you the news myself. judith: will you give mr. dudgeon his tea, and keep him here until i return? judith (white and trembling). must i-- anderson (taking her hands and interrupting her to cover her agitation). my dear: i can depend on you? judith (with a piteous effort to be worthy of his trust). yes. anderson (pressing her hand against his cheek). you will not mind two old people like us, mr. dudgeon. (going.) i shall not say good evening: you will be here when i come back. (he goes out.) they watch him pass the window, and then look at each other dumbly, quite disconcerted. richard, noting the quiver of her lips, is the first to pull himself together. richard. mrs. anderson: i am perfectly aware of the nature of your sentiments towards me. i shall not intrude on you. good evening. (again he starts for the fireplace to get his coat.) judith (getting between him and the coat). no, no. don't go: please don't go. richard (roughly). why? you don't want me here. judith. yes, i-- (wringing her hands in despair) oh, if i tell you the truth, you will use it to torment me. richard (indignantly). torment! what right have you to say that? do you expect me to stay after that? judith. i want you to stay; but (suddenly raging at him like an angry child) it is not because i like you. richard. indeed! judith. yes: i had rather you did go than mistake me about that. i hate and dread you; and my husband knows it. if you are not here when he comes back, he will believe that i disobeyed him and drove you away. richard (ironically). whereas, of course, you have really been so kind and hospitable and charming to me that i only want to go away out of mere contrariness, eh? judith, unable to bear it, sinks on the chair and bursts into tears. richard. stop, stop, stop, i tell you. don't do that. (putting his hand to his breast as if to a wound.) he wrung my heart by being a man. need you tear it by being a woman? has he not raised you above my insults, like himself? (she stops crying, and recovers herself somewhat, looking at him with a scared curiosity.) there: that's right. (sympathetically.) you're better now, aren't you? (he puts his hand encouragingly on her shoulder. she instantly rises haughtily, and stares at him defiantly. he at once drops into his usual sardonic tone.) ah, that's better. you are yourself again: so is richard. well, shall we go to tea like a quiet respectable couple, and wait for your husband's return? judith (rather ashamed of herself). if you please. i--i am sorry to have been so foolish. (she stoops to take up the plate of toast from the fender.) richard. i am sorry, for your sake, that i am--what i am. allow me. (he takes the plate from her and goes with it to the table.) judith (following with the teapot). will you sit down? (he sits down at the end of the table nearest the press. there is a plate and knife laid there. the other plate is laid near it; but judith stays at the opposite end of the table, next the fire, and takes her place there, drawing the tray towards her.) do you take sugar? richard. no; but plenty of milk. let me give you some toast. (he puts some on the second plate, and hands it to her, with the knife. the action shows quietly how well he knows that she has avoided her usual place so as to be as far from him as possible.) judith (consciously). thanks. (she gives him his tea.) won't you help yourself? richard. thanks. (he puts a piece of toast on his own plate; and she pours out tea for herself.) judith (observing that he tastes nothing). don't you like it? you are not eating anything. richard. neither are you. judith (nervously). i never care much for my tea. please don't mind me. richard (looking dreamily round). i am thinking. it is all so strange to me. i can see the beauty and peace of this home: i think i have never been more at rest in my life than at this moment; and yet i know quite well i could never live here. it's not in my nature, i suppose, to be domesticated. but it's very beautiful: it's almost holy. (he muses a moment, and then laughs softly.) judith (quickly). why do you laugh? richard. i was thinking that if any stranger came in here now, he would take us for man and wife. judith (taking offence). you mean, i suppose, that you are more my age than he is. richard (staring at this unexpected turn). i never thought of such a thing. (sardonic again.) i see there is another side to domestic joy. judith (angrily). i would rather have a husband whom everybody respects than--than-- richard. than the devil's disciple. you are right; but i daresay your love helps him to be a good man, just as your hate helps me to be a bad one. judith. my husband has been very good to you. he has forgiven you for insulting him, and is trying to save you. can you not forgive him for being so much better than you are? how dare you belittle him by putting yourself in his place? richard. did i? judith. yes, you did. you said that if anybody came in they would take us for man and-- (she stops, terror-stricken, as a squad of soldiers tramps past the window) the english soldiers! oh, what do they-- richard (listening). sh! a voice (outside). halt! four outside: two in with me. judith half rises, listening and looking with dilated eyes at richard, who takes up his cup prosaically, and is drinking his tea when the latch goes up with a sharp click, and an english sergeant walks into the room with two privates, who post themselves at the door. he comes promptly to the table between them. the sergeant. sorry to disturb you, mum! duty! anthony anderson: i arrest you in king george's name as a rebel. judith (pointing at richard). but that is not-- (he looks up quickly at her, with a face of iron. she stops her mouth hastily with the hand she has raised to indicate him, and stands staring affrightedly.) the sergeant. come, parson; put your coat on and come along. richard. yes: i'll come. (he rises and takes a step towards his own coat; then recollects himself, and, with his back to the sergeant, moves his gaze slowly round the room without turning his head until he sees anderson's black coat hanging up on the press. he goes composedly to it; takes it down; and puts it on. the idea of himself as a parson tickles him: he looks down at the black sleeve on his arm, and then smiles slyly at judith, whose white face shows him that what she is painfully struggling to grasp is not the humor of the situation but its horror. he turns to the sergeant, who is approaching him with a pair of handcuffs hidden behind him, and says lightly) did you ever arrest a man of my cloth before, sergeant? the sergeant (instinctively respectful, half to the black coat, half to richard's good breeding). well, no sir. at least, only an army chaplain. (showing the handcuffs.) i'm sorry, sir; but duty-- richard. just so, sergeant. well, i'm not ashamed of them: thank you kindly for the apology. (he holds out his hands.) sergeant (not availing himself of the offer). one gentleman to another, sir. wouldn't you like to say a word to your missis, sir, before you go? richard (smiling). oh, we shall meet again before--eh? (meaning "before you hang me.") sergeant (loudly, with ostentatious cheerfulness). oh, of course, of course. no call for the lady to distress herself. still-- (in a lower voice, intended for richard alone) your last chance, sir. they look at one another significantly for a moment. than richard exhales a deep breath and turns towards judith. richard (very distinctly). my love. (she looks at him, pitiably pale, and tries to answer, but cannot--tries also to come to him, but cannot trust herself to stand without the support of the table.) this gallant gentleman is good enough to allow us a moment of leavetaking. (the sergeant retires delicately and joins his men near the door.) he is trying to spare you the truth; but you had better know it. are you listening to me? (she signifies assent.) do you understand that i am going to my death? (she signifies that she understands.) remember, you must find our friend who was with us just now. do you understand? (she signifies yes.) see that you get him safely out of harm's way. don't for your life let him know of my danger; but if he finds it out, tell him that he cannot save me: they would hang him; and they would not spare me. and tell him that i am steadfast in my religion as he is in his, and that he may depend on me to the death. (he turns to go, and meets the eye of the sergeant, who looks a little suspicious. he considers a moment, and then, turning roguishly to judith with something of a smile breaking through his earnestness, says) and now, my dear, i am afraid the sergeant will not believe that you love me like a wife unless you give one kiss before i go. he approaches her and holds out his arms. she quits the table and almost falls into them. judith (the words choking her). i ought to--it's murder-- richard. no: only a kiss (softly to her) for his sake. judith. i can't. you must-- richard (folding her in his arms with an impulse of compassion for her distress). my poor girl! judith, with a sudden effort, throws her arms round him; kisses him; and swoons away, dropping from his arms to the ground as if the kiss had killed her. richard (going quickly to the sergeant). now, sergeant: quick, before she comes to. the handcuffs. (he puts out his hands.) sergeant (pocketing them). never mind, sir: i'll trust you. you're a game one. you ought to a bin a soldier, sir. between them two, please. (the soldiers place themselves one before richard and one behind him. the sergeant opens the door.) richard (taking a last look round him). goodbye, wife: goodbye, home. muffle the drums, and quick march! the sergeant signs to the leading soldier to march. they file out quickly. * * * * * when anderson returns from mrs. dudgeon's he is astonished to find the room apparently empty and almost in darkness except for the glow from the fire; for one of the candles has burnt out, and the other is at its last flicker. anderson. why, what on earth--? (calling) judith, judith! (he listens: there is no answer.) hm! (he goes to the cupboard; takes a candle from the drawer; lights it at the flicker of the expiring one on the table; and looks wonderingly at the untasted meal by its light. then he sticks it in the candlestick; takes off his hat; and scratches his head, much puzzled. this action causes him to look at the floor for the first time; and there he sees judith lying motionless with her eyes closed. he runs to her and stoops beside her, lifting her head.) judith. judith (waking; for her swoon has passed into the sleep of exhaustion after suffering). yes. did you call? what's the matter? anderson. i've just come in and found you lying here with the candles burnt out and the tea poured out and cold. what has happened? judith (still astray). i don't know. have i been asleep? i suppose-- (she stops blankly) i don't know. anderson (groaning). heaven forgive me, i left you alone with that scoundrel. (judith remembers. with an agonized cry, she clutches his shoulders and drags herself to her feet as he rises with her. he clasps her tenderly in his arms.) my poor pet! judith (frantically clinging to him). what shall i do? oh my god, what shall i do? anderson. never mind, never mind, my dearest dear: it was my fault. come: you're safe now; and you're not hurt, are you? (he takes his arms from her to see whether she can stand.) there: that's right, that's right. if only you are not hurt, nothing else matters. judith. no, no, no: i'm not hurt. anderson. thank heaven for that! come now: (leading her to the railed seat and making her sit down beside him) sit down and rest: you can tell me about it to-morrow. or, (misunderstanding her distress) you shall not tell me at all if it worries you. there, there! (cheerfully.) i'll make you some fresh tea: that will set you up again. (he goes to the table, and empties the teapot into the slop bowl.) judith (in a strained tone). tony. anderson. yes, dear? judith. do you think we are only in a dream now? anderson (glancing round at her for a moment with a pang of anxiety, though he goes on steadily and cheerfully putting fresh tea into the pot). perhaps so, pet. but you may as well dream a cup of tea when you're about it. judith. oh, stop, stop. you don't know-- (distracted she buries her face in her knotted hands.) anderson (breaking down and coming to her). my dear, what is it? i can't bear it any longer: you must tell me. it was all my fault: i was mad to trust him. judith. no: don't say that. you mustn't say that. he--oh no, no: i can't. tony: don't speak to me. take my hands--both my hands. (he takes them, wondering.) make me think of you, not of him. there's danger, frightful danger; but it is your danger; and i can't keep thinking of it: i can't, i can't: my mind goes back to his danger. he must be saved--no: you must be saved: you, you, you. (she springs up as if to do something or go somewhere, exclaiming) oh, heaven help me! anderson (keeping his seat and holding her hands with resolute composure). calmly, calmly, my pet. you're quite distracted. judith. i may well be. i don't know what to do. i don't know what to do. (tearing her hands away.) i must save him. (anderson rises in alarm as she runs wildly to the door. it is opened in her face by essie, who hurries in, full of anxiety. the surprise is so disagreeable to judith that it brings her to her senses. her tone is sharp and angry as she demands) what do you want? essie. i was to come to you. anderson. who told you to? essie (staring at him, as if his presence astonished her). are you here? judith. of course. don't be foolish, child. anderson. gently, dearest: you'll frighten her. (going between them.) come here, essie. (she comes to him.) who sent you? essie. dick. he sent me word by a soldier. i was to come here at once and do whatever mrs. anderson told me. anderson (enlightened). a soldier! ah, i see it all now! they have arrested richard. (judith makes a gesture of despair.) essie. no. i asked the soldier. dick's safe. but the soldier said you had been taken-- anderson. i! (bewildered, he turns to judith for an explanation.) judith (coaxingly) all right, dear: i understand. (to essie.) thank you, essie, for coming; but i don't need you now. you may go home. essie (suspicious) are you sure dick has not been touched? perhaps he told the soldier to say it was the minister. (anxiously.) mrs. anderson: do you think it can have been that? anderson. tell her the truth if it is so, judith. she will learn it from the first neighbor she meets in the street. (judith turns away and covers her eyes with her hands.) essie (wailing). but what will they do to him? oh, what will they do to him? will they hang him? (judith shudders convulsively, and throws herself into the chair in which richard sat at the tea table.) anderson (patting essie's shoulder and trying to comfort her). i hope not. i hope not. perhaps if you're very quiet and patient, we may be able to help him in some way. essie. yes--help him--yes, yes, yes. i'll be good. anderson. i must go to him at once, judith. judith (springing up). oh no. you must go away--far away, to some place of safety. anderson. pooh! judith (passionately). do you want to kill me? do you think i can bear to live for days and days with every knock at the door--every footstep--giving me a spasm of terror? to lie awake for nights and nights in an agony of dread, listening for them to come and arrest you? anderson. do you think it would be better to know that i had run away from my post at the first sign of danger? judith (bitterly). oh, you won't go. i know it. you'll stay; and i shall go mad. anderson. my dear, your duty-- judith (fiercely). what do i care about my duty? anderson (shocked). judith! judith. i am doing my duty. i am clinging to my duty. my duty is to get you away, to save you, to leave him to his fate. (essie utters a cry of distress and sinks on the chair at the fire, sobbing silently.) my instinct is the same as hers--to save him above all things, though it would be so much better for him to die! so much greater! but i know you will take your own way as he took it. i have no power. (she sits down sullenly on the railed seat.) i'm only a woman: i can do nothing but sit here and suffer. only, tell him i tried to save you--that i did my best to save you. anderson. my dear, i am afraid he will be thinking more of his own danger than of mine. judith. stop; or i shall hate you. anderson (remonstrating). come, am i to leave you if you talk like this! your senses. (he turns to essie.) essie. essie (eagerly rising and drying her eyes). yes? anderson. just wait outside a moment, like a good girl: mrs. anderson is not well. (essie looks doubtful.) never fear: i'll come to you presently; and i'll go to dick. essie. you are sure you will go to him? (whispering.) you won't let her prevent you? anderson (smiling). no, no: it's all right. all right. (she goes.) that's a good girl. (he closes the door, and returns to judith.) judith (seated--rigid). you are going to your death. anderson (quaintly). then i shall go in my best coat, dear. (he turns to the press, beginning to take off his coat.) where--? (he stares at the empty nail for a moment; then looks quickly round to the fire; strides across to it; and lifts richard's coat.) why, my dear, it seems that he has gone in my best coat. judith (still motionless). yes. anderson. did the soldiers make a mistake? judith. yes: they made a mistake. anderson. he might have told them. poor fellow, he was too upset, i suppose. judith. yes: he might have told them. so might i. anderson. well, it's all very puzzling--almost funny. it's curious how these little things strike us even in the most-- (he breaks off and begins putting on richard's coat) i'd better take him his own coat. i know what he'll say-- (imitating richard's sardonic manner) "anxious about my soul, pastor, and also about your best coat." eh? judith. yes, that is just what he will say to you. (vacantly.) it doesn't matter: i shall never see either of you again. anderson (rallying her). oh pooh, pooh, pooh! (he sits down beside her.) is this how you keep your promise that i shan't be ashamed of my brave wife? judith. no: this is how i break it. i cannot keep my promises to him: why should i keep my promises to you? anderson. don't speak so strangely, my love. it sounds insincere to me. (she looks unutterable reproach at him.) yes, dear, nonsense is always insincere; and my dearest is talking nonsense. just nonsense. (her face darkens into dumb obstinacy. she stares straight before her, and does not look at him again, absorbed in richard's fate. he scans her face; sees that his rallying has produced no effect; and gives it up, making no further effort to conceal his anxiety.) i wish i knew what has frightened you so. was there a struggle? did he fight? judith. no. he smiled. anderson. did he realise his danger, do you think? judith. he realised yours. anderson. mine! judith (monotonously). he said, "see that you get him safely out of harm's way." i promised: i can't keep my promise. he said, "don't for your life let him know of my danger." i've told you of it. he said that if you found it out, you could not save him--that they will hang him and not spare you. anderson (rising in generous indignation). and you think that i will let a man with that much good in him die like a dog, when a few words might make him die like a christian? i'm ashamed of you, judith. judith. he will be steadfast in his religion as you are in yours; and you may depend on him to the death. he said so. anderson. god forgive him! what else did he say? judith. he said goodbye. anderson (fidgeting nervously to and fro in great concern). poor fellow, poor fellow! you said goodbye to him in all kindness and charity, judith, i hope. judith. i kissed him. anderson. what! judith! judith. are you angry? anderson. no, no. you were right: you were right. poor fellow, poor fellow! (greatly distressed.) to be hanged like that at his age! and then did they take him away? judith (wearily). then you were here: that's the next thing i remember. i suppose i fainted. now bid me goodbye, tony. perhaps i shall faint again. i wish i could die. anderson. no, no, my dear: you must pull yourself together and be sensible. i am in no danger--not the least in the world. judith (solemnly). you are going to your death, tony--your sure death, if god will let innocent men be murdered. they will not let you see him: they will arrest you the moment you give your name. it was for you the soldiers came. anderson (thunderstruck). for me!!! (his fists clinch; his neck thickens; his face reddens; the fleshy purses under his eyes become injected with hot blood; the man of peace vanishes, transfigured into a choleric and formidable man of war. still, she does not come out of her absorption to look at him: her eyes are steadfast with a mechanical reflection of richard's stead-fastness.) judith. he took your place: he is dying to save you. that is why he went in your coat. that is why i kissed him. anderson (exploding). blood an' owns! (his voice is rough and dominant, his gesture full of brute energy.) here! essie, essie! essie (running in). yes. anderson (impetuously). off with you as hard as you can run, to the inn. tell them to saddle the fastest and strongest horse they have (judith rises breathless, and stares at him incredulously)--the chestnut mare, if she's fresh--without a moment's delay. go into the stable yard and tell the black man there that i'll give him a silver dollar if the horse is waiting for me when i come, and that i am close on your heels. away with you. (his energy sends essie flying from the room. he pounces on his riding boots; rushes with them to the chair at the fire; and begins pulling them on.) judith (unable to believe such a thing of him). you are not going to him! anderson (busy with the boots). going to him! what good would that do? (growling to himself as he gets the first boot on with a wrench) i'll go to them, so i will. (to judith peremptorily) get me the pistols: i want them. and money, money: i want money--all the money in the house. (he stoops over the other boot, grumbling) a great satisfaction it would be to him to have my company on the gallows. (he pulls on the boot.) judith. you are deserting him, then? anderson. hold your tongue, woman; and get me the pistols. (she goes to the press and takes from it a leather belt with two pistols, a powder horn, and a bag of bullets attached to it. she throws it on the table. then she unlocks a drawer in the press and takes out a purse. anderson grabs the belt and buckles it on, saying) if they took him for me in my coat, perhaps they'll take me for him in his. (hitching the belt into its place) do i look like him? judith (turning with the purse in her hand). horribly unlike him. anderson (snatching the purse from her and emptying it on the table). hm! we shall see. judith (sitting down helplessly). is it of any use to pray, do you think, tony? anderson (counting the money). pray! can we pray swindon's rope off richard's neck? judith. god may soften major swindon's heart. anderson (contemptuously--pocketing a handful of money). let him, then. i am not god; and i must go to work another way. (judith gasps at the blasphemy. he throws the purse on the table.) keep that. i've taken dollars. judith. have you forgotten even that you are a minister? anderson. minister be--faugh! my hat: where's my hat? (he snatches up hat and cloak, and puts both on in hot haste.) now listen, you. if you can get a word with him by pretending you're his wife, tell him to hold his tongue until morning: that will give me all the start i need. judith (solemnly). you may depend on him to the death. anderson. you're a fool, a fool, judith (for a moment checking the torrent of his haste, and speaking with something of his old quiet and impressive conviction). you don't know the man you're married to. (essie returns. he swoops at her at once.) well: is the horse ready? essie (breathless). it will be ready when you come. anderson. good. (he makes for the door.) judith (rising and stretching out her arms after him involuntarily). won't you say goodbye? anderson. and waste another half minute! psha! (he rushes out like an avalanche.) essie (hurrying to judith). he has gone to save richard, hasn't he? judith. to save richard! no: richard has saved him. he has gone to save himself. richard must die. essie screams with terror and falls on her knees, hiding her face. judith, without heeding her, looks rigidly straight in front of her, at the vision of richard, dying. act iii early next morning the sergeant, at the british headquarters in the town hall, unlocks the door of a little empty panelled waiting room, and invites judith to enter. she has had a bad night, probably a rather delirious one; for even in the reality of the raw morning, her fixed gaze comes back at moments when her attention is not strongly held. the sergeant considers that her feelings do her credit, and is sympathetic in an encouraging military way. being a fine figure of a man, vain of his uniform and of his rank, he feels specially qualified, in a respectful way, to console her. sergeant. you can have a quiet word with him here, mum. judith. shall i have long to wait? sergeant. no, mum, not a minute. we kep him in the bridewell for the night; and he's just been brought over here for the court martial. don't fret, mum: he slep like a child, and has made a rare good breakfast. judith (incredulously). he is in good spirits! sergeant. tip top, mum. the chaplain looked in to see him last night; and he won seventeen shillings off him at spoil five. he spent it among us like the gentleman he is. duty's duty, mum, of course; but you're among friends here. (the tramp of a couple of soldiers is heard approaching.) there: i think he's coming. (richard comes in, without a sign of care or captivity in his bearing. the sergeant nods to the two soldiers, and shows them the key of the room in his hand. they withdraw.) your good lady, sir. richard (going to her). what! my wife. my adored one. (he takes her hand and kisses it with a perverse, raffish gallantry.) how long do you allow a brokenhearted husband for leave-taking, sergeant? sergeant. as long as we can, sir. we shall not disturb you till the court sits. richard. but it has struck the hour. sergeant. so it has, sir; but there's a delay. general burgoyne's just arrived--gentlemanly johnny we call him, sir--and he won't have done finding fault with everything this side of half past. i know him, sir: i served with him in portugal. you may count on twenty minutes, sir; and by your leave i won't waste any more of them. (he goes out, locking the door. richard immediately drops his raffish manner and turns to judith with considerate sincerity.) richard. mrs. anderson: this visit is very kind of you. and how are you after last night? i had to leave you before you recovered; but i sent word to essie to go and look after you. did she understand the message? judith (breathless and urgent). oh, don't think of me: i haven't come here to talk about myself. are they going to--to-- (meaning "to hang you")? richard (whimsically). at noon, punctually. at least, that was when they disposed of uncle peter. (she shudders.) is your husband safe? is he on the wing? judith. he is no longer my husband. richard (opening his eyes wide). eh! judith. i disobeyed you. i told him everything. i expected him to come here and save you. i wanted him to come here and save you. he ran away instead. richard. well, that's what i meant him to do. what good would his staying have done? they'd only have hanged us both. judith (with reproachful earnestness). richard dudgeon: on your honour, what would you have done in his place? richard. exactly what he has done, of course. judith. oh, why will you not be simple with me--honest and straightforward? if you are so selfish as that, why did you let them take you last night? richard (gaily). upon my life, mrs. anderson, i don't know. i've been asking myself that question ever since; and i can find no manner of reason for acting as i did. judith. you know you did it for his sake, believing he was a more worthy man than yourself. richard (laughing). oho! no: that's a very pretty reason, i must say; but i'm not so modest as that. no: it wasn't for his sake. judith (after a pause, during which she looks shamefacedly at him, blushing painfully). was it for my sake? richard (gallantly). well, you had a hand in it. it must have been a little for your sake. you let them take me, at all events. judith. oh, do you think i have not been telling myself that all night? your death will be at my door. (impulsively, she gives him her hand, and adds, with intense earnestness) if i could save you as you saved him, i would do it, no matter how cruel the death was. richard (holding her hand and smiling, but keeping her almost at arm's length). i am very sure i shouldn't let you. judith. don't you see that i can save you? richard. how? by changing clothes with me, eh? judith (disengaging her hand to touch his lips with it). don't (meaning "don't jest"). no: by telling the court who you really are. richard (frowning). no use: they wouldn't spare me; and it would spoil half of his chance of escaping. they are determined to cow us by making an example of somebody on that gallows to-day. well, let us cow them by showing that we can stand by one another to the death. that is the only force that can send burgoyne back across the atlantic and make america a nation. judith (impatiently). oh, what does all that matter? richard (laughing). true: what does it matter? what does anything matter? you see, men have these strange notions, mrs. anderson; and women see the folly of them. judith. women have to lose those they love through them. richard. they can easily get fresh lovers. judith (revolted). oh! (vehemently) do you realise that you are going to kill yourself? richard. the only man i have any right to kill, mrs. anderson. don't be concerned: no woman will lose her lover through my death. (smiling) bless you, nobody cares for me. have you heard that my mother is dead? judith. dead! richard. of heart disease--in the night. her last word to me was her curse: i don't think i could have borne her blessing. my other relatives will not grieve much on my account. essie will cry for a day or two; but i have provided for her: i made my own will last night. judith (stonily, after a moment's silence). and i! richard (surprised). you? judith. yes, i. am i not to care at all? richard (gaily and bluntly). not a scrap. oh, you expressed your feelings towards me very frankly yesterday. what happened may have softened you for the moment; but believe me, mrs. anderson, you don't like a bone in my skin or a hair on my head. i shall be as good a riddance at today as i should have been at yesterday. judith (her voice trembling). what can i do to show you that you are mistaken? richard. don't trouble. i'll give you credit for liking me a little better than you did. all i say is that my death will not break your heart. judith (almost in a whisper). how do you know? (she puts her hands on his shoulders and looks intently at him.) richard (amazed--divining the truth). mrs. anderson!!! (the bell of the town clock strikes the quarter. he collects himself, and removes her hands, saying rather coldly) excuse me: they will be here for me presently. it is too late. judith. it is not too late. call me as witness: they will never kill you when they know how heroically you have acted. richard (with some scorn). indeed! but if i don't go through with it, where will the heroism be? i shall simply have tricked them; and they'll hang me for that like a dog. serve me right too! judith (wildly). oh, i believe you want to die. richard (obstinately). no i don't. judith. then why not try to save yourself? i implore you--listen. you said just now that you saved him for my sake--yes (clutching him as he recoils with a gesture of denial) a little for my sake. well, save yourself for my sake. and i will go with you to the end of the world. richard (taking her by the wrists and holding her a little way from him, looking steadily at her). judith. judith (breathless--delighted at the name). yes. richard. if i said--to please you--that i did what i did ever so little for your sake, i lied as men always lie to women. you know how much i have lived with worthless men--aye, and worthless women too. well, they could all rise to some sort of goodness and kindness when they were in love. (the word love comes from him with true puritan scorn.) that has taught me to set very little store by the goodness that only comes out red hot. what i did last night, i did in cold blood, caring not half so much for your husband, or (ruthlessly) for you (she droops, stricken) as i do for myself. i had no motive and no interest: all i can tell you is that when it came to the point whether i would take my neck out of the noose and put another man's into it, i could not do it. i don't know why not: i see myself as a fool for my pains; but i could not and i cannot. i have been brought up standing by the law of my own nature; and i may not go against it, gallows or no gallows. (she has slowly raised her head and is now looking full at him.) i should have done the same for any other man in the town, or any other man's wife. (releasing her.) do you understand that? judith. yes: you mean that you do not love me. richard (revolted--with fierce contempt). is that all it means to you? judith. what more--what worse--can it mean to me? (the sergeant knocks. the blow on the door jars on her heart.) oh, one moment more. (she throws herself on her knees.) i pray to you-- richard. hush! (calling) come in. (the sergeant unlocks the door and opens it. the guard is with him.) sergeant (coming in). time's up, sir. richard. quite ready, sergeant. now, my dear. (he attempts to raise her.) judith (clinging to him). only one thing more--i entreat, i implore you. let me be present in the court. i have seen major swindon: he said i should be allowed if you asked it. you will ask it. it is my last request: i shall never ask you anything again. (she clasps his knee.) i beg and pray it of you. richard. if i do, will you be silent? judith. yes. richard. you will keep faith? judith. i will keep-- (she breaks down, sobbing.) richard (taking her arm to lift her). just--her other arm, sergeant. they go out, she sobbing convulsively, supported by the two men. meanwhile, the council chamber is ready for the court martial. it is a large, lofty room, with a chair of state in the middle under a tall canopy with a gilt crown, and maroon curtains with the royal monogram g. r. in front of the chair is a table, also draped in maroon, with a bell, a heavy inkstand, and writing materials on it. several chairs are set at the table. the door is at the right hand of the occupant of the chair of state when it has an occupant: at present it is empty. major swindon, a pale, sandy-haired, very conscientious looking man of about , sits at the end of the table with his back to the door, writing. he is alone until the sergeant announces the general in a subdued manner which suggests that gentlemanly johnny has been making his presence felt rather heavily. sergeant. the general, sir. swindon rises hastily. the general comes in, the sergeant goes out. general burgoyne is , and very well preserved. he is a man of fashion, gallant enough to have made a distinguished marriage by an elopement, witty enough to write successful comedies, aristocratically-connected enough to have had opportunities of high military distinction. his eyes, large, brilliant, apprehensive, and intelligent, are his most remarkable feature: without them his fine nose and small mouth would suggest rather more fastidiousness and less force than go to the making of a first rate general. just now the eyes are angry and tragic, and the mouth and nostrils tense. burgoyne. major swindon, i presume. swindon. yes. general burgoyne, if i mistake not. (they bow to one another ceremoniously.) i am glad to have the support of your presence this morning. it is not particularly lively business, hanging this poor devil of a minister. burgoyne (throwing himself onto swindon's chair). no, sir, it is not. it is making too much of the fellow to execute him: what more could you have done if he had been a member of the church of england? martyrdom, sir, is what these people like: it is the only way in which a man can become famous without ability. however, you have committed us to hanging him: and the sooner he is hanged the better. swindon. we have arranged it for o'clock. nothing remains to be done except to try him. burgoyne (looking at him with suppressed anger). nothing--except to save our own necks, perhaps. have you heard the news from springtown? swindon. nothing special. the latest reports are satisfactory. burgoyne (rising in amazement). satisfactory, sir! satisfactory!! (he stares at him for a moment, and then adds, with grim intensity) i am glad you take that view of them. swindon (puzzled). do i understand that in your opinion-- burgoyne. i do not express my opinion. i never stoop to that habit of profane language which unfortunately coarsens our profession. if i did, sir, perhaps i should be able to express my opinion of the news from springtown--the news which you (severely) have apparently not heard. how soon do you get news from your supports here?--in the course of a month eh? swindon (turning sulky). i suppose the reports have been taken to you, sir, instead of to me. is there anything serious? burgoyne (taking a report from his pocket and holding it up). springtown's in the hands of the rebels. (he throws the report on the table.) swindon (aghast). since yesterday! burgoyne. since two o'clock this morning. perhaps we shall be in their hands before two o'clock to-morrow morning. have you thought of that? swindon (confidently). as to that, general, the british soldier will give a good account of himself. burgoyne (bitterly). and therefore, i suppose, sir, the british officer need not know his business: the british soldier will get him out of all his blunders with the bayonet. in future, sir, i must ask you to be a little less generous with the blood of your men, and a little more generous with your own brains. swindon. i am sorry i cannot pretend to your intellectual eminence, sir. i can only do my best, and rely on the devotion of my countrymen. burgoyne (suddenly becoming suavely sarcastic). may i ask are you writing a melodrama, major swindon? swindon (flushing). no, sir. burgoyne. what a pity! what a pity! (dropping his sarcastic tone and facing him suddenly and seriously) do you at all realize, sir, that we have nothing standing between us and destruction but our own bluff and the sheepishness of these colonists? they are men of the same english stock as ourselves: six to one of us (repeating it emphatically), six to one, sir; and nearly half our troops are hessians, brunswickers, german dragoons, and indians with scalping knives. these are the countrymen on whose devotion you rely! suppose the colonists find a leader! suppose the news from springtown should turn out to mean that they have already found a leader! what shall we do then? eh? swindon (sullenly). our duty, sir, i presume. burgoyne (again sarcastic--giving him up as a fool). quite so, quite so. thank you, major swindon, thank you. now you've settled the question, sir--thrown a flood of light on the situation. what a comfort to me to feel that i have at my side so devoted and able an officer to support me in this emergency! i think, sir, it will probably relieve both our feelings if we proceed to hang this dissenter without further delay (he strikes the bell), especially as i am debarred by my principles from the customary military vent for my feelings. (the sergeant appears.) bring your man in. sergeant. yes, sir. burgoyne. and mention to any officer you may meet that the court cannot wait any longer for him. swindon (keeping his temper with difficulty). the staff is perfectly ready, sir. they have been waiting your convenience for fully half an hour. perfectly ready, sir. burgoyne (blandly). so am i. (several officers come in and take their seats. one of them sits at the end of the table furthest from the door, and acts throughout as clerk to the court, making notes of the proceedings. the uniforms are those of the th, th, st, th, th, rd, and nd british infantry. one officer is a major general of the royal artillery. there are also german officers of the hessian rifles, and of german dragoon and brunswicker regiments.) oh, good morning, gentlemen. sorry to disturb you, i am sure. very good of you to spare us a few moments. swindon. will you preside, sir? burgoyne (becoming additionally, polished, lofty, sarcastic and urbane now that he is in public). no, sir: i feel my own deficiencies too keenly to presume so far. if you will kindly allow me, i will sit at the feet of gamaliel. (he takes the chair at the end of the table next the door, and motions swindon to the chair of state, waiting for him to be seated before sitting himself.) swindon (greatly annoyed). as you please, sir. i am only trying to do my duty under excessively trying circumstances. (he takes his place in the chair of state.) burgoyne, relaxing his studied demeanor for the moment, sits down and begins to read the report with knitted brows and careworn looks, reflecting on his desperate situation and swindon's uselessness. richard is brought in. judith walks beside him. two soldiers precede and two follow him, with the sergeant in command. they cross the room to the wall opposite the door; but when richard has just passed before the chair of state the sergeant stops him with a touch on the arm, and posts himself behind him, at his elbow. judith stands timidly at the wall. the four soldiers place themselves in a squad near her. burgoyne (looking up and seeing judith). who is that woman? sergeant. prisoner's wife, sir. swindon (nervously). she begged me to allow her to be present; and i thought-- burgoyne (completing the sentence for him ironically). you thought it would be a pleasure for her. quite so, quite so. (blandly) give the lady a chair; and make her thoroughly comfortable. the sergeant fetches a chair and places it near richard. judith. thank you, sir. (she sits down after an awe-stricken curtsy to burgoyne, which he acknowledges by a dignified bend of his head.) swindon (to richard, sharply). your name, sir? richard (affable, but obstinate). come: you don't mean to say that you've brought me here without knowing who i am? swindon. as a matter of form, sir, give your name. richard. as a matter of form then, my name is anthony anderson, presbyterian minister in this town. burgoyne (interested). indeed! pray, mr. anderson, what do you gentlemen believe? richard. i shall be happy to explain if time is allowed me. i cannot undertake to complete your conversion in less than a fortnight. swindon (snubbing him). we are not here to discuss your views. burgoyne (with an elaborate bow to the unfortunate swindon). i stand rebuked. swindon (embarrassed). oh, not you, i as-- burgoyne. don't mention it. (to richard, very politely) any political views, mr. anderson? richard. i understand that that is just what we are here to find out. swindon (severely). do you mean to deny that you are a rebel? richard. i am an american, sir. swindon. what do you expect me to think of that speech, mr. anderson? richard. i never expect a soldier to think, sir. burgoyne is boundlessly delighted by this retort, which almost reconciles him to the loss of america. swindon (whitening with anger). i advise you not to be insolent, prisoner. richard. you can't help yourself, general. when you make up your mind to hang a man, you put yourself at a disadvantage with him. why should i be civil to you? i may as well be hanged for a sheep as a lamb. swindon. you have no right to assume that the court has made up its mind without a fair trial. and you will please not address me as general. i am major swindon. richard. a thousand pardons. i thought i had the honor of addressing gentlemanly johnny. sensation among the officers. the sergeant has a narrow escape from a guffaw. burgoyne (with extreme suavity). i believe i am gentlemanly johnny, sir, at your service. my more intimate friends call me general burgoyne. (richard bows with perfect politeness.) you will understand, sir, i hope, since you seem to be a gentleman and a man of some spirit in spite of your calling, that if we should have the misfortune to hang you, we shall do so as a mere matter of political necessity and military duty, without any personal ill-feeling. richard. oh, quite so. that makes all the difference in the world, of course. they all smile in spite of themselves: and some of the younger officers burst out laughing. judith (her dread and horror deepening at every one of these jests and compliments). how can you? richard. you promised to be silent. burgoyne (to judith, with studied courtesy). believe me, madam, your husband is placing us under the greatest obligation by taking this very disagreeable business so thoroughly in the spirit of a gentleman. sergeant: give mr. anderson a chair. (the sergeant does so. richard sits down.) now, major swindon: we are waiting for you. swindon. you are aware, i presume, mr. anderson, of your obligations as a subject of his majesty king george the third. richard. i am aware, sir, that his majesty king george the third is about to hang me because i object to lord north's robbing me. swindon. that is a treasonable speech, sir. richard (briefly). yes. i meant it to be. burgoyne (strongly deprecating this line of defence, but still polite). don't you think, mr. anderson, that this is rather--if you will excuse the word--a vulgar line to take? why should you cry out robbery because of a stamp duty and a tea duty and so forth? after all, it is the essence of your position as a gentleman that you pay with a good grace. richard. it is not the money, general. but to be swindled by a pig-headed lunatic like king george. swindon (scandalised). chut, sir--silence! sergeant (in stentorian tones, greatly shocked). silence! burgoyne (unruffled). ah, that is another point of view. my position does not allow of my going into that, except in private. but (shrugging his shoulders) of course, mr. anderson, if you are determined to be hanged (judith flinches), there's nothing more to be said. an unusual taste! however (with a final shrug)--! swindon (to burgoyne). shall we call witnesses? richard. what need is there of witnesses? if the townspeople here had listened to me, you would have found the streets barricaded, the houses loopholed, and the people in arms to hold the town against you to the last man. but you arrived, unfortunately, before we had got out of the talking stage; and then it was too late. swindon (severely). well, sir, we shall teach you and your townspeople a lesson they will not forget. have you anything more to say? richard. i think you might have the decency to treat me as a prisoner of war, and shoot me like a man instead of hanging me like a dog. burgoyne (sympathetically). now there, mr. anderson, you talk like a civilian, if you will excuse my saying so. have you any idea of the average marksmanship of the army of his majesty king george the third? if we make you up a firing party, what will happen? half of them will miss you: the rest will make a mess of the business and leave you to the provo-marshal's pistol. whereas we can hang you in a perfectly workmanlike and agreeable way. (kindly) let me persuade you to be hanged, mr. anderson? judith (sick with horror). my god! richard (to judith). your promise! (to burgoyne) thank you, general: that view of the case did not occur to me before. to oblige you, i withdraw my objection to the rope. hang me, by all means. burgoyne (smoothly). will o'clock suit you, mr. anderson? richard. i shall be at your disposal then, general. burgoyne (rising). nothing more to be said, gentlemen. (they all rise.) judith (rushing to the table). oh, you are not going to murder a man like that, without a proper trial--without thinking of what you are doing--without-- (she cannot find words.) richard. is this how you keep your promise? judith. if i am not to speak, you must. defend yourself: save yourself: tell them the truth. richard (worriedly). i have told them truth enough to hang me ten times over. if you say another word you will risk other lives; but you will not save mine. burgoyne. my good lady, our only desire is to save unpleasantness. what satisfaction would it give you to have a solemn fuss made, with my friend swindon in a black cap and so forth? i am sure we are greatly indebted to the admirable tact and gentlemanly feeling shown by your husband. judith (throwing the words in his face). oh, you are mad. is it nothing to you what wicked thing you do if only you do it like a gentleman? is it nothing to you whether you are a murderer or not, if only you murder in a red coat? (desperately) you shall not hang him: that man is not my husband. the officers look at one another, and whisper: some of the germans asking their neighbors to explain what the woman has said. burgoyne, who has been visibly shaken by judith's reproach, recovers himself promptly at this new development. richard meanwhile raises his voice above the buzz. richard. i appeal to you, gentlemen, to put an end to this. she will not believe that she cannot save me. break up the court. burgoyne (in a voice so quiet and firm that it restores silence at once). one moment, mr. anderson. one moment, gentlemen. (he resumes his seat. swindon and the officers follow his example.) let me understand you clearly, madam. do you mean that this gentleman is not your husband, or merely--i wish to put this with all delicacy--that you are not his wife? judith. i don't know what you mean. i say that he is not my husband--that my husband has escaped. this man took his place to save him. ask anyone in the town--send out into the street for the first person you find there, and bring him in as a witness. he will tell you that the prisoner is not anthony anderson. burgoyne (quietly, as before). sergeant. sergeant. yes sir. burgoyne. go out into the street and bring in the first townsman you see there. sergeant (making for the door). yes sir. burgoyne (as the sergeant passes). the first clean, sober townsman you see. sergeant. yes sir. (he goes out.) burgoyne. sit down, mr. anderson--if i may call you so for the present. (richard sits down.) sit down, madam, whilst we wait. give the lady a newspaper. richard (indignantly). shame! burgoyne (keenly, with a half smile). if you are not her husband, sir, the case is not a serious one--for her. (richard bites his lip silenced.) judith (to richard, as she returns to her seat). i couldn't help it. (he shakes his head. she sits down.) burgoyne. you will understand of course, mr. anderson, that you must not build on this little incident. we are bound to make an example of somebody. richard. i quite understand. i suppose there's no use in my explaining. burgoyne. i think we should prefer independent testimony, if you don't mind. the sergeant, with a packet of papers in his hand, returns conducting christy, who is much scared. sergeant (giving burgoyne the packet). dispatches, sir. delivered by a corporal of the rd. dead beat with hard riding, sir. burgoyne opens the dispatches, and presently becomes absorbed in them. they are so serious as to take his attention completely from the court martial. sergeant (to christy). now then. attention; and take your hat off. (he posts himself in charge of christy, who stands on burgoyne's side of the court.) richard (in his usual bullying tone to christy). don't be frightened, you fool: you're only wanted as a witness. they're not going to hang you. swindon. what's your name? christy. christy. richard (impatiently). christopher dudgeon, you blatant idiot. give your full name. swindon. be silent, prisoner. you must not prompt the witness. richard. very well. but i warn you you'll get nothing out of him unless you shake it out of him. he has been too well brought up by a pious mother to have any sense or manhood left in him. burgoyne (springing up and speaking to the sergeant in a startling voice). where is the man who brought these? sergeant. in the guard-room, sir. burgoyne goes out with a haste that sets the officers exchanging looks. swindon (to christy). do you know anthony anderson, the presbyterian minister? christy. of course i do. (implying that swindon must be an ass not to know it.) swindon. is he here? christy (staring round). i don't know. swindon. do you see him? christy. no. swindon. you seem to know the prisoner? christy. do you mean dick? swindon. which is dick? christy (pointing to richard). him. swindon. what is his name? christy. dick. richard. answer properly, you jumping jackass. what do they know about dick? christy. well, you are dick, ain't you? what am i to say? swindon. address me, sir; and do you, prisoner, be silent. tell us who the prisoner is. christy. he's my brother dudgeon. swindon. your brother! christy. yes. swindon. you are sure he is not anderson. christy. who? richard (exasperatedly). me, me, me, you-- swindon. silence, sir. sergeant (shouting). silence. richard (impatiently). yah! (to christy) he wants to know am i minister anderson. tell him, and stop grinning like a zany. christy (grinning more than ever). you pastor anderson! (to swindon) why, mr. anderson's a minister---a very good man; and dick's a bad character: the respectable people won't speak to him. he's the bad brother: i'm the good one, (the officers laugh outright. the soldiers grin.) swindon. who arrested this man? sergeant. i did, sir. i found him in the minister's house, sitting at tea with the lady with his coat off, quite at home. if he isn't married to her, he ought to be. swindon. did he answer to the minister's name? sergeant. yes sir, but not to a minister's nature. you ask the chaplain, sir. swindon (to richard, threateningly). so, sir, you have attempted to cheat us. and your name is richard dudgeon? richard. you've found it out at last, have you? swindon. dudgeon is a name well known to us, eh? richard. yes: peter dudgeon, whom you murdered, was my uncle. swindon. hm! (he compresses his lips and looks at richard with vindictive gravity.) christy. are they going to hang you, dick? richard. yes. get out: they've done with you. christy. and i may keep the china peacocks? richard (jumping up). get out. get out, you blithering baboon, you. (christy flies, panicstricken.) swindon (rising--all rise). since you have taken the minister's place, richard dudgeon, you shall go through with it. the execution will take place at o'clock as arranged; and unless anderson surrenders before then you shall take his place on the gallows. sergeant: take your man out. judith (distracted). no, no-- swindon (fiercely, dreading a renewal of her entreaties). take that woman away. richard (springing across the table with a tiger-like bound, and seizing swindon by the throat). you infernal scoundrel. the sergeant rushes to the rescue from one side, the soldiers from the other. they seize richard and drag him back to his place. swindon, who has been thrown supine on the table, rises, arranging his stock. he is about to speak, when he is anticipated by burgoyne, who has just appeared at the door with two papers in his hand: a white letter and a blue dispatch. burgoyne (advancing to the table, elaborately cool). what is this? what's happening? mr. anderson: i'm astonished at you. richard. i am sorry i disturbed you, general. i merely wanted to strangle your understrapper there. (breaking out violently at swindon) why do you raise the devil in me by bullying the woman like that? you oatmeal faced dog, i'd twist your cursed head off with the greatest satisfaction. (he puts out his hands to the sergeant) here: handcuff me, will you; or i'll not undertake to keep my fingers off him. the sergeant takes out a pair of handcuffs and looks to burgoyne for instructions. burgoyne. have you addressed profane language to the lady, major swindon? swindon (very angry). no, sir, certainly not. that question should not have been put to me. i ordered the woman to be removed, as she was disorderly; and the fellow sprang at me. put away those handcuffs. i am perfectly able to take care of myself. richard. now you talk like a man, i have no quarrel with you. burgoyne. mr. anderson-- swindon. his name is dudgeon, sir, richard dudgeon. he is an impostor. burgoyne (brusquely). nonsense, sir; you hanged dudgeon at springtown. richard. it was my uncle, general. burgoyne. oh, your uncle. (to swindon, handsomely) i beg your pardon, major swindon. (swindon acknowledges the apology stiffly. burgoyne turns to richard) we are somewhat unfortunate in our relations with your family. well, mr. dudgeon, what i wanted to ask you is this: who is (reading the name from the letter) william maindeck parshotter? richard. he is the mayor of springtown. burgoyne. is william--maindeck and so on--a man of his word? richard. is he selling you anything? burgoyne. no. richard. then you may depend on him. burgoyne. thank you, mr.--'m dudgeon. by the way, since you are not mr. anderson, do we still--eh, major swindon? (meaning "do we still hang him?") richard. the arrangements are unaltered, general. burgoyne. ah, indeed. i am sorry. good morning, mr. dudgeon. good morning, madam. richard (interrupting judith almost fiercely as she is about to make some wild appeal, and taking her arm resolutely). not one word more. come. she looks imploringly at him, but is overborne by his determination. they are marched out by the four soldiers: the sergeant, very sulky, walking between swindon and richard, whom he watches as if he were a dangerous animal. burgoyne. gentlemen: we need not detain you. major swindon: a word with you. (the officers go out. burgoyne waits with unruffled serenity until the last of them disappears. then he becomes very grave, and addresses swindon for the first time without his title.) swindon: do you know what this is (showing him the letter)? swindon. what? burgoyne. a demand for a safe-conduct for an officer of their militia to come here and arrange terms with us. swindon. oh, they are giving in. burgoyne. they add that they are sending the man who raised springtown last night and drove us out; so that we may know that we are dealing with an officer of importance. swindon. pooh! burgoyne. he will be fully empowered to arrange the terms of--guess what. swindon. their surrender, i hope. burgoyne. no: our evacuation of the town. they offer us just six hours to clear out. swindon. what monstrous impudence! burgoyne. what shall we do, eh? swindon. march on springtown and strike a decisive blow at once. burgoyne (quietly). hm! (turning to the door) come to the adjutant's office. swindon. what for? burgoyne. to write out that safe-conduct. (he puts his hand to the door knob to open it.) swindon (who has not budged). general burgoyne. burgoyne (returning). sir? swindon. it is my duty to tell you, sir, that i do not consider the threats of a mob of rebellious tradesmen a sufficient reason for our giving way. burgoyne (imperturbable). suppose i resign my command to you, what will you do? swindon. i will undertake to do what we have marched south from boston to do, and what general howe has marched north from new york to do: effect a junction at albany and wipe out the rebel army with our united forces. burgoyne (enigmatically). and will you wipe out our enemies in london, too? swindon. in london! what enemies? burgoyne (forcibly). jobbery and snobbery, incompetence and red tape. (he holds up the dispatch and adds, with despair in his face and voice) i have just learnt, sir, that general howe is still in new york. swindon (thunderstruck). good god! he has disobeyed orders! burgoyne (with sardonic calm). he has received no orders, sir. some gentleman in london forgot to dispatch them: he was leaving town for his holiday, i believe. to avoid upsetting his arrangements, england will lose her american colonies; and in a few days you and i will be at saratoga with , men to face , rebels in an impregnable position. swindon (appalled). impossible! burgoyne (coldly). i beg your pardon! swindon. i can't believe it! what will history say? burgoyne. history, sir, will tell lies, as usual. come: we must send the safe-conduct. (he goes out.) swindon (following distractedly). my god, my god! we shall be wiped out. as noon approaches there is excitement in the market place. the gallows which hangs there permanently for the terror of evildoers, with such minor advertizers and examples of crime as the pillory, the whipping post, and the stocks, has a new rope attached, with the noose hitched up to one of the uprights, out of reach of the boys. its ladder, too, has been brought out and placed in position by the town beadle, who stands by to guard it from unauthorized climbing. the websterbridge townsfolk are present in force, and in high spirits; for the news has spread that it is the devil's disciple and not the minister that the continentals (so they call burgoyne's forces) are about to hang: consequently the execution can be enjoyed without any misgiving as to its righteousness, or to the cowardice of allowing it to take place without a struggle. there is even some fear of a disappointment as midday approaches and the arrival of the beadle with the ladder remains the only sign of preparation. but at last reassuring shouts of here they come: here they are, are heard; and a company of soldiers with fixed bayonets, half british infantry, half hessians, tramp quickly into the middle of the market place, driving the crowd to the sides. sergeant. halt. front. dress. (the soldiers change their column into a square enclosing the gallows, their petty officers, energetically led by the sergeant, hustling the persons who find themselves inside the square out at the corners.) now then! out of it with you: out of it. some o' you'll get strung up yourselves presently. form that square there, will you, you damned hoosians. no use talkin' german to them: talk to their toes with the butt ends of your muskets: they'll understand that. get out of it, will you? (he comes upon judith, standing near the gallows.) now then: you've no call here. judith. may i not stay? what harm am i doing? sergeant. i want none of your argufying. you ought to be ashamed of yourself, running to see a man hanged that's not your husband. and he's no better than yourself. i told my major he was a gentleman; and then he goes and tries to strangle him, and calls his blessed majesty a lunatic. so out of it with you, double quick. judith. will you take these two silver dollars and let me stay? the sergeant, without an instant's hesitation, looks quickly and furtively round as he shoots the money dexterously into his pocket. then he raises his voice in virtuous indignation. sergeant. me take money in the execution of my duty! certainly not. now i'll tell you what i'll do, to teach you to corrupt the king's officer. i'll put you under arrest until the execution's over. you just stand there; and don't let me see you as much as move from that spot until you're let. (with a swift wink at her he points to the corner of the square behind the gallows on his right, and turns noisily away, shouting) now then dress up and keep 'em back, will you? cries of hush and silence are heard among the townsfolk; and the sound of a military band, playing the dead march from saul, is heard. the crowd becomes quiet at once; and the sergeant and petty officers, hurrying to the back of the square, with a few whispered orders and some stealthy hustling cause it to open and admit the funeral procession, which is protected from the crowd by a double file of soldiers. first come burgoyne and swindon, who, on entering the square, glance with distaste at the gallows, and avoid passing under it by wheeling a little to the right and stationing themselves on that side. then mr. brudenell, the chaplain, in his surplice, with his prayer book open in his hand, walking beside richard, who is moody and disorderly. he walks doggedly through the gallows framework, and posts himself a little in front of it. behind him comes the executioner, a stalwart soldier in his shirtsleeves. following him, two soldiers haul a light military waggon. finally comes the band, which posts itself at the back of the square, and finishes the dead march. judith, watching richard painfully, steals down to the gallows, and stands leaning against its right post. during the conversation which follows, the two soldiers place the cart under the gallows, and stand by the shafts, which point backwards. the executioner takes a set of steps from the cart and places it ready for the prisoner to mount. then he climbs the tall ladder which stands against the gallows, and cuts the string by which the rope is hitched up; so that the noose drops dangling over the cart, into which he steps as he descends. richard (with suppressed impatience, to brudenell). look here, sir: this is no place for a man of your profession. hadn't you better go away? swindon. i appeal to you, prisoner, if you have any sense of decency left, to listen to the ministrations of the chaplain, and pay due heed to the solemnity of the occasion. the chaplain (gently reproving richard). try to control yourself, and submit to the divine will. (he lifts his book to proceed with the service.) richard. answer for your own will, sir, and those of your accomplices here (indicating burgoyne and swindon): i see little divinity about them or you. you talk to me of christianity when you are in the act of hanging your enemies. was there ever such blasphemous nonsense! (to swindon, more rudely) you've got up the solemnity of the occasion, as you call it, to impress the people with your own dignity--handel's music and a clergyman to make murder look like piety! do you suppose i am going to help you? you've asked me to choose the rope because you don't know your own trade well enough to shoot me properly. well, hang away and have done with it. swindon (to the chaplain). can you do nothing with him, mr. brudenell? chaplain. i will try, sir. (beginning to read) man that is born of woman hath-- richard (fixing his eyes on him). "thou shalt not kill." the book drops in brudenell's hands. chaplain (confessing his embarrassment). what am i to say, mr. dudgeon? richard. let me alone, man, can't you? burgoyne (with extreme urbanity). i think, mr. brudenell, that as the usual professional observations seem to strike mr. dudgeon as incongruous under the circumstances, you had better omit them until--er--until mr. dudgeon can no longer be inconvenienced by them. (brudenell, with a shrug, shuts his book and retires behind the gallows.) you seem in a hurry, mr. dudgeon. richard (with the horror of death upon him). do you think this is a pleasant sort of thing to be kept waiting for? you've made up your mind to commit murder: well, do it and have done with it. burgoyne. mr. dudgeon: we are only doing this-- richard. because you're paid to do it. swindon. you insolent-- (he swallows his rage.) burgoyne (with much charm of manner). ah, i am really sorry that you should think that, mr. dudgeon. if you knew what my commission cost me, and what my pay is, you would think better of me. i should be glad to part from you on friendly terms. richard. hark ye, general burgoyne. if you think that i like being hanged, you're mistaken. i don't like it; and i don't mean to pretend that i do. and if you think i'm obliged to you for hanging me in a gentlemanly way, you're wrong there too. i take the whole business in devilish bad part; and the only satisfaction i have in it is that you'll feel a good deal meaner than i'll look when it's over. (he turns away, and is striding to the cart when judith advances and interposes with her arms stretched out to him. richard, feeling that a very little will upset his self-possession, shrinks from her, crying) what are you doing here? this is no place for you. (she makes a gesture as if to touch him. he recoils impatiently.) no: go away, go away; you'll unnerve me. take her away, will you? judith. won't you bid me good-bye? richard (allowing her to take his hand). oh good-bye, good-bye. now go--go--quickly. (she clings to his hand--will not be put off with so cold a last farewell--at last, as he tries to disengage himself, throws herself on his breast in agony.) swindon (angrily to the sergeant, who, alarmed at judith's movement, has come from the back of the square to pull her back, and stopped irresolutely on finding that he is too late). how is this? why is she inside the lines? sergeant (guiltily). i dunno, sir. she's that artful can't keep her away. burgoyne. you were bribed. sergeant (protesting). no, sir-- swindon (severely). fall back. (he obeys.) richard (imploringly to those around him, and finally to burgoyne, as the least stolid of them). take her away. do you think i want a woman near me now? burgoyne (going to judith and taking her hand). here, madam: you had better keep inside the lines; but stand here behind us; and don't look. richard, with a great sobbing sigh of relief as she releases him and turns to burgoyne, flies for refuge to the cart and mounts into it. the executioner takes off his coat and pinions him. judith (resisting burgoyne quietly and drawing her hand away). no: i must stay. i won't look. (she goes to the right of the gallows. she tries to look at richard, but turns away with a frightful shudder, and falls on her knees in prayer. brudenell comes towards her from the back of the square.) burgoyne (nodding approvingly as she kneels). ah, quite so. do not disturb her, mr. brudenell: that will do very nicely. (brudenell nods also, and withdraws a little, watching her sympathetically. burgoyne resumes his former position, and takes out a handsome gold chronometer.) now then, are those preparations made? we must not detain mr. dudgeon. by this time richard's hands are bound behind him; and the noose is round his neck. the two soldiers take the shaft of the wagon, ready to pull it away. the executioner, standing in the cart behind richard, makes a sign to the sergeant. sergeant (to burgoyne). ready, sir. burgoyne. have you anything more to say, mr. dudgeon? it wants two minutes of twelve still. richard (in the strong voice of a man who has conquered the bitterness of death). your watch is two minutes slow by the town clock, which i can see from here, general. (the town clock strikes the first stroke of twelve. involuntarily the people flinch at the sound, and a subdued groan breaks from them.) amen! my life for the world's future! anderson (shouting as he rushes into the market place). amen; and stop the execution. (he bursts through the line of soldiers opposite burgoyne, and rushes, panting, to the gallows.) i am anthony anderson, the man you want. the crowd, intensely excited, listens with all its ears. judith, half rising, stares at him; then lifts her hands like one whose dearest prayer has been granted. swindon. indeed. then you are just in time to take your place on the gallows. arrest him. at a sign from the sergeant, two soldiers come forward to seize anderson. anderson (thrusting a paper under swindon's nose). there's my safe-conduct, sir. swindon (taken aback). safe-conduct! are you--! anderson (emphatically). i am. (the two soldiers take him by the elbows.) tell these men to take their hands off me. swindon (to the men). let him go. sergeant. fall back. the two men return to their places. the townsfolk raise a cheer; and begin to exchange exultant looks, with a presentiment of triumph as they see their pastor speaking with their enemies in the gate. anderson (exhaling a deep breath of relief, and dabbing his perspiring brow with his handkerchief). thank god, i was in time! burgoyne (calm as ever, and still watch in hand). ample time, sir. plenty of time. i should never dream of hanging any gentleman by an american clock. (he puts up his watch.) anderson. yes: we are some minutes ahead of you already, general. now tell them to take the rope from the neck of that american citizen. burgoyne (to the executioner in the cart--very politely). kindly undo mr. dudgeon. the executioner takes the rope from richard's neck, unties his hands, and helps him on with his coat. judith (stealing timidly to anderson). tony. anderson (putting his arm round her shoulders and bantering her affectionately). well what do you think of your husband, now, eh?--eh??--eh??? judith. i am ashamed-- (she hides her face against his breast.) burgoyne (to swindon). you look disappointed, major swindon. swindon. you look defeated, general burgoyne. burgoyne. i am, sir; and i am humane enough to be glad of it. (richard jumps down from the cart, brudenell offering his hand to help him, and runs to anderson, whose left hand he shakes heartily, the right being occupied by judith.) by the way, mr. anderson, i do not quite understand. the safe-conduct was for a commander of the militia. i understand you are a-- (he looks as pointedly as his good manners permit at the riding boots, the pistols, and richard's coat, and adds) a clergyman. anderson (between judith and richard). sir: it is in the hour of trial that a man finds his true profession. this foolish young man (placing his hand on richard's shoulder) boasted himself the devil's disciple; but when the hour of trial came to him, he found that it was his destiny to suffer and be faithful to the death. i thought myself a decent minister of the gospel of peace; but when the hour of trial came to me, i found that it was my destiny to be a man of action and that my place was amid the thunder of the captains and the shouting. so i am starting life at fifty as captain anthony anderson of the springtown militia; and the devil's disciple here will start presently as the reverend richard dudgeon, and wag his paw in my old pulpit, and give good advice to this silly sentimental little wife of mine (putting his other hand on her shoulder. she steals a glance at richard to see how the prospect pleases him). your mother told me, richard, that i should never have chosen judith if i'd been born for the ministry. i am afraid she was right; so, by your leave, you may keep my coat and i'll keep yours. richard. minister--i should say captain. i have behaved like a fool. judith. like a hero. richard. much the same thing, perhaps. (with some bitterness towards himself) but no: if i had been any good, i should have done for you what you did for me, instead of making a vain sacrifice. anderson. not vain, my boy. it takes all sorts to make a world--saints as well as soldiers. (turning to burgoyne) and now, general, time presses; and america is in a hurry. have you realized that though you may occupy towns and win battles, you cannot conquer a nation? burgoyne. my good sir, without a conquest you cannot have an aristocracy. come and settle the matter at my quarters. anderson. at your service, sir. (to richard) see judith home for me, will you, my boy? (he hands her over to him.) now general. (he goes busily up the market place towards the town hall, leaving judith and richard together. burgoyne follows him a step or two; then checks himself and turns to richard.) burgoyne. oh, by the way, mr. dudgeon, i shall be glad to see you at lunch at half-past one. (he pauses a moment, and adds, with politely veiled slyness) bring mrs. anderson, if she will be so good. (to swindon, who is fuming) take it quietly, major swindon: your friend the british soldier can stand up to anything except the british war office. (he follows anderson.) sergeant (to swindon). what orders, sir? swindon (savagely). orders! what use are orders now? there's no army. back to quarters; and be d-- (he turns on his heel and goes.) sergeant (pugnacious and patriotic, repudiating the idea of defeat). 'tention. now then: cock up your chins, and show 'em you don't care a damn for 'em. slope arms! fours! wheel! quick march! the drum marks time with a tremendous bang; the band strikes up british grenadiers; and the sergeant, brudenell, and the english troops march off defiantly to their quarters. the townsfolk press in behind, and follow them up the market, jeering at them; and the town band, a very primitive affair, brings up the rear, playing yankee doodle. essie, who comes in with them, runs to richard. essie. oh, dick! richard (good-humoredly, but wilfully). now, now: come, come! i don't mind being hanged; but i will not be cried over. essie. no, i promise. i'll be good. (she tries to restrain her tears, but cannot.) i--i want to see where the soldiers are going to. (she goes a little way up the market, pretending to look after the crowd.) judith. promise me you will never tell him. richard. don't be afraid. they shake hands on it. essie (calling to them). they're coming back. they want you. jubilation in the market. the townsfolk surge back again in wild enthusiasm with their band, and hoist richard on their shoulders, cheering him. curtain. notes to the devil's disciple burgoyne general john burgoyne, who is presented in this play for the first time (as far as i am aware) on the english stage, is not a conventional stage soldier, but as faithful a portrait as it is in the nature of stage portraits to be. his objection to profane swearing is not borrowed from mr. gilbert's h. m. s. pinafore: it is taken from the code of instructions drawn up by himself for his officers when he introduced light horse into the english army. his opinion that english soldiers should be treated as thinking beings was no doubt as unwelcome to the military authorities of his time, when nothing was thought of ordering a soldier a thousand lashes, as it will be to those modern victims of the flagellation neurosis who are so anxious to revive that discredited sport. his military reports are very clever as criticisms, and are humane and enlightened within certain aristocratic limits, best illustrated perhaps by his declaration, which now sounds so curious, that he should blush to ask for promotion on any other ground than that of family influence. as a parliamentary candidate, burgoyne took our common expression "fighting an election" so very literally that he led his supporters to the poll at preston in with a loaded pistol in each hand, and won the seat, though he was fined , pounds, and denounced by junius, for the pistols. it is only within quite recent years that any general recognition has become possible for the feeling that led burgoyne, a professed enemy of oppression in india and elsewhere, to accept his american command when so many other officers threw up their commissions rather than serve in a civil war against the colonies. his biographer de fonblanque, writing in , evidently regarded his position as indefensible. nowadays, it is sufficient to say that burgoyne was an imperialist. he sympathized with the colonists; but when they proposed as a remedy the disruption of the empire, he regarded that as a step backward in civilization. as he put it to the house of commons, "while we remember that we are contending against brothers and fellow subjects, we must also remember that we are contending in this crisis for the fate of the british empire." eighty-four years after his defeat, his republican conquerors themselves engaged in a civil war for the integrity of their union. in the whigs who represented the anti-burgoyne tradition of american independence in english politics, abandoned gladstone and made common cause with their political opponents in defence of the union between england and ireland. only the other day england sent , men into the field south of the equator to fight out the question whether south africa should develop as a federation of british colonies or as an independent afrikander united states. in all these cases the unionists who were detached from their parties were called renegades, as burgoyne was. that, of course, is only one of the unfortunate consequences of the fact that mankind, being for the most part incapable of politics, accepts vituperation as an easy and congenial substitute. whether burgoyne or washington, lincoln or davis, gladstone or bright, mr. chamberlain or mr. leonard courtney was in the right will never be settled, because it will never be possible to prove that the government of the victor has been better for mankind than the government of the vanquished would have been. it is true that the victors have no doubt on the point; but to the dramatist, that certainty of theirs is only part of the human comedy. the american unionist is often a separatist as to ireland; the english unionist often sympathizes with the polish home ruler; and both english and american unionists are apt to be disruptionists as regards that imperial ancient of days, the empire of china. both are unionists concerning canada, but with a difference as to the precise application to it of the monroe doctrine. as for me, the dramatist, i smile, and lead the conversation back to burgoyne. burgoyne's surrender at saratoga made him that occasionally necessary part of our british system, a scapegoat. the explanation of his defeat given in the play is founded on a passage quoted by de fonblanque from fitzmaurice's life of lord shelburne, as follows: "lord george germain, having among other peculiarities a particular dislike to be put out of his way on any occasion, had arranged to call at his office on his way to the country to sign the dispatches; but as those addressed to howe had not been faircopied, and he was not disposed to be balked of his projected visit to kent, they were not signed then and were forgotten on his return home." these were the dispatches instructing sir william howe, who was in new york, to effect a junction at albany with burgoyne, who had marched from boston for that purpose. burgoyne got as far as saratoga, where, failing the expected reinforcement, he was hopelessly outnumbered, and his officers picked off, boer fashion, by the american farmer-sharpshooters. his own collar was pierced by a bullet. the publicity of his defeat, however, was more than compensated at home by the fact that lord george's trip to kent had not been interfered with, and that nobody knew about the oversight of the dispatch. the policy of the english government and court for the next two years was simply concealment of germain's neglect. burgoyne's demand for an inquiry was defeated in the house of commons by the court party; and when he at last obtained a committee, the king got rid of it by a prorogation. when burgoyne realized what had happened about the instructions to howe (the scene in which i have represented him as learning it before saratoga is not historical: the truth did not dawn on him until many months afterwards) the king actually took advantage of his being a prisoner of war in england on parole, and ordered him to return to america into captivity. burgoyne immediately resigned all his appointments; and this practically closed his military career, though he was afterwards made commander of the forces in ireland for the purpose of banishing him from parliament. the episode illustrates the curious perversion of the english sense of honor when the privileges and prestige of the aristocracy are at stake. mr. frank harris said, after the disastrous battle of modder river, that the english, having lost america a century ago because they preferred george iii, were quite prepared to lose south africa to-day because they preferred aristocratic commanders to successful ones. horace walpole, when the parliamentary recess came at a critical period of the war of independence, said that the lords could not be expected to lose their pheasant shooting for the sake of america. in the working class, which, like all classes, has its own official aristocracy, there is the same reluctance to discredit an institution or to "do a man out of his job." at bottom, of course, this apparently shameless sacrifice of great public interests to petty personal ones, is simply the preference of the ordinary man for the things he can feel and understand to the things that are beyond his capacity. it is stupidity, not dishonesty. burgoyne fell a victim to this stupidity in two ways. not only was he thrown over, in spite of his high character and distinguished services, to screen a court favorite who had actually been cashiered for cowardice and misconduct in the field fifteen years before; but his peculiar critical temperament and talent, artistic, satirical, rather histrionic, and his fastidious delicacy of sentiment, his fine spirit and humanity, were just the qualities to make him disliked by stupid people because of their dread of ironic criticism. long after his death, thackeray, who had an intense sense of human character, but was typically stupid in valuing and interpreting it, instinctively sneered at him and exulted in his defeat. that sneer represents the common english attitude towards the burgoyne type. every instance in which the critical genius is defeated, and the stupid genius (for both temperaments have their genius) "muddles through all right," is popular in england. but burgoyne's failure was not the work of his own temperament, but of the stupid temperament. what man could do under the circumstances he did, and did handsomely and loftily. he fell, and his ideal empire was dismembered, not through his own misconduct, but because sir george germain overestimated the importance of his kentish holiday, and underestimated the difficulty of conquering those remote and inferior creatures, the colonists. and king george and the rest of the nation agreed, on the whole, with germain. it is a significant point that in america, where burgoyne was an enemy and an invader, he was admired and praised. the climate there is no doubt more favorable to intellectual vivacity. i have described burgoyne's temperament as rather histrionic; and the reader will have observed that the burgoyne of the devil's disciple is a man who plays his part in life, and makes all its points, in the manner of a born high comedian. if he had been killed at saratoga, with all his comedies unwritten, and his plan for turning as you like it into a beggar's opera unconceived, i should still have painted the same picture of him on the strength of his reply to the articles of capitulation proposed to him by his american conqueror general gates. here they are: proposition. . general burgoyne's army being reduced by repeated defeats, by desertion, sickness, etc., their provisions exhausted, their military horses, tents and baggage taken or destroyed, their retreat cut off, and their camp invested, they can only be allowed to surrender as prisoners of war. answer. . lieut.-general burgoyne's army, however reduced, will never admit that their retreat is cut off while they have arms in their hands. proposition. . the officers and soldiers may keep the baggage belonging to them. the generals of the united states never permit individuals to be pillaged. answer. . noted. proposition. . the troops under his excellency general burgoyne will be conducted by the most convenient route to new england, marching by easy marches, and sufficiently provided for by the way. answer. . agreed. proposition. . the officers will be admitted on parole and will be treated with the liberality customary in such cases, so long as they, by proper behaviour, continue to deserve it; but those who are apprehended having broke their parole, as some british officers have done, must expect to be close confined. answer. . there being no officer in this army, under, or capable of being under, the description of breaking parole, this article needs no answer. proposition. . all public stores, artillery, arms, ammunition, carriages, horses, etc., etc., must be delivered to commissaries appointed to receive them. answer. . all public stores may be delivered, arms excepted. proposition. . these terms being agreed to and signed, the troops under his excellency's, general burgoyne's command, may be drawn up in their encampments, where they will be ordered to ground their arms, and may thereupon be marched to the river-side on their way to bennington. answer. . this article is inadmissible in any extremity. sooner than this army will consent to ground their arms in their encampments, they will rush on the enemy determined to take no quarter. and, later on, "if general gates does not mean to recede from the th article, the treaty ends at once: the army will to a man proceed to any act of desperation sooner than submit to that article." here you have the man at his burgoynest. need i add that he had his own way; and that when the actual ceremony of surrender came, he would have played poor general gates off the stage, had not that commander risen to the occasion by handing him back his sword. in connection with the reference to indians with scalping knives, who, with the troops hired from germany, made up about half burgoyne's force, i may mention that burgoyne offered two of them a reward to guide a miss mccrea, betrothed to one of the english officers, into the english lines. the two braves quarrelled about the reward; and the more sensitive of them, as a protest against the unfairness of the other, tomahawked the young lady. the usual retaliations were proposed under the popular titles of justice and so forth; but as the tribe of the slayer would certainly have followed suit by a massacre of whites on the canadian frontier, burgoyne was compelled to forgive the crime, to the intense disgust of indignant christendom. brudenell brudenell is also a real person. at least an artillery chaplain of that name distinguished himself at saratoga by reading the burial service over major fraser under fire, and by a quite readable adventure, chronicled by burgoyne, with lady harriet ackland. lady harriet's husband achieved the remarkable feat of killing himself, instead of his adversary, in a duel. he overbalanced himself in the heat of his swordsmanship, and fell with his head against a pebble. lady harriet then married the warrior chaplain, who, like anthony anderson in the play, seems to have mistaken his natural profession. the rest of the devil's disciple may have actually occurred, like most stories invented by dramatists; but i cannot produce any documents. major swindon's name is invented; but the man, of course, is real. there are dozens of him extant to this day. bound to rise or, up the ladder by horatio alger, jr. author of "paul, the peddler," "phil, the fiddler," "strive and succeed," "herrert carter's legacy," "jack's ward," "shifting for himself," etc. biography and bibliography horatio alger, jr., an author who lived among and for boys and himself remained a boy in heart and association till death, was born at revere, mass., january , . he was the son of a clergyman; was graduated at harvard college in , and at its divinity school in ; and was pastor of the unitarian church at brewster, mass., in - . in the latter year he settled in new york and began drawing public attention to the condition and needs of street boys. he mingled with them, gained their confidence, showed a personal concern in their affairs, and stimulated them to honest and useful living. with his first story he won the hearts of all red-blooded boys every-where, and of the seventy or more that followed over a million copies were sold during the author's lifetime. in his later life he was in appearance a short, stout, bald-headed man, with cordial manners and whimsical views of things that amused all who met him. he died at natick, mass., july , . mr. alger's stories are as popular now as when first published, because they treat of real live boys who were always up and about--just like the boys found everywhere to-day. they are pure in tone and inspiring in influence, and many reforms in the juvenile life of new york may be traced to them. among the best known are: strong and steady; strive and succeed; try and trust: bound to rise; risen from the ranks; herbert carter's legacy; brave and bold; jack's ward; shifting for himself; wait and hope; paul the peddler; phil the fiddler: slow and sure: julius the street boy; tom the bootblack; struggling upward; facing the world; the cash boy; making his way; tony the tramp; joe's luck; do and dare: only an irish boy; sink or swim; a cousin's conspiracy; andy gordon; bob burton; harry vane; hector's inheritance; mark manson's triumph; sam's chance; the telegraph boy; the young adventurer; the young outlaw; the young salesman, and luke walton.. chapter i "sit up to the table, children, breakfast's ready." the speaker was a woman of middle age, not good-looking in the ordinary acceptation of the term, but nevertheless she looked good. she was dressed with extreme plainness, in a cheap calico; but though cheap, the dress was neat. the children she addressed were six in number, varying in age from twelve to four. the oldest, harry, the hero of the present story, was a broad-shouldered, sturdy boy, with a frank, open face, resolute, though good-natured. "father isn't here," said fanny, the second child. "he'll be in directly. he went to the store, and he may stop as he comes back to milk." the table was set in the center of the room, covered with a coarse tablecloth. the breakfast provided was hardly of a kind to tempt an epicure. there was a loaf of bread cut into slices, and a dish of boiled potatoes. there was no butter and no meat, for the family were very poor. the children sat up to the table and began to eat. they were blessed with good appetites, and did not grumble, as the majority of my readers would have done, at the scanty fare. they had not been accustomed to anything better, and their appetites were not pampered by indulgence. they had scarcely commenced the meal when the father entered. like his wife, he was coarsely dressed. in personal appearance he resembled his oldest boy. his wife looking up as he entered perceived that he looked troubled. "what is the matter, hiram?" she asked. "you look as if something had happened." "nothing has happened yet," he answered; "but i am afraid we are going to lose the cow." "going to lose the cow!" repeated mrs. walton in dismay. "she is sick. i don't know what's the matter with her." "perhaps it is only a trifle. she may get over it during the day." "she may, but i'm afraid she won't. farmer henderson's cow was taken just that way last fall, and he couldn't save her." "what are you going to do?" "i have been to elihu perkins, and he's coming over to see what he can do for her. he can save her if anybody can." the children listened to this conversation, and, young as they were, the elder ones understood the calamity involved in the possible loss of the cow. they had but one, and that was relied upon to furnish milk for the family, and, besides a small amount of butter and cheese, not for home consumption, but for sale at the store in exchange for necessary groceries. the waltons were too poor to indulge in these luxuries. the father was a farmer on a small scale; that is, he cultivated ten acres of poor land, out of which he extorted a living for his family, or rather a partial living. besides this he worked for his neighbors by the day, sometimes as a farm laborer, sometimes at odd jobs of different kinds, for he was a sort of jack at all trades. but his income, all told, was miserably small, and required the utmost economy and good management on the part of his wife to make it equal to the necessity of a growing family of children. hiram walton was a man of good natural abilities, though of not much education, and after half an hour's conversation with him one would say, unhesitatingly, that he deserved a better fate than his hand-to-hand struggle with poverty. but he was one of those men who, for some unaccountable reason, never get on in the world. they can do a great many things creditably, but do not have the knack of conquering fortune. so hiram had always been a poor man, and probably always would be poor. he was discontented at times, and often felt the disadvantages of his lot, but he was lacking in energy and ambition, and perhaps this was the chief reason why he did not succeed better. after breakfast elihu perkins, the "cow doctor," came to the door. he was an old man with iron-gray hair, and always wore steel-bowed spectacles; at least for twenty years nobody in the town could remember ever having seen him without them. it was the general opinion that he wore them during the night. once when questioned on the subject, he laughingly said that he "couldn't see to go to sleep without his specs". "well, neighbor walton, so the cow's sick?" he said, opening the outer door without ceremony. "yes, elihu, she looks down in the mouth. i hope you can save her." "i kin tell better when i've seen the critter. when you've got through breakfast, we'll go out to the barn." "i've got through now," said mr. walton, whose anxiety for the cow had diminished his appetite. "may i go too, father?" asked harry, rising from the table. "yes, if you want to." the three went out to the small, weather-beaten building which served as a barn for the want of a better. it was small, but still large enough to contain all the crops which mr. walton could raise. probably he could have got more out of the land if he had had means to develop its resources; but it was naturally barren, and needed much more manure than he was able to spread over it. so the yield to an acre was correspondingly small, and likely, from year to year, to grow smaller rather than larger. they opened the small barn door, which led to the part occupied by the cow's stall. the cow was lying down, breathing with difficulty. elihu perkins looked at her sharply through his "specs." "what do you think of her, neighbor perkins?" asked the owner, anxiously. the cow doctor shifted a piece of tobacco from one cheek to the other, and looked wise. "i think the critter's nigh her end," he said, at last. "is she so bad as that?" "pears like it. she looks like farmer henderson's that died a while ago. i couldn't save her." "save my cow, if you can. i don't know what i should do without her." "i'll do my best, but you mustn't blame me if i can't bring her round. you see there's this about dumb critters that makes 'em harder to cure than human bein's. they can't tell their symptoms, nor how they feel; and that's why it's harder to be a cow doctor than a doctor for humans. you've got to go by the looks, and looks is deceivin'. if i could only ask the critter how she feels, and where she feels worst, i might have some guide to go by. not but i've had my luck. there's more'n one of 'em i've saved, if i do say it myself." "i know you can save her if anyone can, elihu," said mr. walton, who appreciated the danger of the cow, and was anxious to have the doctor begin. "yes, i guess i know about as much about them critters as anybody," said the garrulous old man, who had a proper appreciation of his dignity and attainments as a cow doctor. "i've had as good success as anyone i know on. if i can't cure her, you may call her a gone case. have you got any hot water in the house?" "i'll go in and see." "i'll go, father," said harry. "well, come right back. we have no time to lose." harry appreciated the need of haste as well as his father, and speedily reappeared with a pail of hot water. "that's right, harry," said his father. "now you'd better go into the house and do your chores, so as not to be late for school." harry would have liked to remain and watch the steps which were being taken for the recovery of the cow; but he knew he had barely time to do the "chores" referred to before school, and he was far from wishing to be late there. he had an ardent thirst for learning, and, young as he was, ranked first in the district school which he attended. i am not about to present my young hero as a marvel of learning, for he was not so. he had improved what opportunities he had enjoyed, but these were very limited. since he was nine years of age, his schooling had been for the most part limited to eleven weeks in the year. there was a summer as well as a winter school; but in the summer he only attended irregularly, being needed to work at home. his father could not afford to hire help, and there were many ways in which harry, though young, could help him. so it happened that harry, though a tolerably good scholar, was deficient in many respects, on account of the limited nature of his opportunities. he set to work at once at the chores. first he went to the woodpile and sawed and split a quantity of wood, enough to keep the kitchen stove supplied till he came home again from school in the afternoon. this duty was regularly required of him. his father never touched the saw or the ax, but placed upon harry the general charge of the fuel department. after sawing and splitting what he thought to be sufficient, he carried it into the house by armfuls, and piled it up near the kitchen stove. he next drew several buckets of water from the well, for it was washing day, brought up some vegetables from the cellar to boil for dinner, and then got ready for school. chapter ii. a calamity efforts for the recovery of the cow went on. elihu perkins exhausted all his science in her behalf. i do not propose to detail his treatment, because i am not sure whether it was the best, and possibly some of my readers might adopt it under similar circumstances, and then blame me for its unfortunate issue. it is enough to say that the cow grew rapidly worse in spite of the hot-water treatment, and about eleven o'clock breathed her last. the sad intelligence was announced by elihu, who first perceived it. "the critter's gone," he said. "'tain't no use doin' anything more." "the cow's dead!" repeated mr. walton, sorrowfully. he had known for an hour that this would be the probable termination of the disease. still while there was life there was hope. now both went out together. "yes, the critter's dead!" said elihu, philosophically, for he lost nothing by her. "it was so to be, and there wa'n't no help for it. that's what i thought from the fust, but i was willin' to try." "wasn't there anything that could have saved her?" elihu shook his head decidedly. "if she could a-been saved, i could 'ave done it," he said. "what i don't know about cow diseases ain't wuth knowin'." everyone is more or less conceited. elihu's conceit was as to his scientific knowledge on the subject of cows and horses and their diseases. he spoke so confidently that mr. walton did not venture to dispute him. "i s'pose you're right, elihu," he said; "but it's hard on me." "yes, neighbor, it's hard on you, that's a fact. what was she wuth?" "i wouldn't have taken forty dollars for her yesterday." "forty dollars is a good sum." "it is to me. i haven't got five dollars in the world outside of my farm." "i wish i could help you, neighbor walton, but i'm a poor man myself." "i know you are, elihu. somehow it doesn't seem fair that my only cow should be taken, when squire green has got ten, and they're all alive and well. if all his cows should die, he could buy as many more and not feel the loss." "squire green's a close man." "he's mean enough, if he is rich." "sometimes the richest are the meanest." "in his case it is true." "he could give you a cow just as well as not. if i was as rich as he, i'd do it." "i believe you would, elihu; but there's some difference between you and him." "maybe the squire would lend you money to buy a cow. he always keeps money to lend on high interest." mr. walton reflected a moment, then said slowly, "i must have a cow, and i don't know of any other way, but i hate to go to him." "he's the only man that's likely to have money to lend in town." "well, i'll go." "good luck to you, neighbor walton." "i need it enough," said hiram walton, soberly. "if it comes, it'll be the first time for a good many years." "well, i'll be goin', as i can't do no more good." hiram walton went into the house, and a look at his face told his wife the news he brought before his lips uttered it. "is she dead, hiram?" "yes, the cow's dead. forty dollars clean gone," he said, rather bitterly. "don't be discouraged, hiram. it's bad luck, but worse things might happen." "such as what?" "why, the house might burn down, or--or some of us might fall sick and die. it's better that it should be the cow." "you're right there; but though it's pleasant to have so many children round, we shan't like to see them starving." "they are not starving yet, and please god they won't yet awhile. some help will come to us." mrs. walton sometimes felt despondent herself, but when she saw her husband affected, like a good wife she assumed cheerfulness, in order to raise his spirits. so now, things looked a little more hopeful to him, after he had talked to his wife. he soon took his hat, and approached the door. "where are you going, hiram?" she asked. "going to see if squire green will lend me money; enough to buy another cow." "that's right, hiram. don't sit down discouraged, but see what you can do to repair the loss." "i wish there was anybody else to go to. squire green is a very mean man, and he will try to take advantage of any need." "it is better to have a poor resource than none at all." "well, i'll go and see what can be done." squire green was the rich man of the town. he had inherited from his father, just as he came of age, a farm of a hundred and fifty acres, and a few hundred dollars. the land was not good, and far from productive; but he had scrimped and saved and pinched and denied himself, spending almost nothing, till the little money which the farm annually yielded him had accumulated to a considerable sum. then, too, as there were no banks near at hand to accommodate borrowers, the squire used to lend money to his poorer neighbors. he took care not to exact more than six per cent. openly, but it was generally understood that the borrower must pay a bonus besides to secure a loan, which, added to the legal interest, gave him a very handsome consideration for the use of his spare funds. so his money rapidly increased, doubling every five or six years through his shrewd mode of management, and every year he grew more economical. his wife had died ten years before. she had worked hard for very poor pay, for the squire's table was proverbially meager, and her bills for dress, judging from her appearance, must have been uncommonly small. the squire had one son, now in the neighborhood of thirty, but he had not been at home for several years. as soon as he attained his majority he left the homestead, and set out to seek his fortune elsewhere. he vowed he wouldn't any longer submit to the penurious ways of the squire. so the old man was left alone, but he did not feel the solitude. he had his gold, and that was company enough. a time was coming when the two must part company, for when death should come he must leave the gold behind; but he did not like to think of that, putting away the idea as men will unpleasant subjects. this was the man to whom hiram walton applied for help in his misfortune. "is the squire at home?" he asked, at the back door. in that household the front door was never used. there was a parlor, but it had not been opened since mrs. green's funeral. "he's out to the barn," said hannah green, a niece of the old man, who acted as maid of all work. "i'll go out there." the barn was a few rods northeast of the house, and thither mr. walton directed his steps. entering, he found the old man engaged in some light work. "good morning, squire green." "good morning, mr. walton," returned the squire. he was a small man, with a thin figure, and a face deep seamed with wrinkles, more so than might have been expected in a man of his age, for he was only just turned of sixty; but hard work, poor and scanty food and sharp calculation, were responsible for them. "how are you gettin' on?" asked the squire. this was rather a favorite question of his, it being so much the custom for his neighbors to apply to him when in difficulties, so that their misfortune he had come to regard as his harvests.. "i've met with a loss," answered hiram walton. "you don't say so," returned the squire, with instant attention. "what's happened?" "my cow is dead." "when did she die?" "this morning." "what was the matter?" "i don't know. i didn't notice but that she was welt enough last night; but this morning when i went out to the barn, she was lying down breathing heavily." "what did you do?" "i called in elihu perkins, and we worked over her for three hours; but it wasn't of any use; she died half an hour ago." "i hope it isn't any disease that's catchin'," said the squire in alarm, thinking of his ten. "it would be a bad job if it should get among mine." "it's a bad job for me, squire. i hadn't but one cow, and she's gone." "just so, just so. i s'pose you'll buy another." "yes, i must have a cow. my children live on bread and milk mostly. then there's the butter and cheese, that i trade off at the store for groceries." "just so, just so. come into the house, neighbor walton." the squire guessed his visitor's business in advance, and wanted to take time to talk it over. he would first find out how great his neighbor's necessity was, and then he accommodated him, would charge him accordingly. chapter iii. hiram's motto there was a little room just off the kitchen, where the squire had an old-fashioned desk. here it was that he transacted his business, and in the desk he kept his papers. it was into this room that he introduced mr. walton. "set down, set down, neighbor walton," he said. "we'll talk this thing over. so you've got to have a cow?" "yes, i must have one." the squire fixed his eyes cunningly on his intended victim, and said, "goin' to buy one in town?" "i don't know of any that's for sale." "how much do you calc'late to pay?" "i suppose i'll have to pay thirty dollars." squire green shook his head. "more'n that, neighbor walton. you can't get a decent cow for thirty dollars. i hain't got one that isn't wuth more, though i've got ten in my barn." "thirty dollars is all i can afford to pay, squire." "take my advice, and get a good cow while you're about it. it don't pay to get a poor one." "i'm a poor man, squire. i must take what i can get." "i ain't sure but i've got a cow that will suit you, a red with white spots. she's a fust-rate milker." "how old is she?" "she's turned of five." "how much do you ask for her?" "are you going to pay cash down?" asked the squire, half shutting his eyes, and looking into the face of his visitor. "i can't do that. i'm very short of money." "so am i," chimed in the squire. he had two hundred dollars in his desk at that moment waiting for profitable investment; but then he didn't call it exactly a lie to misrepresent for a purpose. "so am i. money's tight, neighbor." "money's always tight with me, squire," returned hiram walton, with a sigh. "was you a-meanin' to pay anything down?" inquired the squire. "i don't see how i can." "that alters the case, you know. i might as well keep the cow, as to sell her without the money down." "i am willing to pay interest on the money." "of course that's fair. wall, neighbor, what do you say to goin' out to see the cow?" "is she in the barn?" "no, she's in the pastur'. 'tain't fur." "i'll go along with you." they made their way by a short cut across a cornfield to the pasture--a large ten-acre lot, covered with a scanty vegetation. the squire's cows could not be said to live in clover. "that's the critter," he said, pointing out one of the cows which was grazing near by. "ain't she a beauty?" "she looks pretty well," said mr. walton, dubiously, by no means sure that she would equal his lost cow. "she's one of the best i've got. i wouldn't sell ef it wasn't to oblige. i ain't at all partic'lar, but i suppose you've got to hev a cow." "what do you ask for her, squire?" "she's wuth all of forty dollars," answered the squire, who knew perfectly well that a fair price would be about thirty. but then his neighbor must have a cow, and had no money to pay, and so was at his mercy. "that seems high," said hiram. "she's wuth every cent of it; but i ain't nowise partic'lar about sellin' her." "couldn't you say thirty-seven?" "i couldn't take a dollar less. i'd rather keep her. maybe i'd take thirty-eight, cash down." hiram walton shook his head. "i have no cash," he said. "i must buy on credit." "wall, then, there's a bargain for you. i'll let you have her for forty dollars, giving you six months to pay it, at reg'lar interest, six per cent. of course i expect a little bonus for the accommodation." "i hope you'll be easy with me--i'm a poor man, squire." "of course, neighbor; i'm always easy." "that isn't your reputation," thought hiram; but he knew that this was a thought to which he must not give expression. "all i want is a fair price for my time and trouble. we'll say three dollars extra for the accommodation--three dollars down." hiram walton felt that it was a hard bargain the squire was driving with him, but there seemed no help for it. he must submit to the imposition, or do without a cow. there was no one else to whom he could look for help on any terms. as to the three dollars, his whole available cash amounted to but four dollars, and it was for three quarters of this sum that the squire called. but the sacrifice must be made. "well, squire green, if that is your lowest price, i suppose i must come to it," he answered, at last. "you can't do no better," said the squire, with alacrity. "if so be as you've made up your mind, we'll make out the papers." "very well." "come back to the house. when do you want to take the cow?" "i'll drive her along now, if you are willing." "why, you see," said the squire, hesitating, while a mean thought entered his, mind, "she's been feedin' in my pastur' all the mornin', and i calc'late i'm entitled to the next milkin', you'd better come 'round to-night, just after milkin', and then you can take her." "i didn't think he was quite so mean," passed through hiram walton's mind, and his lip curved slightly in scorn, but he knew that this feeling must be concealed. "just as you say," he answered. "i'll come round tonight, or send harry." "how old is harry now?" "about fourteen." "he's got to be quite a sizable lad--ought to earn concid'able. is he industrious?" "yes, harry is a good worker--always ready to lend a hand." "that's good. does he go to school?" "yes, he's been going to school all the term." "seems to me he's old enough to give up larnin' altogether. don't he know how to read and write and cipher?" "yes, he's about the best scholar in school." "then, neighbor walton, take my advice and don't send him any more. you need him at home, and he knows enough to get along in the world." "i want him to learn as much as he can. i'd like to send him to school till he is sixteen." "he's had as much schoolin' now as ever i had," said the squire, "and i've got along pooty well. i've been seleckman, and school committy, and filled about every town office, and i never wanted no more schoolin'. my father took me away from school when i was thirteen." "it wouldn't hurt you if you knew a little more," thought hiram, who remembered very well the squire's deficiencies when serving on the town school committee. "i believe in learning," he said. "my father used to say, 'live and learn.' that's a good motto, to my thinking." "it may be carried too far. when a boy's got to be of the age of your boy, he'd ought to be thinking of workin.' his time is too valuable to spend in the schoolroom." "i can't agree with you, squire. i think no time is better spent than the time that's spent in learning. i wish i could afford to send my boy to college." "it would cost a mint of money; and wouldn't pay. better put him to some good business." that was the way he treated his own son, and for this and other reasons, as soon as he arrived at man's estate, he left home, which had never had any pleasant associations with him. his father wanted to convert him into a money-making machine--a mere drudge, working him hard, and denying him, as long as he could, even the common recreations of boyhood--for the squire had an idea that the time devoted in play was foolishly spent, inasmuch as it brought him in no pecuniary return. he was willfully blind to the faults and defects of his system, and their utter failure in the case of his own son, and would, if could, have all the boys in town brought up after severely practical method. but, fortunately for harry, mr. walton had very different notions. he was compelled to keep his son home the greater part of the summer, but it was against his desire. "no wonder he's a poor man," thought the squire, after his visitor returned home. "he ain't got no practical idees. live and learn! that's all nonsense. his boy looks strong and able to work, and it's foolish sendin' him school any longer. that wa'n't my way, and see where i am," he concluded, with complacent remembrance of bonds and mortgages and money out at interest. "that was a pooty good cow trade," he concluded. "i didn't calc' late for to get more'n thirty-five dollars for the critter; but then neighbor walton had to have a cow, and had to pay my price." now for hiram walton's reflections. "i'm a poor man," he said to himself, as he walked slowly homeward, "but i wouldn't be as mean as tom green for all the money he's worth. he's made a hard bargain with me, but there was no help for it." chapter iv. a sum in arithmetic harry kept on his way to school, and arrived just the bell rang. many of my readers have seen a country schoolhouse, and will not be surprised to learn that the one in which our hero obtained his education was far from stately or ornamental, architecturally speaking. it was a one-story structure, about thirty feet square, showing traces of having been painted once, but standing greatly in need of another coat. within were sixty desks, ranged in pairs, with aisles running between them. on one side sat the girls, on the other the boys. these were of all ages from five to sixteen. the boys' desks had suffered bad usage, having been whittled and hacked, and marked with the initials of the temporary occupants, with scarcely an exception. i never knew a yankee boy who was not the possessor of a knife of some kind, nor one who could resist the temptation of using it for such unlawful purposes. even our hero shared the common weakness, and his desk was distinguished from the rest by "h. w." rudely carved in a conspicuous place. the teacher of the school for the present session was nathan burbank, a country teacher of good repute, who usually taught six months in a year, and devoted the balance of the year to surveying land, whenever he could get employment in that line, and the cultivation of half a dozen acres of land, which kept him in vegetables, and enabled him to keep a cow. altogether he succeeded in making a fair living, though his entire income would seem very small to many of my readers. he was not deeply learned, but his education was sufficient to meet the limited requirements of a country school. this was the summer term, and it is the usual custom in new england that the summer schools should be taught by females. but in this particular school the experiment had been tried, and didn't work. it was found that the scholars were too unruly to be kept in subjection by a woman, and the school committee had therefore engaged mr. burbank, though, by so doing, the school term was shortened, as he asked fifty per cent. higher wages than a female teacher would have done. however, it was better to have a short school than an unruly school, and so the district acquiesced. eight weeks had not yet passed since the term commenced, and yet this was the last day but one. to-morrow would be examination day. to this mr. burbank made reference in a few remarks which he made at the commencement of the exercises. he was rather a tall, spare man, and had a habit of brushing his hair upward, thus making the most of a moderate forehead. probably he thought it made him look more intellectual. "boys and girls," he said, "to-morrow is our examination day. i've tried to bring you along as far as possible toward the temple of learning, but some of you have held back, and have not done as well as i should like--john plympton, if you don't stop whispering i'll keep you after school--i want you all to remember that knowledge is better than land or gold. what would you think of a man who was worth a great fortune, and couldn't spell his name?--mary jones, can't you sit still till i get through?--it will be well for you to improve your opportunities while you are young, for by and by you will grow up, and have families to support, and will have no chance to learn--jane quimby, i wish you would stop giggling, i see nothing to laugh at--there are some of you who have studied well this term, and done the best you could. at the beginning of the term i determined to give a book to the most deserving scholar at the end of the term. i have picked out the boy, who, in my opinion, deserves it--ephraim higgins, you needn't move round in your seat. you are not the one." there was a general laugh here, for ephraim was distinguished chiefly for his laziness. the teacher proceeded: "i do not mean to tell you to-day who it is. to-morrow i shall call out his name before the school committee, and present him the prize. i want you to do as well as you can to-morrow. i want you to do yourselves credit, and to do me credit, for i do not want to be ashamed of you. peter shelby, put back that knife into your pocket, and keep it there till i call up the class in whittling." there was another laugh here at the teacher's joke, and peter himself displayed a broad grin on his large, good-humored face. "we will now proceed to the regular lessons," said mr. burbank, in conclusion. "first class in arithmetic will take their places." the first class ranked as the highest class, and in it was harry walton. "what was your lesson to-day?" asked the teacher. "square root," answered harry. "i will give you out a very simple sum to begin with. now, attention all! find the square root of . whoever gets the answer first may hold up his hand." the first to hold up his hand was ephraim higgins. "have you got the answer?" asked mr. burbank in some surprise. "yes, sir." "state it." "forty-five." "how did you get it?" ephraim scratched his head, and looked confused. the fact was, he was entirely ignorant of the method of extracting the square root, but had slyly looked at the slate of his neighbor, harry walton, and mistaken the for , and hurriedly announced the answer, in the hope of obtaining credit for the same. "how did you get it?" asked the teacher again. ephraim looked foolish. "bring me your slate." ephraim reluctantly left his place, and went up to mr. burbank. "what have we here?" said the teacher. "why, you have got down the , and nothing else, except . where did you get that answer?" "i guessed at it," answered ephraim, hard pressed for an answer, and not liking to confess the truth--namely, that he had copied from harry walton. "so i supposed. the next time you'd better guess a little nearer right, or else give up guessing altogether. harry walton, i see your hand up. what is your answer?" "twenty-five, sir." "that is right." ephraim looked up suddenly. he now saw the explanation of his mistake. "will you explain how you did it? you may go to the blackboard, and perform the operation once more, explaining as you go along, for the benefit of ephraim higgins, and any others who guessed at the answer. ephraim, i want you to give particular attention, so that you can do yourself more credit next time. now harry, proceed." our hero explained the sum in a plain, straightforward way, for he thoroughly understood it. "very well," said the schoolmaster, for this, rather than teacher, is the country name of the office. "now, ephraim, do you think you can explain it?" "i don't know, sir," said ephraim, dubiously. "suppose you try. you may take the same sum." ephraim advanced to the board with reluctance, for he was not ambitious, and had strong doubts about his competence for the task. "put down ." ephraim did so. "now extract the square root. what do you do first?" "divide it into two figures each." "divide it into periods of two figures each, i suppose you mean. well, what will be the first period?" "sixty-two," answered ephraim. "and what will be the second?" "i don't see but one other figure." "nor i. you have made a mistake. harry, show to point it off." harry walton did so. "now what do you do next?" "divide the first figure by three." "what do you do that for?" ephraim didn't know. it was only a guess of his, because he knew that the first figure of the answer was two, and this would result from dividing the first figure by three. "to bring the answer," he replied. "and i suppose you divide the next period by five, for the same reason, don't you?" "yes, sir." "you may take your seat, sir. you are an ornament to the class, and you may become a great mathematician, if you live to the age of methuselah. i rather think it will take about nine hundred years for you to reach that, point." the boys laughed. they always relish a joke at the expense of a companion, especially when perpetrated by the teacher. "your method of extracting the square root is very original. you didn't find it in any arithmetic, did you?" "no, sir." "so i thought. you'd better take out a patent for it. the next boy may go to the board." i have given a specimen of mr. burbank's method of conducting the school, but do not propose to enter into further details at present. it will doubtless recall to some of my readers experiences of their own, as the school i am describing is very similar to hundreds of country schools now in existence, and mr. burbank is the representative of a large class. chapter v. the prize winner "are you going to the examination to-day, mother?" asked harry, at breakfast. "i should like to go," said mrs. walton, "but i don't see how i can. to-day's my bakin' day, and somehow my work has got behindhand during the week." "i think harry'll get the prize," said tom, a boy of ten, not heretofore mentioned. he also attended the school, but was not as promising as his oldest brother. "what prize?" asked mrs. walton, looking up with interest. "the master offered a prize, at the beginning of the term, to the scholar that was most faithful to his studies." "what is the prize?" "a book." "do you think you will get it, harry?" asked his mother. "i don't know," said harry, modestly. "i think i have some chance of getting it." "when will it be given?" "toward the close of the afternoon." "maybe i can get time to come in then; i'll try." "i wish you would come, mother," said harry earnestly. "only don't be disappointed if i don't get it. i've been trying, but there are some other good scholars." "you're the best, harry," said tom. "i don't know about that. i shan't count my chickens before they are hatched. only if i am to get the prize i should like to have mother there." "i know you're a good scholar, and have improved your time," said mrs. walton. "i wish your father was rich enough to send you to college." "i should like that very much," said harry, his eyes sparkling at merely the suggestion. "but it isn't much use hoping," continued his mother, with a sigh. "it doesn't seem clear whether we can get a decent living, much less send our boy to college. the cow is a great loss to us." just then mr. walton came in from the barn. "how do you like the new cow, father?" asked harry. "she isn't equal to our old one. she doesn't give as much milk within two quarts, if this morning's milking is a fair sample." "you paid enough for her," said mrs. walton. "i paid too much for her," answered her husband, "but it was the best i could do. i had to buy on credit, and squire green knew i must pay his price, or go without." "forty-three dollars is a great deal of money to pay for a cow." "not for some cows. some are worth more; but this one isn't." "what do you think she is really worth?" "thirty-three dollars is the most i would give if i had the cash to pay." "i think it's mean in squire green to take such advantage of you," said harry. "you mustn't say so, harry, for it won't do for me to get the squire's ill will. i am owing him money. i've agreed to pay for the cow in six months." "can you do it?" "i don't see how; but the money's on interest, and it maybe the squire'll let it stay. i forgot to say, though, that last evening when i went to get the cow he made me agree to forfeit ten dollars if i was not ready with the money and interest in six months. i am afraid he will insist on that if i can't keep my agreement." "it will be better for you to pay, and have done with it." "of course. i shall try to do it, if i have to borrow the money. i suppose i shall have to do that." meantime harry was busy thinking. "wouldn't it be possible for me to earn money enough to pay for the cow in six months? i wish i could do it, and relieve father." he began to think over all the possible ways of earning money, but there was nothing in particular to do in the town except to work for the farmers, and there was very little money to earn ill that way. money is a scarce commodity with farmers everywhere. most of their income is in the shape of farm produce, and used in the family. only a small surplus is converted into money, and a dollar, therefore, seems more to them than to a mechanic, whose substantial income is perhaps less. this is the reason, probably, why farmers are generally loath to spend money. harry knew that if he should hire out to a farmer for the six months the utmost he could expect would be a dollar a week, and it was not certain he could earn that. besides, he would probably be worth as much to his father as anyone, and his labor in neither case provide money to pay for the cow. obviously that would not answer. he must think of some other way, but at present none seemed open. he sensibly deferred thinking till after the examination. "are you going to the school examination, father?" asked our hero. "i can't spare time, harry. i should like to, for i want to know how far you have progressed. 'live and learn,' my boy. that's a good motto, though squire green thinks that 'live and earn' is a better." "that's the rule he acts on," said mrs. walton. "he isn't troubled with learning." "no, he isn't as good a scholar probably as tom, here." "isn't he?" said tom, rather complacently. "don't feel too much flattered, tom," said his mother. "you don't know enough to hurt you." "he never will," said his sister, jane, laughing. "i don't want to know enough to hurt me," returned tom, good humoredly. he was rather used to such compliments, and didn't mind them. "no," said mr. walton; "i am afraid i can't spare time to come to the examination. are you going, mother?" it is quite common in the country for husbands to address wives in this manner. "i shall try to go in the last of the afternoon," said mrs. walton. "if you will come, mother," said harry, "we'll all help you afterwards, so you won't lose anything by it." "i think i will contrive to come." the examination took place in the afternoon. mr. burbank preferred to have it so, for two reasons. it allowed time to submit the pupils to a previous private examination in the morning, thus insuring a better appearance in the afternoon. besides, in the second place, the parents were more likely to be at liberty to attend in the afternoon, and he naturally liked to have as many visitors as possible. he was really a good teacher, though his qualifications were limited; but as far as his knowledge went, he was quite successful in imparting it to others. in the afternoon there was quite a fair attendance of parents and friends of the scholars, though some did not come in till late, like mrs. walton. it is not my intention to speak of the examination in detail. my readers know too little of the scholars to make that interesting. ephraim higgins made some amusing mistakes, but that didn't excite any surprise, for his scholarship was correctly estimated in the village. tom walton did passably well, but was not likely to make his parents proud of his performances. harry, however, eclipsed himself. his ambition had been stirred by the offer of a prize, and he was resolved to deserve it. his recitations were prompt and correct, and his answers were given with confidence. but perhaps he did himself most credit in declamation. he had always been very fond of that, and though he had never received and scientific instruction in it, he possessed a natural grace and a deep feeling of earnestness which made success easy. he had selected an extract from webster--the reply to the hayne--and this was the showpiece of the afternoon. the rest of the declamation was crude enough, but harry's impressed even the most ignorant of his listeners as superior for a boy of his age. when he uttered his last sentence, and made a parting bow, there was subdued applause, and brought a flush of gratification to the cheek of our young hero. "this is the last exercise," said the teacher "except one. at the commencement of the term, i offered a prize to the scholar that would do the best from that time till the close of the school. i will now award the prize. harry walton, come forward." harry rose from his seat, his cheeks flushed again with gratification, and advanced to where the teacher was standing. "harry," said mr. burbank, "i have no hesitation in giving you the prize. you have excelled all the other scholars, and it is fairly yours. the book is not of much value, but i think you will find it interesting and instructive. it is the life of the great american philosopher and statesman, benjamin franklin. i hope you will read and profit by it, and try like him to make your life a credit to yourself and a blessing to mankind." "thank you, sir," said harry, bowing low. "i will try to do so." there was a speech by the chairman of the school committee, in which allusion was made to harry and the prize, and the exercises were over. harry received the congratulations of his schoolmates and others with modest satisfaction, but he was most pleased by the evident pride and pleasure which his mother exhibited, when she, too, was congratulated on his success. his worldly prospects were very uncertain, but he had achieved the success for which he had been laboring, and he was happy. chapter vi. looking out on the world it was not until evening that harry had a chance to look at his prize. it was a cheap book, costing probably not over a dollar; but except his schoolbooks, and a ragged copy of "robinson crusoe," it was the only book that our hero possessed. his father found it difficult enough to buy him the necessary books for use in school, and could not afford to buy any less necessary. so our young hero, who was found of reading, though seldom able to gratify his taste, looked forward with great joy to the pleasure of reading his new book. he did not know much about benjamin franklin, but had a vague idea that he was a great man. after his evening "chores" were done, he sat down by the table on which was burning a solitary tallow candle, and began to read. his mother was darning stockings, and his father had gone to the village store on an errand. so he began the story, and the more he read the more interesting he found it. great as he afterwards became, he was surprised to find that franklin was a poor boy, and had to work for a living. he started out in life on his own account, and through industry, frugality, perseverance, and a fixed determination to rise in life, he became a distinguished an in the end, and a wise man also, though his early opportunities were very limited. it seemed to harry that there was a great similarity between his own circumstances and position in life and those of the great man about whom he was reading, and this made the biography the more fascinating. the hope came to him that, by following franklin's example, he, too, might become a successful man. his mother, looking up at intervals from the stockings which had been so repeatedly darned that the original texture was almost wholly lost of sight of, noticed how absorbed he was. "is your book interesting, harry?" she asked. "it's the most interesting book i ever read," said harry, with a sigh of intense enjoyment. "it's about benjamin franklin, isn't it?" "yes. do you know, mother, he was a poor boy, and he worked his way up?" "yes, i have heard so, but i never read his life." "you'd better read this when i have finished it. i've been thinking that there's a chance for me, mother." "a chance to do what?" "a chance to be somebody when i get bigger. i'm poor now, but so was franklin. he worked hard, and tried to learn all he could. that's the way he succeeded. i'm going to do the same." "we can't all be franklins, my son," said mrs. walton, not wishing her son to form high hopes which might be disappointed in the end. "i know that, mother, and i don't expect to be a great man like him. but if i try hard i think i can rise in the world, and be worth a little money." "i hope you wont' be as poor as your father, harry," said mrs. walton, sighing, as she thought of the years of pain privation and pinching poverty reaching back to the time of their marriage. they had got through it somehow, but she hoped that their children would have a brighter lot. "i hope not," said harry. "if i ever get rich, you shan't have to work any more." mrs. walton smiled faintly. she was not hopeful, and thought it probable that before harry became rich, both she and her husband would be resting from their labor in the village churchyard. but she would not dampen harry's youthful enthusiasm by the utterance of such a thought. "i am sure you won't let your father and mother want, if you have the means to prevent it," she said aloud. "we can't any of us tell what's coming, but i hope you may be well off some time." "i read in the country paper the other day that many of the richest men in boston and new york were once poor boys," said harry, in a hopeful tone. "so i have heard," said his mother. "if they succeeded i don't see why i can't." "you must try to be something more than a rich man. i shouldn't want you to be like squire green." "he is rich, but he is mean and ignorant. i don't think i shall be like him. he has cheated father about the cow." "yes, he drove a sharp trade with him, taking advantage of his necessities. i am afraid your father won't be able to pay for the cow six months from now." "i am afraid so, too." "i don't see how we can possibly save up forty dollars. we are economical now as we can be." "that is what i have been thinking of, mother. there is no chance of father's paying the money." "then it won't be paid, and we shall be worse off when the note comes due, than now." "do you think," said harry, laying down the book on the table, and looking up earnestly, "do you think, mother, i could any way earn the forty dollars before it is to be paid?" "you, harry?" repeated his mother, in surprise, "what could you do to earn the money?" "i don't know, yet," answered harry; "but there are a great many things to be done." "i don't know what you can do, except to hire out to a farmer, and they pay very little. besides, i don't know of any farmer in the town that wants a boy. most of them have boys of their own, or men." "i wasn't thinking of that," said harry. "there isn't much chance there." "i don't know of any work to do here." "nor i, mother. but i wasn't thinking of staying in town." "not thinking of staying in town!" repeated mrs. walton, in surprise. "you don't want to leave home, do you?" "no, mother, i don't want to leave home, or i wouldn't want to, if there was anything to do here. but you know there isn't. farm work wont' help me along, and i don't' like it as well as some other kinds of work. i must leave home if i want to rise in the world." "but your are too young, harry." this was touching harry on a tender spot. no boy of fourteen likes to be considered very young. by that time he generally begins to feel a degree of self-confidence and self-reliance, and fancies he is almost on the threshold of manhood. i know boys of fourteen who look in the glass daily for signs of a coming mustache, and fancy they can see plainly what is not yet visible. harry had not got as far as that, but he no longer looked upon himself as a young boy. he was stout and strong, and of very good height for his age, and began to feel manly. so he drew himself up, upon this remark of his mother's, and said proudly: "i am going on fifteen"--that sounds older than fourteen--"and i don't call that very young." "it seems but a little while since you were a baby," said his mother, meditatively. "i hope you don't think me anything like a baby now, mother," said harry, straightening up, and looking as large as possible. "no, you're quite a large boy, now. how quick the years have passed!" "and i am strong for my age, too, mother. i am sure i am old enough to take care of myself." "but you are young to go out into the world." "i don't believe franklin was much older than i, and he got along. there are plenty of boys who leave home before they are as old as i am." "suppose you are sick, harry?" "if i am i'll come home. but you know i am very healthy, mother, and if i am away from home i shall be very careful." "but you would not be sure of getting anything to do." "i'll risk that, mother," said harry, in a confident tone. "did you think of this before you read that book?" "yes, i've been thinking of it for about a month; but the book put it into my head to-night. i seem to see my way clearer than i did. i want most of all, to earn money enough to pay for the cow in six months. you know yourself, mother, there isn't any chance of father doing it himself, and i can't earn anything if i stay at home." "have you mentioned the matter to your father yet, harry?" "no, i haven't. i wish you would speak about it tonight, mother. you can tell him first what makes me want to go." "i'll tell him that you want to go; but i won't promise to say i think it a good plan." "just mention it, mother, and then i'll talk with him about it to-morrow." to this mrs. walton agreed, and harry, after reading a few pages more in the "life of franklin," went up to bed; but it was some time before he slept. his mind was full of the new scheme on which he had set his heart. chapter vii. in franklin's footsteps "father," said harry, the next morning, as mr. walton was about to leave the house, "there's something i want to say to you." "what is it?" asked his father, imagining it was some trifle. "i'll go out with you, and tell you outside." "very well, my son." harry put on his cap, and followed his father into the open air. "now, my son, what is it?" "i want to go away from home." "away from home! where?" asked mr. walton, in surprise. "i don't know where; but somewhere where i can earn my own living." "but you can do that here. you can give me your help on the farm, as you always have done." "i don't like farming, father." "you never told me that before. is it because of the hard work?" "no," said harry, earnestly. "i am not afraid of hard work; but you know how it is, father. this isn't a very good farm, and it's all you can do to make a living for the rest of us out of it. if i could go somewhere, where i could work at something else, i could send you home my wages." "i am afraid a boy like you couldn't earn very large wages." "i don't see why not, father. i'm strong and stout, and willing to work." "people don't give much for boys' work." "i don't expect much; but i know i can get something, and by and by it will lead to more. i want to help you to pay for that cow you've just bought of squire green." "i don't see how i'm going to pay for it," said mr. walton, with a sigh. "hard money's pretty scarce, and we farmers don't get much of it." "that's just what i'm saying, father. there isn't much money to be got in farming. that's why i want to try something else." "how long have you been thinking of this plan, harry?" "only since last night." "what put it into your head?" "that book i got as a prize." "it is the life of franklin, isn't it?" "yes." "did he go away from home when he was a boy?" "yes, and he succeeded, too." "i know he did. he became a famous man. but it isn't every boy that is like franklin." "i know that. i never expect to become a great man like him; but i can make something." harry spoke those words in a firm, resolute tone, which seemed to indicate a consciousness of power. looking in his son's face, the elder walton, though by no means a sanguine man, was inclined to think favorably of the scheme, but he was cautious, and he did not want harry to be too confident of success. "it's a new idea to me," he said. "suppose you fail?" "i don't mean to." "but suppose you do--suppose you get sick?" "then i'll come home. but i want to try. there must be something for me to do in the world." "there's another thing, harry. it takes money to travel round, and i haven't got any means to give you." "i don't want any, father. i mean to work my way. i've got twenty-five cents to start with. now, father, what do you say?" "i'll speak to your mother about it." "to-day?" "yes, as soon as i go in." with this harry was content. he had a good deal of confidence that he could carry his point with both parents. he went into the house, and said to his mother: "mother, father's going to speak to you about my going away from home. now don't you oppose it." "do you really think it would be a good plan, harry?" "yes, mother." "and if you're sick will you promise to come right home?" "yes, i'll promise that." "then i won't oppose your notion, though i ain't clear about its being wise." "we'll talk about that in a few months, mother." "has harry spoken to you about his plan of going away from home?" asked the farmer, when he reentered the house. "yes," said mrs. walton. "what do you think?" "perhaps we'd better let the lad have his way. he's promised to come home if he's taken sick." "so let it be, then, harry. when do you want to go?" "as soon as i can." "you'll have to wait till monday. it'll take a day or two to fix up your clothes," said his mother. "all right, mother." "i don't know but you ought to have some new shirts. you haven't got but two except the one you have on." "i can get along, mother. father hasn't got any money to spend for me. by the time i want some new shirts, i'll buy them myself." "where do you think of going, harry? have you any idea?" "no, mother. i'm going to trust to luck. i shan't go very far. when i've got fixed anywhere i'll write, and let you know." in the evening harry resumed the "life of franklin," and before he was ready to go to bed he had got two thirds through with it. it possessed for him a singular fascination. to harry it was no alone the "life of benjamin franklin." it was the chart by which he meant to steer in the unknown career which stretched before him. he knew so little of the world that he trusted implicitly to that as a guide, and he silently stored away the wise precepts in conformity with which the great practical philosopher had shaped and molded his life. during that evening, however, another chance was offered to harry, as i shall now describe. as the family were sitting around the kitchen table, on which was placed the humble tallow candle by which the room was lighted, there was heard a scraping at the door, and presently a knock. mr. walton answered it in person, and admitted the thin figure and sharp, calculating face of squire green. "how are you, neighbor?" he said, looking about him with his parrotlike glance. "i thought i'd just run in a minute to see you as i was goin' by." "sit down, squire green. take the rocking-chair." "thank you, neighbor. how's the cow a-doin'?" "middling well. she don't give as much milk as the one i lost." "she'll do better bymeby. she's a good bargain to you, neighbor." "i don't know," said hiram walton, dubiously. "she ought to be a good cow for the price you asked." "and she is a good cow," said the squire, emphatically; "and you're lucky to get her so cheap, buyin' on time. what are you doin' there, harry? school through, ain't it?" "yes, sir." "i hear you're a good scholar. got the prize, didn't you?" "yes," said mr. walton; "harry was always good at his books." "i guess he knows enough now. you'd ought to set him to work." "he is ready enough to work," said mr. walton. "he never was lazy." "that's good. there's a sight of lazy, shiftless boys about in these days. seems as if they expected to earn their bread 'n butter a-doin' nothin'. i've been a thinkin', neighbor walton, that you'll find it hard to pay for that cow in six months." "i am afraid i shall," said the farmer, thinking in surprise, "can he be going to reduce the price?" "so i thought mebbe we might make an arrangement to make it easier." "i should be glad to have it made easier, squire. it was hard on me, losing that cow by disease." "of course. well, what i was thinkin' was, you might hire out your boy to work for me. i'd allow him two dollars a month and board, and the wages would help pay for the cow." harry looked up in dismay at this proposition. he knew very well the meanness of the board which the squire provided, how inferior it was even to the scanty, but well-cooked meals which he got at home; he knew, also that the squire had the knack of getting more work out of his men than any other farmer in the town; and the prospect of being six months in his employ was enough to terrify him. he looked from squire green's mean, crafty face to his father's in anxiety and apprehension. were all his bright dreams of future success to terminate in this? chapter viii. harry's decision squire green rubbed his hands as if he had been proposing a plan with special reference to the interest of the waltons. really he conceived that it would save him a considerable sum of money. he had in his employ a young man of eighteen, named abner kimball, to whom he was compelled to pay ten dollars a month. harry, he reckoned, could be made to do about as much, though on account of his youth he had offered him but two dollars, and that not to be paid in cash. mr. walton paused before replying to his proposal. "you're a little too late," he said, at last, to harry's great relief. "too late!" repeated the squire, hastily. "why, you hain't hired out your boy to anybody else, have you?" "no; but he has asked me to let him leave home, and i've agreed to it." "leave home? where's he goin'?" "he has not fully decided. he wants to go out and seek his fortune." "he'll fetch up at the poorhouse," growled the squire. "if he does not succeed, he will come home again." "it's a foolish plan, neighbor walton. take my word for't. you'd better keep him here, and let him work for me." "if he stayed at home, i should find work for him on my farm." mr. walton would not have been willing to have harry work for the squire, knowing well his meanness, and how poorly he paid his hired men. "i wanted to help you pay for that cow," said the squire, crossly. "if you can't pay for't when the time comes you mustn't blame me." "i shall blame no one. i can't foresee the future; but i hope to get together the money somehow." "you mustn't ask for more time. six months is a long time to give." "i believe i haven't said anything about more time yet, squire green," said hiram walton, stiffly. "i don't see that you need warn me." "i thought we might as well have an understandin' about it," said the squire. "so you won't hire out the boy?" "no, i cannot, under the circumstances. if i did i should consider his services worth more than two dollars a month." "i might give him two'n a half," said the squire, fancying it was merely a question of money. "how much do you pay abner kimball?" "wal, rather more than that," answered the squire, slowly. "you pay him ten dollars a month, don't you?" "wal, somewheres about that; but it's more'n he earns." "if he is worth ten dollars, harry would be worth four or six." "i'll give three," said the squire, who reflected that even at that rate he would be saving considerable. "i will leave it to harry himself," said his father. "harry, you hear squire green's offer. what do you say? will you go to work for him at three dollars a month?" "i'd rather go away, as you told me i might, father." "you hear the boy's decision, squire." "wal, wal," said the squire, a good deal disappointed--for, to tell the truth, he had told abner he should not want him, having felt confident of obtaining harry. "i hope you won't neither of ye regret it." his tone clearly indicated that he really hoped and expected they would. "i bid ye good night." "i'll hev the cow back ag'in," said the squire to himself. "he needn't hope no massy. if he don't hev the money ready for me when the time is up, he shan't keep her." the next morning he was under the unpleasant necessity of reengaging abner. "come to think on't, abner," he said, "i guess i'd like to hev you stay longer. there's more work than i reckoned, and i guess i'll hev to have somebody." this was at the breakfast table. abner looked around him, and after making sure that there was nothing eatable left, put down his knife and fork with the air of one who could have eaten more, and answered, deliberately: "ef i stay i'll hev to hev more wages." "more wages?" repeated squire green, in dismay. "more'n ten dollars?" "yes, a fellow of my age orter hey more'n that." "ten dollars is a good deal of money." "i can't lay up a cent off'n it." "then you're extravagant." "no i ain't. i ain't no chance to be. my cousin, paul bickford, is gettin' fifteen dollars, and he ain't no better worker'n i am." "fifteen dollars!" ejaculated, the squire, as if he were naming some extraordinary sum. "i never heerd of such a thing." "i'll work for twelve'n a half," said abner, "and i won't work for no less." "it's too much," said the squire. "besides, you agreed to come for ten." "i know i did; but this is a new engagement." finally abner reduced his terms to twelve dollars, an advance of two dollars a month, to which the squire was forced to agree, though very reluctantly. he thought, with an inward groan, that but for his hasty dismissal of abner the night before, on the supposition that he could obtain harry in his place, he would not have been compelled to raise abner's wages. this again resulted indirectly from selling the cow, which had put the new plan into his head. when the squire reckoned up this item, amounting in six months to twelve dollars, he began to doubt whether his cow trade had been quite so good after all. "i'll get it out of hiram walton some way," he muttered. "he's a great fool to let that boy have his own way. i thought to be sure he'd oblige me arter the favor i done him in sellin' him the cow. there's gratitude for you!" the squire's ideas about gratitude, and the manner in which he had earned it, were slightly mixed, it must be acknowledged. but, though he knew very well that he had been influenced only by the consideration of his own interest, he had a vague idea that he was entitled to some credit for his kindness in consenting to sell his neighbor a cow at an extortionate price. harry breathed a deep sigh of relief after squire green left the room. "i was afraid you were going to hire me out to the squire, father," he said. "you didn't enjoy the prospect, did you?" said his father, smiling. "not much." "shouldn't think he would," said his brother tom. "the squire's awful stingy. abner kimball told me he had the meanest breakfast he ever ate anywhere." "i don't think any of his household are in danger of contracting the gout from luxurious living." "i guess not," said tom. "i think," said jane, slyly, "you'd better hire out tom to the squire." "the squire would have the worst of the bargain," said his father, with a good-natured hit at tom's sluggishness. "he wouldn't earn his board, however poor it might be." "the squire didn't seem to like it very well," said mrs. walton, looking up from her mending. "no, he fully expected to get harry for little or nothing. it was ridiculous to offer two dollars a month for a boy of his age." "i am afraid he will be more disposed to be hard on you, when the time comes to pay for the cow. he told you he wouldn't extend the time." "he is not likely to after this; but, wife, we won't borrow trouble. something may turn up to help us." "i am sure i shall be able to help you about it, father," said harry. "i hope so, my son, but don't feel too certain. you may not succeed as well as you anticipate." "i know that, but i mean to try at any rate." "if you don't, tom will," said his sister. "quit teasin' a feller, jane," said tom. "i ain't any lazier'n you are. if i am, i'll eat my head." "then you'll have to eat it, tom," retorted jane; "and it won't be much loss to you, either." "don't dispute, children," said mrs. walton. "i expect you both will turn over a new leaf by and by." meanwhile, harry was busily reading the "life of franklin." the more he read, the more hopeful he became as to the future. chapter ix. leaving home monday morning came, and the whole family stood on the grass plat in front of the house, ready to bid harry good-by. he was encumbered by no trunk, but carried his scanty supply of clothing wrapped in a red cotton handkerchief, and not a very heavy bundle at that. he had cut a stout stick in the woods near by, and from the end of this suspended over his back bore the bundle which contained all his worldly fortune except the twenty-five cents which was in his vest pocket. "i don't like to have you go," said his mother, anxiously. "suppose you don't get work?" "don't worry about me, mother," said harry, brightly. "i'll get along somehow." "remember you've got a home here, harry, whatever happens," said his father. "i shan't forget, father." "i wish i was going with you," said tom, for the first time fired with the spirit of adventure. "what could you do, tom?" said jane, teasingly. "work, of course." "i never saw you do it yet." "i'm no more lazy than you," retorted tom, offended. "don't dispute, children, just as your brother is leaving us," said mrs. walton. "good-by, mother," said harry, feeling an unwonted moistening of the eyes, as he reflected that he was about to leave the house in which he had lived since infancy. "good-by, my dear child," said his mother, kissing him. "be sure to write." "yes i will." so with farewell greetings harry walked out into the world. he had all at once assumed a man's responsibilities, and his face grew serious, as he began to realize that he must now look out for himself. his native village was situated in the northern part of new hampshire. not far away could be seen, indistinct in the distance, the towering summits of the white mountain range, but his back was turned to them. in the south were larger and more thriving villages, and the wealth was greater. harry felt that his chances would be greater there. not that he had any particular place in view. wherever there was an opening, he meant to stop. "i won't come back till i am better off," he said to himself. "if i don't succeed it won't be for want of trying." he walked five miles without stopping. this brought him to the middle of the next town. he was yet on familiar ground, for he had been here more than once. he felt tired, and sat down by the roadside to rest before going farther. while he sat there the doctor from his own village rode by, and chanced to espy harry, whom he recognized. "what brings you here, harry?" he asked, stopping his chaise. "i'm going to seek my fortune," said harry. "what, away from home?" "yes, sir." "i hadn't heard of that," said the doctor, surprised. "you haven't run away from home?" he asked, with momentary suspicion. "no, indeed!" said harry, half indignantly. "father's given his permission for me to go." "where do you expect to go?" "south," said harry, vaguely. "and what do you expect to find to do?" "i don't know--anything that'll bring me a living." "i like your spunk," said the doctor, after a pause. "if you're going my way, as i suppose you are, i can carry you a couple of miles. that's better than walking, isn't it?" "i guess it is," said harry, jumping to his feet with alacrity. in a minute he was sitting beside dr. dunham in his old-fashioned chaise. "i might have known that you were not running away," said the doctor. "i should be more likely to suspect your brother tom." "tom's too lazy to run away to earn his own living," said harry, laughing, "as long as he can get it at home." the doctor smiled. "and what put it into your head to start out in this way?" he asked. "the first thing, was reading the' life of franklin.'" "to be sure. i remember his story." "and the next thing was, because my father is so poor. he finds it hard work to support us all. the farm is small, and the land is poor. i want to help him if i can." "very commendable, harry," said the doctor, kindly. "you owe a debt of gratitude to your good father, who has not succeeded so well in life as he deserves." "that's true, sir. he has always been a hard-working man." "if you start out with such a good object, i think you will succeed. have you any plans at all, or any idea what you would like to do?" "i thought i should like to work in a shoe shop, if i got a chance," said harry. "you like that better than working on a farm, then?" "yes, sir, there isn't much money to be earned by working on a farm. i had a chance to do that before i came away." "you mean working on your father's land, i suppose?" "no, squire green wanted to hire me." "what wages did he offer?" "two dollars a month, at first. afterwards he got up to three." the doctor smiled. "how could you decline such a magnificent offer?" he asked. "i don't think i should like boarding at the squire's." "a dollar is twice as large at least in his eyes as in those of anyone else." by this time they had reached a place where a road turned at right angles. "i am going down here, harry," said the doctor. "i should like to have you ride farther, but i suppose it would only be taking you out of your course." "yes, doctor. i'd better get out." "i'll tell your father i saw you." "tell him i was in good spirits," said harry, earnestly. "mother'll be glad to know that." "i will certainly. good-by!" "good-by, doctor. thank you for the ride." "you are quite welcome to that, harry." harry followed with his eyes the doctor's chaise. it seemed like severing the last link that bound him to his native village. he was very glad to have fallen in with the doctor, but it seemed all the more lonesome that he had left him. harry walked six miles farther, and then decided that it was time to rest again. he was not only somewhat fatigued, but decidedly hungry, although it was but eleven o'clock in the forenoon. however, it must be considered that he had walked eleven miles, and this was enough to give anyone an appetite. he sat down again beside the road, and untying the handkerchief which contained his worldly possessions, he drew therefrom a large slice of bread and began to eat with evident relish. there was a slice of cold meat also, which he found tasted particularly good. "i wonder whether they are thinking of me at home," he said to himself. they were thinking about him, and when an hour later the family gathered around the table, no one seemed to have much appetite. all looked sober, for all were thinking of the absent son and brother. "i wish harry was here," said jane, at length, giving voice to the general feeling. "poor boy," sighed his mother. "i'm afraid he'll have a hard time. i wish he had stayed at home, or even have gone to squire green's to work. then we could have seen him every day." "i should have pitied him more if he had gone there than i do now," said his father. "depend upon it, it; will be better for him in the end." "i hope so," said his mother, dubiously. "but you don't feel sure? well, time will show. we shall hear from him before long." we go back to harry. he rested for a couple of hours, sheltered from the sun by the foliage of the oak beneath which he had stretched himself. he whiled away the time by reading for the second time some parts of the "life of franklin," which he had brought away in his bundle, with his few other possessions. it seemed even more interesting to him now that he, too, like franklin, had started out in quest for fortune. he resumed walking, but we will not dwell upon the details of his journey. at six o'clock he was twenty-five miles from home. he had not walked much in the afternoon when, all at once, he was alarmed by the darkening of the sky. it was evident that a storm was approaching. he looked about him for shelter from the shower, and a place where he could pass the night. chapter x. the general the clouds were darkening, and the shower was evidently not far off. it was a solitary place, and no houses were to be seen near by. but nearly a quarter of a mile back harry caught sight of a small house, and jumping over the fence directed his steps toward it. five minutes brought him to it. it was small, painted red, originally, but the color had mostly been washed away. it was not upon a public road, but there was a narrow lane leading to it from the highway. probably it was occupied by a poor family, harry thought. still it would shelter him from the storm which had even now commenced. he knocked at the door. immediately it was opened and a face peered out--the face of a man advanced in years. it was thin, wrinkled, and haggard. the thin white hair, uncombed, gave a wild appearance to the owner, who, in a thin, shrill voice, demanded, "who are you?" "my name is harry walton." "what do you want?" "shelter from the storm. it is going to rain." "come in," said the old man, and opening the door wider, he admitted our hero. harry found himself in a room very bare of furniture, but there was a log fire in the fireplace, and this looked comfortable and pleasant. he laid down his bundle, and drawing up a chair sat down by it, his host meanwhile watching him closely. "does he live alone, i wonder?" thought harry. he saw no other person about, and no traces of a woman's presence. the floor looked as if it had not been swept for a month, and probably it had not. the old man sat down opposite harry, and stared at him, till our hero felt somewhat embarrassed and uncomfortable. "why don't he say something?" thought harry. "he is a very queer old man." after a while his host spoke. "do you know who i am?" he asked. "no," said harry, looking at him. "you've heard of me often," pursued the old man. "i didn't know it," answered harry, beginning to feel curious. "in history," added the other. "in history?" "yes." harry began to look at him in increased surprise. "will you tell me your name, if it is not too much trouble," he asked, politely. "i gained the victory of new orleans," said the old man. "i thought general jackson did that," said harry. "you're right," said the old man, complacently. "i am general jackson." "but general jackson is dead." "that's a mistake," said the old man, quietly. "that's what they say in all the books, but it isn't true." this was amusing, but it was also startling. harry knew now that the old man was crazy, or at least a monomaniac, and, though he seemed harmless enough, it was of course possible that he might be dangerous. he was almost sorry that he had sought shelter here. better have encountered the storm in its full fury than place himself in the power of a maniac. the rain was now falling in thick drops, and he decided at any rate to remain a while longer. he knew that it would not be well to dispute the old man, and resolved to humor his delusion. "you were president once, i believe?" he asked. "yes," said the old man; "and you won't tell anybody, will you?" "no." "i mean to be again," said the old man in a low voice, half in a whisper. "but you mustn't say anything about it. they'd try to kill me, if they knew it." "who would?" "mr. henry clay, and the rest of them." "doesn't henry clay want you to be president again?" "of course not. he wants to be president himself. that's why i'm hiding. they don't any of them know where i am. you won't tell, will you?" "no." "you might meet henry clay, you know." harry smiled to himself. it didn't seem very likely that he would ever find himself in such distinguished company, for henry clay was at that time living, and a united states senator. "what made you come here, general jackson?" he inquired. the old man brightened, on being called by this name. "because it was quiet. they can't find me here." "when do you expect to be president again?" "next year," said the old man. "i've got it all arranged. my friends are to blow up the capitol, and i shall ride into washington on a white horse. do you want an office?" "i don't know but i should like one," said harry, amused. "i'll see what i can do for you," said the old man, seriously. "i can't put you in my cabinet. that's all arranged. if you would like to be minister to england or to france, you can go." "i should like to go to france. benjamin franklin was minister to france." "do you know him?" "no; but i have read his life." "i'll put your name down in my book. what is it?" "harry walton." the old man went to the table, on which was a common account book. he took a pen, and, with a serious look, made this entry: "i promise to make harry walton minister to france, as soon as i take my place in the white house. "general andrew jackson" "it's all right now," he said. "thank you, general. you are very kind," said our hero. "were you ever a soldier?" asked his host. "i never was." "i thought you might have been in the battle of new orleans. our men fought splendidly, sir." "i have no doubt of it." "you'll read all about it in history. we fought behind cotton bales. it was glorious!" "general," said harry, "if you'll excuse me, i'll take out my supper from this bundle." "no, no," said the old man; "you must take supper with me." "i wonder whether he has anything fit to eat," thought harry. "thank you," he said aloud. "if you wish it." the old man had arisen, and, taking a teakettle, suspended it over the fire. a monomaniac though he was on the subject of his identity with general jackson, he knew how to make tea. presently he took from the cupboard a baker's roll and some cold meat, and when the tea was ready, invited harry to be seated at the table. our hero did so willingly. he had lost his apprehensions, perceiving that his companion's lunacy was of a very harmless character. "what if mother could see me now!" he thought. still the rain poured down. it showed no signs of slackening. he saw that it would be necessary to remain where he was through the night. "general, can you accommodate me till morning?" he asked. "certainly," said the old man. "i shall be glad to have you stay here. do you go to france to-morrow?" "i have not received my appointment yet." "true, true; but it won't be long. i will write your instructions to-night." "very well." the supper was plain enough, but it was relished by our young traveler, whose long walk had stimulated a naturally good appetite. "eat heartily, my son," said the old man. "a long journey is before you." after the meal was over, the old man began to write. harry surmised that it was his instructions. he paid little heed, but fixed his eyes upon the fire, listening to the rain that continued to beat against the window panes, and began to speculate about the future. was he to be successful or not? he was not without solicitude, but he felt no small measure of hope. at nine o'clock he began to feel drowsy, and intimated as much to his host. the old man conducted him to an upper chamber, where there was a bed upon the floor. "you can sleep there," he said. "where do you sleep?" asked harry. "down below; but i shall not go to bed till late. i must get ready your instructions." "very well," said harry. "good night." "good night." "i am glad he is not in the room with me," thought harry. "i don't think there is any danger, but it isn't comfortable to be too near a crazy man." chapter xi. in search of work when harry awoke the next morning, after a sound and refreshing sleep, the sun was shining brightly in at the window. he rubbed his eyes, and stared about him, not at first remembering where he was. but almost immediately recollection came to his aid, and he smiled as he thought of the eccentric old man whose guest he was. he leaped out of bed, and quickly dressing himself, went downstairs. the fire was burning, and breakfast was already on the table. it was precisely similar to the supper of the night previous. the old man sat at the fireside smoking a pipe. "good morning, general," said harry. "i am up late." "it is no matter. you have a long journey before you, and it is well to rest before starting." "where does he think i am going?" thought our hero. "breakfast is ready," said the old man, hospitably. "i can't entertain you now as i could have done when i was president. you must come and see me at the white house next year." "i should like to." harry ate a hearty breakfast. when it was over, he rose to go. "i must be going, general," he said. "thank you for your kind entertainment. if you would allow me to pay you." "general jackson does not keep an inn," said the old man, with dignity. "you are his guest. i have your instructions ready." he opened a drawer in the table, and took a roll of foolscap, tied with a string. "put it in your bundle," he said. "let no one see it. above all, don't let it fall into the hands of henry clay, or my life will be in peril." harry solemnly assured him that henry clay should never see it, and shaking the old man by the hand, made his way across the fields to the main road. looking back from time to time, he saw the old man watching him from his place in the doorway, his eyes shaded by his hand. "he is the strangest man i ever saw," thought harry. "still he treated me kindly. i should like to find out some more about him." when he reached the road he saw, just in front of him, a boy of about his own age driving half a dozen cows before him. "perhaps he can tell me something about the old man." "hello!" he cried, by way of salutation. "hello!" returned the country boy. "where are you going?" "i don't know. wherever i can find work," answered our hero. the boy laughed. "dad finds enough for me to do. i don't have to go after it. haven't you got a father?" "yes." "why don't you work for him?" "i want to work for pay." "on a farm?" "no. i'll work in a shoe shop if i get a chance or in a printing office." "do you understand the shoe business?" "no; but i can learn." "where did you come from?" "granton." "you didn't come from there this morning?" "no, i guess not, as it's over twenty miles. last night i stopped at general jackson's." the boy whistled. "what, at the old crazy man's that lives down here a piece?" "yes." "what made you go there?" "it began, to rain, and i had no other place to go." "what did he say?" asked the new boy with curiosity. "did he cut up?" "cut up? no, unless you mean the bread. he cut up that." "i mean, how did he act?" "all right, except when he was talking about being general jackson." "did you sleep there?" "yes." "i wouldn't." "why not?" "i wouldn't sleep in a crazy man's house." "he wouldn't hurt you." "i don't know about that. he chases us boys often, and threatens to kill us." "you plague him, don't you?" "i guess we do. we call him 'old crazy,' and that makes him mad. he says henry clay puts us up to it--ho, ho, ho!" "he thinks clay is his enemy. he told me so." "what did you say?" "oh, i didn't contradict him. i called him general. he treated me tip-top. he is going to make me minister of france, when he is president again." "maybe that was the best way to get along." "how long has he lived here? what made him crazy?" "i don't know. folks say he was disappointed." "did he ever see jackson?" "yes; he fit at new orleans under him." "has he lived long around here?" "ever since i can remember. he gets a pension, i've heard father say. that's what keeps him." here the boy reached the pasture to which he was driving the cows, and harry, bidding him "good-by," went on his way. he felt fresh and vigorous, and walked ten miles before he felt the need of rest. when this distance was accomplished, he found himself in the center of a good-sized village. he felt hungry, and the provision which he brought from home was nearly gone. there was a grocery store close at hand, and he went in, thinking that he would find something to help his meal. on the counter he saw some rolls, and there was an open barrel of apples not far off. "what do you charge for your rolls?" he asked. "two cents." "i'll take one. how do you sell your apples?" "a cent apiece." "i'll take two." thus for four cents harry made quite a substantial addition to his meal. as he left the store, and walked up the road, with the roll in his hand, eating an apple, he called to mind benjamin franklin's entrance of philadelphia with a roll under each arm. "i hope i shall have as good luck as franklin had," he thought. walking slowly, he saw, on a small building which he i had just reached, the sign, "post office." "perhaps the postmaster will know if anybody about here wants a boy," harry said to himself. "at any rate, it won't do any harm to inquire." he entered, finding himself in a small room, with one part partitioned off as a repository for mail matter. he stepped up to a little window, and presently the postmaster, an elderly man, presented himself. "what name," he asked. "i haven't come for a letter," said harry. "what do you want, then?" asked the official, but not roughly. "do you know of anyone that wants to hire a boy?" "who's the boy?" "i am. i want to get a chance to work." "what kind of work?" "any kind that'll pay my board and a little over." "i don't know of any place," said the postmaster, after a little thought. "isn't there any shoe shop where i could get in?" "that reminds me--james leavitt told me this morning that his boy was going to boston to go into a store in a couple of months. he's been pegging for his father and i guess they'll have to get somebody in his place." harry's face brightened at this intelligence. "that's just the kind of place i'd like to get," he said. "where does mr. leavitt live?" "a quarter of a mile from here--over the bridge. you'll know it well enough. it's a cottage house, with a shoe shop in the backyard." "thank you, sir," said harry. "i'll go there and try my luck." "wait a minute," said the postmaster. "there's a letter here for mr. leavitt. if you're going there, you may as well carry it along. it's from boston. i shouldn't wonder if it's about the place bob leavitt wants." "i'll take it with pleasure," said harry. it occurred to him that it would be a good introduction for him, and pave the way for his application. "i hope i may get a chance to work for this mr. leavitt," he said to himself. "i like the looks of this village. i should like to live here for a while." he walked up the street, crossing the bridge referred to by the postmaster, and looked carefully on each side of him for the cottage and shop. at length he came to a place which answered the description, and entered the yard. as he neared the shop he heard a noise which indicated that work was going on inside. he opened the door, and entered. chapter xii. the new boarder harry found himself in a room about twenty-five feet by twenty. the floor was covered with scraps of leather. here stood a deep wooden box containing a case of shoes ready to send off. there was a stove in the center, in which, however, as it was a warm day, no fire was burning. there were three persons present. one, a man of middle age, was mr. james leavitt, the proprietor of the shop. his son robert, about seventeen, worked at an adjoining bench. tom gavitt, a journeyman, a short, thick-set man of thirty, employed by mr. leavitt, was the third. the three looked up as harry entered the shop. "i have a letter for mr. leavitt," said our hero. "that is my name," said the eldest of the party. harry advanced, and placed it in his hands. "where did you get this letter?" "at the post office." "i can't call you by name. do you live about here?" "no, i came from granton." no further questions were asked just then, as mr. leavitt, suspending work, opened the letter. "it's from your uncle benjamin," he said, addressing robert. "let us see what he has to say." he read the letter in silence. "what does he say, father?" asked robert. "he says he shall be ready to take you the first of september. that's in six weeks--a little sooner than we calculated. i wish it were a little later, as work is brisk, and i may find it difficult to fill your place without paying more than i want to." "i guess you can pick up somebody," said robert, who was anxious to go to boston as soon as possible. "won't you hire me?" asked harry, who felt that the time had come for him to announce his business. mr. leavitt looked at him more attentively. "have you ever worked in a shop?" "no, sir." "it will take you some time to learn pegging." "i'll work for my board till i've learned." "but you won't be able to do all i want at first." "suppose i begin now," said harry, "and work for my board till your son goes away. by that time i can do considerable." "i don't know but that's a good idea," said mr. leavitt. "what do you think, bob?" "better take him, father," said robert, who felt that it would facilitate his own plans. "how much would you want after you have learned?" asked the father. "i don't know; what would be a fair price," said harry. "i'll give you three dollars a week and board," said mr. leavitt, after a little consideration--"that is, if i am satisfied with you." "i'll come," said harry, promptly. he rapidly calculated that there would be about twenty weeks for which he would receive pay before the six months expired, at the end of which the cow must be paid for. this would give him sixty dollars, of which he thought he should be able to save forty to send or carry to his father. "how did you happen to come to me?" asked mr. leavitt, with some curiosity. "i heard at the post office that your son was going to the city to work, and i thought i could get in here." "is your father living?" "yes, my father and mother both." "what business is he in?" "he is a farmer; but his farm is small, and not very profitable." "so you thought you would leave home and try something else?" "yes, sir." "well, we will try you at shoemaking. robert, you can teach him what you know about pegging." "come here," said robert. "what is your name?" "harry walton." "how old are you?" "fifteen." "did you ever work much?" "yes, on a farm." "do you think you'll like shoemaking better?" "i don't know yet, but i think i shall. i like almost anything better than farming." "and i like almost anything better than pegging. i began when i was only twelve years old, and i'm sick of it." "what kind of store is it you are going into?" "dry goods. my uncle, benjamin streeter, mother's brother, keeps a dry goods store on washington street. it'll be jolly living in the city." "i don't know," said harry thoughtfully. "i think i like a village just as well." "what sort of a place is granton, where you come from?" "it's a farming town. there isn't any village at all." "there isn't much going on here." "there'll be more than in granton. there's nothing to do there but to work on a farm." "i shouldn't like that myself; but the city's the best of all." "can you make more money in a store than working in a shoe shop?" "not so much at first, but after you've got learned there's better chances. there's a clerk, that went from here ten years ago, that gets fifty dollars a week." "does he?" asked harry, to whose rustic inexperience this seemed like an immense salary. "i didn't think any clerk ever got so much." "they get it often if they are smart," said robert. here he was wrong, however. such cases are exceptional, and a city fry goods clerk, considering his higher rate of expense, is no better off than many country mechanics. but country boys are apt to form wrong ideas on this subject, and are in too great haste to forsake good country homes for long hours of toil behind a city counter, and a poor home in a dingy, third-class city boarding house. it is only in the wholesale houses, for the most part, that high salaries are paid, and then, of course, only to those who have shown superior energy and capacity. of course some do achieve success and become rich; but of the tens of thousand who come from the country to seek clerkships, but a very small proportion rise above a small income. "i shall have a start," robert proceeded, "for i go into my uncle's store. i am to board at his house, and get three dollars a week." "that's what your father offers me," said harry. "yes; you'll earn more after a while, and i can now; but i'd rather live in the city. there's lots to see in the city--theaters, circuses, and all kinds of amusements." "you won't have much money to spend on theaters," said harry, prudently. "not at first, but i'll get raised soon." "i think i should try to save as much as i could." "out of three dollars a week?" "yes." "what can you save out of that?" "i expect to save half of it, perhaps more." "i couldn't do that. i want a little fun." "you see my father's poor. i want to help him all i can." "that's good advice for you, bob," said mr. leavitt. "save up money, and help me." robert laughed. "you'll have to wait till i get bigger pay," he said. "your father's better off than mine," said harry. "of course, if he don't need it, that makes a difference." here the sound of a bell was heard, proceeding from the house. "robert," said his father "go in and tell your mother to put an extra seat at the table. she doesn't know that we've got a new boarder." he took off his apron, and washed his hands. tom gavitt followed his example, but didn't go into the house of his employer. he lived in a house of his own about five minutes' walk distant, but left the shop at the same time. in a country village the general dinner hour is twelve o'clock--a very unfashionably early hour--but i presume any of my readers who had been at work from seven o'clock would have no difficulty in getting up a good appetite at noon. robert went in and informed his mother of the new boarder. it made no difference, for the table was always well supplied. "this is harry walton, mother," said mr. leavitt, "our new apprentice. he will take bob's place when he goes." "i am glad to see you," said mrs. leavitt, hospitably. "you may sit here, next to robert." "what have you got for us to-day, mother?" asked her husband. "a picked-up dinner. there's some cold beef left over from yesterday, and i've made an apple pudding." "that's good. we don't want anything better." so harry thought. accustomed to the painful frugality of the table at home, he regarded this as a splendid dinner, and did full justice to it. in the afternoon he resumed work in the shop under robert's guidance. he was in excellent spirits. he felt that he was very fortunate to have gained a place so soon, and determined to write home that same evening. chapter xiii. an invitation declined the summer passed quickly, and the time arrived for robert leavitt to go to the city. by this time harry was well qualified to take his place. it had not been difficult, for he had only been required to peg, and that is learned in a short time. harry, however, proved to be a quick workman, quicker, if anything, than robert, though the latter had been accustomed to the work for several years. mr. leavitt was well satisfied with his new apprentice, and quite content to pay him the three dollars a week agreed upon. in fact, it diminished the amount of cash he was called upon to pay. "good-by, harry," said robert, as he saw the coach coming up the road, to take him to the railroad station. "good-by, and good luck!" said harry. "when you come to the city, come and see me." "i don't think i shall be going very soon. i can't afford it." "you must save up your wages, and you'll have enough soon." "i've got another use for my wages, bob." "to buy cigars?" harry shook his head. "i shall save it up to carry home." "well, you must try to make my place good in the shop." "he can do that," said mr. leavitt, slyly; "but there's one place where he can't equal you." "where is that?" "at the dinner table." "you've got me there, father," said bob, good-naturedly. "well, good-by all, here's the stage." in a minute more he was gone. harry felt rather lonely, for he had grown used to working beside him. but his spirits rose as he reflected that the time had now come when he should be in receipt of an income. three dollars a week made him feel rich in anticipation. he looked forward already with satisfaction to the time when he might go home with money enough to pay off his father's debt to squire green. but he was not permitted to carry out his economical purpose without a struggle. on saturday evening, after he had received his week's pay, luke harrison, who worked in a shop near by, met him at the post office. "come along, harry," he said. "let us play a game of billiards." "you must excuse me," said harry. "oh, come along," said luke, taking him by the arm; "it's only twenty-five cents." "i can't afford it." "can't afford it! now that's nonsense. you just changed a two-dollar note for those postage stamps." "i know that; but i must save that money for another purpose." "what's the use of being stingy, harry? try one game." "you can get somebody else to play with you, luke." "oh, hang it, if you care so much for a quarter, i'll pay for the game myself. only come and play." harry shook his head. "i don't want to amuse myself at your expense." "you are a miser," said luke, angrily. "you can call me so, if you like," said harry, firmly; "but that won't make it so." "i don't see how you can call yourself anything else, if you are so afraid to spend your money." "i have good reasons." "what are they?" "i told you once that i had another use for the money." "to hoard away in an old stocking," said luke, sneering. "you may say so, if you like," said harry, turning away. he knew he was right, but it was disagreeable to be called a miser. he was too proud to justify himself to luke, who spent all his money foolishly, though earning considerably larger wages than he. there was one thing that harry had not yet been able to do to any great extent, though it was something he had at heart. he had not forgotten his motto, "live and learn," and now that he was in a fair way to make a living, he felt that he had made no advance in learning during the few weeks since he arrived in glenville. the day previous he had heard, for the first time, that there was a public library in another part of the town, which was open evenings. though it was two miles distant, and he had been at work all day, he determined to walk up there and get a book. he felt that he was very ignorant, and that his advance in the world depended upon his improving all opportunities that might present themselves for extending his limited knowledge. this was evidently one. after his unsatisfactory interview with luke, he set out for the upper village, as it was called. forty minutes' walk brought him to the building in which the library was kept. an elderly man had charge of it--a mr. parmenter. "can i take out a book?" asked harry. "do you live in town?" "yes, sir." "i don't remember seeing you before. you don't live in this village, do you?" "no, sir. i live in the lower village." "what is your name?" "harry walton." "i don't remember any walton family." "my father lives in granton. i am working for mr. james leavitt." "i have no doubt this is quite correct, but i shall have to have mr. leavitt's certificate to that effect, before i can put your name down, and trust you with books." "then can't i take any book to-night?" asked harry, disappointed. "i am afraid not." so it seemed his two-mile walk was for nothing. he must retrace his steps and come again monday night. he was turning away disappointed when dr. townley, of the lower village, who lived near mr. leavitt, entered the library. "my wife wants a book in exchange for this, mr. parmenter," he said. "have you got anything new in? ah, harry walton, how came you here? do you take books out of the library?" "that's is what i came up for, but the librarian says i must bring a line from mr. leavitt, telling who i am." "if dr. townley knows you, that is sufficient," said the librarian. "he is all right, mr. parmenter. he is a young neighbor of mine." "that is enough. he can select a book." harry was quite relieved at this fortunate meeting, and after a little reflection selected the first volume of "rollin's universal history," a book better known to our fathers than the present generation. "that's a good, solid book, harry," said the doctor. "most of our young people select stories." "i like stories very much," said harry; "but i have only a little time to read, and i must try to learn something." "you are a sensible boy," said the doctor, emphatically. "i'm afraid there are few of our young people who take such wise views of what is best for them. most care only for present enjoyment." "i have got my own way to make," said harry, "and i suppose that is what influences me. my father is poor and cannot help me, and i want to rise in the world." "you are going the right way to work. do you intend to take out books often from the library?" "yes, sir." "it will be a long walk from the lower village." "i would walk farther rather than do without the books." "i can save you at any rate from walking back. my chaise is outside, and, if you will jump in, i will carry you home." "thank you, doctor. i shall be very glad to ride." on the way, dr. townley said: "i have a few miscellaneous book in my medical library, which i will lend to you with pleasure, if you will come in. it may save you an occasional walk to the library." harry thanked him, and not long afterwards availed himself of the considerate proposal. dr townley was liberally educated, and as far as his professional engagements would permit kept up with general literature. he gave harry some valuable directions as to the books which it would benefit him to read, and more than once took him up on the road to the library. once a week regularly harry wrote home. he knew that his letters would give pleasure to the family, and he never allowed anything to interfere with his duty. his father wrote: "we are getting on about as usual. the cow does tolerably well, but is not as good as the one i lost. i have not yet succeeded in laying up anything toward paying for her. somehow, whenever i have a few dollars laid aside tom wants shoes, or your sister wants a dress, or some other expense swallows it up." harry wrote in reply: "don't trouble yourself, father, about your debt to squire green. if i have steady work, and keep my health, i shall have enough to pay it by the time it comes due." chapter xiv. the tailor's customer at the end of six weeks from the date of robert's departure, harry had been paid eighteen dollars. of this sum he had spent but one dollar, and kept the balance in his pocketbook. he did not care to send it home until he had enough to meet squire green's demand, knowing that his father would be able to meet his ordinary expenses. chiefly through the reports of luke harrison he was acquiring the reputation of meanness, though, as we know, he was far from deserving it. "see how the fellow dresses," said luke, contemptuously, to two of his companions one evening. "his clothes are shabby enough, and he hasn't got an overcoat at all. he hoards his money, and is too stingy to buy one. see, there he comes, buttoned to the chin to keep warm, and i suppose he has more money in his pocketbook than the whole of us together. i wouldn't be as mean as he is for a hundred dollars." "you'd rather get trusted for your clothes than do without them," said frank heath, slyly; for he happened to know that luke had run up a bill with the tailor, about which the latter was getting anxious. "what if i do," said luke, sharply, "as long as i am going to pay for them?" "oh, nothing," said frank. "i didn't say anything against it, did i? i suppose you are as able to owe the tailor as anyone." by this time, harry had come up. "where are you going, walton?" asked luke. "you look cold." "yes, it's a cold day." "left your overcoat at home, didn't you?" harry colored. the fact was, he felt the need of an overcoat, but didn't know how to manage getting one. at the lowest calculation, it would cost all the money he had saved up for one, and the purchase would defeat all his plans. the one he had worn at home during the previous winter was too small for him, and had been given to his brother. "if i only could get through the winter without one," he thought, "i should be all right." but a new england winter is not to be braved with impunity, useless protected by adequate clothing. luke's sneer was therefore not without effect. but he answered, quietly: "i did not leave it at home, for i have none to leave." "i suppose you are bound to the tailor's to order one." "what makes you think so?" asked harry. "you are not such a fool as to go without one when you have money in your pocket, are you?" "you seem very curious about my private affairs," said harry, rather provoked. "he's only drumming up customers for the tailor," said frank heath. "he gets a commission on all he brings." "that's the way he pays his bill," said sam anderson. "quit fooling, boys," said luke, irritated. "i ain't a drummer. i pay my bills, like a gentleman." "by keeping the tailor waiting," said frank. "quit that!" so attention was diverted from harry by this opportune attack upon luke, much to our hero's relief. nevertheless, he saw, that in order to preserve his health, he must have some outer garment, and in order the better to decide what to do, he concluded to step into the tailor's, and inquire his prices. the tailor, merrill by name, had a shop over the dry goods store, and thither harry directed his steps. there was one other person in the shop, a young fellow but little larger than harry, though two years older, who was on a visit to an aunt in the neighborhood, but lived in boston. he belonged to a rich family, and had command of considerable money. his name was maurice tudor. he had gone into the shop to leave a coat to be repaired. "how are you, walton?" he said, for he knew our hero slightly. "pretty well. thank you." "it's pretty cold for october." "yes, unusually so." "mr. merrill," said harry, "i should like to inquire the price of an overcoat. i may want to order one by and by." "what sort of one do you want--pretty nice?" "no, i can't afford anything nice--something as cheap as possible." "this is the cheapest goods i have," said the tailor, pointing to some coarse cloth near by. "i can make you up a coat from that for eighteen dollars." "eighteen dollars!" exclaimed harry, in dismay. "is that the cheapest you have?" "the very cheapest." after a minute's pause he added, "i might take off a dollar for cash. i've got enough of running up bills. there's luke harrison owes me over thirty dollars, and i don't believe he means to pay it al all." "if i buy, i shall pay cash," said harry, quietly. "you can't get anything cheaper than this." said the tailor. "very likely not," said harry, soberly. "i'll think about it, and let you know if i decide to take it." maurice tudor was a silent listener to this dialogue. he saw harry's sober expression, and he noticed the tone in which he repeated "eighteen dollars," and he guessed the truth. he lingered after harry went out, and said: "that's a good fellow." "harry walton?" repeated the tailor. "yes, he's worth a dozen luke harrisons." "has he been in the village long?" "no, not more than two or three months. he works for mr. leavitt." "he is rather poor, i suppose." "yes. the boys call him mean; but leavitt tells me he is saving up every cent to send to his father, who is a poor farmer." "that's a good thing in him." "yes, i wish i could afford to give him and overcoat. he needs one, but i suppose seventeen dollars will come rather hard on him to pay. if it was luke harrison, it wouldn't trouble him much." "you mean he would get it on tick." "yes, if he found anybody fool enough to trust him. i've done it as long as i'm going to. he won't get a dollar more credit out of me till he pays his bill." "you're perfectly right, there." "so i think. he earns a good deal more than walton, but spends what he earns on billiards, drinks and cigars." "there he comes up the stairs, now." in fact, luke with his two companions directly afterwards entered the shop. "merrill," said he, "have you got in any new goods? i must have a new pair of pants." "yes, i've got some new goods. there's a piece open before you." "it's a pretty thing, merrill," said luke, struck by it; "what's your price for a pair off of it?" "ten dollars." "isn't that rather steep?" "no; the cloth is superior quality." "well, darn the expense. i like it, and must have it. just measure me, will you?" "are you ready to pay the account i have against you?" "how much is it?" the tailor referred to his books. "thirty-two dollars and fifty cents," he answered. "all right, merrill. wait till the pants are done, and i'll pay the whole at once." "ain't my credit good?" blustered luke. "you can make it good," said the tailor, significantly. "i didn't think you'd make such a fuss about a small bill." "i didn't think you'd find is so difficult to pay a small bill," returned the tailor. luke looked discomfited. he was silent a moment, and then changed his tactics. "come, merrill," he said, persuasively; "don't be alarmed. i'm good for it, i guess. i haven't got the money convenient to-day. i lent fifty dollars. i shall have it back next week and then i will pay you." "i am glad to hear it," said merrill. "so just measure me and hurry up the pants." "i'm sorry but i can't till you settle the bill." "look here, has walton been talking against me?" "no; what makes you think so?" "he don't like me, because i twitted him with his meanness." "i don't consider him mean." "has he ever bought anything of you?" "no." "i knew it. he prefers to go ragged and save his money." "he's too honorable to run up a bill without paying it." "do you mean me?" demanded luke, angrily. "i hope not. i presume you intend to pay your bills." luke harrison left the shop. he saw that he exhausted his credit with merrill. as to paying the bill, there was not much chance of that at present, as he had but one dollar and a half in his pocket. chapter xv. "by express" "there's a model for you," said the tailor to maurice tudor. "he won't pay his bills." "how did you come to trust him in the first place?" "i didn't know him then as well as i do now. i make it a practice to accommodate my customers by trusting them for a month or two, if they want it. but luke harrison isn't one to be trusted." "i should say not." "if young walton wants to get an overcoat on credit, i shan't object. i judge something by looks, and i am sure he is honest." "well, good night, mr. merrill. you'll have my coat done soon?" "yes, mr. tudor. it shall be ready for you to-morrow." maurice tudor left the tailor's shop, revolving a new idea which had just entered his mind. now he remembered that he had at home and excellent overcoat which he had worn the previous winter, but which was now too small for him. he had no younger brother to wear it, nor in his circumstances was such economy necessary. as well as he could judge by observing harry's figure, it would be an excellent fit for him. why should he not give it to him? the opportunity came. on his way home he overtook our hero, plunged in thought. in fact, he was still occupied with the problem of the needed overcoat. "good evening, harry," said young tudor. "good evening, mr. tudor," answered harry. "are you going back to the city soon?" "in the course of a week or two. mr. leavitt's son is in a store in boston, is he not?" "yes. i have taken his place in the shop." "by the way, i saw you in merrill's this evening." "yes; i was pricing an overcoat." "i bought this one in boston just before i came away. i have a very good one left from last winter but it is too small for me. it is of no use to me. if i thought you would accept it, i would offer it to you." harry's heart gave a joyful bound. "accept it!" he repeated. "indeed i will and thank you for your great kindness." "then i will write home at once to have it sent to me. i also have a suit which i have outgrown; if you wouldn't be too proud to take it." "i am not so foolish. it will be a great favor." "i thought you would take it right," said maurice, well pleased. "i will also send for the suit. i will get my mother to forward them by express." "they will be as good as money to me," said harry; "and that is not very plenty with me." "will you tell me something of your circumstances? perhaps i may have it in my power to help you." harry, assured of his friendly interest, did not hesitate to give him a full account of his plans in life, and especially of his desire to relieve his father of the burden of poverty. his straightforward narrative made a very favorable impression upon maurice, who could not help reflecting: "how far superior this boy is to luke harrison and his tribe!" "thank you for telling me all this," he said. "it was not from mere curiosity that i asked." "i am sure of that," said harry. "thanks to your generosity, i shall present a much more respectable appearance, besides being made more comfortable." three days later a large bundle was brought by the village expressman to mr. leavitt's door. "a bundle for you, walton," said the expressman, seeing harry in the yard. "what is there to pay?" he asked. "nothing. it was prepaid in the city?" harry took it up to his room and opened it eagerly. first came the promised overcoat. it was of very handsome french cloth, with a velvet collar, and rich silk facings, far higher in cost than any mr. merrill would have made for him. it fitted as if it had been made for him. next came, not one, but two complete suits embracing coat, vest and pants. one of pepper-and-salt cloth, the other a dark blue. these, also, so similar was he in figure to maurice, fitted him equally well. the clothes which he brought with from form granton were not only of coarse material but were far from stylish in cut, whereas these garments had been made by a fashionable boston tailor and set off his figure to much greater advantage. "i wonder what luke harrison will say?" said our hero to himself, smiling, as he thought of the surprise of luke at witnessing his transformation. "i've a great mind to keep these on to-night," he said. "perhaps i shall meet luke. he won't have anything more to say about my going without an overcoat." after supper harry, arrayed in his best suit and wearing the overcoat, walked down tot he center of the village. luke was standing on the piazza of the tavern. "luke, see how walton is dressed up!" exclaimed frank heath, who was the first to see our hero. "dressed up!" repeated luke, who was rather shortsighted. "that would be a good joke." "he's got a splendid overcoat," continued frank. "where'd he get it? merrill hasn't been making him one." "it's none of merrill's work. it's too stylish for him." by this time harry had come within luke's range of vision. the latter surveyed him with astonishment and it must be confessed, with disappointment; for he had been fond of sneering at harry's clothes, and now the latter was far better dressed than himself. "where did you get that coat, walton?" asked luke, the instant harry came up. "honestly," said harry, shortly. "have you got anything else new?" harry opened his coat and displayed the suit. "well, you are coming out, walton, that's a fact," said frank heath. "that's a splendid suit." "i thought you couldn't afford to buy a coat," said luke. "you see i've got one," answered harry. "how much did it cost?" "that's a secret." here he left luke and frank. "well, luke, what do you say to that?" said frank heath. luke said nothing. he was astonished and unhappy. he had a fondness for dress and spent a good share of his earnings upon it, paying where he must, and getting credit besides where he could. but he had never had so stylish a suit as this and it depressed him. chapter xvi. asking a favor there was one other tailor in the village, james hayden, and to him luke harrison determined to transfer his custom, hoping to be allowed to run up a bill with him. he did not like his style of cut as well as merrill's, but from the latter he was cut off unless he would pay the old bill, and this would be inconvenient. he strolled into james hayden's shop and asked to look at some cloth for pants. hayden was a shrewd man and, knowing that luke was a customer of his neighbor, suspected the reason of his transfer. however, he showed the cloth, and, a selection having been made, measured him. "when will you have them done?" asked luke. "in three days." "i want them by that time sure." "of course you pay cash." "why," said luke, hesitating, "i suppose you won't mind giving me a month's credit." mr. hayden shook his head. "i couldn't do it. my goods are already paid for and i have to pay for the work. i must have cash." "merrill always trusted me," pleaded luke. "then why did you leave him?" "why," said luke, a little taken aback, "he didn't cut the last clothes exactly to suit me." "didn't suit you? i thought you young people preferred his cut to mine. i am old-fashioned. hadn't you better go back to merrill?" "i've got tired of him," said luke. "i'll get a pair of pants of you, and see how i like them." "i'll make them but i can't trust." "all right. i'll bring the money," said luke, who yet thought that he might get off by paying part down when he took the pants. "the old fellow's deuced disobliging," said he o frank heath, when they got into the street. "i don't know as i blame him," said frank. "i wish merrill wasn't so stiff about it. he's terribly afraid of losing his bill." "that's where he's right," said frank, laughing. "i'd be the same if i were in his place." "do you always pay your bills right off?" said luke. "yes, i do. i don't pretend to be a model boy. i'm afraid i keep bad company," he continued, "but i don't owe a cent to anybody except for board and that i pay up at the end of every week." luke dropped the subject, not finding it to his taste. on saturday night he went round to the tailor's. "have you got my pants done, mr. hayden?" "yes--here they are." "let me see," he said, "how much are they?" "nine dollars." "i'll pay you three dollars to-night and the rest at the end of next week," he said. "very well; then you may have them at the end of next week." "why not now? they are done, ain't they?" "yes," said mr. hayden; "but not paid for." "didn't i tell you i'd pay three dollars now?" "our terms are cash down." "you ain't afraid of me, are you?" blustered luke. "you understood when you ordered the pants that they were to be paid for when they were taken." "i hate to see people so afraid of losing their money." "do you? was that why you left merrill?" luke colored. he suspected that the fact of his unpaid bill at the other tailor's was known to mr. hayden. "i've a great mind to leave them on your hands." "i prefer to keep them on my hands, rather than to let them go out of the shop without being paid for." "frank," said luke, turning to his companion, "lend me five dollars, can't you?" "i'm the wrong fellow to ask," said he; "i've got to pay my board and another bill to-night." "oh, let your bills wait." "and lend you the money? thank you, i ain't so green. when should i get the money again?" "next week." "in a horn. no; i want to wear the pants to-morrow. i'm going out to ride." "i don't see, unless you fork over the spondulies." "i can't. i haven't got enough money." "see harry walton." "i don't believe he has got any. he bought a lot of clothes last week. they must have cost a pile." "can't help it. i saw him open his pocketbook last night and in it was a roll of bills." turning to the tailor, luke said: "just lay aside the pants and i'll come back for them pretty soon." mr. hayden smiled to himself. "there's nothing like fetching up these fellows with a round turn," he said. "'no money, no clothes'--that's my motto. merrill told me all about that little bill that sent luke harrison over here. he don't run up any bill with me, if i know myself." luke went round to the village store. harry walton usually spent a part of every evening in instructive reading and study; but after a hard day's work he felt it necessary to pass an hour or so in the open air, so he came down to the center of center of the village. "hello, walton!" said luke, accosting him with unusual cordiality. "you are just the fellow i want to see." "am i?" inquired harry in surprise, for there was no particular friendship or intimacy between them. "yes; i'm going to ask a little favor of you--a mere trifle. lend me five or ten dollars for a week. five will do it, you can't spare more." harry shook his head. "i can't do that, luke." "why not? haven't you got as much?" "yes, i've got it." "then why won't you lend it to me?" "i have little money and i can't run any risk." "do you think i won't pay you back?" "why do you need to borrow of me? you get much higher wages than i do." "i want to pay a bill to-night. i didn't think you'd be so unaccommodating." "i shouldn't be willing to lend to anyone," said harry. "the money isn't mine. i am going to send it home." "a great sight you are!" sneered luke. "i wanted to see just how mean you were. you've got the money in your pocket but you won't lend it." this taunt did not particularly disturb harry. there is a large class like luke, who offended at being refused a loan, though quite aware that they are never likely to repay it. my young readers will be sure to meet specimens of this class, against whom the only protection is a very firm and decided "no." chapter xvii. the night scholars immediately after thanksgiving day, the winter schools commenced. that in the center district was kept by a student of dartmouth college, who had leave of absence from the college authorities for twelve weeks, in order by teaching to earn something to help defray his college expenses. leonard morgan, now a junior, was a tall, strongly made young man of twenty-two, whose stalwart frame had not been reduced by his diligent study. there were several shoe shops in the village, each employing from one to three boys, varying in age from fifteen to nineteen. why could he not form a private class, to meet in the evening, to be instructed in advanced arithmetic, or, if desired, in latin and greek? he broached the idea to stephen bates, the prudential committeeman. "i don't know," said mr. bates, "what our boys will think of it. i've got a boy that i'll send, but whether you'll get enough to make it pay i don't know." "i suppose i can have the schoolhouse, mr. bates?" "yes, there won't be no objection. won't it be too much for you after teachin' in the daytime?" "it would take a good deal to break me down." "then you'd better draw up a notice and put it up in the store and tavern," suggested the committeeman. in accordance with this advice, the young teacher posted up in the two places the following notice: "evening school "i propose to start an evening school for those who are occupied during the day, and unable to attend the district school. instruction will be given in such english branches as may be desired, and also in latin and greek, if any are desirous of pursuing a classical course. the school will commence next monday evening at the schoolhouse, beginning at seven o'clock. terms: seventy cents a week, or five dollars for the term of ten weeks. "leonard morgan." "are you going to join the class, walton?" asked frank heath. "yes," said harry, promptly. "where'll you get the money?" asked luke harrison, in a jeering tone. "i shan't have to go far for it." "i don't see how you can spend so much money." "i am willing to spend money when i can get my money's worth," said our hero. "are you going?" "to school? no, i guess not. i've got through my schooling." "you don't know enough to hurt you, do you, luke?" inquired frank heath, slyly. "nor i don't want to. i know enough to get along." "i don't and never expect to," said harry. "do you mean to go to school when you're a gray-headed old veteran?" asked frank, jocosely. "i may not go to school then but i shan't give up learning then," said harry, smiling. "one can learn without going to school. but while i'm young, i mean to go to school as much as i can." "i guess you're right," said frank; "i'd go myself, only i'm too lazy. it's hard on a feller to worry his brain with study after he's been at work all day. i don't believe i was cut out for a great scholar." "i don't believe you were, frank," said joe bates. "you always used to stand pretty well down toward the foot of the class when you went to school." "a feller can't be smart as well as handsome. as long as i'm good-looking, i won't complain because i wasn't born with the genius of a bates." "thank you for the compliment, frank, though i suppose it means that i am homely. i haven't got any genius or education to spare." when monday evening arrived ten pupils presented themselves, of whom six were boys, or young men, and four were girls. leonard morgan felt encouraged. a class of ten, though paying but five dollars each, would give him fifty dollars, which would be quite an acceptable addition to his scanty means. "i am glad to see so many," he said. "i think our evening class will be a success. i will take your names and ascertain what studies you wish to pursue." when he came to harry; he asked, "what do you propose to study?" "i should like to take up algebra and latin, if you are willing," answered our hero. "have you studied either at all?" "no, sir; i have not had an opportunity." "how far have you been in arithmetic?" "through the square and cube root?" "if you have been so far, you will have no difficulty with algebra. as to latin, one of the girls wishes to take up that and i will put you in the class with her." it will be seen that harry was growing ambitious. he didn't expect to go to college, though nothing would have pleased him better; but he felt that some knowledge of a foreign language could do him no harm. franklin, whom he had taken as his great exemplar, didn't go to college; yet he made himself one of the foremost scientific men of the age and acquired enduring reputation, not only as a statesman and a patriot, but chiefly as a philosopher. a little later, leonard morgan came round to the desk at which harry was sitting. "i brought a latin grammar with me," he said, "thinking it probable some one might like to begin that language. you can use it until yours comes." "thank you," said harry; and he eagerly took the book, and asked to have a lesson set, which was done. "i can get more than that," he said. "how much more?" "twice as much." still later he recited the double lesson, and so correctly that the teacher's attention was drawn to him. "that's a smart boy," he said. "i mean to take pains with him. what a pity he can't go to college!" chapter xviii. lost, or stolen harry learned rapidly. at the end of four weeks he had completed the latin grammar, or that part of it which his teacher, thought necessary for a beginner to be familiar with, and commenced translating the easy sentences in "andrews' latin reader." "you are getting on famously, harry," said his teacher. "i never had a scholar who advanced so." "i wish i knew as much as you." "don't give me too much credit. when i compare myself with our professors, i feel dissatisfied." "but you know so much more than i do," said harry. "i ought to; i am seven years older." "what are you going to study, mr. morgan?" "i intend to study law." "i should like to be an editor," said harry; "but i don't see much prospect of it." "why not?" "an editor must know a good deal." "there are some who don't," said leonard morgan, with a smile. "however, you would like to do credit to the profession and it is certainly in these modern days a very important profession." "how can i prepare myself?" "by doing your best to acquire a good education; not only by study but by reading extensively. an editor should be a man of large information. have you ever practiced writing compositions?" "a little; not much." "if you get time to write anything, and will submit it to me, i will point out such faults as i may notice." "i should like to do that," said harry, promptly. "what subject shall i take?" "you may choose your own subject. don't be too ambitious but select something upon which you have some ideas of your own." "suppose i take my motto? 'live and learn.'" "do so, by all means. that is a subject upon which you may fairly be said to have some ideas of your own." in due time harry presented a composition on this subject. the thoughts were good, but, as might be expected, the expression was somewhat crude, and of course the teacher found errors to correct and suggestions to make. these harry eagerly welcomed and voluntarily proposed to rewrite the composition. the result was a very much improved draft. he sent a copy home and received in reply a letter from his father, expressing surprise and gratification at the excellence of his essay. "i am glad, harry," the letter concluded, "that you have formed just views of the importance of learning. i have never ceased to regret that my own opportunities for education were so limited and that my time has been so much absorbed by the effort to make a living, that i have been able to do so little toward supplying my deficiencies. even in a pecuniary way an education will open to you a more prosperous career, and lead, i hope, to competence, instead of the narrow poverty which has been my lot. i will not complain of my own want of success, if i can see my children prosper." but while intent upon cultivating his mind, harry had not lost sight of the great object which had sent him from home to seek employment among strangers. he had undertaken to meet the note which his father had given squire green in payment for the cow. by the first of december he had saved up thirty-three dollars toward this object. by the middle of january the note would come due. of course he had not saved so much without the strictest economy, and by denying himself pleasures which were entirely proper. for instance, he was waited upon by luke harrison on the first day of december, and asked to join in a grand sleighing excursion to a town ten miles distant, where it was proposed to take supper, and, after a social time, return late in the evening. "i would like to go," said harry, who was strongly, tempted, for he was by no means averse to pleasure; "but i am afraid i cannot. how much will it cost?" "three dollars apiece. that pays for the supper too." harry shook his head. it was for rum a week's wages. if he were not trying to save money for his father, he might have ventured to incur this expense, but he felt that under present circumstances it would not be best. "i can't go," said harry. "oh, come along," urged luke. "don't make such a mope of yourself. you'll be sure to enjoy it." "i know i should; but i can't afford it." "i never knew a feller that thought so much of money as you," sneered luke. "i suppose it looks so," said harry; "but it isn't true." "everybody says you are a miser." "i have good reasons for not going." "if you would come, it would make the expense lighter for the rest of us and you would have a jolly time." this conversation took place as they were walking home from the store in the evening. harry pulled out his handkerchief suddenly from his pocket and with it came his pocketbook, containing all his savings. he didn't hear if fall; but luke did, and the latter, moreover, suspected what it was. he did not call harry's attention to it, but, falling back, said: "i've got to go back to the store. i forgot something. good night!" "good night!" said harry, unsuspiciously. luke stooped swiftly while our hero's back was turned, and picked up the pocketbook. he slipped it into his own pocket, and, instead of going back to the store, went to his own room, locked the door, and then eagerly pulled out the pocketbook and counted the contents. "thirty-three dollars! what a miser that fellow is! it serves him right to lose his money." chapter xix. an unwelcome visitor luke harrison had picked up harry's pocketbook, and, though knowing it to be his, concealed the discovery upon the impulse of the moment. "what i find is mine," he said to himself. "of course it is. harry walton deserves to lose his money." it will be seen that he had already decided to keep the money. it looked so tempting to him, as his eyes rested on the thick roll of bills--for, though insignificant in amount, the bills were ones and twos, and twenty in number--that he could not make up his mind to return it. luke was fond of new clothes. he wanted to reestablish his credit with merrill, for he was in want of a new coat and knew that it would be useless to order one unless he had some money to pay on account. he decided to use a part of harry's money for this purpose. it would be better, however, he thought, to wait a day or two, as the news of the loss would undoubtedly spread abroad, and his order might excite suspicion, particularly as he had been in harry's company at the time the money disappeared. he therefore put the pocketbook into his trunk, and carefully locked it. then he went to bed. meanwhile, harry reached mr. leavitt's unconscious of the serious misfortune which had befallen him. he went into the sitting room and talked a while with mr. leavitt, and at ten o'clock took his lamp and went up to bed. while he was undressing he felt in his pocket for his money, intending to lock it up in his trunk as usual. his dismay may be conceived when he could not find it. poor harry sank into a chair with that sudden sinking of the heart which unlooked-for misfortune brings and tried to think where he could have left the pocketbook. that evening he found himself under the necessity of buying a necktie at the store, and so had taken it from his trunk. could he have left it on the counter? no; he distinctly remembered replacing it in his pocket. he felt the need of consulting with somebody, and with his lamp in his hand went downstairs again. "you haven't concluded to sit up all night, have you?" asked mr. leavitt, surprised at his reappearance. "are you sick, harry?" asked mrs. leavitt. "you're looking dreadfully pale." "i've lost my pocketbook," said harry.. "how much was there in it?" asked his employer. "thirty-three dollars," answered harry. "whew! that's a good deal of money to lose. i shouldn't want to lose so much myself. when did you have it last?" harry told his story, mr. leavitt listening attentively "and you came right home?" "yes." "alone." "no; luke harrison came with me." "are you two thick together?" "not at all. he doesn't like me, and i don't fancy him." "what was he talking about?" "he wanted me to join a sleighing party." "what did you say?" "i said i couldn't afford it. then he charged me with being a miser, as he often does." "did he come all the way home with you?" "no; he left me at deacon brewster's. he said he must go back to the store." "there is something queer about this," said mr. leavitt, shrewdly. "do you want my advice?" "yes; i wish you would advise me, for i don't know what to do." "then go to the store at once. ask, but without attracting any attention, if luke came back there after leaving you. then ask mr. meade, the storekeeper, whether he noticed you put back your pocketbook." "but i know i did." "then it will be well to say nothing about it, at least publicly. if you find that luke's excuse was false, and that he did not go back, go at once to his boarding place, and ask him whether he saw you drop the pocketbook. you might have dropped it and he picked it up." "suppose he says no?" "then we must watch whether he seems flush of money for the next few days." this seemed to harry good advice. he retraced his steps to the store, carefully looking for the lost pocketbook. but of course, it was not to be seen and he entered the store troubled and out of spirits. "i thought you went home, harry," said frank heath. "you see i am here again," said our hero. "time to shut up shop," said mr. meade, the storekeeper. "you boys will have to adjourn till to-morrow." "where's luke harrison?" asked frank heath. "didn't he go out with you?" "yes; but he left me some time ago. he came back here, didn't he?" "no; he hasn't been here since." "he spoke of coming," said harry. "he wanted me to join that sleighing party." "good night, boys," said the storekeeper, significantly. they took the hint and went out. their way lay in different directions, and they parted company. "now i must call on luke," said harry to himself. "i hope he found the pocketbook. he wouldn't be wicked enough to keep it." but he was not quite so sure of this as he would like to have been. he felt almost sick as he thought of the possibility that he might never recover the money which he had saved so gladly, though with such painful economy. it represented the entire cash earnings of eleven weeks. luke harrison boarded with a mr. glenham, a carpenter, and it was at his door that harry knocked. "is luke harrison at home?" he inquired of mrs. glenham, who opened the door. "at home and abed, i reckon," she replied. "i know it's late, mrs. glenham, but it is about a matter of importance that i wish to see luke." "i reckon it's about the sleighing party." "no, it is quite another thing. i won't stay but minute." "well, i suppose you can go up." harry went upstairs and knocked. ordinarily, luke would have been asleep, for generally he sank to sleep five minutes after his head touched the pillow; but to-night the excitement of his dishonest intention kept him awake, and he started uneasily when he heard the knock. "who's there?" he called out from the bed. "it's i--harry walton." "he's come about that pocketbook," thought luke. "i'm in bed," he answered. "i want to see you a minute, on a matter of importance." "come to-morrow morning." "i must see you now." "oh, well, come in, if you must," said luke. chapter xx. "you seem to be in an awful hurry to see me," said luke, grumbling. "i was just getting to sleep." "i've lost my pocketbook. have you seen it?" "have i seen it? that's a strange question. how should i have seen it?" "i lost it on the way from the store to the house." "do you mean to charge me with taking it?" "i haven't said anything of the sort," said harry; "but you were with me, and i thought you might have seen it drop out of my pocket." "did you drop it out of your pocket?" "i can't think of any other way i could lose it." "of course i haven't seen it. was that all you woke me up about?" "is that all? you talk as if it was a little thing losing thirty-three dollars." "thirty-three dollars!" repeated luke, pretending to be surprised. "you don't mean to say you've lost all that?" "yes, i do." "well," said luke, yawning, "i wish i could help you; but i can't. good night." "good night," said harry, turning away disappointed. "what success, harry?" inquired mr. leavitt, who had deferred going to bed in order to hear his report. "none at all," answered harry. "is there anything by which you can identify any of the bills?" "yes," answered harry, with sudden recollection, "i dropped a penful of ink on one of the bills--a two-dollar note--just in the center. i had been writing a letter, and the bill lay on the table near by." "good!" said mr. leavitt. "now, supposing luke has taken this money, how is he likely to spend it?" "at the tailor's, most likely. he is always talking about new clothes; but lately he hasn't had any because merrill shut down on him on account of an unpaid bill." "then you had better see merrill and ask him to take particular notice of any bills that luke pays him." "innocence must often be suspected, or guilt would never be detected. it is the only way to get on the track of the missing bills." harry saw that this was reasonable and decided to call on merrill the next day. "do you think luke took it?" asked the tailor. "i don't know. i don't like to suspect him." "i haven't much opinion of luke. he owes me a considerable bill." "he prefers your clothes to hayden's, and if he has the money, he will probably come here and spend some of it." "suppose he does, what do you want me to do?" "to examine the bills he pays you, and if you find an ink spot on the center of one let me know." "i understand. i think i can manage it." "my money was mostly in ones and twos." "that may help you. i will bear it in mind." two days afterwards, luke harrison met harry. "have you found your money, walton?" he asked. "no, and i am afraid i never shall," said our hero. "what do you think has become of it?" "that's just what i would like to find out," said harry. "the only thing you can do is to grin and bear it." "and be more careful next time." "of course." "he's given it up," said luke to himself. "i think i can venture to use some of it now. i'll go round to merrill's and see what he's got in the way of pants." accordingly he strolled into merrill's that evening. "got any new cloths in, merrill?" asked luke. "i've got some new cloths for pants." "that's just what i want." "you're owing me a bill." "how much is it?" "some over thirty dollars." "i can't pay it all, but i'll tell you what i'll do. i'll pay you fifteen dollars on account, and you can make me a new pair of pants. will that answer?" "all right. of course i'd rather you'd pay the whole bill. still i want to be accommodating." "let me look at your cloths." the tailor displayed a variety of cloths, one of which suited luke's fancy. "here's fifteen dollars," he said. "just credit me with that on the bill, will you?" "all right," said merrill. he proceeded to count the money, which consisted of consisted of ones and twos, and instantly came to the conclusion that it was from harry's missing pocketbook, particularly as he came upon the identical note with the blot in the center. unaware of the manner in which he had betrayed himself, luke felt quite complacent over his reestablished credit, and that without any expense to himself. "have you got any new cloth for coats?" he asked. "i shall have some new cloths in next week." "all right. when will you have the pants done?" "you may call round in two or three days." "just make 'em in style, merrill, and i'll send all my friends here." "very well. i hope you'll soon be able to pay me the balance of my bill." "oh, yes, to be sure. you won't have to wait long." he swaggered out of the shop, lighting a cigar. "my young friend," soliloquized the tailor, watching his exit, "you have walked into my trap neatly. colman,"--turning to a young man present at the time--"did you see luke harrison pay me this money?" "yes; to be sure." "do you see this blot on one of the bills--a two?" "yes; what of it?" "nothing. i only called your attention to it." "i don't see what there is strange about that. anybody might get ink on a bill, mightn't he?" "of course." colman was puzzled. he could not understand why he should have been called upon to notice such a trifle; but the tailor had his reasons. he wanted to be able to prove by colman's testimony that the blotted bill was actually put into his hands by luke harrison. chapter xxi. in the tailor's power "is that the bill you spoke of, walton?" asked the tailor, on harry's next visit to the shop. "yes," said harry, eagerly. "where did you get it?" "you can guess." "from luke harrison?" "yes; he paid me, last evening, fifteen dollars on account. this note was among those he paid me." "it is mine. i can swear to it." "the rest of the money was yours, no doubt." "what shall i do, mr. merrill?" "the money is yours, and i will restore it to you after seeing luke. i will send for him to be here at seven o'clock this evening." as luke was at work in his shop that day, the tailor's boy came in with a note. luke opened it and read as follows: "will you call at my shop at seven this evening about the pants you ordered? "henry merrill." "tell your father i'll come," said luke. at seven o'clock he entered the tailor's shop once more. "well, merrill, what do you want to see me about?" he asked. "have you cut the pants?" "no." "you haven't? i wanted you to go to work on them at once." "i know; but it was necessary to see you first." "why--didn't you take the measure right?" "luke," said mr. merrill, looking him steadily in the eye, "where did you get that money you paid me?" "where did i get the money?" repeated luke, flushing up. "what makes you ask me that question? isn't it good money? 'tisn't counterfeit, is it?" "i asked you where you got it from?" "from the man i work for, to be sure," said luke. "will you swear to that?" "i don't see the use. can't you take my word?" "i may as well tell you that harry walton recognizes one of the bills as a part of the money he lost." "he does, does he?" said luke, boldly. "that's all nonsense. bills all look alike." "this one has a drop of ink just in the center. he remembered having dropped a blot upon it." "what have i to do with that?" "it is hardly necessary to explain. the evening he lost the money you were with him. two days after, you pay me one of the bills which he lost," said the tailor. "do you mean to say i stole 'em?" demanded luke. "it looks like it, unless you can explain how you came by the blotted bill." "i don't believe i paid you the bill. very likely it was some one else." "i thought you would say that, so i called colman's attention to it. however, if your employer admits paying you the bills, of course you are all right." luke remembered very well that he was paid in fives, and that such an appeal would do him no good. "does walton know this?" he asked, sinking into a chair, and wiping the perspiration from his brow. "yes; he suspected you." "i'd like to choke him!" said luke, fiercely. "the miserly scoundrel!" "it seems to me he is justified in trying to recover his money. what have you done with the rest of it?" "tell me what will be done to me," said luke, sullenly. "i didn't steal it. i only picked it up when he dropped it. he deserves to lose it, for being so careless." "why didn't you tell him you had found it?" "i meant to give it to him after a while. i only wanted to keep it long enough to frighten him." "that was dangerous, particularly as you used it." "i meant to give him back other money." "i don't think that excuse will avail you in court." "court of justice!" repeated luke, turning pale. "he won't have me taken up--will he?" "he will unless you arrange to restore all the money." "i've paid you part of it." "that i shall hand over to him. have you the rest?" "i've spent a few dollars. i've got eight dollars left." "you had better give it to me." reluctantly, luke drew out his pocketbook and passed the eight dollars to mr. merrill. "now when will you pay the rest?" "in a few weeks," said luke. "that won't do. how much do you earn a week?" "fifteen dollars." "how much do you pay for board?" "four dollars." "then you will be able to pay eleven dollars at the end of this week." "i can't get along without money," said luke. "you will have to till you pay back the money, unless you prefer appearing before a court of justice." luke was just going out when the tailor called him back. "i believe you owe me thirty dollars. when are you going to pay it?" "i can't pay it yet a while," said luke. "i think you had better," said the tailor quietly. "i'll pay you as soon as i can." "you make eleven dollars a week over and above your board and spend it on drink, billiards and fast horses. you are fully able to pay for your clothes promptly and i advise you to do it." "i'll pay you as soon as i can." "if you neglect to do it, i may as well tell you that i shall let it be known that you stole walton's pocketbook." an expression of alarm overspread luke's face, and he hastily made the required promise. but he added, "i didn't steal it. i only found it." "the whole story would be told, and people might think as they pleased. but it is much better for you to avoid all this by paying your bills." luke harrison left the tailor's shop in a very unhappy and disgusted frame of mind. "if i had the sense to wait till it blew over," he said to himself, "i should have escaped all this: i didn't think merrill would act so mean. now i'm in for paying his infernal bill besides. it's too bad." just then he came upon frank heath, who hailed him. "luke, come and play a game of billiards." "if you'll promise not to beat me. i haven't got a cent of money." "you haven't? what have you done with those bills you had this afternoon?" "i've paid 'em over to merrill," said luke, hesitating. "he was in a deuced stew about his bill." "when are your pants going to be ready?" "i don't know," said luke, with a pang of sorrow. "merrill's making them, isn't he?" "he says he won't till i pay the whole bill." "seems to me your credit ain't very good, luke." "it's good enough, be he's hard up for money. i guess he's going to fail. if you'll lend me a couple of dollars, i'll go around and have a game." frank heath laughed. "you'll have to go to some one else, luke," he said. luke passed a disagreeable evening. cut off by his want of money from his ordinary amusements, and depressed by the thought that things would be no better till he had paid his bills, he lounged about, feeling that he was a victim of ill luck. it did not occur to him that that ill luck was of his own bringing. chapter xxii. the coming of the magician the week passed and luke carefully avoided our hero going so far as to cross the street so as not to meet him. on saturday evening, according to his arrangement, luke was to have paid the surplus of his wages, after meeting his board bill, to mr. merrill, for harry. but he did not go near him. on monday, the tailor meeting him, inquired why he had not kept his agreement. "the fact is," said luke, "i have been unlucky." "how unlucky?" "i had my wages loose in my pocket, and managed to lose them somehow." "that is very singular," said the tailor, suspiciously. "why is it singular?" asked luke. "didn't harry walton lose his money?" "you seem to have lost yours at a very convenient time." "it's hard on me," said luke. "owing so much, i want to pay as quick as i can, so as to have my wages to myself. don't you see that?" "where do you think you lost the money?" "i'm sure i don't know," said luke. "well," said merrill, dryly, "i hope you will take better care of your wages next saturday evening." "i mean to. i can't afford to lose anymore." "i don't believe, a word of what he says about losing his money," said the tailor, privately, to harry. "i think it's only a trick to get rid of paying you." "don't you think he'll pay me?" asked harry. "he won't if he can help it," was the answer. "he's a slippery customer. i believe his money is in his pocket at this moment." mr. merrill was not quite right; but it was only as to the whereabouts of the money. it was in luke's trunk. he intended to run away, leaving all his creditors in the lurch. this was the "new way to pay old debts," which occurred to luke as much the easiest. the next saturday evening, mr. merrill waited in vain for a call from his debtor. "what excuse will he have now?" he thought. on monday morning he learned that luke had left town without acquainting anyone with his destination. it transpired, also, that he was owing at his boarding house for two weeks' board. he was thus enabled to depart with nearly thirty dollars, for parts unknown. "he's a hard case," said mr. merrill to harry. "i am afraid he means to owe us for a long time to come." "where do you think he is gone?" asked harry. "i have no idea. he has evidently been saving up money to help him out of town. sometime we may get upon his track, and compel him to pay up." "that won't do me much good," said harry, despondently. and then he told the tailor why he wanted the money. "now," he concluded, "i shan't be able to have the money ready in time." "you'll have most of it ready, won't you?" "i think i will." "i would lend you the money myself," said the tailor, "but i've got a heavy payment to meet and some of my customers are slow pay, though i have not many as bad as luke harrison." "thank you, mr. merrill," said harry. "i am as much obliged to you as if you could lend the money." but it is said that misfortunes never come singly. the very next day mr. leavitt received a message from the wholesale dealer to whom he sold his shoes, that the market was glutted and sales slow. "i shall not want any more goods for a month or two," the letter concluded. "i will let you know, when i more." mr. leavitt read this letter aloud in the shop. "so it seems we are to have a vacation," he said. "that's the worst of the shoe trade. it isn't steady. when it's good everybody rushes into it, and the market soon gets overstocked. then there's no work for weeks." this was a catastrophe for which harry was no prepared. he heard the announcement with a grave face, for to him it was a serious calamity. twenty-three dollars were all that he had saved from the money lost and this would be increased by a dollar or two only, when he had settled up with mr. leavitt. if he stayed here did not obtain work, he must pay his board, and that would soon swallow up his money. could he get work in any other shop? that was an important question. "do you think i can get into any other shop in town?" he inquired anxiously of mr. leavitt. "you can try, harry; but i guess you'll find others no better off than i." this was not very encouraging, but harry determined not to give up without an effort. he devoted the next day to going around among the shoe shops; but everywhere he met with unfavorable answers. some had ready suspended. others were about to do so. "it seems as if all my money must go," thought harry, looking despondently at his little hoard. "first the ten dollars luke harrison stole. then work stopped. i don't know but it would be better for me to go home." but the more harry thought of this, the less he liked it. it would be an inglorious ending to his campaign. probably now he would not be able to carry out his plan of paying for the cow; but if his father should lose it, he might be able, if he found work, to buy him another squire green's cow was not the only cow in the world and all would not be lost if he could not buy her. "i won't give up yet," said harry, pluckily. "i must expect to meet with some bad luck. i suppose everybody does. something'll turn up for me if i try to make it." this was good philosophy. waiting passively for something to turn up is bad policy and likely to lead to disappointment; but waiting actively, ready to seize any chance that may offer, is quite different. the world is full of chances, and from such chances so seized has been based many a prosperous career. during his first idle day, harry's attention was drawn to a handbill which had been posted up in the store, the post office, the tavern, and other public places in the village. it was to this effect: "professor henderson, "the celebrated magician, "will exhibit his wonderful feats of magic and sleight of hand in the town hall this evening, commencing at o'clock. in the course of the entertainment he will amuse the audience by his wonderful exhibition of ventriloquism, in which he is unsurpassed. "tickets cents. children under twelve, cents." in a country village, where amusements are few, such entertainments occupy a far more important place than in a city, where amusements abound. "are you going to the exhibition, walton?" asked frank heath. "i don't know," said harry. "better come. it'll be worth seeing." in spite of his economy, our hero wanted to go. "the professor's stopping at the tavern. come over, and we may see him," said frank. chapter xxiii. the ventriloquist the boys went into the public room of the tavern. in the center was a stove, around which were gathered a miscellaneous crowd, who had assembled, as usual, to hear and talk over the news of the day. at the farther end of the room was a bar, where liquor and cigars were sold. the walls of the room, which was rather low-studded, were ornamented by sundry notices and posters of different colors, with here and there an engraving of no great artistic excellence--one representing a horse race, another a steamer of the cunard line, and still another, the presidents of the united states grouped together, with washington as the central figure. "have a cigar, walton?" asked frank heath. "no, thank you, frank." "you haven't got so far along, hey?" "i don't think it would do me any good," said harry. "maybe not; but jolly comfortable on a cold night. the worst of it is, it's mighty expensive." frank walked up to the bar and bought a ten-cent cigar. he returned and sat down on a settee. "the magician isn't here," said harry. "hush, he is here!" said frank, in a low voice, as the door opened, and a tall, portly man entered the room. professor henderson--for it was he--walked up the bar, and followed frank heath's example in the purchase of a cigar then he glanced leisurely round the apartment. apparently, his attention was fixed by our hero, for he walked up to him, and said: "young man, i would like to speak to you." "all right, sir," said harry, in surprise. "if you are not otherwise occupied, will you accompany me to my room?" "certainly, sir," returned harry, in fresh wonder. "perhaps he's going to take in walton as partner," frank heath suggested to tom frisbie. "i wonder what he want anyway?" said frisbie. "why didn't he take you?" "because i'm too sharp," said frank. "i should see through his tricks." meanwhile, harry had entered the professor's chamber. "sit down," said the magician. "i'll tell you what i want of you. i want you to take tickets at the door of hall to-night. can you do it?" "yes, sir," said harry, promptly. "it seems easy enough," said the professor; "but not everyone can do it rapidly without making mistakes. are you quick at figures?" "i am usually considered so," said our hero. "i won't ask whether you are honest, for you would so, of course." "i hope--" commenced harry. "i know what you are going to say; but there is no need of saying it," interrupted the magician. "i judge from your face, which is an honest one. i have traveled about a good deal, and i am a good judge of faces." "you shall not be disappointed, sir." "i know that, in advance. now, tell me if you are at work, or do you attend school?" "i have been at work in a shoe shop in this village, sir." "not now?" "no, sir; business is dull, and work has given out." "what are you going to do next?" "anything by which i can earn an honest living." "that's the way to talk. i'll take you into my employ, if you have no objection to travel." objection to travel! who ever heard of a boy of fifteen who had an objection to travel? "but will your parents consent? that is the next question. i don't want to entice any boys away from home against their parents' consent." "my parents do not live here. they live farther north, in the town of granton." "granton? i never was there. is it a large place?" "no, sir, it is a very small place. my father consented to have me leave home and he will have no objection to my earning my living in any honest way." "well, my young friend, i can assure you that my way is an honest one, though i frankly confess i do my best to deceive the people who come to my entertainments." "what is it you want me to do, sir?" "partly what you are going to do to-night--take tickets at the door; but that is not all. i have to carry about considerable apparatus and i need help about arranging it. sometimes, also, i need help in my experiments. i had a young man with me; but he is taken down with a fever and obliged to go home. it is not likely, as his health is delicate, that he will care to resume his position. i must have somebody in his place. i have no doubt you will answer my purpose." "how much pay do you give, sir?" "a practical question," said the professor, smiling. "to begin with, of course i pay traveling expenses, and i can offer you five dollars a week besides. will that be satisfactory?" "yes, sir," said harry, his heart giving a great throb of exultation as he realized that his new business would give him two dollars week more than his work in the shop, besides being a good deal more agreeable, since it would give him a chance to see a little of the world. "can you start with me to-morrow morning?" "yes, sir." "then it is settled. but it is time you were at the hall. i will give you a supply of small bills and, change, as you may have to change some bills." he drew from his side pocket a wallet, which he placed in the hands of our hero. "this wallet contains twenty dollars," he said: "of course you will bring me back that amount, in addition to what you take at the door this evening." "very well, sir." "you can wait for me at the close of the evening, and hand me all together. now go over to the hall, as the doors are to be open at half past seven o'clock." when frank heath and his companion went over to the town hall they found harry making change. "hello, walton!" said frank. "are you the treasurer of this concern?" "it seems so," said harry. "you'll let in your friends for nothing, won't you?" "not much. i charge them double price." "well here's our money. i say, tom, i wonder the old fellow didn't take me instead of walton." "that's easily told. you don't look honest enough." "oh, if it comes to that, he passed over you, too, tom." "he wouldn't insult a gentleman of my dignity. come on; there's room on the front seat." harry was kept busy till ten minutes after eight. by that time about all who intended to be present were in the hall and the magician was gratified by seeing that it was crowded. he was already well known in the village, having been in the habit of visiting it every for years and his reputation for dexterity, and especially for ventriloquism, had called out this large audience. the professor's tricks excited great wonder in the younger spectators. i will only dwell slightly on his ventriloquism. when he came to this part of the entertainment, he said: "will any young gentleman assist me?" frank heath immediately left his seat and took up his position beside the professor. "now, sir," said the professor, "i want to ask you a question or two. will you answer me truly?" a gruff voice appeared to proceed from frank's mouth, saying: "yes, sir." "are you married, sir?" again the same gruff voice answered: "yes, sir; i wish i wasn't;" to the great delight of the small boys. "indeed, sir! i hope your wife doesn't make it uncomfortable for you." "she licks me," frank appeared to answer. "i am sorry. what does she lick you with?" "with a broomstick." frank looked foolish and there was a general laugh. "i hope she doesn't treat you so badly very often, sir." "yes, she does, every day," was the answer. "if she knowed i was up here telling you, she'd beat me awful." "in that case, sir, i won't be cruel enough to keep you here any longer. take my advice, sir, and get a divorce." "so i will, by hokey!" and frank, amid hearty laughter, resumed his seat, not having uttered a word, the professor being responsible for the whole conversation. chapter xxiv. harry's letter during harry's absence, the little household at granton had got along about as usual. they lived from hand to mouth. it required sharp financiering to provide food and clothes for the little family. there was one neighbor who watched their progress sharply and this was squire green. it will be remembered that he had bound mr. walton to forfeit ten dollars, if, at the end of six months, he was not prepared to pay the forty dollars and interest which he had agreed to pay for the cow. it is a proof of the man's intense meanness that, though rich while his neighbor was poor, he was strongly in hopes that the latter would incur the forfeit and be compelled to pay it. one morning squire green accosted mr. walton, the squire being at work in his own front yard. "good morning, neighbor walton," he said. "good morning, squire." "how is that cow a-doin'?" "pretty well." "she's a good cow." "not so good as the one i lost." "you're jokin' now, neighbor. it was my best cow. i wouldn't have sold her except to obleege." "she doesn't give as much milk as my old one." "sho! i guess you don't feed her as well as i did." "she fares just as well as the other one did. of course, i don't know how you fed her." "she allers had her fill when she was with me. le' me see, how long is it since i sold her to ye?" though the squire apparently asked for information, he knew the time to a day and was not likely to forget. "it's between four and five months, i believe." "jus'so. you was to be ready to pay up at the end of six months." "that was the agreement." "you'd better be a-savin' up for it." "there isn't much chance of my saving. it's all i can do to make both ends meet." "you don't say so," said the squire, secretly pleased. "my farm is small and poor, and doesn't yield much." "but you work out, don't you?" "when i get a chance. you don't want any help, do you, squire? i might work off part of the debt that way." "mebbe next spring i'd like some help." "that will be too late to meet my note, unless you'll renew." "i'll see about it," said the squire, evasively. "what do you hear from that boy of yours? is he doin' well?" "he's at work in a shoe shop." "does it pay well?" "he doesn't get much just at first." "then he won't be able to pay for the cow," thought the squire. "that's what i wanted to know." "he'd better have gone to work for me," he said "no, i think he will do better away from home. he will get a good trade that he can fall back upon hereafter, even if he follows some other business." "wal, i never learned no trade but i've got along middlin' well," said the squire, in a complacent tone. "farmin's good enough for me." "i would say the same if i had your farm, squire. you wouldn't exchange, would you?" "that's a good joke, neighbor walton. when i make up my mind to do it. i'll let you know." "what a mean old curmudgeon he is!" thought hiram walton, as he kept on his way to the village store. "he evidently intends to keep me to my agreement and will exact the ten dollars in case i can't pay for the cow at the appointed time. it will be nothing but a robbery." this was not the day for a letter from harry but it occurred to mr. walton to call at the post office. contrary to his anticipations, a letter was handed him. "i won't open it till i get home," he said to himself. "i've got a letter from harry," he said, as he entered the house. "a letter from harry? it isn't his day for writing," said mrs. walton. "what does he say?" "i haven't opened the letter yet. here, tom, open and read it aloud." tom opened the letter and read as follows: "dear father:--i must tell you, to begin with, that i have been compelled to stop work in the shoe shop. the market is overstocked and trade has become very dull. "of course, i felt quite bad when mr. leavitt told me this, for i feared it would prevent my helping you pay for the cow, as i want so much to do. i went round to several other shops, hoping to get in, but i found it impossible. still, i have succeeded in getting something to do that will pay me better than work in the shop. if you were to guess all day, i don't believe you would guess what business it is. so, to relieve your suspense, i will tell you that i have engaged as assistant to professor henderson, the famous magician and ventriloquist and am to start to-morrow on a tour with him." "assistant to a magician!" exclaimed mrs. walton "what does the boy know about magic?" "it's a bully business," said tom, enthusiastically. "i only wish i was in harry's shoes. i'd like to travel round with a magician first-rate." "you're too thick-headed, tom," said marry. "shut up!" said tom. "i guess i'm as smart as you, any day." "be quiet, both of you!" said mr. walton. "now, tom, go on with your brother's letter." tom proceeded: "i am to take money at the door. we are going about in the southern part of the state and shall visit some towns in massachusetts, the professor says. you know i've never been round any and i shall like traveling and seeing new places. professor henderson is very kind and i think i shall like him. he pays my traveling expenses and five dollars a week, which is nearly twice as much money as i got from mr. leavitt. i can't help thinking i am lucky in getting so good a chance only a day after i lost my place in the shoe shop. i hope, yet, to be able to pay for the cow when the money comes due. "love to all at home. "harry." "harry's lucky," said mary. "he can get along." "he is fortunate to find employment at once," said his father; "though something which he can follow steadily is better. but the pay is good and i am glad he has it." "how long it seems since harry was at home," said his mother. "i wish i could see him." "yes, it would be pleasant," said mr. walton; "but the boy has his own way to make, so we will be thankful that he is succeeding so well." chapter xxv. a strange companion at ten o'clock the next day, harry presented himself at the hotel. he carried in his hand a carpetbag lent him by mr. leavitt, which contained his small stock of under-clothing. his outside suits he left at mr. leavitt's, not wishing to be encumbered with them while traveling. "i see you are on time," said the professor. "yes, sir; i always mean to be." "that's well; now if you'll jump into my buggy with me, we will ride round to the town hall and take in my apparatus. i have to keep a carriage," said the magician, as they rode along. "it saves me a great deal of trouble by making me independent of cars and stages." the apparatus was transferred to a trunk in the back part of the buggy and securely locked. "now we are all ready," said professor henderson, "would you like to drive?" "yes, sir," answered harry, with alacrity. "i am going to give an entertainment in holston this evening," said his new employer. "were you ever there?" "no, sir." "it is a smart little place and although the population is not large, i always draw a full house." "how far is it, sir?" "about six miles." harry was sorry it was not farther, as he enjoyed driving. his companion leaned back at his ease and talked on various subjects. he paused a moment and harry was startled by hearing a stifled child's voice just behind him: "oh, let me out! don't keep me locked up here!" the reins nearly fell from his hands. he turned and heard the voice apparently proceeding from the trunk. "what's the matter?" asked professor henderson. "i thought i heard a child's voice." "so you did," said the voice again. the truth flashed upon harry. his companion was exerting some of his powers as a ventriloquist. "oh, it is you, sir," he said, smiling. his companion smiled. "you are right," he said. "i don't see how you can do it," said harry. "practice, my boy." "but practice wouldn't make everybody a ventriloquist, would it?" "most persons might become ventriloquists, though in an unequal degree. i often amuse myself by making use of it for playing practical jokes upon people. "do you see that old lady ahead?" "yes, sir." "i'll offer her a ride. if she accepts, you'll see sport. i shall make you talk but you must be careful to say nothing yourself." a few rods farther on, they overtook an old woman. "good morning, ma'am," said the professor. "won't you get in and ride? it's easier riding than walking." the old women scanned his countenance and answered: "thank you, sir, i'm obleeged to ye. i don't mind if i do." she was assisted into the carriage and sat at one end of the seat, harry being in the middle. "i was going to see my darter, nancy," said the old women. "mrs. nehemiah babcock her name is. mebbe you know her husband." "i don't think i do," said the professor. "he's got a brother in boston in the dry goods business. mebbe you've been at his store." "mebbe i have." "i ginerally call to see my darter--her name is nancy--once a week; but it's rather hard for me to walk, now i'm getting' on in years." "you're most eighty, ain't you?" appeared to proceed from harry's mouth. our hero's face twitched and he had hard work to keep from laughing. "indeed, i'm not!" said the old lady, indignantly. "i'm only sixty-seven and folks say i don't look more'n sixty," and the old lady looked angrily at harry. "you must excuse him, ma'am," said the professor, soothingly. "he is no judge of a lady's age." "i should think not, indeed." "indeed, madam, you are very young looking." the old lady was pacified by this compliment but looked askance at harry. "is he your son?" "no, ma'am." the old lady sniffed, as if to say, "so much the better for you." "are you travelin' far?" asked the old lady. "what do you want to know for?" harry appeared to ask. "you're a sassy boy!" exclaimed the old woman. "harry," said professor henderson, gravely, "how often have i told you not to be so unmannerly?" "he orter be whipped," said the old lady. "ef i had a boy that was so sassy, i'd larn him manners!" "i'm glad i ain't your boy," harry appeared to reply. "i declare i won't ride another step if you let him insult me so," said the old woman, glaring at our hero. professor henderson caught her eye and significantly touched his forehead, giving her to understand that harry was only "half-witted." "you don't say so," she ejaculated, taking the hint at once. "how long's he been so?" "ever since he was born." "ain't you afraid to have him drive?" "oh, not at all. he understands horses as well as i do." "what's his name?" before the professor's answer could be heard, harry appeared to rattle off the extraordinary name: "george washington harry jefferson ebenezer popkins." "my gracious! has he got all them names?" "why not? what have you got to say about it, old women?" said the same voice. "oh, i ain't got no objection," said the old woman. "you may have fifty-'leven names ef you want to." "i don't interfere with his names," said the professor. "if he chooses to call himself--" "george washington harry jefferson ebenezer popkins," repeated the voice, with great volubility. "if he chooses to call himself by all those names, i'm sure i don't care. how far do you go, ma'am?" "about quarter of a mile farther." the professor saw that he must proceed to his final joke. "let me out! don't keep me locked up here!" said the child's voice, from behind, in a pleading tone. "what's that?" asked the startled old lady. "what's what?" asked the professor, innocently. "that child that wants to get out." "you must have dreamed it, my good lady." "no, there 'tis agin'," said the old lady, excited. "it's in the trunk behind you," said the assumed voice, appearing to proceed from our hero. "so 'tis," said the old lady, turning halfway round. "oh, i shall die! let me out! let me out!" "he's locked up his little girl in the trunk," harry seemed to say. "you wicked man, let her out this minute," said the old lady, very much excited. "don't you know no better than to lock up a child where she can't get no air?" "there is no child in the trunk, i assure you," said professor henderson, politely. "don't you believe him," said harry's voice. "do let me out, father!" implored the child's voice "if you don't open the trunk, i'll have you took up for murder," said the old lady. "i will open it to show you are mistaken." the professor got over the seat, and, opening the trunk, displayed its contents to the astonished old lady. "i told you that there was no child there," he said; "but you would not believe me." "le' me out," gasped the old woman. "i'd rather walk. i never heerd of such strange goin's on afore." "if you insist upon it, madam, but i'm sorry to lose your company. take this with you and read it." he handed her one of his bills, which she put in her pocket, saying she couldn't see to read it. when they were far enough off to make it safe, harry gave vent to his mirth, which he had restrained till this at difficulty and laughed long and loud. chapter xxvi. pages from the past "what will the old lady think of you?" said harry. "she will have a very bad opinion till she puts on her specs and read the bill. that will explain all. i shouldn't be surprised to see her at my entertainment." "i wonder if she'll recognize me," said harry. "no doubt; as soon as she learns with whom she rode, she'll be very curious to come and see me perform." "how old were you when you began to be a ventriloquist?" "i was eighteen. i accidentally made the discovery, and devoted considerable time to perfecting myself in it before acquainting anyone with it. that idea came later. you see when i was twenty-one, with a little property which i inherited from my uncle, i went into business for myself; but i was young and inexperienced in management, and the consequence was, that in about two years i failed. i found it difficult to get employment as a clerk, business being very dull at the time. while uncertain what to do, one of my friends, to whom i had communicated my power, induced me to give me a public entertainment, combining with it a few tricks of magic, which i had been able to pick up from books. i succeeded so well my vocation in life became professor henderson." "it must be great fun to be a ventriloquist." "so i regarded it at first. it may not be a very high vocation but i make the people laugh and so i regard myself as a public benefactor. indeed, i once did an essential service to a young man by means of my ventriloquism." "i should like very much to hear the story." "i will tell you. one day, a young man, a stranger, came to me and introduced himself under the name of paul dabney. he said that i might, if i would, do him a great service. his father had died the year previous, leaving a farm and other property to the value of fifteen thousand dollars. of course, being as only son, he expected that this would be left to himself, or, at least, the greater part of it. conceive his surprise, therefore, when the will came to be read, to find that the entire property was left to his uncle jonas, his father brother, who, for three years past, had been a member of the family. jonas had never prospered in life, and his brother, out of pity, had offered him an asylum on his farm. he had formerly been a bookkeeper and was an accomplished penman. "the will was so extraordinary--since paul and his father had always been on perfectly good terms--that the young man was thunderstruck. his uncle expressed hypocritical surprise at the nature of the will. "'i don't believe my father made that will,' exclaimed paul, angrily. "'what do you mean by that?' demanded the uncle. "his anger made paul think that he had hit upon the truth, particularly as his uncle was an adroit penman. "he carefully examined the will; but the writing so closely resembled his father's that he could see no difference. the witnesses were his uncle jonas and a hired man, who, shortly after witnessing the signature, had been discharged and had disappeared from the neighborhood. all this excited paul's suspicions. "his uncle offered him a home on the farm; but positively refused to give him any portion of the property. "'i sympathize with you,' i said at the conclusion of paul's story; 'but how can i help you?' "'i will tell you, sir,' he replied. 'you must know that my uncle jonas is very superstitious. i mean, through your help, to play upon his fears and thus induce him to give up the property to me.' "with this he unfolded his plan and i agreed to help him. his uncle lived ten miles distant. i procured a laborer's disguise and the morning after--paul having previously gone back--i entered the yard of the farmhouse. the old man was standing outside, smoking a pipe. "'can you give me work?' i asked. "'what kind of work?' inquired jonas. "'farm work,' i answered. "'how much do you want?' "'eight dollars a month.' "'i'll give you six,' he said. "'that's too little.' "'it's the most i'll give you.' "'then i'll take,' i replied, and was at once engaged. "delighted to get me so cheap, the sordid old man asked me no troublesome questions. i knew enough of farm work to get along pretty well and not betray myself. "that night i concealed myself in the old man's apartment without arousing his suspicions, paul helping me. after he had been in bed about twenty minutes, i thought it time to begin. accordingly i uttered a hollow groan. "'eh! what's that?' cried the old man, rising in bed. "'i am the spirit of your dead brother,' i answered, throwing my voice near the bed. "'what do you want?' he asked, his teeth chattering. "'you have cheated paul out of his property.' "'forgive me!' he cried, terror-stricken. "'then give him back the property.' "'the whole?' he groaned. "'yes, the whole.' "'are--are you really my brother?' "'i will give you this proof. unless you do as i order you, in three days you will be with me.' "'what, dead?' he said, shuddering. "'yes,' i answered in sepulchral a tone as possible. "'are--are you sure of it?' "'if you doubt it, disobey me.' "'i'll do it, but--don't come again.' "'be sure you do it then.' "i ceased to speak, being tired, and escaped as soon as i could. but the battle was not yet over. the next day gave jonas courage. afternoon came and he had done nothing. he was with me in the field when i threw a hollow voice, which seemed to be close to his ear. i said, 'obey, or in three days you die.' "he turned pale as a sheet and asked me if i heard anything. i expressed surprise and this confirmed him in his belief of the ghostly visitation. he went to the house, sent for a lawyer and transferred the entire property to his nephew. the latter made him a present of a thousand dollars and so the affair ended happily. paul paid me handsomely for my share in the trick and the next day i made an excuse for leaving the farm." "did the old man ever discover your agency in the affair, professor henderson?" "never. he is dead now and my friend paul is happily married, and has a fine family. his oldest boy is named after me. but here we are in holston." chapter xxvii. a mystifying performance the people of holston turned out in large numbers. among the first to appear was the old lady whom the professor had taken up on his way over. "you're the boy that was so sassy to me this mornin'," she said, peering at harry through her spectacles. "i didn't say a word to you," said harry. "i'm afraid you're tellin' fibs. i heerd you." "it was the professor. he put the words in my mouth." "well, come to think on't the voice was different from yours. then there wa'n't nobody in the trunk?" "no, ma'am," said harry, smiling. "it's wonderful, i declare for't. this is my darter, mrs. nehemiah babcock," continued the old lady. "nancy, this is the ventriloquer's boy. i thought he was sassy to me this mornin'; but he says he didn't speak a word. how much is to pay?" said the old lady. "i won't charge you anything," said harry. "professor henderson told me, if you came to let you in free, and any of your family." "really, now, that's very perlite of the professor," said the old lady. "he's a gentleman if ever there was one. do you hear, nancy, we can go in without payin' a cent. that's all on, account of your marm's being acquainted with the professor. i'm glad i come." the old lady and her party entered the hall, and being early, secured good seats. tom, her grandson, was glad to be so near, as he was ambitious to assist the professor in case volunteers were called for. "will any young gentleman come forward and assist me in the next trick?" asked the professor, after a while. tom started from his seat. his grandmother tried to seize him by the coat but he was too quick for her. "oh, let him go," said his mother. "he won't come to any harm." "is this your first appearance as a magician?" asked the professor. "yes, sir," answered tom, with a grin. "very good. i will get you to help me, but you mustn't tell anybody how the tricks are done." "no, sir, i won't." "as i am going trust you with a little money, i want to ask you whether you are strictly honest." "yes, sir." "i am glad to hear it. do you see this piece of gold?" "yes, sir." "what is its value?" "ten dollars," answered tom, inspecting it. "very good. i want you hold it for me. i give you warning that i mean to make it pass out of you hand." "i don't think you can do it, sir." "well, perhaps not. you look like a pretty sharp customer. it won't be easy to fool you." "you bet." "nancy," whispered the old lady to her daughter. "i hope you don't allow tom to talk so." "look, mother, see want he's going to do." "what i propose to do," said the professor, "is to make that coin pass into the box on the table. i may not be able to do it, as the young gentleman is on his guard. however, i will try. presto, change!" "it didn't go," said tom. "i've got it here." "have you? suppose you open your hand." tom opened his hand. "well, what have you got? is it the gold piece?" "no sir," said tom, astonished; "it's a cent." "then, sir, all i can say is, you have treated me badly. in order to prevent my getting the gold piece into the box, you changed it into a cent." "no, i didn't," said tom. "then perhaps i have succeeded, after all. the fact is, i took out the gold piece and put a penny in its place, so that you might not know the difference. now here is the key of that box. will you unlock it?" tom unlocked it, only to find another box inside. in fact, it was a perfect nest of boxes. in the very last of all was found the gold coin. "it's very strange you didn't feel it go out of your hand," said the professor. "i am afraid you are not quick enough to make a magician. can you fire a pistol?" "yes, sir," said tom. "will any lady lend me a ring?" asked the professor. one was soon found "i will load the pistol," said the professor, "and put the ring in with the rest of the charge. it appears to be rather too large. i shall have to hammer it down." he brought down a hammer heavily upon the ring and soon bent it sufficiently to get it into the pistol. "now, sir," he said, "take the pistol, and stand off there. all right, sir. when i give the word, i want you to fire. one, two, three!" tom fired, his grandmother uttering a half suppressed shriek at the report. when the smoke cleared away, the professor was holding the ring between his thumb and finger, quite uninjured. professor henderson's attention had been drawn to his companion of the morning. he observed that she had taken off her bonnet. he went up to her, and said, politely, "madam, will you kindly lend me your bonnet?" "massy sakes, what do you want of it?" "i won't injure it, i assure you." "you may take it, ef you want to," said the old lady; "but be keerful and don't bend it." "i will be very careful; but, madam," he said, in seeming surprise, "what have you got in it?" "nothing, sir." "you are mistaken. see there, and there, and there"; and he rapidly drew out three onions, four turnips, and a couple of potatoes. "really, you must have thought you were going to market." "they ain't mine," gasped the old lady. "then it's very strange how they got into your bonnet. and--let me see--here's an egg, too." "i never see sich doin's." "granny, i guess a hen made her nest in your bonnet," whispered tom. the old lady shook her head in helpless amazement. chapter xxvii. an unexpected payment a week later harry reached a brisk manufacturing place which i will call centreville. he assisted the professor during the afternoon to get ready the hall for his evening performance and, at half past five, took his seat at the supper table in the village hotel. just as harry began to eat, he lifted his eyes, and started in surprise as he recognized, in his opposite neighbor, luke harrison, whose abrupt departure without paying his debts the reader will remember. under the circumstances, it will not be wondered at that our hero's look was not exactly cordial. as for luke, he was disagreeably startled at harry's sudden appearance. not knowing his connection with professor henderson, he fancied that our hero was in quest of him and not being skilled in the law, felt a little apprehension as to what course he might take. it was best, he concluded to conciliate him. "how are you, walton?" he said. "i am well," said harry, coldly. "how do you happen to be in this neighborhood?" "on business," said harry, briefly. luke jumped to the conclusion that the business related to him and, conscious of wrong-doing, felt disturbed. "i'm glad to see you," he said. "it seems pleasant to see an old acquaintance"--he intended to say "friend." "you left us rather suddenly," said harry. "why, yes," said luke, hesitating. "i had reasons. i'll tell you about it after supper." as harry rose from the table, luke joined him. "come upstairs to my room, walton," he said, "and have a cigar." "i'll go upstairs with you; but i don't smoke." "you'd better learn. it's a great comfort." "do you board here?" "yes. i found i shouldn't have to pay any more than at a boarding house and the grub's better. here's my room. walk in." he led the way into a small apartment on the top floor. "this is my den," he said. "there isn't but one chair; but i'll sit on the bed. when did you reach town?" "about noon." "are you going to stop long?" asked luke. "i shall stay here till i get through with my errand," answered harry, shrewdly; for he saw what luke thought, and it occurred to him that he might turn it to advantage. luke looked a little uneasy. "by the way, walton," he said, "i believe i owe you a little money." "yes. i believe so." "i'm sorry i can't pay you the whole of it. it costs considerable to live, you know; but i'll pay part." "here are five dollars," he said. "i'll pay you the rest as soon as i can--in a week or two." harry took the bank note with secret self-congratulation, for he had given up the debt as bad, and never expected to realize a cent of it. "i am glad to get it," he said. "i have a use for all my money. are you working in this town?" "yes. the shoe business is carried on here considerably. are you still working for mr. leavitt?" "no; i've left him." "what are you doing, then?" "i'm traveling with professor henderson." "what, the magician?" "yes." "and is that what brought you to centreville?" "yes." luke whistled. "i thought--" he began. "what did you think?" "i thought," answered luke, evasively, "that you might be looking for work in some of the shoe shops here." "is there any chance, do you think?" "no, i don't think there is," said luke; for he was by no means anxious to have harry in the same town. "then i shall probably stay with the professor." "what do you do?" "take tickets at the door and help him beforehand with his apparatus." "you'll let me in free, to-night, won't you?" "that isn't for me to decide." "i should think the professor would let your friends go in free." "i'll make you an offer, luke," said he. "what is it?" "just pay me the rest of; that money to-night and i'll let you in free at my own expense." "i can't do it. i haven't got the money. if 'you'll give it back, i'll call it a dollar more and pay you the whole at the end of next week." "i'm afraid your calling it a dollar more wouldn't do much good," said harry, shrewdly. "do you doubt my word?" blustered luke, who had regained courage now that he had ascertained the real object of harry's visit and that it had no connection with him. "i won't express any opinion on that subject," answered harry; "but there's an old saying that a 'bird in the hand's worth two in the bush.'" "i hate old sayings." "some of them contain a great deal of truth." "what a fool i was to pay him that five dollars!" thought luke, regretfully. "if i hadn't been such a simpleton, i should have found out what brought him here, before throwing away nearly all i had." this was the view luke took of paying his debts. he regarded it as money thrown away. apparently, a good many young men are of a similar opinion. this was not, however, according to harry's code, and was never likely to be. he believed in honesty and integrity. if he hadn't, i should feel far less confidence in his ultimate success. "i think i must leave you," said harry, rising. "the professor may need me." "do you like him? have you got a good place?" "yes, i like him. he is a very pleasant man." "how does it pay?" "pretty well." "i wouldn't mind trying it myself. do you handle all the money?" "i take the money at the door." "i suppose you might keep back a dollar or so, every night, and he'd never know the difference." "i don't know. i never thought about that," said harry, dryly. "oh, i remember, you're one of the pious boys." "i'm too pious to take money that doesn't belong to me, if that's what you mean," said harry. this was a very innocent remark; but luke, remembering how he had kept harry's pocketbook, chose to interpret it as a fling to himself. "do you mean that for me?" he demanded, angrily. "mean what for you?" "that about keeping other people's money." "i wasn't talking about you at all. i was talking about myself." "you'd better not insult me," said luke, still suspicious. "i'm not in the habit of insulting anybody." "i don't believe in people that set themselves up to be so much better than everybody else." "do you mean that for me?" asked harry, smiling. "yes, i do. what are you going to do about it?" "nothing, except to deny that i make any such claims. shall you come round to the hall, to-night?" "perhaps so." "then i shall see you. i must be going now." he went out, leaving luke vainly deploring the loss of the five dollars which he had so foolishly squandered in paying his debt. chapter xxix. in the printing office "harry," said the professor, after breakfast the next morning, "i find we must get some more bills printed. you may go round to the office of the centreville gazette, and ask them how soon they can print me a hundred large bills and a thousand small ones." "all right, sir. suppose they can't have them done by the ready to start?" "they can send them to me by express." harry had never been in a printing office; but he had a great curiosity to see one ever since he had read the "life of benjamin franklin." if there was anyone in whose steps he thought he should like to follow, it was franklin, and franklin was a printer. he had no difficulty in finding the office. it was in the second story of a building, just at the junction of two roads near the center of the town, the post office being just underneath. he ascended a staircase, and saw on the door, at the head of the stairs: "centreville gazette" he opened the door and entered. he saw a large room, containing a press at the end, while two young men, with paper caps on their heads, were standing in their shirt sleeves at upright cases setting type. on one side there was a very small office partitioned off. within, a man was seen seated at a desk, with a pile of exchange papers on the floor, writing busily. this was mr. jotham anderson publisher and editor of the gazette. "i want to get some printing done," said harry, looking toward the journeymen. "go to mr. anderson," said one, pointing to the office. harry went in. the editor looked up as he entered. "what can i do for you?" he asked. "i want to get some printing done." "for yourself?" "no; for professor henderson." "i've done jobs for him before. what does he want?" our hero explained. "very well, we will do it." "can you have it done before two o'clock?" "impossible. i am just bringing out my paper." "when can you have the job finished?" "to-morrow noon." "i suppose that will do. we perform to-morrow at berlin and they can be sent over to the hotel there." "you say 'we,'" answered harry, amused. "i take tickets, and assist him generally." "how do you like the business?" "very well; but i should like your business better." "what makes you think so?" "i have been reading the 'life of benjamin franklin.' he was a printer." "that's true; but i'm sorry to say franklins are scarce in our printing offices. i never met one yet." "i shouldn't expect to turn out a franklins; but i think one couldn't help being improved by the business." "true again, though, of course, it depends on the wish to improve. how long have you been working for professor henderson?" "not long. only two or three weeks." "what did you do before?" "i was pegger in a shoe shop." "didn't you like it?" "well enough, for i needed to earn money and it paid me; but i don't think i should like to be a shoemaker all my life. it doesn't give any chance to learn." "then you like learning?" "yes. 'live and learn'--that is my motto." "it is a good one. do you mean to be a printer?" "if i get a chance." "you may come into my office on the first of april, if you like. one of my men will leave me by the first of may. if you are a smart boy, and really wish to learn the business, you can break in so as to be useful in four weeks." "i should like it," said harry; "but," he added, with hesitation, "i am poor, and could not afford to work for nothing while i was learning." "i'll tell you what i'll do, then," said the editor. "i'll give you your board for the first month, on condition that you'll work for six months afterwards for two dollars a week and board. that's a fair offer. i wouldn't make it if i didn't feel assured that you were smart, and would in time be valuable to me." "i'll come if my father does not object." "quite tight. i should not like to have you act contrary to his wishes. i suppose, for the present, you will remain with professor henderson." "yes, sir." "very well. let me hear from you when you have communicated with your father." harry left the office plunged in thought. it came upon him with surprise, that he had engaged himself to learn a new business, and that the one which he had longed to follow ever since he had become acquainted with franklin's early life. he realized that he was probably making immediate sacrifice. he could, undoubtedly, make more money in the shoe shop than in the printing office, for the present at least. by the first of april the shoe business obtain employment. but then he was sure he should like printing better, and if he was ever going to change, why, the sooner he made the change the better. when he returned to the hotel, he told the professor what he had done. "i am glad you are not going at once," said his employer, "for i should be sorry to lose you. i generally give up traveling for the season about the first of april, so that i shall be ready to release you. i commend your choice of a trade. many of our best editors have been practical printers in their youth." "i should like to be an editor, but i don't know enough." "not at present; but you can qualify yourself to become one--that is, if you devote you spare time to reading and studying." "i mean to do that." "then you will fair chance of becoming what you desire. to a certain extent, a boy, or young man, holds the future in his own hands." harry wrote to father, at once, in regard to the plan which he had in view. the answer did not reach him for nearly a week; but we will so far anticipate matters as to insert that part which related to it. "if you desire to be a printer, harry, i shall not object. it is a good trade, and you can make yourself, through it, useful to the community. i do not suppose it will ever make you rich. still, i should think it might, in time, give you a comfortable living--better, i hope, than i have been able to earn as a farmer. if you determine to win success, you probably will. if you should leave your present place before the first of april, we shall be very glad to have you come home, if only for a day or two. we all miss you very much--your mother, particularly. tom doesn't say much about it; but i know he will be as glad to see you as the rest of us." harry read this letter with great pleasure, partly because it brought him permission to do as he desired, and partly because it was gratifying to him to feel that he was missed at home. he determined, if it was a possible thing, to leave the professor a week before his new engagement, and spend that time in granton. chapter xxx. the young treasurer on the morning after receiving the letter from his father, harry came down to breakfast, but looked in vain for the professor. supposing he would be down directly, he sat down to the breakfast table. when he had nearly finished eating, a boy employed about the hotel came to his side. "that gentleman you're with is sick. he wants you to come to his room as soon as you are through breakfast." harry did not wait to finish, but got up from the table at once, and went up to his employer's room. "are you sick, sir?" he inquired, anxiously. the professor's face was flushed, and he was tossing about in bed. "yes," he answered. "i am afraid i am threatened with a fever." "i hope not, sir." "i am subject to fevers; but i hope i might not have another for some time to come. i must have caught cold yesterday, and the result is, that i am sick this morning." "what can i do for you, sir?" "i should like to have you go for the doctor. inquire of the landlord who is the best in the village." "i will go at once." on inquiry, our hero was informed that dr. parker was the most trusted physician in the neighborhood, and he proceeded to his house at once. the doctor was, fortunately, still at home, and answered the summons immediately. he felt the sick man's pulse, asked him a variety of questions, and finally announced his opinion. "you are about to have a fever," he said, "if, indeed, the fever has not already set in." "a serious fever, doctor?" asked the sick man, anxiously. "i cannot yet determine." "do you think i shall be long sick?" "that, also, is uncertain. i suppose you will be likely to be detained here a fortnight, at least." "i wish i could go home." "it would not be safe for you to travel, under present circumstances." "if i were at home, i could be under my wife's care." "can't she come here?" "she has three young children. it would be difficult for her to leave them." "who is the boy that called at my house?" "harry walton. he is my assistant--takes money at the door, and helps me other ways." "is he trustworthy?" "i have always found him so." "why can't he, attend upon you?" "i mean to retain him with me--that is, if he will stay. it will be dull work for a boy of his age." "you can obtain a nurse, besides, if needful." "you had better engage one for me, as i cannot confine him here all the time." "i will do so. i know of one, skillful and experienced, who is just now at leisure. i will send her round here this morning." "what is her name?" "not a very romantic one--betsy chase." "i suppose that doesn't prevent her being a good nurse," said the professor, smiling. "not at all." here harry entered the room. "harry," said the professor, "the doctor tells me i am going to be sick." "i am very sorry, sir," said our hero, with an air of concern. "i shall probably be detained here at least a fortnight. are you willing to remain with me?" "certainly, sir. i should not think of leaving you, sick and alone, if you desired me to stay. i hope i can make myself useful to you." "you can. i shall need you to do errands for me, and to sit with me a part of the time." "i shall be very willing to do so, sir." "you will probably find it dull." "not so dull as you will find it, sir. the time must seem very long to you, lying on that bed." "i suppose it will; but that can't be helped." "a nurse will be here this afternoon," said the doctor. "until she comes, you will be in attendance here." "yes, sir." "i will direct you what to do, and how often to administer the medicines. can remember?" "yes, sir, i shall not forget." dr. parker here gave harry minute instructions, which need not be repeated, since they were altogether of a professional nature. after the doctor was gone, professor henderson said: "as soon as the nurse comes, i shall want you to ride over to the next town, carmansville, and countermand the notices for an exhibition to-night. i shall not be able to give entertainments for some time to come. indeed, i am not sure but i must wait till next season." "how shall i go over?" asked harry. "you may get a horse and buggy at the stable, and drive over there. if i remember rightly, it is between little seven and eight miles. the road is a little winding, but i think you won't lose your way." "oh, i'll find it," said harry, confidently. it was not till three o'clock that the nurse made her appearance, and it was past three before harry started on his way. "you need not hurry home," said the professor. "in fact, you had better take supper at the hotel in carmansville, as you probably could not very well get back here till eight o'clock." "very well, sir," said harry. "but shan't you need me?" "no; miss chase will attend to me." "mrs. chase, if you please," said the nurse. "i've been a widder for twenty years." "i beg your pardon, mrs. chase," said the sick man smiling. "when my husband was alive, i never expected to go out nursin'; but i've had come to it." "the doctor says you are a very skillful and experienced nurse." "i'd ought to be. i've nussed people in almost all sorts of diseases, from measles to smallpox. you needn't be frightened, sir; i haven't had any smallpox case lately. isn't it most time to take your medicine?" harry left the room, and was soon on his way to carmansville. once he got off the road, which was rather a perplexing one, but he soon found it again. however, it was half past five before he reached the village, and nearly an hour later before he had done the errand which brought him over. finally, he came back to the tavern, and being by this time hungry, went in at once to the tavern, and being by this time hungry, went in at once to supper. he did full justice to the meal which was set before him. the day was cold, and his ride had stimulated his appetite. when he sat down to the table he was alone; but a minute afterward a small, dark-complexioned man, with heavy black whiskers, came in, and sat down beside him. he had a heavy look, and a forbidding expression; but our hero was too busy to take particular notice of him till the latter commenced a conversation. "it's a pretty cold day," he remarked. "very cold," said harry. "i am dreading my ride back to pentland." "are you going to pentland to-night?" asked the stranger, with interest. "yes, sir." "do you live over there?" "no; i am there for a short time only," harry replied. "business?" "yes." "you seem rather young to be in business," said the stranger. "oh," said harry, smiling, "i am in the employ of professor henderson, the ventriloquist. i suppose it is hardly proper to say that i am in business." "professor henderson! why, he is going to give an entertainment here to-night, isn't he?" "he was; but i have come over to countermand the notice." "what is that for?" "he is taken sick at pentland, and won't be able to come." "oh, that's it. well, i'm sorry, for i should like to have gone to hear him. so you are his assistant, are you?" "yes, sir." "can you perform tricks, too?" "i don't assist him in that way. i take money at the door, and help him with his apparatus." "have you been with him long?" "only a few weeks." "so you are his treasurer, are you?" asked the stranger smiling. "ye--es," said harry, slowly, for it brought to his mind that he had one hundred and fifty dollars of the professor's money in his pocket, besides the pocketbook containing his own. he intended to have left it with his employer, but in the hurry of leaving he had forgotten to do so. now he was about to take a long ride in the evening with this large sum of money about him. "however," he said, reassuring himself, "there is nothing to be afraid of. country people are not robbers. burglars stay in the cities. i have nothing to fear." still he prudently resolved, if compelled to be out late again, to leave his money at home. he rose from table, followed by the stranger. "well," said the latter, "i must be going. how soon do you start?" "in a few minutes." "well, good night." "good night." "he seems inclined to be social," thought harry, "but i don't fancy him much." chapter xxxi. harry was soon on his way home. it was already getting dark, and he felt a little anxious lest he should lose his way. he was rather sorry that he had not started earlier, though he had lost no time. he had gone about two miles, when he came to a place where two roads met. there was no guideboard, and he could not remember by which road he had come. luckily, as he thought, he described a man a little ahead. he stopped the horse, and hailed him. "can you tell me which road to take to pentland?" he asked. the man addressed turned his head, and, to his surprise, our hero recognized his table companion at the inn. "oh, it's you, my young friend!" he said. "yes, sir. can you tell me the right road to pentland? i have never been this way before to-day, and i have forgotten how i came." "i am thinking of going to pentland myself," said the other. "my sister lives there. if you don't mind giving me a lift, i will jump in with you, and guide you." now, though harry did not fancy the man's appearance, he had no reason to doubt him, nor any ground for refusing his request. "jump in, sir," he said. "there is plenty of room." the stranger was speedily seated at his side. "take the left-hand road," he said. harry turned to his left. "it's rather a blind road," observed the stranger. "i think i could remember in the daytime," said harry; "but it is so dark now, that i am in doubt." "so i suppose." the road on which they had entered was very lonely. scarcely a house was passed, and the neighborhood seemed quite uninhabited. "i don't remember this road," said harry, anxiously. "are you sure we are right?" "yes, yes, we are right. don't trouble yourself." "it's a lonely road." "so it is. i don't suppose there's anybody lives within half a mile." "the road didn't seem so lonely when i came over it this afternoon." "oh, that's the effect of sunshine. nothing seems lonely in the daytime. turn down that lane." "what for?" asked harry, in surprise. "that can't be the road to pentland." "never mind that. turn, i tell you." his companion spoke fiercely, and harry's mind began to conceive alarming suspicions as to his character. but he was brave, and not easily daunted. "the horse and carriage are mine, or, at least, are under my direction," he said, firmly, "and you have no control over them. i shall not turn." "won't you?" retorted the stranger, with an oath, and drew from his pocket a pistol. "won't you?" "what do you mean? who are you?" demanded harry. "you will find out before i get through with you. now turn into the lane." "i will not," said harry, pale, but determined. "then i will save you the trouble," and his companion snatched the reins from him, and turned the horse himself. resistance was, of course, useless, and our hero was compelled to submit. "there, that suits me better. now to business." "to business. produce your pocketbook." "would you rob me?" asked harry, who was in a measure prepared for the demand. "oh, of course not," said the other. "gentlemen never do such things. i want to burrow your money, that is all." "i don't want to lend." "i dare say not," sneered the other; "but i shan't be able to respect your wishes. the sooner you give me the money the better." harry had two pocketbooks. the one contained his own money--about forty dollars--the other the money of his employer. the first was in the side pocket of his coat, the second in the pocket of his pants. the latter, as was stated in the preceding chapter, contained one hundred and fifty dollars. harry heartily repented not having left it behind, but it was to late for repentance. he could only hope that the robber would be satisfied with one pocketbook, and not suspect the existence of the other. there seemed but little hope of saving his own money. however, he determined to do it, if possible. "hurry up," said the stranger, impatiently. "you needn't pretend you have no money. i know better than that. i saw you pay the landlord." "then he saw the professor's pocketbook," thought harry, uneasily. "mine is of different appearance. i hope he won't detect the difference." "i hope you will leave me some of the money," said harry, producing the pocketbook. "it is all i have." "how much is there?" "about forty dollars." "humph! that isn't much." "it is all i have in the world." "pooh! you are young and can soon earn some more. i must have the whole of it." "can't you leave me five dollars?" "no, i can't. forty dollars are little enough to serve my turn." so saying, he coolly deposited the pocketbook in the pocket of his pants. "so far so good. it's well, youngster, you didn't make any more fuss, or i might have had to use my little persuader;" and he displayed the pistol. "will you let me go now, sir?" "i have not got through my business yet. that's a nice overcoat of yours." harry looked at him, in doubt as to his meaning, but he was soon enlightened. "i am a small person," proceeded the man with black whiskers, "scarcely any larger than you. i think it'll be a good fit." "must i lose my overcoat, too?" thought harry, in trouble. "you've got an overcoat of your own, sir," he said. "you don't need mine." "oh, i wouldn't rob you of yours on any account. a fair exchange is no robbery. i am going to give you mine in exchange for yours." the stranger's coat was rough and well worn, and, at its best, had been inferior to harry's coat. our hero felt disturbed at the prospect of losing it, for he could not tell when he could afford to get another. "i should think you might be satisfied with the pocketbook," he said. "i hope you will leave me my coat." "off with the coat, youngster!" was the sole reply. "first, get out of the buggy. we can make the exchange better outside." as opposition would be unavailing, harry obeyed. the robber took from him the handsome overcoat, the possession of which had afforded him so much satisfaction, and handed him his own. in great disgust and dissatisfaction our hero invested himself in it. "fits you as if it was made for you," said the stranger, with a short laugh. "yours is a trifle slow for me, but i can make it go. no, don't be in such a hurry." he seized harry by the arm as he was about to jump into the carriage. "i must go," said harry. "you have already detained me some time." "i intend to detain you some time longer." "have you got any more business with me?" "yes, i have. you've hit it exactly. you'll soon know what it is." he produced a ball of cord from a pocket of his inside coat, and with a knife severed a portion. "do you know what this is for?" he asked, jeeringly. "no." "say, 'no, sir.' it's more respectful. well, i'll gratify your laudable curiosity. it's to tie your hands and feet." "i won't submit to it," said harry, angrily. "won't you?" asked the other, coolly. "this is a very pretty pistol, isn't it? i hope i shan't have to use it." "what do you want to tie my hands for?" asked harry. "for obvious reasons, my young friend." "i can't drive if my hands are tied." "correct, my son. i don't intend you to drive tonight. give me your hands." harry considered whether it would be advisable to resist. the stranger was not much larger than himself. he was a man, however, and naturally stronger. besides, he had a pistol. he seceded that it was necessary to submit. after all, he had saved his employer's money, even if he had lost his own, and this was something. he allowed himself to be bound. "now," said the stranger, setting him up against the stone wall, which bordered the lane, "i will bid you good night. i might take your horse, but, on the whole, i don't want him. i will fasten him to this tree, where he will be all ready for you in the morning. that's considerate in me. good night. i hope you are comfortable." he disappeared in the darkness, and harry was left alone. chapter xxxii. the good samaritan harry's reflections, as he sat on the ground were not the most cheerful. he was sitting in a constrained posture, his hands and feet being tied, and, moreover, the cold air chilled him. the cold was not intense, but as he was unable to move his limbs he, of course, felt it the more. "i suppose it will get colder," thought harry, uncomfortably. "i wonder if there is any danger of freezing." the horse evidently began to feel impatient, for he turned round and looked at our hero. "why don't you keep on?" "i wish somebody would come this way," thought harry, and he looked up and down the lane as well as he could, but could see no one. "if i could only get at my knife," said harry, to himself, "i could cut theses cords. let me try." he tried to get his hands into his pockets, but it was of no avail. the pocket was too deep, and though he worked his body round, he finally gave it up. it seemed likely that he must stay here all night. the next day probably some one would come by, as they were so near a public road, upon whom he could call to release him. "the night will seem about a week long," poor harry considered. "i shan't dare to go to sleep, for fear i may freeze to death." the horse whinnied again, and again looked inquiringly at his young driver, but the latter was not master of the situation, and was obliged to disregard the mute appeal. "i wonder the robber didn't carry off the horse," thought harry. "i suppose he had his reasons. it isn't likely he left him out of his regard for me." two hours passed, and harry still found himself a prisoner. his constrained position became still more uncomfortable. he longed for the power of jumping up and stretching his legs, now numb and chilled, but the cord was strong, and defied his efforts. no person had passed, not had he heard any sound as he lay there, except the occasional whinny of the horse which was tied as well as himself, and did not appear to enjoy his confinement any better. it was at this moment that harry's heart leaped with sudden hope, as he heard in the distance the sound of a whistle. it might be a boy, or it might be a man; but, as he listened intently, he perceived that it was coming nearer. "i hope i can make him hear," thought harry, earnestly. it was a boy of about his own age, who was advancing along the road from which he had turned into the lane. the boy was not alone, as it appeared, for a large dog ran before him. the dog first noticed the horse and buggy, and next our hero, lying on the ground, and, concluding that something was wrong, began to bark violently, circling uncomfortably near harry, against whom he seemed to cherish hostile designs. "what's the matter, caesar?" shouted his young master. "good dog!" said harry, soothingly, in momentary fear that the brute would bite him. but caesar was not to be cajoled by flattery. "bow, wow, wow!" he answered, opening his large mouth, and displaying a formidable set of teeth. "good dog! i'd like to choke him!" added harry, in an undertone to himself. there was another volley of barks, which seemed likely to be followed by an attack. just at this moment, however, luckily for our hero, the dog's master came up. "why, caesar," he called, "what is the matter with you?" "please take your dog away," said harry. "i am afraid he will bite me." "who are you?" inquired the boy, in surprise. "come and untie these cords, and i will tell you." "what! are you tied?" "yes, hand and foot." "who did it?" asked the boy, in increasing surprise. "i don't know his name, but he robbed me of my pocketbook before doing it." "what, a robber around here!" exclaimed the boy, incredulous. "yes; i met him first over in carmansville. thank you; now my feet if you please. it seems good to be free again;" and harry swung his arms, and jumped up and down to bring back the sense of warmth to his chilled limbs. "is this horse yours?" asked the boy. "yes; i took up the man and he promised to show me the road to pentland." "this isn't the road to pentland." "i suppose not. he took me wrong on purpose." "how much money did he take from you?" "forty dollars." "that's a good deal," said the country boy. "was it yours?" "yes." "i never had so much money in my life." "it has taken me almost six months to earn it. but i had more money with me, only he didn't know it." "how much?" "a hundred and fifty dollars." "was it yours?" asked the boy, surprised. "no; it belonged to my employer." "who is he?" "professor henderson, the ventriloquist." "where is he stopping?" "over at pentland. he is sick at the hotel there." "it's lucky for you i was out to-night. i ain't often out so late but i went to see a friend of mine, and stayed later than i meant to." "do you live near here?" "i live about a quarter of a mile up this lane." "do you know what time it is?" "i don't know, but i think it is past ten." "i wonder whether i can get anybody to go with me to pentland. i can't find my way in the dark." "i will go with you to-morrow morning." "but what shall i do to-night?" "i'll tell you. come home with me. the folks will take you in, and the horse can be put up in the barn." harry hesitated "i suppose they will feel anxious about me over at pentland. they won't know what has become of me." "you can start early in the morning--as early as you like." "perhaps it will be better," said harry, after a pause. "it won't trouble your family too much, will it?" "not a bit," answered the boy, heartily. "very likely they won't know till morning," he added, laughing. "they go to bed early, and i told them they needn't wait up for me." "i am very much obliged to you," said harry. "i will accept your kind invitation. as i've got a horse, we may as well ride. i'll untie him, and you jump into the buggy." "all right," said the boy, well pleased. "you may drive, for you know the way better than i." "where did this horse come from?" "from the stable in pentland." "perhaps they will think you have run away with it." "i hope not." "what is your name?" "harry walton. what is yours?" "jefferson selden. the boys usually call me jeff." "is that your dog?" "yes. he's a fine fellow." "i didn't think so when he was threatening to bite me," said harry laughing. "i used to be afraid of dogs," said jeff; "but i got cured of it after a while. when i go out at night, i generally take caesar with me. if you had had him, you would have been a match for the robber." "he had a pistol." "caesar would have had him down before he could use it." "i wish he had been with me, then." they had, by this time, come in sight of jeff's house. it was a square farmhouse, with a barn in the rear. "we'll go right out to the barn," said jeff, "and put up the horse. then we'll come back to the house and go to bed." there was a little difficulty in unharnessing the horse, on account of the absence of light; but at last, by a combined effort, it was done, and the buggy was drawn into the barn and the doors shut. "there, all will be safe till to-morrow morning," said jeff. "now we'll go into the house." he entered by the back shed door, and harry followed him. they went into the broad, low kitchen, with its ample fireplace, in which a few embers were glowing. by these jeff lighted a candle, and asked harry if he would have anything to eat. "no, thank you," said harry. "i ate a hearty supper at carmansville." "then we'll go upstairs to bed. i sleep in a small room over the shed. you won't mind sleeping with me?" "i should like your company," said harry, who was attracted to his good-natured companion. "then come up. i guess we'll find the bed wide enough." he led the way up a narrow staircase, into a room low studded, and very plainly but comfortably furnished. "the folks will be surprised to see you here in the morning," said jeff. "i may be gone before they are up." "i guess not. father'll be up by five o'clock, and i think that'll be as early as you'll want to be stirring." chapter xxxiii. the reward of fidelity "where am i?" asked harry, the next morning, as he sat up in bed and stared around him. "don't you remember?" asked jeff, smiling. jeff was standing by the bedside, already dressed. "yes; i remember now," said harry, slowly. "what time is it?" "seven o'clock." "seven o'clock! i meant to be dressed at six." "that is the time i got up," said jeff. "why didn't you wake me up?" "you looked so comfortable that i thought it was a pity to wake you. you must have felt tired." "i think it was the cold that made me sleepy. i got chilled through when i lay on the ground there, tied hand and foot. but i must get up in hurry now." he jumped out of bed, and hurried on his clothes. "now," said jeff, "come down into the kitchen, and mother'll give you some breakfast." "i am giving you a great deal of trouble, i am afraid," said harry. "no, you're not. it's no trouble at all. the rest of the family have eaten breakfast, but i waited for you. i've been up an hour, and feel as hungry as a wolf. so come down, and we'll see who'll eat the most." "i can do my part," said harry. "i've got a good appetite, though i've been up a food deal less than an hour." "take your overcoat alone," said jeff; "or will you come up and get after breakfast?" "i'll take it down with me. it isn't my coat, you know. mine was a much better one. i wish i had it back." jeff, meanwhile, had taken up the coat. "there's something in the pocket," he said. "what is it?" "i didn't put anything in." harry thrust his hand into the side pocket for the first time, and drew out a shabby leather wallet. "perhaps there's money in it," jeff suggested. the same thought had occurred to harry. he hastily opened it, and his eyes opened wide with astonishment as he drew out a thick roll of bills. "by hokey!" said jeff, "you're in luck. the robber took your pocketbook, and left his own. maybe there's as much as you lost. count it." this harry eagerly proceeded to do. "three--eight--eleven--thirteen--twenty," he repeated, aloud. he continued his count, which resulted in showing that the wallet contained ninety-seven dollars. "ninety-seven dollars!" exclaimed jeff. "how much did you lose?" "forty dollars." "then you've made just fifty-seven dollars. bully for you!" "but i've exchanged a good overcoat for a poor one." "there can't be more than seventeen dollars difference." "not so much." "then you're forty dollars better off, at any rate." "but i don't know as i can claim this money," said harry, doubtfully. "it isn't mine." "he won't be likely to call for it. when he does, and returns you the money and the coat, it will be time to think about it." "i will ask professor henderson about that. at any rate i've got my money back, that's one good thing." this timely discovery made harry decidedly cheerful, and, if anything, sharpened his appetite for breakfast. now mr. selden had gone out to oversee some farm work; but mrs. selden received out hero very kindly, and made him feel that he was heartily welcome to that she could offer. she had many questions to ask about the bold robber who had waylaid him, and expressed the hope that he had left the neighborhood. "perhaps he'll come back for his wallet, harry," said jeff. "you'd better look out for him." "i shall take care how i carry much money about with me, after this," said harry. "that was what got me into a scrape yesterday." "he wouldn't make out much if he tried to rob me," said jeff. "i haven't got money enough about me to pay the board of a full-grown fly for twenty-four hours." "you don't look as if your poverty troubled you much," said his mother. "i don't have any board bills to pay," said jeff, "so i can get along." "i should think you would feel nervous about riding to pentland alone," said mrs. selden, "for fear of meeting the man who robbed you yesterday." "i do dread it a little," said harry, "having so much money about me. besides this ninety-seven dollars, i've got a hundred and fifty dollars belonging to my employer." "suppose i go with you to protect you," said jeff. "i wish you would." "i don't think jefferson would make a very efficient protector," said his mother. "you don't know how brave i am, mother," said jeff, in the tone of an injured hero. "no, i don't," said his mother, smiling. "i believe there was a time when you were not very heroic in the company of dogs." "that's long ago, mother. i've got over it now." "if you would like to ride over with your friend, you may do so. but how will you get back?" "major pinkham will be up there this afternoon. i can wait, and ride home with him." "very well; i have no objection." the two boys rode off together. harry was glad to have a companion who knew the road well, for he did not care to be lost again till he had delivered up the money which he had in charge. there was no opportunity to test jeff's courage, for the highwayman did not make his appearance. indeed, it was not till the next morning that he discovered the serious blunder he had made in leaving his own wallet behind, and, though he was angry and disgusted, prudential considerations prevented his going back. he was forced to the unpleasant conviction that he had overreached himself, and that his intended victim had come out best in the "exchange" which "was no robbery." i may as well add here that, though he deserved to be caught, he was not, and harry has never, to this day, set eyes either upon him or upon the coat. when harry arrived at pentland, he found that no little anxiety had been felt about him. "has harry come yet?" asked the sick man, at ten o'clock the evening previous. "no, he hasn't," answered the nurse. "it's strange what keeps him." "did he have any money of yours with him?" "yes, i believe he had." "oh!" ejaculated mrs. chase, significantly. "what do you mean by that?" "i didn't say anything, did i?" "i am afraid he may have been attacked and robbed on the road." mrs. chase coughed. "don't you think so?" "i'll tell you what i think, professor," said the nurse, proceeding to speak plainly, "i don't think you'll ever see anything of that boy ag'in." "why not?" "it ain't safe to trust boys with money," she answered, sententiously. "oh, i'm not afraid of his honesty." "you don't say! maybe you haven't seen as much of boys as i have." "i was once a boy myself," said the professor, smiling. "oh, you--that's different." "why is it different? i wasn't any better than boys generally." "i don't know anything about that; but you mark my words--as like as not he's run away with your money. how much did he have?" "i can't say exactly. over a hundred dollars, i believe." "then he won't come back," said mrs. chase, decidedly. here the conference closed, as it was necessary for mr. henderson to take medicine. "has the boy returned?" asked the professor, the next morning. "you don't expect him--do you?" "certainly i expect him." "well, he ain't come, and i guess he won't come." "i am sure that boy is honest," said professor henderson to himself. "if he isn't, i'll never trust a boy again." mrs. chase was going downstairs with her patient's breakfast dishes, when she was nearly run into by our hero, who had just returned, and was eager to report to his employer. "do be keerful," she expostulated, when, to her surprise, she recognized harry. so he had come back, after all, and falsified her prediction. such is human nature, that for an instant she was disappointed. "here's pretty work," she said, "stayin' out all night, and worryin' the professor out of his wits." "i couldn't help it, mrs. chase." "why couldn't you help it, i'd like to know?" "i'll tell you afterwards. i must go up now, and see the professor." mrs. chase was so curious that she returned, with the dishes, to hear harry's statement. "good morning," said harry, entering the chamber. "i'm sorry to have been so long away, but i couldn't help it. i hope you haven't worried much about my absence." "i knew you would come back, but mrs. chase had her doubts," said professor henderson, pleasantly. "now tell me what it was that detained you?" "a highwayman," said harry. "a highwayman!" exclaimed both in concert. "yes, i'll tell you all about it. but first, i'll say that he stole only my money, and didn't suspect that i had a hundred and fifty dollars of yours with me. that's all safe. here it is. i think you had better take care of that yourself, sir, hereafter." the professor glanced significantly at mr. chase, as much as to say, "you see how unjust your suspicions were. i am right, after all." "tell us all about it, harry." our hero obeyed instructions; but it is not necessary to repeat a familiar tale. "massy sakes!" ejaculated betsy chase. "who ever heerd the like?" "i congratulate you, harry, on coming off with such flying colors. i will, at my own expense, provide you with a new overcoat, as a reward for bringing home my money safe. you shall not lose anything by your fidelity." chapter xxxiv. in difficulty we must now transfer the scene to the walton homestead. it looks very much the same as on the day when the reader was first introduced to it. there is not a single article of new furniture, nor is any of the family any better dressed. poverty reigns with undisputed sway. mr. walton is reading a borrowed newspaper by the light of a candle--for it is evening--while mrs. walton is engaged in her never-ending task of mending old clothes, in the vain endeavor to make them look as well as new. it is so seldom that anyone of the family has new clothes, that the occasion is one long remembered and dated from. "it seems strange we don't hear from harry," said mrs. walton, looking up from her work. "when was the last letter received?" asked mr. walton, laying down the paper. "over a week ago. he wrote that the professor was sick, and he was stopping at the hotel to take care of him." "i remember. what was the name of the place?" "pentland." "perhaps his employer is recovered, and he is going about with him." "perhaps so; but i should think he would write. i am afraid he is sick himself. he may have caught the same fever." "it is possible; but i think harry would let us know in some way. at any rate, it isn't best to worry ourselves about uncertainties." "i wonder if harry's grown?" said tom. "of course he's grown," said mary. "i wonder if he's grown as much as i have," said tom, complacently. "i don't believe you've grown a bit." "yes, i have; if you don't believe it, see how short my pants are." tom did, indeed, seem to be growing out of his pants, which were undeniably too short for him. "you ought to have some new pants," said his mother, sighing; "but i don't see where the money is to come from." "nor i," said mr. walton, soberly. "somehow i don't seem to get ahead at all. to-morrow my note for the cow comes due, and i haven't but two dollars to meet it." "how large it the note?" "with six months' interest, it amounts to forty-one dollars and twenty cents." "the cow isn't worth that. she doesn't give as much milk as the one we lost." "that's true. it was a hard bargain, but i could do no better." "you say you won't be able to meet the payment. what will be the consequence?" "i suppose squire green will take back the cow." "perhaps you can get another somewhere else, on better terms." "i am afraid my credit won't be very good. i agreed to forfeit ten dollars to squire green, if i couldn't pay at the end of six months." "will he insist on that condition?" "i am afraid he will. he is a hard man." "then," said mrs. walton, indignantly, "he won't deserve to prosper." "worldly prosperity doesn't always go by merit. plenty of mean men prosper." before mrs. walton had time to reply, a knock was heard at the door. "go to the door, tom," said his father. tom obeyed, and shortly reappeared, followed by a small man with a thin figure and wrinkled face, whose deep-set, crafty eyes peered about him curiously as he entered the room. "good evening, squire green," said mr. walton, politely, guessing his errand. "good evenin', mrs. walton. the air's kinder frosty. i ain't so young as i was once, and it chills my blood." "come up to the fire, squire green," said mrs. walton, who wanted the old man to be comfortable, though she neither liked nor respected him. the old man sat down and spread his hands before the fire. "anything new stirring, squire?" asked hiram walton. "nothin' that i know on. i was lookin' over my papers to-night, neighbor, and i come across that note you give for the cow. forty dollars with interest, which makes the whole come to forty-one dollars and twenty cents. to-morrow's the day for payin'. i suppose you'll be ready?" and the old man peered at hiram walton with his little keen eyes. "now for it," thought hiram. "i'm sorry to say, squire green," he answered, "that i can't pay the note. times have been hard, and my family expenses have taken all i could earn." the squire was not much disappointed, for now he was entitled to exact the forfeit of ten dollars. "the contrack provides that if you can't meet the note you shall pay ten dollars," he said. "i 'spose you can do that." "squire green, i haven't got but two dollars laid by." "two dollars!" repeated the squire, frowning. "that ain't honest. you knew the note was comin' due, and you'd oughter have provided ten dollars, at least." "i've done as much as i could. i've wanted to meet the note, but i couldn't make money, and i earned all i could." "you hain't been equinomical," said the squire, testily. "folks can't expect to lay up money ef they spend it fast as it comes in"; and he thumped on the floor with his cane. "i should like to have you tell us how we can economize any more than we have," said mrs. walton, with spirit. "just look around you, and see if you think we have been extravagant in buying clothes. i am sure i have to darn and mend till i am actually ashamed." "there's other ways of wastin' money," said the squire. "if you think we live extravagantly, come in any day to dinner, and we will convince you to the contrary," said mrs. walton, warmly. "tain't none of my business, as long as you pay me what you owe me," said the squire. "all i want is my money, and i'd orter have it." "it doesn't seem right that my husband should forfeit ten dollars and lose the cow." "that was the contrack, mrs. walton. your husband 'greed to it, and--" "that doesn't make it just." "tain't no more'n a fair price for the use of the cow six months. ef you'll pay the ten dollars to-morrow, i'll let you have the cow six months longer on the same contrack." "i don't see any possibility of my paying you the money, squire green. i haven't got it." "why don't you borrer somewhere?" "i might as well owe you as another man, besides, i don't know anybody that would lend me the money." "you haven't tried, have you?" "no." "then you'd better. i thought i might as well come round and remind you of the note as you might forget it." "not much danger," said hiram walton. "i've had it on my mind ever since i gave it." "well, i'll come round to-morrow night, and i hope you'll be ready. good night." no very cordial good night followed squire green as he hobbled out of the cottage--for he was lame--not--i am sure the reader will agree with me--did he deserve any. he was a mean, miserly, grasping man, who had no regard for the feelings or comfort of anyone else; whose master passion was a selfish love of accumulating money. his money did him little good, however, for he was as mean with himself as with others, and grudged himself even the necessaries of life, because, if purchased, it must be at the expense of his hoards. the time would come when he and his money must part, but he did not think of that. chapter xxxv. settled there was a general silence after squire green's departure. hiram walton looked gloomy, and the rest of the family also. "what an awful mean man the squire is!" tom broke out, indignantly. "you're right, for once," said mary. in general, such remarks were rebuked by the father or mother; but the truth of tom's observation was so clear, that for once he was not reproved. "squire green's money does him very little good," said hiram walton. "he spends very little of it on himself, and it certainly doesn't obtain him respect in the village. rich as he is, and poor as i am, i would rather stand in my shoes than his." "i should think so," said his wife. "money isn't everything." "no; but it is a good deal i have suffered too much from the want of it, to despise it." "well, hiram," said mrs. walton, who felt that it would not do to look too persistently upon the dark side, "you know that the song says, 'there's a good time coming.'" "i've waited for it a long time, wife," said the farmer, soberly. "wait a little longer," said mrs. walton, quoting the refrain of the song. he smiled faintly. "very well, i'll wait a little longer; but if i have to wait too long, i shall get discouraged." "children, it's time to go to bed," said mrs. walton. "mayn't i sit up a little longer?" pleaded mary. "'wait a little longer,' mother," said tom, laughing, as he quoted his mother's words against her. "ten minutes, only, then." before the ten minutes were over, there was great and unexpected joy in the little house. suddenly the outer door opened, and, without the slightest warning to anyone, harry walked in. he was immediately surrounded by the delighted family, and in less time than i am taking to describe it he had shaken hands with his father, kissed his mother and sister, and given tom a bearlike hug, which nearly suffocated him. "where did you come from, harry?" asked mary. "dropped down from the sky," said harry, laughing. "has the professor been giving exhibitions up there?" asked tom. "i've discharge the professor," said harry, gayly. "i'm my own man now." "and you've come home to stay, i hope," said his mother. "not long, mother," said harry. "i can only stay a few days." "what a bully overcoat you've got on!" said tom. "the professor gave it to me." "hasn't he got one for me, too?" harry took off his overcoat, and tom was struck with fresh admiration as he surveyed his brother's inside suit. "i guess you spent all you money on clothes," he said. "i hope not," said mr. walton, whom experience had made prudent. "not quite all," said harry, cheerfully. "how much money do you think i have brought home?" "ten dollars," said tom. "more." "fifteen." "more." "twenty," said mary. "more." "twenty-five." "i won't keep you guessing all night. what do you say to fifty dollars?" "oh, what a lot of money!" said mary. "you have done well, my son," said mr. walton. "you must have been very economical." "i tried to be, father. but i didn't say fifty dollars was all i had." "you haven't got more?" said his mother, incredulously. "i've got a hundred dollars, mother," said harry. "here are fifty dollars for you, father. it'll pay your note to squire green, and a little over. here are thirty dollars, mother, of which you must use for ten for yourself, ten for mary, and ten for tom. i want you all to have some new clothes, to remember me by." "but harry, you will have nothing left for yourself." "yes, i shall. i have kept twenty dollars, which will be enough till i can earn some more." "i don't see how you could save so much money, harry," said his father. "it was partly luck, father, and partly hard work. i'll tell you all about it." he sat down before the fire and they listened to his narrative. "well, harry," said mr. walton, "i am very glad to find that you are more fortunate than your father. i have had a hard struggle; but i will not complain if my children can prosper." the cloud that squire green had brought with him had vanished, and all was sunshine and happiness. it was agreed that no hint should be given to squire green that his note was to be paid. he did not even hear of harry's arrival, and was quite unconscious of any change in the circumstances of the family, when he entered the cottage the next evening. "well, neighbor," he said, "i've brought along that ere note. i hope you've raised the money to pay it." "where do you think i could raise money, squire?" asked hiram walton. "i thought mebbe some of the neighbors would lent it to you." "money isn't very plenty with any of them, squire, except with you." "i calc'late better than they. hev you got the ten dollars that you agreed to pay ef you couldn't meet the note?" "yes," said hiram, "i raised the ten dollars." "all right," said the squire, briskly, "i thought you could. as long as you pay that, you can keep the cow six months more, one a new contrack." "don't you think, squire, it's rather hard on a poor man, to make him forfeit ten dollars because he can't meet his note?" "a contrack's a contrack," said the squire. "it's the only way to do business." "i think you are taking advantage of me, squire." "no, i ain't. you needn't hev come to me ef you didn't want to. i didn't ask you to buy the cow. i'll trouble you for that ten dollars, neighbor, as i'm in a hurry." "on the whole, squire, i think i'll settle up the note. that'll be cheaper than paying the forfeit." "what! pay forty-one dollars and twenty cents!" ejaculated the squire, incredulously. "yes; it's more than the cow's worth, but as i agreed to pay it i suppose i must." "i thought you didn't hev the money," said the squire, his lower jaw falling; for he would have preferred the ten dollars' forfeit, and a renewal of the usurious contract. "i didn't have it when you were in last night; but i've raised it since." "you said you couldn't borrow it." "i didn't borrow it." "then where did it come from?" "my son harry has got home, squire. he has supplied me with the money." "you don't say! where is he? been a-doin' well, has he?" "harry!" harry entered the room, and nodded rather coldly to the squire, who was disposed to patronize him, now that he was well dressed, and appeared to be doing well. "i'm glad to see ye, harry. so you've made money, have ye?" "a little." "hev you come home to stay?" "no sir; i shall only stay a few days." "what hev ye been doin'" "i am going to be a printer." "you don't say! is it a good business?" "i think it will be," said harry. "i can tell better by and by." "well, i'm glad you're doin' so well. neighbor walton, when you want another cow i'll do as well by you as anybody. i'll give you credit for another on the same terms." "if i conclude to buy any, squire, i may come round." "well, good night, all. harry, you must come round and see me before you go back." harry thanked him, but did not propose to accept the invitation. he felt that the squire was no true friend, either to himself or to his family, and he should feel no pleasure in his society. it was not in his nature to be hypocritical, and he expressed no pleasure at the squire's affability and politeness. i have thus detailed a few of harry's early experiences; but i am quite aware that i have hardly fulfilled the promise of the title. he has neither lived long nor learned much as yet, nor has he risen very high in the world. in fact, he is still at the bottom of the ladder. i propose, therefore, to devote another volume to his later fortunes, and hope, in the end, to satisfy the reader. the most that can be said thus far is, that he has made a fair beginning, and i must refer the reader who is interested to know what success he met with as a printer, to the next volume, which will be entitled: the end risen from the ranks, or, harry walton's success. by horatio alger, jr., author of "ragged dick," "tattered tom," "luck and pluck," "brave and bold" series. . to thomas e. barry, of the boston bar, this volume inscribed with friendly regard preface. "risen from the ranks" contains the further history of harry walton, who was first introduced to the public in the pages of "bound to rise." those who are interested in learning how far he made good the promise of his boyhood, may here find their curiosity gratified. for the benefit of those who may only read the present volume, a synopsis of harry's previous life is given in the first chapter. in describing harry's rise from the ranks i have studiously avoided the extraordinary incidents and pieces of good luck, which the story writer has always at command, being desirous of presenting my hero's career as one which may be imitated by the thousands of boys similarly placed, who, like him, are anxious to rise from the ranks. it is my hope that this story, suggested in part by the career of an eminent american editor, may afford encouragement to such boys, and teach them that "where there is a will there is always a way." new york, october . risen from the ranks; or, harry walton's success. chapter i. harry walton. "i am sorry to part with you, harry," said professor henderson. "you have been a very satisfactory and efficient assistant, and i shall miss you." "thank you, sir," said harry. "i have tried to be faithful to your interests." "you have been so," said the professor emphatically. "i have had perfect confidence in you, and this has relieved me of a great deal of anxiety. it would have been very easy for one in your position to cheat me out of a considerable sum of money." "it was no credit to me to resist such a temptation as that," said harry. "i am glad to hear you say so, but it shows your inexperience nevertheless. money is the great tempter nowadays. consider how many defalcations and breaches of trust we read of daily in confidential positions, and we are forced to conclude that honesty is a rarer virtue than we like to think it. i have every reason to believe that my assistant last winter purloined, at the least, a hundred dollars, but i was unable to prove it, and submitted to the loss. it may be the same next winter. can't i induce you to change your resolution, and remain in my employ? i will advance your pay." "thank you, professor henderson," said harry gratefully. "i appreciate your offer, even if i do not accept it. but i have made up mind to learn the printing business." "you are to enter the office of the 'centreville gazette,' i believe." "yes, sir." "how much pay will you get?" "i shall receive my board the first month, and for the next six months have agreed to take two dollars a week and board." "that won't pay your expenses." "it must," said harry, firmly. "you have laid up some money while with me, haven't you!" "yes, sir; i have fifty dollars in my pocket-book, besides having given eighty dollars at home." "that is doing well, but you won't be able to lay up anything for the next year." "perhaps not in money, but i shall be gaining the knowledge of a good trade." "and you like that better than remaining with me, and learning my business?" "yes, sir." "well, perhaps you are right. i don't fancy being a magician myself; but i am too old to change. i like moving round, and i make a good living for my family. besides i contribute to the innocent amusement of the public, and earn my money fairly." "i agree with you, sir," said harry. "i think yours is a useful employment, but it would not suit everybody. ever since i read the life of benjamin franklin, i have wanted to learn to be a printer." "it is an excellent business, no doubt, and if you have made up your mind i will not dissuade you. when you have a paper of your own, you can give your old friend, professor henderson, an occasional puff." "i shall be glad to do that," said harry, smiling, "but i shall have to wait some time first." "how old are you now?" "sixteen." "then you may qualify yourself for an editor in five or six years. i advise you to try it at any rate. the editor in america is a man of influence." "i do look forward to it," said harry, seriously. "i should not be satisfied to remain a journeyman all my life, nor even the half of it." "i sympathize with your ambition, harry," said the professor, earnestly, "and i wish you the best success. let me hear from you occasionally." "i should be very glad to write you, sir." "i see the stage is at the door, and i must bid you good-by. when you have a vacation, if you get a chance to come our way, mrs. henderson and myself will be glad to receive a visit from you. good-by!" and with a hearty shake of the hand, professor henderson bade farewell to his late assistant. those who have read "bound to rise," and are thus familiar with harry walton's early history, will need no explanation of the preceding conversation. but for the benefit of new readers, i will recapitulate briefly the leading events in the history of the boy of sixteen who is to be our hero. harry walton was the oldest son of a poor new hampshire farmer, who found great difficulty is wresting from his few sterile acres a living for his family. nearly a year before, he had lost his only cow by a prevalent disease, and being without money, was compelled to buy another of squire green, a rich but mean neighbor, on a six months' note, on very unfavorable terms. as it required great economy to make both ends meet, there seemed no possible chance of his being able to meet the note at maturity. beside, mr. walton was to forfeit ten dollars if he did not have the principal and interest ready for squire green. the hard-hearted creditor was mean enough to take advantage of his poor neighbor's necessities, and there was not the slightest chance of his receding from his unreasonable demand. under these circumstances harry, the oldest boy, asked his father's permission to go out into the world and earn his own living. he hoped not only to do this, but to save something toward paying his father's note. his ambition had been kindled by reading the life of benjamin franklin, which had been awarded to him as a school prize. he did not expect to emulate franklin, but he thought that by imitating him he might attain an honorable position in the community. harry's request was not at first favorably received. to send a boy out into the world to earn his own living is a hazardous experiment, and fathers are less sanguine than their sons. their experience suggests difficulties and obstacles of which the inexperienced youth knows and possesses nothing. but in the present case mr. walton reflected that the little farming town in which he lived offered small inducements for a boy to remain there, unless he was content to be a farmer, and this required capital. his farm was too small for himself, and of course he could not give harry a part when be came of age. on the whole, therefore, harry's plan of becoming a mechanic seemed not so bad a one after all. so permission was accorded, and our hero, with his little bundle of clothes, left the paternal roof, and went out in quest of employment. after some adventures harry obtained employment in a shoe-shop as pegger. a few weeks sufficed to make him a good workman, and he was then able to earn three dollars a week and board. out of this sum be hoped to save enough to pay the note held by squire green against his father, but there were two unforeseen obstacles. he had the misfortune to lose his pocket-book, which was picked up by an unprincipled young man, by name luke harrison, also a shoemaker, who was always in pecuniary difficulties, though he earned much higher wages than harry. luke was unable to resist the temptation, and appropriated the money to his own use. this harry ascertained after a while, but thus far had succeeded in obtaining the restitution of but a small portion of his hard-earned savings. the second obstacle was a sudden depression in the shoe trade which threw him out of work. more than most occupations the shoe business is liable to these sudden fluctuations and suspensions, and the most industrious and ambitious workman is often compelled to spend in his enforced weeks of idleness all that he had been able to save when employed, and thus at the end of the year finds himself, through no fault of his own, no better off than at the beginning. finding himself out of work, our hero visited other shoe establishments in the hope of employment. but his search was in vain. chance in this emergency made him acquainted with professor henderson, a well-known magician and conjurer, whose custom it was to travel, through the fall and winter, from town to town, giving public exhibitions of his skill. he was in want of an assistant, to sell tickets and help him generally, and he offered the position to our hero, at a salary of five dollars a week. it is needless to say that the position was gladly accepted. it was not the business that harry preferred, but he reasoned justly that it was honorable, and was far better than remaining idle. he found professor henderson as he called himself, a considerate and agreeable employer, and as may be inferred from the conversation with which this chapter begins, his services were very satisfactory. at the close of the six months, he had the satisfaction of paying the note which his father had given, and so of disappointing the selfish schemes of the grasping creditor. this was not all. he met with an adventure while travelling for the professor, in which a highwayman who undertook to rob him, came off second best, and he was thus enabled to add fifty dollars to his savings. his financial condition at the opening of the present story has already been set forth. though i have necessarily omitted many interesting details, to be found in "bound to rise," i have given the reader all the information required to enable him to understand the narrative of harry's subsequent fortunes. chapter . the printing office. jotham anderson, editor and publisher of the "centreville gazette," was sitting at his desk penning an editorial paragraph, when the office door opened, and harry walton entered. "good-morning, mr. anderson," said our hero, removing his hat. "good-morning, my friend. i believe you have the advantage of me," replied the editor. our hero was taken aback. it didn't occur to him that the engagement was a far less important event to the publisher than to himself. he began to be afraid that the place had not been kept open for him. "my name is harry walton," he explained. "i was travelling with prof. henderson last winter, and called here to get some bills printed." "oh yes, i remember you now. i agreed to take you into the office," said the editor, to harry's great relief. "yes, air." "you haven't changed your mind, then?--you still want to be a printer?" "yes, sir." "you have left the professor, i suppose." "i left him yesterday." "what did he pay you?" "five dollars a week. he offered me six, if i would stay with him." "of course you know that i can't pay you any such wages at present." "yes, sir. you agreed to give me my board the first month, and two dollars a week for six months afterward." "that is all you will be worth to me at first. it is a good deal less than you would earn with professor henderson." "i know that, sir; but i am willing to come for that." "good. i see you are in earnest about printing, and that is a good sign. i wanted you to understand just what you had to expect, so that you need not be disappointed." "i sha'n't be disappointed, sir," said harry confidently. "i have made up my mind to be a printer, and if you didn't receive me into your office, i would try to get in somewhere else." "then no more need be said. when do you want to begin?" "i am ready any time." "where is your trunk?" "at the tavern." "you can have it brought over to my house whenever you please. the hotel-keeper will send it over for you. he is our expressman. come into the house now, and i will introduce you to my wife." the editor's home was just across the street from his printing office. followed by harry he crossed the street, opened the front door, and led the way into the sitting-room, where a pleasant-looking lady of middle age was seated. "my dear," he said, "i bring you a new boarder." she looked at harry inquiringly. "this young man," her husband explained, "is going into the office to learn printing. i have taken a contract to make a second benjamin franklin of him." "then you'll do more for him than you have been able to do for yourself," said mrs. anderson, smiling. "you are inclined to be severe, mrs. anderson, but i fear you are correct. however, i can be like a guide-post, which points the way which it does not travel. can you show harry walton--for that is his name--where you propose to put him?" "i am afraid i must give you a room in the attic," said mrs. anderson. "our house is small, and all the chambers on the second floor are occupied." "i am not at all particular," said harry. "i have not been accustomed to elegant accommodations." "if you will follow me upstairs, i will show you your room." pausing on the third landing, mrs. anderson found the door of a small but comfortable bed-room. there was no carpet on the floor, but it was painted yellow, and scrupulously clean. a bed, two chairs, a bureau and wash-stand completed the list of furniture. "i shall like this room very well," said our hero. "there is a closet," said the lady, pointing to a door in the corner. "it is large enough to contain your trunk, if you choose to put it in there. i hope you don't smoke." "oh, no, indeed," said harry, laughing. "i haven't got so far along as that." "mr. anderson's last apprentice--he is a journeyman now--was a smoker. he not only scented up the room, but as he was very careless about lights, i was continually alarmed lest he should set the house on fire. finally, i got so nervous that i asked him to board somewhere else." "is he working for mr. anderson now?" "yes; you probably saw him in the office." "i saw two young men at the case." "the one i speak of is the youngest. his name is john clapp." "there is no danger of my smoking. i don't think it would do me any good. besides, it is expensive, and i can't afford it." "i see we think alike," said mrs. anderson, smiling. "i am sure we will get along well together." "i shall try not to give you any trouble," said our hero, and his tone, which was evidently sincere, impressed mrs. anderson still more favorably. "you won't find me very hard to suit, i hope. i suppose you will be here to supper?" "if it will he quite convenient. my trunk is at the tavern, and i could stay there till morning, if you wished." "oh, no, come at once. take possession of the room now, if you like, and leave an order to have your trunk brought here." "thank you. what is your hour for supper?" "half-past five." "thank you. i will go over and speak to mr. anderson a minute." the editor looked up as harry reappeared. "well, have you settled arrangements with mrs. anderson?" he asked. "yes, sir, i believe so." "i hope you like your room." "it is very comfortable. it won't take me long to feel at home there." "did she ask you whether you smoked?" "yes, sir." "i thought she would. that's where clapp and she fell out." harry's attention was drawn to a thin, sallow young man of about twenty, who stood at a case on the opposite side of the room. "mrs. anderson was afraid i would set the house on fire," said the young man thus referred to. "yes, she felt nervous about it. however, it is not surprising. an uncle of hers lost his house in that way. i suppose you don't smoke, walton?" "no, sir." "clapp smokes for his health. you see how stout and robust he is," said the editor, a little satirically. "it doesn't do me any harm," said clapp, a little testily. "oh, well, i don't interfere with you, though i think you would be better off if you should give up the habit. ferguson don't smoke." this was the other compositor, a man of thirty, whose case was not far distant from clapp's. "i can't afford it," said ferguson; "nor could clapp, if he had a wife and two young children to support." "smoking doesn't cost much," said the younger journeyman. "so you think; but did you ever reckon it up?" "no." "don't you keep any accounts?" "no; i spend when i need to, and i can always tell how much i have left. what's the use of keeping accounts?" "you can tell how you stand." "i can tell that without taking so much trouble." "you see we must all agree to disagree," said mr. anderson. "i am afraid clapp isn't going to be a second benjamin franklin." "who is?" asked clapp. "our young friend here," said the editor. "oh, is he?" queried the other with a sneer. "it'll be a great honor i'm sure, to have him in the office." "come, no chaffing, clapp," said mr. anderson. harry hastened to disclaim the charge, for clapp's sneer affected him disagreeably. "i admire franklin," he said, "but there isn't much danger of my turning out a second edition of him." "professional already, i see, walton," said the editor. "when shall i go to work, mr. anderson?" "whenever you are ready." "i am ready now." "you are prompt." "you won't be in such a hurry to go to work a week hence," said clapp. "i think i shall," said harry. "i am anxious to learn as fast as possible." "oh, i forgot. you want to become a second franklin." "i sha'n't like him," thought our hero. "he seems to try to make himself disagreeable." "mr. ferguson will give you some instruction, and set you to work," said his employer. harry was glad that it was from the older journeyman that he was to receive his first lesson, and not from the younger. chapter iii. harry stumbles upon an acquaintance. after supper harry went round to the tavern to see about his trunk. a group of young men were in the bar-room, some of whom looked up as he entered. among these was luke harrison, who was surprised and by no means pleased to see his creditor. harry recognized him at the same instant, and said, "how are you, luke?" "is that you, walton?" said luke. "what brings you to centreville? professor henderson isn't here, is he?" "no; i have left him." "oh, you're out of a job, are you?" asked luke, in a tone of satisfaction, for we are apt to dislike those whom we have injured, and for this reason he felt by no means friendly. "no, i'm not," said harry, quietly. "i've found work in centreville." "gone back to pegging, have you? whose shop are you in?" "i am in a different business." "you don't say! what is it?" asked luke, with some curiosity. "i'm in the office of the 'centreville gazette.' i'm going to learn the printing business." "you are? why, i've got a friend in the office,--john clapp. he never told me about your being there." "he didn't know i was coming. i only went to work this afternoon." "so you are the printer's devil?" said luke, with a slight sneer. "i believe so," answered our hero, quietly. "do you get good pay?" "not much at first. however, i can get along with what money i have, _and what is due me_." luke harrison understood the last allusion, and turned away abruptly. he had no wish to pay up the money which he owed harry, and for this reason was sorry to see him in the village. he feared, if the conversation were continued, harry would be asking for the money, and this would be disagreeable. at this moment john clapp entered the bar-room. he nodded slightly to harry, but walked up to luke, and greeted him cordially. there were many points of resemblance between them, and this drew them into habits of intimacy. "will you have something to drink, harrison?" said clapp. "i don't mind if i do," answered luke, with alacrity. they walked up to the bar, and they were soon pledging each other in a fiery fluid which was not very likely to benefit either of them. meanwhile harry gave directions about his trunk, and left the room. "so you've got a new 'devil' in your office," said luke, after draining his glass. "yes. he came this afternoon. how did you hear?" "he told me." "do you know him?" asked clapp, in some surprise. "yes. i know him as well as i want to." "what sort of a fellow is he?" "oh, he's a sneak--one of your pious chaps, that 'wants to be an angel, and with the angels stand.'" "then he's made a mistake in turning 'devil,'" said clapp. "good for you!" said luke, laughing. "you're unusually brilliant to-night, clapp." "so he's a saint, is he?" "he set up for one; but i don't like his style myself. he's as mean as dirt. why i knew him several months, and he never offered to treat in all that time. he's as much afraid of spending a cent as if it were a dollar." "he won't have many dollars to spend just at present. he's working for his board." "oh, he's got money saved up," said luke. "fellows like him hang on to a cent when they get it. i once asked him to lend me a few dollars, just for a day or two, but he wouldn't do it. i hate such mean fellows." "so do i. will you have a cigar?" "i'll treat this time," said luke, who thought it polite to take his turn in treating once to his companion's four or five times. "thank you. from what you say, i am sorry anderson has taken the fellow into the office." "you needn't have much to say to him." "i shan't trouble myself much about him. i didn't like his looks when i first set eyes on him. i suppose old mother anderson will like him. she couldn't abide my smoking, and he won't trouble her that way." "so; he's too mean to buy the cigars." "he said he couldn't afford it." "that's what it comes to. by the way, clapp, when shall we take another ride?" "i can get away nest monday afternoon, at three." "all right. i'll manage to get off at the same time. we'll go to whiston and take supper at the hotel. it does a fellow good to get off now and then. it won't cost more than five dollars apiece altogether." "we'll get the carriage charged. the fact is, i'm little low on funds." "so am i, but it won't matter. griffin will wait for his pay." while harry's character waa being so unfavorably discussed, he was taking a walk by himself, observing with interest the main features of his new home. he had been here before with professor henderson, but had been too much occupied at that time to get a very clear idea of centreville, nor had it then the interest for him which it had acquired since. he went upon a hill overlooking the village, and obtained an excellent view from its summit. it was a pleasant, well-built village of perhaps three thousand inhabitants, with outlying farms and farm-houses. along the principal streets the dwellings and stores were closely built, so as to make it seem quite city-like. it was the shire town of the county, and being the largest place in the neighborhood, country people for miles around traded at its stores. farmers' wives came to centreville to make purchases, just as ladies living within a radius of thirty miles visit new york and boston, for a similar purpose. altogether, therefore, centreville was quite a lively place, and a town of considerable local importance. the fact that it had a weekly paper of its own, contributed to bring it into notice. nor was that all. situated on a little hillock was a building with a belfry, which might have been taken for a church but for a play-ground near by, which indicated that it had a different character. it was in fact the prescott academy, so called from the name of its founder, who had endowed it with a fund of ten thousand dollars, besides erecting the building at his own expense on land bought for the purpose. this academy also had a local reputation, and its benefits were not confined to the children of centreville. there were about twenty pupils from other towns who boarded with the principal or elsewhere in the town, and made up the whole number of students in attendance--about eighty on an average. standing on the eminence referred to, harry's attention was drawn to the academy, and he could not help forming the wish that he, too, might share in its advantages. "there is so much to learn, and i know so little," he thought. but he did not brood over the poverty which prevented him from gratifying his desire. he knew it would do no good, and he also reflected that knowledge may be acquired in a printing office as well as within the walls of an academy or college. "as soon as i get well settled," he said to himself, "i mean to get some books and study a little every day. that is the way franklin did. i never can be an editor, that's certain, without knowing more than i do now. before i am qualified to teach others, i must know something myself." looking at the village which lay below him, harry was disposed to congratulate himself on his new residence. "it looks like a pleasant place," he said to himself, "and when i get a little acquainted, i shall enjoy myself very well, i am sure. of course i shall feel rather lonely just at first." he was so engrossed by his thoughts that he did not take heed to his steps, and was only reminded of his abstraction by his foot suddenly coming in contact with a boy who was lying under a tree, and pitching headfirst over him. "holloa!" exclaimed the latter, "what are you about? you didn't take me for a foot-ball, did you?" "i beg your pardon," said harry, jumping up in some confusion. "i was so busy thinking that i didn't see you. i hope i didn't hurt you." "nothing serious. didn't you hurt yourself?" "i bumped my head a little, but it only struck the earth. if it had been a stone, it might have been different. i had no idea there was any one up here except myself." "it was very kind of you to bow so low to a perfect stranger," said the other, his eyes twinkling humorously. "i suppose it would only be polite for me to follow your example." "i'll excuse you," said harry laughing. "thank you. that takes a great burden off my mind. i don't like to be outdone in politeness, but really i shouldn't like to tumble over you. my head may be softer than yours. there's one thing clear. we ought to know each other. as you've taken the trouble to come up here, and stumble over me, i really feel as if we ought to strike up a friendship. what do you say?" "with all my heart," said our hero. chapter iv. oscar vincent. "allow me to introduce myself," said the stranger boy. "my name is oscar vincent, from boston, at present a student at the prescott academy, at your service." as he spoke, he doffed his hat and bowed, showing a profusion of chestnut hair, a broad, open brow, and an attractive face, lighted up by a pleasant smile. harry felt drawn to him by a feeling which was not long in ripening into friendship. imitating the other's frankness, he also took off his hat and replied,-- "let me introduce myself, in turn, as harry walton, junior apprentice in the office of the 'centreville gazette,' sometimes profanely called 'printer's devil.'" "good!" said oscar, laughing. "how do you like the business?" "i think i shall like it, but i have only just started in it. i went into the office for the first time to-day." "i have an uncle who started as you are doing," said oscar. "he is now chief editor of a daily paper in boston." "is he?" said harry, with interest. "did he find it hard to rise?" "he is a hard worker. i have heard him say that he used to sit up late of nights during his apprenticeship, studying and improving himself." "that is what i mean to do," said harry. "i don't think he was as lazy as his nephew," said oscar. "i am afraid if i had been in his place i should have remained in it." "are you lazy?" asked harry, smiling at the other's frankness. "a little so; that is, i don't improve my opportunities as i might. father wants to make a lawyer of me so he has put me here, and i am preparing for harvard." "i envy you," said harry. "there is nothing i should like so much as entering college." "i daresay i shall like it tolerably well," said oscar; "but i don't _hanker_ after it, as the boy said after swallowing a dose of castor oil. i'll tell you what i should like better--" "what?" asked harry, as the other paused. "i should like to enter the naval academy, and qualify myself for the naval service. i always liked the sea." "doesn't your father approve of your doing this?" "he wouldn't mind my entering the navy as an officer, but he is not willing to have me enter the merchant service." "then why doesn't he send you to the naval academy?" "because i can't enter without receiving the appointment from a member of congress. our member can only appoint one, and there is no vacancy. so, as i can't go where i want to, i am preparing for harvard." "are you studying latin and greek?" "yes." "have you studied them long?" "about two years. i was looking over my greek lesson when you playfully tumbled over me." "will you let me look at your book? i never saw a greek book." "i sometimes wish i never had," said oscar; "but that's when i am lazy." harry opened the book--a greek reader--in the middle of an extract from xenophon, and looked with some awe at the unintelligible letters. "can you read it? can you understand what it means?" he asked, looking up from the book. "so-so." "you must know a great deal." oscar laughed. "i wonder what dr. burton would say if he heard you," he said. "who is he?" "principal of our academy. he gave me a blowing up for my ignorance to-day, because i missed an irregular greek verb. i'm not exactly a dunce, but i don't think i shall ever be a greek professor." "if you speak of yourself that way, what will you think of me? i don't know a word of latin, of greek, or any language except my own." "because you have had no chance to learn. there's one language i know more about than latin or greek." "english?" "i mean french; i spent a year at a french boarding-school, three years since." "what! have you been in france?" "yes; an uncle of mine--in fact, the editor--was going over, and urged father to send me. i learned considerable french, but not much else. i can speak and understand it pretty well." "how i wish i had had your advantages," said harry. "how did you like your french schoolmates?" "they wouldn't come near me at first. because i was an american they thought i carried a revolver and a dirk-knife, and was dangerous. that is their idea of american boys. when they found i was tame, and carried no deadly weapons, they ventured to speak with me, and after that we got along pretty well." "how soon do you expect to go to college?" "a year from next summer. i suppose i shall be ready by that time. you are going to stay in town, i suppose?" "yes, if i keep my place." "oh, you'll do that. then we can see something of each other. you must come up to my room, and see me. come almost any evening." "i should like to. do you live in dr. barton's family?" "no, i hope not." "why not?" "oh, the doctor has a way of looking after the fellows that room in the house, and of keeping them at work all the time. that wouldn't suit me. i board at mrs. greyson's, at the south-east corner of the church common. have you got anything to do this evening?" "nothing in particular." "then come round and take a look at my den, or sanctum i ought to call it; as i am talking to a member of the editorial profession." "not quite yet," said harry, smiling. "oh, well that'll come in due time. will you come?" "sha'n't i be disturbing you?" "not a bit. my greek lesson is about finished, and that's all i've got to do this evening. come round, and we will sit over the fire, and chat like old friends." "thank you, oscar," said harry, irresistibly attracted by his bright and lively acquaintance, "i shall enjoy calling. i have made no acquaintances yet, and i feel lonely." "i have got over that," said oscar. "i am used to being away from home and don't mind it." the two boys walked together to oscar's boarding-place. it was a large house, of considerable pretension for a village, and oscar's room was large and handsomely furnished. but what attracted harry's attention was not the furniture, but a collection of over a hundred books, ranged on shelves at one end of the room. in his father's house it had always been so difficult to obtain the necessaries of life that books had necessarily been regarded as superfluities, and beyond a dozen volumes which harry had read and re-read, he was compelled to depend on such as he could borrow. here again his privileges were scanty, for most of the neighbors were as poorly supplied as his father. "what a fine library you have, oscar!" he exclaimed. "i have a few books," said oscar. "my father filled a couple of boxes, and sent me. he has a large library." "this seems a large library to me," said harry. "my father likes reading, but he is poor, and cannot afford to buy books." he said that in a matter-of-fact tone, without the least attempt to conceal what many boys would have been tempted to hide. oscar noted this, and liked his new friend the better for it. "yes," he said, "books cost money, and one hasn't always the money to spare." "have you read all these books?" "not more than half of them. i like reading better than studying, i am afraid. i am reading the waverley novels now. have you read any of them?" "so; i never saw any of them before." "if you see anything you would like to read, i will lend it to you with pleasure," said oscar, noticing the interest with which harry regarded the books. "will you?" said harry, eagerly. "i can't tell you how much obliged i am. i will take good care of it." "oh, i am sure of that. here, try ivanhoe. i've just read it, and it's tip-top." "thank you; i will take it on your recommendation. what a nice room you have!" "yes, it's pretty comfortable. father told me to fix it up to suit me. he said he wouldn't mind the expense if i would only study." "i should think anybody might study in such a room as this, and with such a fine collection of books." "i'm rather lazy sometimes," said oscar, "but i shall turn over a new leaf some of these days, and astonish everybody. to-night, as i have no studying to do, i'll tell you what we'll do. did you ever pop corn?" "sometimes." "i've got some corn here, and ma'am greyson has a popper. stay here alone a minute, and i'll run down and get it." oscar ran down stairs, and speedily returned with a corn-popper. "now we'll have a jolly time," said he. "draw up that arm-chair, and make yourself at home. if xenophon, or virgil, or any of those greek and latin chaps call, we'll tell 'em we are transacting important business and can't be disturbed. what do you say?" "they won't be apt to call on me," said harry. i haven't the pleasure of knowing them." "it isn't always a pleasure, i can assure you, harry. pass over the corn-popper." chapter v. a young f. f. b. as the two boys sat in front of the fire, popping and eating the corn, and chatting of one thing and another, their acquaintance improved rapidly. harry learned that oscar's father was a boston merchant, in the calcutta trade, with a counting-room on long wharf. oscar was a year older than himself, and the oldest child. he had a sister of thirteen, named florence, and a younger brother, charlie, now ten. they lived on beacon street, opposite the common. though harry had never lived in boston, be knew that this was a fashionable street, and he had no difficulty in inferring that mr. vincent was a rich man. he felt what a wide gulf there was socially between himself and oscar; one the son of a very poor country farmer, the other the son of a merchant prince. but nothing in oscar's manner indicated the faintest feeling of superiority, and this pleased harry. i may as well say, however, that our hero was not one to show any foolish subserviency to a richer boy; he thought mainly of oscar's superiority in knowledge; and although the latter was far ahead of harry on this score, he was not one to boast of it. harry, in return for oscar's confidence, acquainted him with his own adventures since he had started out to earn his own living. oscar was most interested in his apprenticeship to the ventriloquist. "it must have been jolly fun," he said. "i shouldn't mind travelling round with him myself. can you perform any tricks?" "a few," said harry. "show me some, that's a good fellow." "if you won't show others. professor henderson wouldn't like to have his tricks generally known. i could show more if i had the articles he uses. but i can do some without." "go ahead, professor. i'm all attention." not having served an apprenticeship to a magician, as harry did, i will not undertake to describe the few simple tricks which he had picked up, and now exhibited for the entertainment of his companion. it is enough to say that they were quite satisfactory, and that oscar professed his intention to puzzle his boston friends with them, when his vacation arrived. about half-past eight, a knock was heard at the door. "come in!" called out oscar. the door was opened, and a boy about his own age entered. his name was fitzgerald fletcher. he was also a boston boy, and the son of a retail merchant, doing business on washington street. his father lived handsomely, and was supposed to be rich. at any rate fitzgerald supposed him to be so, and was very proud of the fact. he generally let any new acquaintances understand very speedily that his father was a man of property, and that his family moved in the first circles of boston society. he cultivated the acquaintance of those boys who belonged to rich families, and did not fail to show the superiority which he felt to those of less abundant means. for example, he liked to be considered intimate with oscar, as the social position of mr. vincent was higher than that of his own family. it gave him an excuse also for calling on oscar in boston. he had tried to ingratiate himself also with oscar's sister florence, but had only disgusted her with his airs, so that he could not flatter himself with his success in this direction. oscar had very little liking for him, but as school-fellows they often met, and fitzgerald often called upon him. on such occasions he treated him politely enough, for it was not in his nature to be rude without cause. fitz was elaborately dressed, feeling that handsome clothes would help convey the impression of wealth, which he was anxious to establish. in particular he paid attention to his neckties, of which he boasted a greater variety than any of his school-mates. it was not a lofty ambition, but, such as it was, he was able to gratify it. "how are you, fitz?" said oscar, when he saw who was his visitor. "draw up a chair to the fire, and make yourself comfortable." "thank you, oscar," said fitzgerald, leisurely drawing off a pair of kid gloves; "i thought i would drop in and see you." "all right! will you have some popped corn?" "no, thank you," answered fitzgerald, shrugging his shoulders. "i don't fancy the article." "don't you? then you don't know what's good." "fancy passing round popped corn at a party in boston," said the other. "how people would stare!" "would they? i don't know about that. i think some would be more sensible and eat. but, i beg your pardon, i haven't introduced you to my friend, harry walton. harry, this is a classmate of mine. fitzgerald fletcher, esq., of boston." fitzgerald did not appear to perceive that the title esq. was sportively added to his name. he took it seriously, and was pleased with it, as a recognition of his social superiority. he bowed ceremoniously to our hero, and said, formally, "i am pleased to make your acquaintance, mr. walton." "thank you, mr. fletcher," replied harry, bowing in turn. "i wonder who he is," thought fitzgerald. he had no idea of the true position of our young hero, or he would not have wasted so much politeness upon him. the fact was, that harry was well dressed, having on the suit which had been given him by a friend from the city. it was therefore fashionably cut, and had been so well kept as still to be in very good condition. it occurred to fitz--to give him the short name he received from his school-fellows--that it might be a boston friend of oscar's, just entering the academy. this might account for his not having met him before. perhaps he was from an aristocratic boston family. his intimacy with oscar rendered it probable, and it might be well to cultivate his acquaintance. on this hint he spoke. "are you about to enter the academy, mr. walton?" "no; i should like to do so, but cannot." "you are one of oscar's friends from the city, i suppose, then?" "oh no; i am living in centreville." "who can he be?" thought fitz. with considerable less cordiality in his manner, he continued, impelled by curiosity,-- "i don't think i have met you before." "no: i have only just come to the village." oscar understood thoroughly the bewilderment of his visitor, and enjoyed it. he knew the weakness of fitz, and he could imagine how his feelings would change when be ascertained the real position of harry. "my friend," he explained, "is connected with the 'centreville gazette.'" "in what capacity?" asked fitz, in surprise. "he is profanely termed the 'printer's devil.' isn't that so, harry?" "i believe you are right," said our hero, smiling. he had a suspicion that this relation would shock his new acquaintance. "indeed!" ejaculated fitz, pursing up his lips, and, i was about to say, turning up his nose, but nature had saved him the little trouble of doing that. "what in the world brings him here, then?" he thought; but there was no need of saying it, for both oscar and harry read it in his manner. "strange that oscar vincent, from one of the first families of boston, should demean himself by keeping company with a low printer boy!" "harry and i have had a jolly time popping corn this evening!" said oscar, choosing to ignore his school-mate's changed manner. "indeed! i can't see what fun there is in it." "oh, you've got no taste. has he, harry?" "his taste differs from ours," said our hero, politely. "i should think so," remarked fitz, with significant emphasis. "was that all you had to amuse yourself?" in using the singular pronoun, he expressly ignored the presence of the young printer. "no, that wasn't all. my friend harry has been amusing me with some tricks which he learned while he was travelling round with professor henderson, the ventriloquist and magician." "really, he is quite accomplished," said fitz, with a covert sneer. "pretty company oscar has taken up with!" he thought. "how long were you in the circus business?" he asked, turning to harry. "i never was in the circus business." "excuse me. i should say, travelling about with the ventriloquist." "about three months. i was with him when he performed here last winter." "ah! indeed. i didn't go. my father doesn't approve of my attending such common performances. i only attend first-class theatres, and the italian opera." "that's foolish," said oscar. "you miss a good deal of fun, then. i went to professor henderson's entertainment, and i now remember seeing you there, harry. you took money at the door, didn't you?" "yes." "now i understand what made your face seem so familiar to me, when i saw it this afternoon. by the way, i have never been into a printing office. if i come round to yours, will you show me round?" "i should be very glad to, oscar, but perhaps you had better wait till i have been there a little while, and learned the ropes. i know very little about it yet." "won't you come too, fitz?" asked oscar. "you must really excuse me," drawled fitz. "i have heard that a printing office is a very dirty place. i should be afraid of soiling my clothes." "especially that stunning cravat." "do you like it? i flatter myself it's something a little extra," said fitz, who was always gratified by a compliment to his cravats. "then you won't go?" "i haven't the slightest curiosity about such a place, i assure you." "then i shall have to go alone. let me know when you are ready to receive me, harry." "i won't forget, oscar." "i wonder he allows such a low fellow to call him by his first name," thought fitz. "really, he has no proper pride." "well," he said, rising, "i must be going." "what's your hurry, fitz?" "i've got to write a letter home this evening. besides, i haven't finished my greek. good-evening, oscar." "good-evening, fitz." "good-evening, mr. fletcher," said harry. "evening!" ejaculated fitz, briefly; and without a look at the low "printer-boy," he closed the door and went down stairs. chapter vi. oscar becomes a professor "i am afraid your friend won't thank you for introducing me to him," said harry, after fitz had left the room. "fitz is a snob," said oscar. "he makes himself ridiculous by putting on airs, and assuming to be more than he is. his father is in a good business, and may be rich--i don't know about that--but that isn't much to boast of." "i don't think we shall be very intimate," said harry, smiling. "evidently a printer's apprentice is something very low in his eyes." "when you are an influential editor he will be willing to recognize you. let that stimulate your ambition." "it isn't easy for a half-educated boy to rise to such a position. i feel that i know very little." "if i can help you any, harry, i shall be very glad to do it. i'm not much of a scholar, but i can help you a little. for instance, if you wanted to learn french, i could hear your lessons, and correct your exercises." "will you?" said harry, eagerly. "there is nothing i should like better." "then i'll tell you what i'll do. you shall buy a french grammar, and come to my room two evenings a week, and recite what you get time to study at home." "won't it give you a great deal of trouble, oscar?" "not a bit of it; i shall rather like it. until you can buy a grammar, i will lend you mine. i'll set you a lesson out of it now." he took from the book-shelves a french grammar, and inviting harry to sit down beside him, gave him some necessary explanations as to the pronunciation of words according to the first lesson. "it seems easy," said harry. "i can take more than that." "it is the easiest of the modern languages, to us at least, on account of its having so many words similar to ours." "what evening shall i come, oscar?" "tuesday and friday will suit me as well as any. and remember, harry, i mean to be very strict in discipline. and, by the way, how will it do to call myself professor?" "i'll call you professor if you want me to." "we'll leave all high titles to fitz, and i won't use the rod any oftener than it is absolutely necessary." "all right, professor vincent," said harry laughing, "i'll endeavor to behave with propriety." "i wonder what they would say at home," said oscar, "if they knew i had taken up the profession of teacher. strange as it may seem to you, harry, i have the reputation in the home-circle of being decidedly lazy. how do you account for it?" "great men are seldom appreciated." "you hit the nail on the head that time--glad i am not the nail, by the way. henceforth i will submit with resignation to injustice and misconstruction, since i am only meeting with the common fate of great men." "what time is it, oscar?" "nearly ten." "then i will bid you good-night," and harry rose to go. "i can't tell how much i am obliged to you for your kind offer." "just postpone thanks till you find out whether i am a good teacher or not." "i am sure of that." "i am not so sure, but i will do what i can for you. good-night. i'll expect you friday evening. i shall see fitz to-morrow. shall i give him your love?" "never mind!" said harry, smiling. "i'm afraid it wouldn't be appreciated." "perhaps not." as harry left his lively companion, he felt that he had been most fortunate in securing his friendship--not only that he found him very agreeable and attractive, but he was likely to be of great use to him in promoting his plans of self-education. he had too much good sense not to perceive that the only chance he had of rising to an influential position lay in qualifying himself for it, by enlarging his limited knowledge and improving his mind. "i have made a good beginning," he thought. "after i have learned something of french, i will take up latin, and i think oscar will be willing to help me in that too." the next morning he commenced work in the printing office. with a few hints from ferguson, he soon comprehended what he had to do, and made very rapid progress. "you're getting on fast, harry," said ferguson approvingly. "i like it," said our hero. "i am glad i decided to be a printer." "i wish i wasn't one," grumbled clapp, the younger journeyman. "don't you like it?" "not much. it's hard work and poor pay. i just wish i was in my brother's shoes. he is a bookkeeper in boston, with a salary of twelve hundred a year, while i am plodding along on fifteen dollars week." "you may do better some day," said ferguson. "don't see any chance of it." "if i were in your place, i would save up part of my salary, and by and by have an office, and perhaps a paper of my own." "why don't you do it, then?" sneered clapp. "because i have a family to support from my earnings--you have only yourself." "it doesn't help me any; i can't save anything out of fifteen dollars a week." "you mean you won't," said ferguson quietly. "no i don't. i mean i can't." "how do you expect i get along, then? i have a wife and two children to support, and only get two dollars a week more than you." "perhaps you get into debt." "no; i owe no man a dollar," said ferguson emphatically. "that isn't all. i save two dollars a week; so that i actually support four on fifteen dollars a week--your salary. what do you say to that?" "i don't want to be mean," said clapp. "nor i. i mean to live comfortably, but of course i have to be economical." "oh, hang economy!" said clapp impatiently. "the old man used to lecture me about economy till i got sick of hearing the word." "it is a good thing, for all that," persisted ferguson. "you'll think so some day, even if you don't now." "i guess you mean to run opposition to young franklin, over there," sneered clapp, indicating harry, who had listened to the discussion with not a little interest. "i think he and i will agree together pretty well," said ferguson, smiling. "franklin's a good man to imitate." "if there are going to be two franklins in the office, it will be time for me to clear out," returned clapp. "you can do better." "how is that?" "become franklin no. ." "you don't catch me imitating any old fogy like that. as far as i know anything about him, he was a mean, stingy old curmudgeon!" exclaimed clapp with irritation. "that's rather strong language, clapp," said mr. anderson, looking up from his desk with a smile. "it doesn't correspond with the general estimate of franklin's character." "i don't care," said clapp doggedly, "i wouldn't be like franklin if i could. i have too much self-respect." ferguson laughed, and harry wanted to, but feared he should offend the younger journeyman, who evidently had worked himself into a bad humor. "i don't think you're in any danger," said ferguson, who did not mind his fellow-workman's little ebullitions of temper. clapp scowled, but did not deign to reply, partly, perhaps, because he knew that there was nothing to say. from the outset ferguson took a fancy to the young apprentice. "he's got good, solid ideas," said he to mr. anderson, when harry was absent. "he isn't so thoughtless as most boys of his age. he looks ahead." "i think you are right in your judgment of him," said mr. anderson. "he promises to be a faithful workman." "he promises more than that," said ferguson. "mark my words, mr. anderson; that boy is going to make his mark some day." "it is a little too soon to say that, isn't it?" "no; i judge from what i see. he is industrious and ambitious, and is bound to succeed. the world will hear of him yet." mr. anderson smiled. he liked what he had seen of his new apprentice, but he thought ferguson altogether too sanguine. "he's a good, faithful boy," he admitted, "but it takes more than that to rise to distinction. if all the smart boys turned out smart men, they'd be a drug in the market." but ferguson held to his own opinion, notwithstanding. time will show which was right. the next day ferguson said, "harry, come round to my house, and take tea to-night. i've spoken to my wife about you, and she wants to see you." "thank you, mr. ferguson," said harry. "i shall be very glad to come." "i'll wait till you are ready, and you can walk along with me." "all right; i will be ready in five minutes." they set out together for ferguson's modest home, which was about half a mile distant. as they passed up the village street harry's attention was drawn to two boys who were approaching them. one he recognized at once as fitzgerald fletcher. he had an even more stunning necktie than when harry first met him, and sported a jaunty little cane, which he swung in his neatly gloved hand. "i wonder if he'll notice me," thought harry. "at any rate, i won't be wanting in politeness." "good-afternoon, mr. fletcher," he said, as they met. fitzgerald stared at him superciliously, and made the slightest possible nod. "who is that?" asked ferguson. "it is a boy who has great contempt for printers' devils and low apprentices," answered harry. "i was introduced to him two evenings ago, but he evidently doesn't care about keeping up the acquaintance." "who is that, fitz?" asked his companion in turn. "it's a low fellow--a printer's devil," answered fitz, shortly. "how do you happen to know him?" "oscar vincent introduced him to me. oscar's a queer fellow. he belongs to one of the first families in boston--one of my set, you know, and yet he actually invited that boy to his room." "he's rather a good-looking boy--the printer." "think so?" drawled fitz. "he's low--all apprentices are. i mean to keep him at a distance." chapter vii. a pleasant evening. "this is my house," said ferguson, pausing at the gate. harry looked at it with interest. it was a cottage, containing four rooms, and a kitchen in the ell part. there was a plot of about a quarter of an acre connected with it. everything about it was neat, though very unpretentious. "it isn't a palace," said ferguson, "but," he added cheerfully, "it's a happy home, and from all i've read, that is more than can be said of some palaces. step right in and make yourself at home." they entered a tiny entry, and mrs. ferguson opened the door of the sitting-room. she was a pleasant-looking woman, and her face wore a smile st welcome. "hannah," said ferguson, "this is our new apprentice, harry walton." "i am glad to see you," she said, offering her hand. "my husband has spoken of you. you are quite welcome, if you can put up with humble fare." "that is what i have always been accustomed to," said harry, beginning to feel quite at home. "where are the children, hannah?" two children, a boy and a girl, of six and four years respectively, bounded into the room and answered for themselves. they looked shyly at harry, but before many minutes their shyness had worn off, and the little girl was sitting on his knee, while the boy stood beside him. harry was fond of children, and readily adapted himself to his young acquaintances. supper was soon ready--a plain meal, but one that harry enjoyed. he could not help comparing ferguson's plain, but pleasant home, with clapp's mode of life. the latter spent on himself as much as sufficed his fellow-workman to support a wife and two children, yet it was easy to see which found the best enjoyment in life. "how do you like your new business?" asked mrs. ferguson, as she handed harry a cup of tea. "i like all but the name," said our hero, smiling. "i wonder how the name came to be applied to a printer's apprentice any more than to any other apprentice," said mrs. ferguson. "i never heard," said her husband. "it seems to me to be a libel upon our trade. but there is one comfort. if you stick to the business, you'll outgrow the name." "that is lucky; i shouldn't like to be called the wife of a ----. i won't pronounce the word lest the children should catch it." "what is it, mother?" asked willie, with his mouth full. "it isn't necessary for you to know, my boy." "do you know mr. clapp?" asked harry. "i have seen him, but never spoke with him." "i never asked him round to tea," said ferguson. "i don't think he would enjoy it any better than i. his tastes are very different from mine, and his views of life are equally different." "i should think so," said harry. "now i think you and i would agree very well. clapp dislikes the business, and only sticks to it because he must get his living in some way. as for me, if i had a sum of money, say five thousand dollars, i would still remain a printer, but in that case i would probably buy out a paper, or start one, and be a publisher, as well as a printer." "that's just what i should like," said harry. "who knows but we may be able to go into partnership some day, and carry out our plan." "i would like it," said harry; "but i am afraid it will be a good while before we can raise the five thousand dollars." "we don't need as much. mr. anderson started on a capital of a thousand dollars, and now he is in comfortable circumstances." "then there's hopes for us." "at any rate i cherish hopes of doing better some day. i shouldn't like always to be a journeyman. i manage to save up a hundred dollars a year. how much have we in the savings bank, hannah?" "between four and five hundred dollars, with interest." "it has taken me four years to save it up. in five more, if nothing happens, i should be worth a thousand dollars. journeymen printers don't get rich very fast." "i hope to have saved up something myself, in five years," said harry. "then our plan may come to pass, after all. you shall be editor, and i publisher." "i should think you would prefer to be an editor," said his wife. "i am diffident of my powers in the line of composition," said ferguson. "i shouldn't be afraid to undertake local items, but when it comes to an elaborate editorial, i should rather leave it in other hands." "i always liked writing," said harry. "of course i have only had a school-boy's practice, but i mean to practise more in my leisure hours." "suppose you write a poem for the 'gazette,' walton." harry smiled. "i am not ambitious enough for that," he replied. "i will try plain prose." "do so," said ferguson, earnestly. "our plan may come to something after all, if we wait patiently. it will do no harm to prepare yourself as well as you can. after a while you might write something for the 'gazette.' i think mr. anderson would put it in." "shall i sign it p. d.?" asked harry. "p. d. stands for doctor of philosophy." "i don't aspire to such a learned title. p. d. also stands for printer's devil." "i see. well, joking aside, i advise you to improve yourself in writing." "i will. that is the way franklin did." "i remember. he wrote an article, and slipped it under the door of the printing office, not caring to have it known that he was the author." "shall i give you a piece of pie, mr. walton?" said mrs. ferguson. "thank you.". "me too," said willie, extending his plate. "willie is always fond of pie," said his father, "in a printing office _pi_ is not such a favorite." when supper was over, mr. ferguson showed harry a small collection of books, about twenty-five in number, neatly arranged on shelves. "it isn't much of a library," he said, "but a few books are better than none. i should like to buy as many every year; but books are expensive, and the outlay would make too great an inroad upon my small surplus." "i always thought i should like a library," said harry, "but my father is very poor, and has fewer books than you. as for me, i have but one book besides the school-books i studied, and that i gained as a school prize--the life of franklin." "if one has few books he is apt to prize them more," said ferguson, "and is apt to profit by them more." "have you read the history of china?" asked harry, who had been looking over his friend's books. "no; i have never seen it." "why, there it is," said our hero, "in two volumes." "take it down," said ferguson, laughing. harry did so, and to his surprise it opened in his hands, and revealed a checker-board. "you see appearances are deceitful. can you play checkers?" "i never tried." "you will easily learn. shall i teach you the game?" "i wish you would." they sat down; and harry soon became interested in the game, which requires a certain degree of thought and foresight. "you will make a good player after a while," said his companion. "you must come in often and play with me." "thank you, i should like to do so. it may not be often, for i am taking lessons in french, and i want to get on as fast as possible." "i did not know there was any one in the village who gave lessons in french." "oh, he's not a professional teacher. oscar vincent, one of the academy boys, is teaching me. i am to take two lessons a week, on tuesday and friday evenings." "indeed, that is a good arrangement. how did it come about?" harry related the particulars of his meeting with oscar. "he's a capital fellow," he concluded. "very different from another boy i met in his room. i pointed him out to you in the street. oscar seems to be rich, but he doesn't put on any airs, and he treated me very kindly." "that is to his credit. it's the sham aristocrats that put on most airs. i believe you will make somebody, walton. you have lost no time in getting to work." "i have no time to lose. i wish i was in oscar's place. he is preparing for harvard, and has nothing to do but to learn." "i heard a lecturer once who said that the printing office is the poor man's college, and he gave a great many instances of printers who had risen high in the world, particularly in our own country." "well, that is encouraging. i should like to have heard the lecture." "i begin to think, harry, that i should have done well to follow your example. when i was in your position, i might have studied too, but i didn't realize the importance as i do now. i read some useful books, to be sure, but that isn't like studying." "it isn't too late now." ferguson shook his head. "now i have a wife and children," he said. "i am away from them during the day, and the evening i like to pass socially with them." "perhaps you would like to be divorced," said his wife, smiling. "then you would get time for study." "i doubt if that would make me as happy, hannah. i am not ready to part with you just yet. but our young friend here is not quite old enough to be married, and there is nothing to prevent his pursuing his studies. so, harry, go on, and prepare yourself for your editorial duties." harry smiled thoughtfully. for the first time he had formed definite plans for his future. why should not ferguson's plans be realized? "if i live long enough," he said to himself, "i will be an editor, and exert some influence in the world." at ten o'clock he bade good-night to mr. and mrs. ferguson, feeling that he had passed a pleasant and what might prove a profitable evening. chapter viii. fletcher's views on social position. "you are getting on finely, harry," said oscar vincent, a fortnight later. "you do credit to my teaching. as you have been over all the regular verbs now, i will give you a lesson in translating." "i shall find that interesting," said harry, with satisfaction. "here is a french reader," said oscar, taking one down from the shelves. "it has a dictionary at the end. i won't give you a lesson. you may take as much as you have time for, and at the same time three or four of the irregular verbs. you are going about three times as fast as i did when i commenced french." "perhaps i have a better teacher than you had," said harry, smiling. "i shouldn't wonder," said oscar. "that explains it to my satisfaction. well, now the lesson is over, sit down and we'll have a chat. oh, by the way, there's one thing i want to speak to you about. we've got a debating society at our school. it is called 'the clionian society.' most of the students belong to it. how would you like to join?" "i should like it very much. do you think they would admit me?" "i don't see why not. i'll propose you at the next meeting, thursday evening. then the nomination will lie over a week, and be acted upon at the next meeting." "i wish you would. i never belonged to a debating society, but i should like to learn to speak." "it's nothing when you're used to it. it's only the first time you know, that troubles you. by jove! i remember how my knees trembled when i first got up and said mr. president. i felt as if all eyes were upon me, and i wanted to sink through the floor. now i can get up and chatter with the best of them. i don't mean that i can make an eloquent speech or anything of that kind, but i can talk at a minute's notice on almost any subject." "i wish i could." "oh, you can, after you've tried a few times. well, then, it's settled. i'll propose you at the next meeting." "how lucky i am to have fallen in with you, oscar." "i know what you mean. i'm your guide, philosopher, and friend, and all that sort of thing. i hope you'll have proper veneration for me. it's rather a new character for me. would you believe it, harry,--at home i am regarded as a rattle-brained chap, instead of the dignified professor that you know me to be. isn't it a shame?" "great men are seldom appreciated at home, oscar." "i know that. i shall have to get a certificate from you, certifying to my being a steady and erudite young man." "i'll give it with the greatest pleasure." "holloa, there's a knock. come in!" shouted oscar. the door opened, and fitzgerald fletcher entered the room. "how are you, fitz?" said oscar. "sit down and make yourself comfortable. you know my friend, harry walton, i believe?" "i believe i had the honor to meet him here one evening," said fitzgerald stiffly, slightly emphasizing the word "honor." "i hope you are well, mr. fletcher," said harry, more amused than disturbed by the manner of the aristocratic visitor. "thank you, my health is good," said fitzgerald with equal stiffness, and forthwith turned to oscar, not deigning to devote any more attention to harry. our hero had intended to remain a short time longer, but, under the circumstances, as oscar's attention would be occupied by fletcher, with whom he was not on intimate terms, he thought he might spend the evening more profitably at home in study. "if you'll excuse me, oscar," he said, rising, "i will leave you now, as i have something to do this evening." "if you insist upon it, harry, i will excuse you. come round friday evening." "thank you." "do you have to work at the printing office in the evening?" fletcher deigned to inquire. "no; i have some studying to do." "reading and spelling, i suppose," sneered fletcher. "i am studying french." "indeed!" returned fletcher, rather surprised. "how can you study it without a teacher?" "i have a teacher." "who is it?" "professor vincent," said harry, smiling. "you didn't know that i had developed into a french professor, did you, fitz? well, it's so, and whether it's the superior teaching or not, i can't say, but my scholar is getting on famously." "it must be a great bore to teach," said fletcher. "not at all. i like it." "every one to his taste," said fitzgerald unpleasantly. "good-night, oscar. good-night, mr. fletcher," said harry, and made his exit. "you're a strange fellow, oscar," said fletcher, after harry's departure. "very likely, but what particular strangeness do you refer to now?" "no one but you would think of giving lessons to a printer's devil." "i don't know about that." "no one, i mean, that holds your position in society." "i don't know that i hold any particular position in society." "your family live on beacon street, and move in the first circles. i am sure my mother would be disgusted if i should demean myself so far as to give lessons to any vulgar apprentice." "i don't propose to give lessons to any vulgar apprentice." "you know whom i mean. this walton is only a printer's devil." "i don't know that that is any objection to him. it isn't morally wrong to be a printer's devil, is it?" "what a queer fellow you are, oscar. of course i don't mean that. i daresay he's well enough in his place, though he seems to be very forward and presuming, but you know that he's not your equal." "he is not my equal in knowledge, but i shouldn't be surprised if he would be some time. you'd be astonished to see how fast he gets on." "i daresay. but i mean in social position." "it seems to me you can't think of anything but social position." "well, it's worth thinking about." "no doubt, as far as it is deserved. but when it is founded on nothing but money, i wouldn't give much for it." "of course we all know that the higher classes are more refined--" "than printers' devils and vulgar apprentices, i suppose," put in oscar, laughing, "yes." "well, if refinement consists in wearing kid gloves and stunning neckties, i suppose the higher classes, as you call them, are more refined." "do you mean me?" demanded fletcher, who was noted for the character of his neckties. "well, i can't say i don't. i suppose you regard yourself as a representative of the higher classes, don't you?" "to be sure i do," said fletcher, complacently. "so i supposed. then you see i had a right to refer to you. now listen to my prediction. twenty-five years from now, the boy whom you look down upon as a vulgar apprentice will occupy a high position, and you will be glad to number him among your acquaintances." "speak for yourself, oscar," said fletcher, scornfully. "i speak for both of us." "then i say i hope i can command better associates than this friend of yours." "you may, but i doubt it." "you seem to be carried away by him," said fitzgerald, pettishly. "i don't see anything very wonderful about him, except dirty hands." "then you have seen more than i have." "of course a fellow who meddles with printer's ink must have dirty hands. faugh!" said fletcher, turning up his nose. at the same time he regarded complacently his own fingers, which he carefully kept aloof from anything that would soil or mar their aristocratic whiteness. "the fact is, fitz," said oscar, argumentatively, "our upper ten, as we call them, spring from just such beginnings as my friend harry walton. my own father commenced life in a printing office. but, as you say, he occupies a high position at present." "really!" said fletcher, a little taken aback, for he knew that vincent's father ranked higher than his own. "i daresay your own ancestors were not always patricians." fletcher winced. he knew well enough that his father commenced life as a boy in a country grocery, but in the mutations of fortune had risen to be the proprietor of a large dry-goods store on washington street. none of the family cared to look back to the beginning of his career. they overlooked the fact that it was creditable to him to have risen from the ranks, though the rise was only in wealth, for mr. fletcher was a purse-proud parvenu, who owed all the consideration he enjoyed to his commercial position. fitz liked to have it understood that he was of patrician lineage, and carefully ignored the little grocery, and certain country relations who occasionally paid a visit to their wealthy relatives, in spite of the rather frigid welcome they received. "oh, i suppose there are exceptions," fletcher admitted reluctantly. "your father was smart." "so is harry walton. i know what he is aiming at, and i predict that he will be an influential editor some day." "have you got your greek lesson?" asked fletcher, abruptly, who did not relish the course the conversation had taken. "yes." "then i want you to translate a passage for me. i couldn't make it out." "all right." half an hour later fletcher left vincent's room. "what a snob he is!" thought oscar. and oscar was right. chapter ix. the clionian society. on thursday evening the main school of the academy building was lighted up, and groups of boys, varying in age from thirteen to nineteen, were standing in different parts of the room. these were members of the clionian society, whose weekly meeting was about to take place. at eight o'clock precisely the president took his place at the teacher's desk, with the secretary at his side, and rapped for order. the presiding officer was alfred dewitt, a member of the senior class, and now nearly ready for college. the secretary was a member of the same class, by name george sanborn. "the secretary will read the minutes of the last meeting," said the president, when order had been obtained. george sanborn rose and read his report, which was accepted. "are any committees prepared to report?" asked the president. the finance committee reported through its chairman, recommending that the fee for admission be established at one dollar, and that each member be assessed twenty-five cents monthly. "mr. president," said fitzgerald fletcher, rising to his feet, "i would like to say a word in reference to this report." "mr. fletcher has the floor." "then, mr. president, i wish to say that i disagree with the report of the committee. i think a dollar is altogether too small. it ought to be at least three dollars, and i myself should prefer five dollars. again, sir, the committee has recommended for the monthly assessment the ridiculously small sum of twenty-five cents. i think it ought to be a dollar." "mr. president, i should like to ask the gentleman his reason," said henry fairbanks, chairman of the finance committee. "why should we tax the members to such an extent, when the sums reported are sufficient to defray the ordinary expenses of the society, and to leave a small surplus besides?" "mr. president," returned fletcher, "i will answer the gentleman. we don't want to throw open the society to every one that can raise a dollar. we want to have an exclusive society." "mr. president," said oscar vincent, rising, "i should like to ask the gentleman for how many he is speaking. he certainly is not speaking for me. i don't want the society to be exclusive. there are not many who can afford to pay the exorbitant sums which he desires fixed for admission fee and for monthly assessments, and i for one am not willing to exclude any good fellow who desires to become one of us, but does not boast as heavy a purse as the gentleman who has just spoken." these remarks of oscar were greeted with applause, general enough to show that the opinions of nearly all were with him. "mr. president," said henry fairbanks, "though i am opposed to the gentleman's suggestion, (does he offer it as an amendment?) i have no possible objection to his individually paying the increased rates which he recommends, and i am sure the treasurer will gladly receive them." laughter and applause greeted this hit, and fletcher once more arose, somewhat vexed at the reception of his suggestion. "i don't choose--" he commenced. "the gentleman will address the chair," interrupted the president. "mr. president, i don't choose to pay more than the other members, though i can do it without inconvenience. but, as i said, i don't believe in being too democratic. i am not in favor of admitting anybody and everybody into the society." "mr. president," said james hooper, "i congratulate the gentleman on the flourishing state of his finances. for my own part, i am not ashamed to say that i cannot afford to pay a dollar a month assessment, and, were it required, i should be obliged to offer my resignation." "so much the better," thought fitzgerald, for, as hooper was poor, and went coarsely clothed, he looked down upon him. fortunately for himself he did not give utterance to his thought. "does mr. fletcher put his recommendation into the form of an amendment?" asked, the president. "i do." "be kind enough to state it, then." fletcher did so, but as no one seconded it, no action was of course taken. "nominations for membership are now in order," said the president. "i should like to propose my friend henry walton." "who is henry walton?" asked a member. "mr. president, may i answer the gentleman?" asked fitzgerald fletcher, rising to his feet. "as the nominee is not to be voted upon this evening, it is not in order." "mr. president," said oscar, "i should be glad to have the gentleman report his information." "mr. fletcher may speak if he desires it, but as the name will be referred to the committee on nominations, it is hardly necessary." "mr. president, i merely wish to inform the society, that mr. walton occupies the dignified position of printer's devil in the office of the 'centreville gazette.'" "mr. president," said oscar, "may i ask the indulgence of the society long enough to say that i am quite aware of the fact. i will add that mr. walton is a young man of excellent abilities, and i am confident will prove an accession to the society." "i cannot permit further remarks on a matter which will come in due course before the committee on nominations," said the president. "the next business in order is the debate." of the debate, and the further proceedings, i shall not speak, as they are of no special interest. but after the meeting was over, groups of members discussed matters which had come up during the evening. fletcher approached oscar vincent, and said, "i can't see, oscar, why you are trying to get that printer's devil into our society." "because he's a good fellow, and smart enough to do us credit." "if there were any bootblacks in centreville i suppose you'd be proposing them?" said fletcher with a sneer. "i might, if they were as smart as my friend walton." "you are not very particular about your friends," said fletcher in the same tone. "i don't ask them to open their pocket-books, and show me how much money they have." "i prefer to associate with gentlemen." "so do i." "yet you associate with that printer's devil." "i consider him a gentleman." fletcher laughed scornfully. "you have strange ideas of a gentleman," he said. "i hold the same," said james hooper, who had come up in time to hear the last portion of the conversation. "i don't think a full purse is the only or the chief qualification of a gentleman. if labor is to be a disqualification, then i must resign all claims to be considered a gentleman, as i worked on a farm for two years before coming to school, and in that way earned the money to pay my expenses here." fletcher turned up his nose, but did not reply. hooper was a good scholar and influential in the society, but in fletcher's eyes he was unworthy of consideration. "look here, fletcher,--what makes you so confoundedly exclusive is your ideas?" asked henry fairbanks. "because i respect myself," said fletcher in rather a surly tone. "then you have one admirer," said fairbanks. "what do you mean by that?" asked fletcher, suspiciously. "nothing out of the way. i believe in self-respect, but i don't see how it is going to be endangered by the admission of oscar's friend to the society." "am i expected to associate on equal terms with a printer's devil?" "i can't answer for you. as for me, if he is a good fellow, i shall welcome him to our ranks. some of our most eminent men have been apprenticed to the trade of printer. i believe, after all, it is the name that has prejudiced you." "no it isn't. i have seen him." "henry walton?" "yes." "where?" "in oscar's room." "well?" "i don't like his appearance." "what's the matter with his appearance?" asked oscar. "he looks low." "that's where i must decidedly contradict you, fitz, and i shall appeal confidently to the members of the society when they come to know him, as they soon will, for i am sure no one else shares your ridiculous prejudices. harry walton, in my opinion, is a true gentleman, without reference to his purse, and he is bound to rise hereafter, take my word for it." "there's plenty of room for him to rise," said fletcher with a sneer. "that is true not only of him, but of all of us, i take it." "do you refer to me?" "oh no," said oscar with sarcasm. "i am quite aware that you are at the pinnacle of eminence, even if you do flunk in greek occasionally." fitzgerald had failed in the greek recitation during the day, and that in school parlance is sometimes termed a "flunk." he bit his lip in mortification at this reference, and walked away, leaving oscar master of the situation. "you had the best of him there, vincent," said george sanborn. "he has gone off in disgust." "i like to see fletcher taken down," said henry fairbanks. "i never saw a fellow put on so many airs. he is altogether too aristocratic to associate with ordinary people." "yes," said oscar, "he has a foolish pride, which i hope he will some time get rid of." "he ought to have been born in england, and not in a republic." "if he had been born in england, he would have been unhappy unless he had belonged to the nobility," said alfred dewitt. "look here, boys," said tom carver, "what do you say to mortifying fitz's pride?" "have you got a plan in view, tom? if so, out with it." "yes: you know the pedler that comes into town about once a month to buy up rags, and sell his tinwares." "i have seen him. well, what of him?" "he is coming early next week. some of us will see him privately, and post him up as to fitz's relations and position, and hire him to come up to school, and inquire for fitz, representing himself as his cousin. of course fitz will deny it indignantly, but he will persist and show that he knows all about the family." "good! splendid!" exclaimed the boys laughing. "won't fitz be raving?" "there's no doubt about that. well, boys, i'll arrange it all, if you'll authorize me." "go ahead, tom. you can draw upon us for the necessary funds." fletcher had retired to his room, angry at the opposition his proposal had received, and without any warning of the humiliation which awaited him. chapter x. the tin-pedler. those of my readers who live in large cities are probably not familiar with the travelling tin-pedler, who makes his appearance at frequent intervals in the country towns and villages of new england. his stock of tinware embraces a large variety of articles for culinary purposes, ranging from milk-pans to nutmeg-graters. these are contained in a wagon of large capacity, in shape like a box, on which he sits enthroned a merchant prince. unlike most traders, he receives little money, most of his transactions being in the form of a barter, whereby be exchanges his merchandise for rags, white and colored, which have accumulated in the household, and are gladly traded off for bright tinware. behind the cart usually depend two immense bags, one for white, the other for colored rags, which, in time, are sold to paper manufacturers. it may be that the very paper on which this description is printed, was manufactured from rags so collected. abner bickford was the proprietor of such an establishment as i have described. no one, at first sight, would have hesitated to class him as a yankee. he was long in the limbs, and long in the face, with a shrewd twinkle in the eye, a long nose, and the expression of a man who respected himself and feared nobody. he was unpolished, in his manners, and knew little of books, but he belonged to the same resolute and hardy type of men who in years past sprang to arms, and fought bravely for an idea. he was strong in his manhood, and would have stood unabashed before a king. such was the man who was to mortify the pride of fitzgerald fletcher. tom carver watched for his arrival in centreville, and walking up to his cart, accosted him. "good-morning, mr. bickford." "good-mornin', young man. you've got the advantage of me. i never saw you before as i know of." "i am tom carver, at your service." "glad to know you. where do you live? maybe your wife would like some tinware this mornin'?" said abner, relaxing his gaunt features into a smile. "she didn't say anything about it when i came out," said tom, entering into the joke. "maybe you'd like a tin-dipper for your youngest boy?" "maybe i would, if you've got any to give away." "i see you've cut your eye-teeth. is there anything else i can do for you? i'm in for a trade." "i don't know, unless i sell myself for rags." "anything for a trade. i'll give you two cents a pound." "that's too cheap. i came to ask your help in a trick we boys want to play on one of our number." "sho! you don't say so. that aint exactly in my line." "i'll tell you all about it. there's a chap at our school--the academy, you know--who's awfully stuck up. he's all the time bragging about belonging to a first family in boston, and turning up his nose at poorer boys. we want to mortify him." "just so!" said abner, nodding. "drive ahead!" "well, we thought if you'd call at the school and ask after him, and pretend he was a cousin of yours, and all that, it would make him mad." "oh, i see," said abner, nodding, "he wouldn't like to own a tin-pedler for his cousin." "no," said tom; "he wants us to think all his relations are rich. i wouldn't mind at all myself," he added, it suddenly occurring to him that abner's feelings might be hurt. "good!" said abner, "i see you aint one of the stuck-up kind. i've got some relations in boston myself, that are rich and stuck up. i never go near 'em. what's the name of this chap you're talkin' about?" "fletcher--fitzgerald fletcher." "fletcher!" repeated abner. "whew! well, that's a joke!" "what's a joke?" asked tom, rather surprised. "why, he _is_ my relation--a sort of second cousin. why, my mother and his father are own cousins. so, don't you see we're second cousins?" "that's splendid!" exclaimed tom. "i can hardly believe it." "it's so. my mother's name was fletcher--roxanna fletcher--afore she married. jim fletcher--this boy's father--used to work in my grandfather's store, up to hampton, but he got kinder discontented, and went off to boston, where he's been lucky, and they do say he's mighty rich now. i never go nigh him, 'cause i know he looks down on his country cousins, and i don't believe in pokin' my nose in where i aint wanted." "then you are really and truly fitz's cousin?" "if that's the boy's name. seems to me it's a kinder queer one. i s'pose it's a fust-claas name. sounds rather stuck up." "won't the boys roar when they hear about it! are you willing to enter into our plan?" "well," said abner, "i'll do it. i can't abide folks that's stuck up. i'd rather own a cousin like you." "thank you, mr. bickford." "when do you want me to come round?" "how long do you stay in town?" "well, i expect to stop overnight at the tavern; i can't get through in one day." "then come round to the academy to-morrow morning, about half-past eight. school don't begin till nine, but the boys will be playing ball alongside. then we'll give you an introduction to your cousin." "that'll suit me well enough. i'll come." tom carver returned in triumph, and communicated to the other boys the arrangement be had made with mr. bickford, and his unexpected discovery of the genuine relationship that existed between fitz and the tin-pedler. his communication was listened to with great delight, and no little hilarity, and the boys discussed the probable effect of the projected meeting. "fitz will be perfectly raving," said henry fairbanks. "there's nothing that will take down his pride so much." "he'll deny the relationship, probably," said oscar. "how can he?" "he'll do it. see if he don't. it would be death to all his aristocratic claims to admit it." "suppose it were yourself, oscar?" "i'd say, 'how are you, cousin? how's the the business?'" answered oscar, promptly. "i believe you would, oscar. there's nothing of the snob about you." "i hope not." "yet your family stands as high as fletcher's." "that's a point i leave to others to discuss," said oscar. "my father is universally respected, i am sure, but he rose from the ranks. he was once a printer's devil, like my friend harry walton. wouldn't it be ridiculous in me to turn up my nose at walton, just because be stands now where my father did thirty years ago? it would be the same thing as sneering at father." "give us your hand, oscar," said henry fairbanks. "you've got no nonsense about you--i like you." "i'm not sure whether your compliment is deserved, henry," said oscar, "but if i have any nonsense it isn't of that kind." "do you believe fitz has any suspicion that he has a cousin in the tin business?" "no; i don't believe he has. he must know he has poor relations, living in the country, but he probably thinks as little as possible about them. as long as they don't intrude themselves upon his greatness, i suppose he is satisfied." "and as long as no one suspects that he has any connection with such plebeians." "of course." "what sort of a man is this tin-pedler, tom?" asked oscar. "he's a pretty sharp fellow--not educated, or polished, you know, but he seems to have some sensible ideas. he said he had never seen the fletchers; because he didn't want to poke his nose in where he wasn't wanted. he showed his good sense also by saying that he had rather have me for a cousin than fitz." "that isn't a very high compliment--i'd say the same myself." "thank you, oscar. your compliment exalts me. you won't mind my strutting a little." and tom humorously threw back his head, and strutted about with mock pride. "to be sure," said oscar, "you don't belong to one of the first families of boston, like our friend, fitz." "no, i belong to one of the second families. you can't blame me, for i can't help it." "no, i won't blame you, but of course i consider you low." "i am afraid, tom, i haven't got any cousins in the tin trade, like fitz." "poor fitz! he little dreams of his impending trial. if he did, i am afraid he wouldn't sleep a wink to-night." "i wish i thought as much of myself as fitz does," said henry fairbanks. "you can see by his dignified pace, and the way he tosses his head, how well satisfied he is with being fitzgerald fletcher, esq." "i'll bet five cents he won't strut round so much to-morrow afternoon," said tom, "after his interview with his new cousin. but hush, boys! not a word more of this. there's fitz coming up the hill. i wouldn't have him suspect what's going on, or he might defeat our plans by staying away." chapter xi. fitz and his cousin. the next morning at eight the boys began to gather in the field beside the seminary. they began to play ball, but took little interest in the game, compared with the "tragedy in real life," as tom jocosely called it, which was expected soon to come off. fitz appeared upon the scene early. in fact one of the boys called for him, and induced him to come round to school earlier than usual. significant glances were exchanged when he made his appearance, but fitz suspected nothing, and was quite unaware that he was attracting more attention than usual. punctually at half-past eight, abner bickford with his tin-cart appeared in the street, and with a twitch of the rein began to ascend the academy hill. "look there," said tom carver, "the tin-pedler's coming up the hill. wonder if he expects to sell any of his wares to us boys. do you know him, fitz?" "i!" answered fitzgerald with a scornful look, "what should i know of a tin-pedler?" tom's mouth twitched, and his eyes danced with the anticipation of fun. by this time mr. bickford had brought his horse to a halt, and jumping from his box, approached the group of boys, who suspended their game. "we don't want any tinware," said one of the boys, who was not in the secret. "want to know! perhaps you haven't got tin enough to pay for it. never mind, i'll buy you for old rags, at two cents a pound." "he has you there, harvey," said tom carver. "can i do anything for you, sir?" "is your name fletcher?" asked abner, not appearing to recognize tom. "why, he wants you, fitz!" said harvey, in surprise. "this gentleman's name is fletcher," said tom, placing his hand on the shoulder of the astonished fitzgerald. "not fitz fletcher?" said abner, interrogatively. "my name is fitzgerald fletcher," said the young bostonian, haughtily, "but i am at a loss to understand why you should desire to see me." abner advanced with hand extended, his face lighted up with an expansive grin. "why, cousin fitz," he said heartily, "do you mean to say you don't know me?" "sir," said fitzgerald, drawing back, "you are entirely mistaken in the person. i don't know you." "i guess it's you that are mistaken, fitz," said the pedler, familiarly; "why, don't you remember cousin abner, that used to trot you on his knee when you was a baby? give us your hand, in memory of old times." "you must be crazy," said fitzgerald, his cheeks red with indignation, and all the more exasperated because he saw significant smiles on the faces of his school-companions. "i s'pose you was too young to remember me," said abner. "i haint seen you for ten years." "sir," said fitz, wrathfully, "you are trying to impose upon me. i am a native of boston." "of course you be," said the imperturbable pedler. "cousin jim--that's your father--went to boston when he was a boy, and they do say he's worked his way up to be a mighty rich man. your father is rich, aint he?" "my father is wealthy, and always was," said fitzgerald. "no he wasn't, cousin fitz," said abner. "when he was a boy, he used to work in grandfather's store up to hampton; but he got sort of discontented and went to boston. did you ever hear him tell of his cousin roxanna? that's my mother." "i see that you mean to insult me, fellow," said fitz, pale with passion. "i don't know what your object is, in pretending that i am your relation. if you want any pecuniary help--" "hear the boy talk!" said the pedler, bursting into a horse laugh. "abner bickford don't want no pecuniary help, as you call it. my tin-cart'll keep me, i guess." "you needn't claim relationship with me," said fitzgerald, scornfully; "i haven't any low relations." "that's so," said abner, emphatically; "but i aint sure whether i can say that for myself." "do you mean to insult me?" "how can i? i was talkin' of my relations. you say you aint one of 'em." "i am not." "then you needn't go for to put on the coat. but you're out of your reckoning, i guess. i remember your mother very well. she was susan baker." "is that true, fitz?" "ye--es," answered fitz, reluctantly. "i told you so," said the pedler, triumphantly. "perhaps he is your cousin, after all," said henry fairbanks. "i tell you he isn't," said fletcher, impetuously. "how should he know your mother's name, then, fitz?" asked tom. "some of you fellows told him," said fitzgerald. "i can say, for one, that i never knew it," said tom. "nor i." "nor i." "we used to call her sukey baker," said abner. "she used to go to the deestrict school along of mother. they was in the same class. i haven't seen your mother since you was a baby. how many children has she got?" "i must decline answering your impertinent questions." said fitzgerald, desperately. he began to entertain, for the first time, the horrible suspicion that the pedler's story might be true--that he might after all be his cousin. but he resolved that he never would admit it--never! where would be his pretentious claims to aristocracy--where his pride--if this humiliating discovery were made? judging of his school-fellows and himself, he feared that they would look down upon him. "you seem kind o' riled to find that i am your cousin," said abner. "now, fitz, that's foolish. i aint rich, to be sure, but i'm respectable. i don't drink nor chew, and i've got five hundred dollars laid away in the bank." "you're welcome to your five hundred dollars," said fitz, in what was meant to be a tone of withering sarcasm. "am i? well, i'd orter be, considerin' i earned it by hard work. seems to me you've got high notions, fitz. your mother was kind of flighty, and i've heard mine say cousin jim--that's your father--was mighty sot up by gettin' rich. but seems to me you ought not to deny your own flesh and blood." "i don't know who you refer to, sir." "why, you don't seem to want to own me as your cousin." "of course not. you're only a common tin-pedler." "well, i know i'm a tin-pedler, but that don't change my bein' your cousin." "i wish my father was here to expose your falsehood." "hold on there!" said abner. "you're goin' a leetle too far. i don't let no man, nor boy neither, charge me with lyin', if he is my cousin, i don't stand that, nohow." there was something in abner's tone which convinced fitzgerald that he was in earnest, and that he himself must take care not to go too far. "i don't wish to have anything more to say to you," said fitz." "i say, boys," said abner, turning to the crowd who had now formed a circle around the cousins, "i leave it to you if it aint mean for fitz to treat me in that way. if he was to come to my house, that aint the way i'd treat him." "come, fitz," said tom, "you are not behaving right. i would not treat my cousin that way." "he isn't my cousin, and you know it," said fitz, stamping with rage. "i wish i wasn't," said abner. "if i could have my pick, i'd rather have him," indicating tom. "but blood can't be wiped out. we're cousins, even if we don't like it." "are you quite sure you are right about this relationship?" asked henry fairbanks, gravely. "fitz, here, says he belongs to one of the first families of boston." "well, i belong to one of the first families of hampton," said abner, with a grin. "nobody don't look down on me, i guess." "you hear that, fitz," said oscar. "be sensible, and shake hands with your cousin." "yes, shake hands with your cousin!" echoed the boys. "you all seem to want to insult me," said fitz, sullenly. "not i," said oscar, "and i'll prove it--will you shake hands with me, sir?" "that i will," said abner, heartily. "i can see that you're a young gentleman, and i wish i could say as much for my cousin, fitz." oscar's example was followed by the rest of the boys, who advanced in turn, and shook hands with the tin-pedler. "now fitz, it's your turn," said tom. "i decline," said fitz, holding his hands behind his back. "how much he looks like his marm did when she was young," said abner. "well, boys, i can't stop no longer. i didn't think cousin fitz would be so stuck up, just because his father's made some money. good-mornin'!" "three cheers for fitz's cousin!" shouted tom. they were given with a will, and mr. bickford made acknowledgment by a nod and a grin. "remember me to your mother when you write, cousin fitz," he said at parting. fitz was too angry to reply. he walked off sullenly, deeply mortified and humiliated, and for weeks afterward nothing would more surely throw him into a rage than any allusion to his cousin the tin-pedler. one good effect, however, followed. he did not venture to allude to the social position of his family in presence of his school-mates, and found it politic to lay aside some of his airs of superiority. chapter xii. harry joins the clionian society. a week later harry walton received the following note:-- "centreville, may th, --, "dear sir: at the last meeting of the clionian society you were elected a member. the next meeting will be held on thursday evening, in the academy building. "yours truly, "george sanborn, "secretary. "mr. harry walton." our hero read this letter with satisfaction. it would be pleasant for him to become acquainted with the academy students, but he thought most of the advantages which his membership would afford him in the way of writing and speaking. he had never attempted to debate, and dreaded attempting it for the first time; but he knew that nothing desirable would be accomplished without effort, and he was willing to make that effort. "what have you there, walton?" asked clapp, noticing the letter which he held in his hand. "you can read it if you like," said harry. "humph!" said clapp; "so you are getting in with the academy boys?" "why shouldn't he?" said ferguson. "oh, they're a stuck-up set." "i don't find them so--that is, with one exception," said harry. "they are mostly the sones of rich men, and look down on those who have to work for a living." clapp was of a jealous and envious disposition, and he was always fancying slights where they were not intended. "if i thought so," said harry, "i would not join the society, but as they have elected me, i shall become a member, and see how things turn out." "it is a good plan, harry," said ferguson. "it will be a great advantage to you." "i wish i had a chance to attend the academy for a couple of years," said our hero, thoughtfully. "i don't," said clapp. "what's the good of studying latin and greek, and all that rigmarole? it won't bring you money, will it?" "yes," said ferguson. "education will make a man more competent to earn money, at any rate in many cases. i have a cousin, who used to go to school with me, but his father was able to send him to college. he is now a lawyer in boston, making four or five times my income. but it isn't for the money alone that an education is worth having. there is a pleasure in being educated." "so i think," said harry. "i don't see it," said clapp. "i wouldn't be a bookworm for anybody. there's walton learning french. what good is it ever going to do him?" "i can tell you better by and by, when i know a little more," said harry. "i am only a beginner now." "dr. franklin would never have become distinguished if he had been satisfied with what he knew as an apprentice," said ferguson. "oh, if you're going to bring up franklin again, i've got through," said clapp with a sneer. "i forgot that walton was trying to be a second franklin." "i don't see much chance of it," said harry, good-humoredly. "i should like to be if i could." clapp seemed to be in an ill-humor, and the conversation was not continued. he had been up late the night before with luke harrison, and both had drank more than was good for them. in consequence, clapp had a severe headache, and this did not improve his temper. "come round thursday evening, harry," said oscar vincent, "and go to the society with me. i will introduce you to the fellows. it will be less awkward, you know." "thank you, oscar. i shall be glad to accept your escort." when thursday evening came, oscar and harry entered the society hall arm in arm. oscar led his companion up to the secretary and introduced him. "i am glad to see you, mr. walton," said he. "will you sign your name to the constitution? that is all the formality we require." "except a slight pecuniary disbursement," added oscar. "how much is the entrance fee?" asked harry. "one dollar. you win pay that to the treasurer." oscar next introduced our hero to the president, and some of the leading members, all of whom welcomed him cordially. "good-evening, mr. fletcher," said harry, observing that young gentleman near him. "good-evening, sir," said fletcher stiffly, and turned on his heel without offering his hand. "fletcher don't feel well," whispered oscar. "he had a visit from a poor relation the other day--a tin-pedler--and it gave such a shock to his sensitive system that he hasn't recovered from it yet." "i didn't imagine mr. fletcher had such a plebeian relative," said harry. "nor did any of us. the interview was rich. it amused us all, but what was sport to us was death to poor fitz. you have only to make the most distant allusion to a tin-pedler in his hearing, and he will become furious." "then i will be careful." "oh, it won't do any harm. the fact was, the boy was getting too overbearing, and putting on altogether too many airs. the lesson will do him good, or ought to." here the society was called to order, and oscar and harry took their seats. the exercises proceeded in regular order until the president announced a declamation by fitzgerald fletcher. "mr. president," said fletcher, rising, "i must ask to be excused. i have not had time to prepare a declamation." "mr. president," said tom carver, "under the circumstances i hope you will excuse mr. fletcher, as during the last week he has had an addition to his family." there was a chorus of laughter, loud and long, at this sally. all were amused except fletcher himself, who looked flushed and provoked. "mr. fletcher is excused," said the president, unable to refrain from smiling. "will any member volunteer to speak in his place? it will be a pity to have our exercises incomplete." fletcher was angry, and wanted to be revenged on somebody. a bright idea came to him. he would place the "printer's devil," whose admission to the society he resented, in an awkward position. he rose with a malicious smile upon his face. "mr. president," he said, "doubtless mr. walton, the new member who has done us the _honor_ to join our society, will be willing to supply my place." "we shall certainly be glad to hear a declamation from mr. walton, though it is hardly fair to call upon him at such short notice." "can't you speak something, harry?" whispered oscar. "don't do it, unless you are sure you can get through." harry started in surprise when his name was first mentioned, but he quickly resolved to accept his duty. he had a high reputation at home for speaking, and he had recently learned a spirited poem, familiar, no doubt, to many of my young readers, called "shamus o'brien." it is the story of an irish volunteer, who was arrested for participating in the irish rebellion of ' , and is by turns spirited and pathetic. harry had rehearsed it to himself only the night before, and he had confidence in a strong and retentive memory. at the president's invitation he rose to his feet, and said, "mr. president, i will do as well as i can, but i hope the members of the society will make allowance for me, as i have had no time for special preparation." all eyes were fixed with interest upon our hero, as he advanced to the platform, and, bowing composedly, commenced his declamation. it was not long before that interest increased, as harry proceeded in his recitation. he lost all diffidence, forgot the audience, and entered thoroughly into the spirit of the piece. especially when, in the trial scene, shamus is called upon to plead guilty or not guilty, harry surpassed himself, and spoke with a spirit and fire which brought down the house. this is the passage:-- "my lord, if you ask me, if in my life-time i thought any treason, or did any crime, that should call to my cheek, as i stand alone here, the hot blush of shame, or the coldness of fear, though i stood by the grave to receive my death-blow, before god and the world i would answer you, no! but if you would ask me, as i think it like, if in the rebellion i carried a pike, an' fought for ould ireland from the first to the close, an' shed the heart's blood of her bitterest foes, i answer you, _yes_; and i tell you again, though i stand here to perish, it's my glory that then in her cause i was willing my veins should run dhry, an' that now for her sake i am ready to die." after the applause had subsided, harry proceeded, and at the conclusion of the declamation, when he bowed modestly and left the platform, the hall fairly shook with the stamping, in which all joined except fletcher, who sat scowling with dissatisfaction at a result so different from his hopes. he had expected to bring discomfiture to our hero. instead, he had given him an opportunity to achieve a memorable triumph. "you did yourself credit, old boy!" said oscar, seizing and wringing the hand of harry, as the latter resumed his seat. "why, you ought to go on the stage!" "thank you," said harry; "i am glad i got through well." "isn't fitz mad, though? he thought you'd break down. look at him!" harry looked over to fletcher, who, with a sour expression, was sitting upright, and looking straight before him. "he don't look happy, does he?" whispered oscar, comically. harry came near laughing aloud, but luckily for fletcher's peace of mind, succeeded in restraining himself. "he won't call you up again in a hurry; see if he does," continued oscar. "i am sure we have all been gratified by mr. walton's spirited declamation," said the president, rising. "we congratulate ourselves upon adding so fine a speaker to our society, and hope often to have the pleasure of hearing him declaim." there was a fresh outbreak of applause, after which the other exercises followed. when the meeting was over the members of the society crowded around harry, and congratulated him on his success. these congratulations he received so modestly, as to confirm the favorable impression he had made by his declamation. "by jove! old fellow," said oscar, as they were walking home, "i am beginning to be proud of you. you are doing great credit to your teacher." "thank you, professor," said harry. "don't compliment me too much, or i may become vain, and put on airs." "if you do, i'll get fitz to call, and remind you that you are only a printer's devil, after all." chapter xiii. vacation begins at the academy. not long after his election as a member of the clionian society, the summer term of the prescott academy closed. the examination took place about the tenth of june, and a vacation followed, lasting till the first day of september. of course, the clionian society, which was composed of academy students, suspended its meetings for the same length of time. indeed, the last meeting for the season took place during the first week in june, as the evenings were too short and too warm, and the weather was not favorable to oratory. at the last meeting, an election was held of officers to serve for the following term. the same president and vice-president were chosen; but as the secretary declined to serve another term, harry walton, considerably to his surprise, found himself elected in his place. fitzgerald fletcher did not vote for him. indeed, he expressed it as his opinion that it was a shame to elect a "printer's devil" secretary of the society. "why is it?" said oscar. "printing is a department of literature, and the clionian is a literary society, isn't it?" "of course it is a literary society, but a printer's devil is not literary." "he's as literary as a tin-pedler," said tom carver, maliciously. fletcher turned red, but managed to say, "and what does that prove?" "we don't object to you because you are connected with the tin business." "do you mean to insult me?" demanded fletcher, angrily. "what have i to do with the tin business?" "oh, i beg pardon, it's your cousin that's in it." "i deny the relationship," said fletcher, "and i will thank you not to refer again to that vulgar pedler." "really, fitz, you speak rather roughly, considering he's your cousin. but as to harry walton, he's a fine fellow, and he has an excellent handwriting, and i was very glad to vote for him." fitzgerald walked away, not a little disgusted, as well at the allusion to the tin-pedler, as at the success of harry walton in obtaining an office to which he had himself secretly aspired. he had fancied that it would sound well to put "secretary of the clionian society" after his name, and would give him increased consequence at home. as to the tin-pedler, it would have relieved his mind to hear that mr. bickford had been carried off suddenly by an apoplectic fit, and notwithstanding the tie of kindred, he would not have taken the trouble to put on mourning in his honor. harry walton sat in oscar vincent's room, on the last evening of the term. he had just finished reciting the last french lesson in which he would have oscar's assistance for some time to come. "you have made excellent progress," said oscar. "it is only two months since you began french, and now you take a long lesson in translation." "that is because i have so good a teacher. but do you think i can get along without help during the summer?" "no doubt of it. you may find some difficulties, but those you can mark, and i will explain when i come back. or i'll tell you what is still better. write to me, and i'll answer. shall i write in french?" "i wish you would, oscar." "then i will. i'm rather lazy with the pen, but i can find time for you. besides, it will be a good way for me to keep up my french." "shall you be in boston all summer, oscar?" "no; our family has a summer residence at nahant, a sea-shore place twelve miles from boston. then i hope father will let me travel about a little on my own account. i want to go to saratoga and lake george." "that would be splendid." "i wish you could go with me, harry." "thank you, oscar, but perhaps you can secure fletcher's company. that will be much better than that of a 'printer's devil' like myself." "it may show bad taste, but i should prefer your company, notwithstanding your low employment." "thank you, oscar. i am much obliged." "fitz has been hinting to me how nice it would be for us to go off somewhere together, but i don't see it in that light. i asked him why he didn't secure board with his cousin, the tin-pedler, but that made him angry, and he walked away in disgust. but i can't help pitying you a little, harry." "why? on account of my occupation?" "partly. all these warm summer days, you have got to be working at the case, while i can lounge in the shade, or travel for pleasure. sha'n't you have a vacation?" "i don't expect any. i don't think i could well be spared. however, i don't mind it. i hope to do good deal of studying while you are gone." "and i sha'n't do any." "neither would i, perhaps, in your position. but there's a good deal of difference between us. you are a latin and greek scholar, and can talk french, while i am at the bottom of the ladder. i have no time to lose." "you have begun to mount the ladder, harry. don't be discouraged. you can climb up." "but i must work for it. i haven't got high enough up to stop and rest. but there is one question i want to ask you, before you go." "what is it?" "what french book would you recommend after i have finished this reader? i am nearly through now." "telemaque will be a good book to take next. it is easy and interesting. have you got a french dictionary?" "no; but i can buy one." "you can use mine while i am gone. you may as well have it as not. i have no copy of telemaque, but i will send you one from boston." "agreed, provided you will let me pay you for it." "so i would, if i had to buy one. but i have got an old copy, not very ornamental, but complete. i will send it through the mail." "thank you, oscar. how kind you are!" "don't flatter me, harry. the favors you refer to are but trifles. i will ask a favor of you in return." "i wish you would." "then help me pack my trunk. there's nothing i detest so much. generally i tumble things in helter-skelter, and get a good scolding from mother for doing it, when she inspects my trunk." "i'll save you the trouble, then. bring what you want to carry home, and pile it on the floor, and i'll do the packing." "a thousand thanks, as the french say. it takes a load off my mind. by the way, here's a lot of my photographs. would you like one to remember your professor by?" "very much, oscar." "then take your choice. they don't do justice to my beauty, which is of a stunning description, as you are aware, nor do they convey an idea of the lofty intellect which sits enthroned behind my classic brow; but such as they are, you are welcome to one." "any one would think, to hear you, that you had no end of self-conceit, oscar," said harry, laughing. "how do you know that i haven't? most people think they are beautiful. a photographer told my sister that he was once visited by a frightfully homely man from the the country, who wanted his 'picter took.' when the result was placed before him, he seemed dissatisfied. 'don't you think it like?' said the artist.--'well, ye-es,' he answered slowly, 'but it hasn't got my sweet expression about the mouth!'" "very good," said harry, laughing; "that's what's the matter with your picture." "precisely. i am glad your artistic eye detects what is wanting. but, hold! there's a knock. it's fitz, i'll bet a hat." "come in!" he cried, and fletcher walked in. "good-evening, fletcher," said oscar. "you see i'm packing, or rather walton is packing. he's a capital packer." "indeed!" sneered fletcher. "i was not aware that mr. walton was in that line of business. what are his terms?" "i refer you to him." "what do you charge for packing trunks, mr. walton?" "i think fifty cents would be about right," answered harry, with perfect gravity. "can you give me a job, mr. fletcher?" "i might, if i had known it in time, though i am particular who handles my things." "walton is careful, and i can vouch for his honesty," said oscar, carrying out the joke. "his wages in the printing office are not large, and he would be glad to make a little extra money." "it must be very inconvenient to be poor," said fletcher, with a supercilious glance at our hero, who was kneeling before oscar's trunk. "it is," answered harry, quietly, "but as long as work is to be had i shall not complain." "to be sure!" said fletcher. "my father is wealthy, and i shall not have to work." "suppose he should fail?" suggested oscar. "that is a very improbable supposition," said fletcher, loftily. "but not impossible?" "nothing is impossible." "of course. i say, fitz, if such a thing should happen, you've got something to fall back upon." "to what do you refer?" "mr. bickford could give you an interest in the tin business." "good-evening!" said fletcher, not relishing the allusion. "good-evening! of course i shall see you in the city." "i suppose i ought not to tease fitz," said oscar, after his visitor had departed, "but i enjoy seeing how disgusted he looks." in due time the trunk was packed, and harry, not without regret, took leave of his friend for the summer. chapter xiv. harry becomes an author. the closing of the academy made quite a difference in the life of centreville. the number of boarding scholars was about thirty, and these, though few in number, were often seen in the street and at the postoffice, and their withdrawal left a vacancy. harry walton felt quite lonely at first; but there is no cure for loneliness like occupation, and he had plenty of that. the greater part of the day was spent in the printing office, while his evenings and early mornings were occupied in study and reading. he had become very much interested in french, in which he found himself advancing rapidly. occasionally he took tea at mr. ferguson's, and this he always enjoyed; for, as i have already said, he and ferguson held very similar views on many important subjects. one evening, at the house of the latter, he saw a file of weekly papers, which proved, on examination, to be back numbers of the "weekly standard," a literary paper issued in boston. "i take the paper for my family," said ferguson. "it contains quite a variety of reading matter, stories, sketches and essays." "it seems quite interesting," said harry. "yes, it is. i will lend you some of the back numbers, if you like." "i would like it. my father never took a literary paper; his means were so limited that he could not afford it." "i think it is a good investment. there are few papers from which you cannot obtain in a year more than the worth of the subscription. besides, if you are going to be an editor, it will be useful for you to become familiar with the manner in which such papers are conducted." when harry went home he took a dozen copies of the paper, and sat up late reading them. while thus engaged an idea struck him. it was this: could not he write something which would be accepted for publication in the "standard"? it was his great ambition to learn to write for the press, and he felt that he was old enough to commence. "if i don't succeed the first time, i can try again," he reflected. the more he thought of it, the more he liked the plan. it is very possible that he was influenced by the example of franklin, who, while yet a boy in his teens, contributed articles to his brother's paper though at the time the authorship was not suspected. finally he decided to commence writing as soon as he could think of a suitable subject. this he found was not easy. he could think of plenty of subjects of which he was not qualified to write, or in which he felt little interest; but he rightly decided that he could succeed better with something that had a bearing upon his own experience or hopes for the future. finally he decided to write on ambition. i do not propose to introduce harry's essay in these pages, but will give a general idea of it, as tending to show his views of life. he began by defining ambition as a desire for superiority, by which most men were more or less affected, though it manifested itself in very different ways, according to the character of him with whom it was found. here i will quote a passage, as a specimen of harry's style and mode of expression. "there are some who denounce ambition as wholly bad and to be avoided by all; but i think we ought to make a distinction between true and false ambition. the desire of superiority is an honorable motive, if it leads to honorable exertion. i will mention napoleon as an illustration of false ambition, which is selfish in itself, and has brought misery and ruin, to prosperous nations. again, there are some who are ambitious to dress better than their neighbors, and their principal thoughts are centred upon the tie of their cravat, or the cut of their coat, if young men; or upon the richness and style of their dresses, if they belong to the other sex. beau brummel is a noted instance of this kind of ambition. it is said that fully half of his time was devoted to his toilet, and the other half to displaying it in the streets, or in society. now this is a very low form of ambition, and it is wrong to indulge it, because it is a waste of time which could be much better employed." harry now proceeded to describe what he regarded as a true and praiseworthy ambition. he defined it as a desire to excel in what would be of service to the human race, and he instanced his old franklin, who, induced by an honorable ambition, worked his way up to a high civil station, as well as a commanding position in the scientific world. he mentioned columbus as ambitious to extend the limits of geographical knowledge, and made a brief reference to the difficulties and discouragements over which he triumphed on the way to success. he closed by an appeal to boys and young men to direct their ambition into worthy channels, so that even if they could not leave behind a great name, they might at least lead useful lives, and in dying have the satisfaction of thinking that they done some service to the race. this will give a very fair idea of harry's essay. there was nothing remarkable about it, and no striking originality in the ideas, but it was very creditably expressed for a boy of his years, and did even more credit to his good judgment, since it was an unfolding of the principles by which he meant to guide his own life. it must not be supposed that our hero was a genius, and that he wrote his essay without difficulty. it occupied him two evenings to write it, and he employed the third in revising and copying it. it covered about five pages of manuscript, and, according to his estimate, would fill about two-thirds of a long column in the "standard." after preparing it, the next thing was to find a _nom de plume_, for he shrank from signing his own name. after long consideration, he at last decided upon franklin, and this was the name he signed to his maiden contribution to the press. he carried it to the post-office one afternoon, after his work in the printing office was over, and dropped it unobserved into the letter-box. he did not want the postmaster to learn his secret, as he would have done had he received it directly from him, and noted the address on the envelope. for the rest of the week, harry went about his work weighed down with his important secret--a secret which he had not even shared with ferguson. if the essay was declined, as he thought it might very possibly be, he did not want any one to know it. if it were accepted, and printed, it would be time enough then to make it known. but there were few minutes in which his mind was not on his literary venture. his preoccupation was observed by his fellow-workmen in the office, and he was rallied upon it, good-naturedly, by ferguson, but in a different spirit by clapp. "it seems to me you are unusually silent, harry," said ferguson. "you're not in love, are you?" "not that i know of," said harry, smiling. "it's rather too early yet." "i've known boys of your age to fancy themselves in love." "he is is more likely thinking up some great discovery," said clapp, sneering. "you know he's a second franklin." "thank you for the compliment," said our hero, good-humoredly, "but i don't deserve it. i don't expect to make any great discovery at present." "i suppose you expect to set the river on fire, some day," said clapp, sarcastically. "i am afraid it wouldn't do much good to try," said harry, who was too sensible to take offence. "it isn't so easily done." "i suppose some day we shall be proud of having been in the same office with so great a man," pursued clapp. "really, clapp, you're rather hard on our young friend," said ferguson. "he doesn't put on any airs of superiority, or pretend to anything uncommon." "he's very kind--such an intellect as he's got, too!" said clapp. "i'm glad you found it out," said harry. "i haven't a very high idea of my intellect yet. i wish i had more reason to do so." finding that he had failed in his attempt to provoke harry by his ridicule, clapp desisted, but he disliked him none the less. the fact was, that clapp was getting into a bad way. he had no high aim in life, and cared chiefly for the pleasure of the present moment. he had found luke harrison a congenial companion, and they had been associated in more than one excess. the morning previous, clapp had entered the printing office so evidently under the influence of liquor, that he had been sharply reprimanded by mr. anderson. "i don't choose to interfere with your mode of life, unwise and ruinous as i may consider it," he said, "as long as it does not interfere with your discharge of duty. but to-day you are clearly incapacitated for labor, and i have a right to complain. if it happens again, i shall be obliged to look for another journeyman." clapp did not care to leave his place just at present, for he had no money saved up, and was even somewhat in debt, and it might be some time before he got another place. so he rather sullenly agreed to be more careful in future, and did not go to work till the afternoon. but though circumstances compelled him to submit, it put him in bad humor, and made him more disposed to sneer than ever. he had an unreasoning prejudice against harry, which was stimulated by luke harrison, who had this very sufficient reason for hating our hero, that he had succeeded in injuring him. as an old proverb has it "we are slow to forgive those whom we have injured." chapter xv. a literary debut. harry waited eagerly for the next issue of the "weekly standard." it was received by mr. anderson in exchange for the "centreville gazette," and usually came to hand on saturday morning. harry was likely to obtain the first chance of examining the paper, as he was ordinarily sent to the post-office on the arrival of the morning mail. his hands trembled as he unfolded the paper and hurriedly scanned the contents. but he looked in vain for his essay on ambition. there was not even a reference to it. he was disappointed, but he soon became hopeful again. "i couldn't expect it to appear so soon," he reflected. "these city weeklies have to be printed some days in advance. it may appear yet." so he was left in suspense another week, hopeful and doubtful by turns of the success of his first offering for the press. he was rallied from time to time on his silence in the office, but he continued to keep his secret. if his contribution was slighted, no one should know it but himself. at last another saturday morning came around and again he set out for the post-office. again he opened the paper with trembling fingers, and eagerly scanned the well-filled columns. this time his search was rewarded. there, on the first column of the last page, in all the glory of print, was his treasured essay! a flash of pleasure tinged his cheek, and his heart beat rapidly, as he read his first printed production. it is a great event in the life of a literary novice, when he first sees himself. even byron says,-- "'tis pleasant, sure, to see one's self in print." to our young hero the essay read remarkably well--better than he had expected; but then, very likely he was prejudiced in its favor. he read it through three times on his way back to the printing office, and each time felt better satisfied. "i wonder if any of the readers will think it was written by a boy?" thought harry. probably many did so suspect, for, as i have said, though the thoughts were good and sensible, the article was only moderately well expressed. a practised critic would readily have detected marks of immaturity, although it was a very creditable production for a boy of sixteen. "shall i tell ferguson?" thought harry. on the whole he concluded to remain silent just at present. he knew ferguson took the paper, and waited to see if he would make any remark about it. "i should like to hear him speak of it, without knowing that i was the writer," thought our hero. just before he reached the office, he discovered with satisfaction the following editorial reference to his article:-- "we print in another column an essay on 'ambition' by a new contributor. it contains some good ideas, and we especially commend it to the perusal of our young readers. we hope to hear from 'franklin' again." "that's good," thought harry. "i am glad the editor likes it. i shall write again as soon as possible." "what makes you look so bright, harry?" asked ferguson, as he re-entered the office. "has any one left you a fortune?" "not that i know of," said harry. "do i look happier than usual?" "so it seems to me." harry was spared answering this question, for clapp struck in, grumbling, as usual: "i wish somebody'd leave me a fortune. you wouldn't see me here long." "what would you do?" asked his fellow-workman. "cut work to begin with. i'd go to europe and have a jolly time." "you can do that without a fortune." "i should like to know how?" "be economical, and you can save enough in three years to pay for a short trip. bayard taylor was gone two years, and only spent five hundred dollars." "oh, hang economy!" drawled clapp. "it don't suit me. i should like to know how a feller's going to economize on fifteen dollars a week." "i could." "oh, no doubt," sneered clapp, "but a man can't starve." "come round and take supper with me, some night," said ferguson, good-humoredly, "and you can judge for yourself whether i believe in starving." clapp didn't reply to this invitation. he would not have enjoyed a quiet evening with his fellow-workman. an evening at billiards or cards, accompanied by bets on the games, would have been much more to his mind. "who is bayard taylor, that made such a cheap tour in europe?" asked harry, soon afterward. "a young journalist who had a great desire to travel. he has lately published an account of his tour. i don't buy many books, but i bought that. would you like to read it?" "very much." "you can have it any time." "thank you." on monday, a very agreeable surprise awaited harry. "i am out of copy," he said, going up to mr. anderson's table. "here's a selection for the first page," said mr. anderson. "cut it in two, and give part of it to clapp." could harry believe his eyes! it was his own article on ambition, and it was to be reproduced in the "gazette." next to the delight of seeing one's self in print for the first time, is the delight of seeing that first article copied. it is a mark of appreciation which cannot be mistaken. still harry said nothing, but, with a manner as unconcerned as possible, handed the lower half of the essay to clapp to set up. the signature "franklin" had been cut off, and the name of the paper from which the essay had been cut was substituted. "wouldn't clapp feel disgusted," thought harry, "if he knew that he was setting up an article of mine. i believe he would have a fit." he was too considerate to expose his fellow-workman to such a contingency, and went about his work in silence. that evening he wrote to the publisher of the "standard," inclosing the price of two copies of the last number, which he desired should be sent to him by mail. he wished to keep one himself, and the other he intended to forward to his father, who, he knew, would sympathize with him in his success as well as his aspirations. he accompanied the paper by a letter in which he said,-- "i want to improve in writing as much as, i can. i want to be something more than a printer, sometime. i shall try to qualify myself for an editor; for an editor can exert a good deal of influence in the community. i hope you will approve my plans." in due time harry received the following reply:-- "my dear son:--i am indeed pleased and proud to hear of your success, not that it is a great matter in itself, but because i think it shows that you are in earnest in your determination to win an honorable position by honorable labor. i am sorry that my narrow means have not permitted me to give you those advantages which wealthy fathers can bestow upon their sons. i should like to have sent you to college and given you an opportunity afterward of studying for a profession. i think your natural abilities would have justified such an outlay. but, alas! poverty has always held me back. it shuts out you, as it has shut out me, from the chance of culture. your college, my boy, must be the printing office. if you make the best of that, you will find that it is no mean instructor. not franklin alone, but many of our most eminent and influential men have graduated from it. "you will be glad to hear that we are all well. i have sold the cow which i bought of squire green, and got another in her place that proves to be much better. we all send much love, and your mother wishes me to say that she misses you very much, as indeed we all do. but we know that you are better off in centreville than you would be at home, and that helps to make us contented. don't forget to write every week. "your affectionate father, "hiram walton. "p. s.--if you print any more articles, we shall be interested to read them." harry read this letter with eager interest. he felt glad that his father was pleased with him, and it stimulated him to increased exertions. "poor father!" he said to himself. "he has led a hard life, cultivating that rocky little farm. it has been hard work and poor pay with him. i hope there is something better in store for him. if i ever get rich, or even well off, i will take care that he has an easier time." after the next issue of the "gazette" had appeared, harry informed ferguson in confidence that he was the author of the article on ambition. "i congratulate you, harry," said his friend. "it is an excellent essay, well thought out, and well expressed. i don't wonder, now you tell me of it. it sounds like you. without knowing the authorship, i asked clapp his opinion of it." "what did he say?" "are you sure it won't hurt your feelings?" "it may; but i shall get over it. go ahead." "he said it was rubbish." harry laughed. "he would be confirmed in his decision, if he knew that i wrote it," he said. "no doubt. but don't let that discourage you. keep on writing by all means, and you'll become an editor in time." chapter xvi. ferdinand b. kensington. it has already been mentioned that john clapp and luke harrison were intimate. though their occupations differed, one being a printer and the other a shoemaker, they had similar tastes, and took similar views of life. both were discontented with the lot which fortune had assigned them. to work at the case, or the shoe-bench, seemed equally irksome, and they often lamented to each other the hard necessity which compelled them to it. suppose we listen to their conversation, as they walked up the village street, one evening about this time, smoking cigars. "i say, luke," said john clapp, "i've got tired of this kind of life. here i've been in the office a year, and i'm not a cent richer than when i entered it, besides working like a dog all the while." "just my case," said luke. "i've been shoe-makin' ever since i was fourteen, and i'll be blest if i can show five dollars, to save my life." "what's worse," said clapp, "there isn't any prospect of anything better in my case. what's a feller to do on fifteen dollars a week?" "won't old anderson raise your wages?" "not he! he thinks i ought to get rich on what he pays me now," and clapp laughed scornfully. "if i were like ferguson, i might. he never spends a cent without taking twenty-four hours to think it over beforehand." my readers, who are familiar with mr. ferguson's views and ways of life, will at once see that this was unjust, but justice cannot be expected from an angry and discontented man. "just so," said luke. "if a feller was to live on bread and water, and get along with one suit of clothes a year, he might save something, but that aint _my_ style." "nor mine." "it's strange how lucky some men are," said luke. "they get rich without tryin'. i never was lucky. i bought a ticket in a lottery once, but of course i didn't draw anything. just my luck!" "so did i," said clapp, "but i fared no better. it seemed as if fortune had a spite against me. here i am twenty-five years old, and all i'm worth is two dollars and a half, and i owe more than that to the tailor." "you're as rich as i am," said luke. "i only get fourteen dollars a week. that's less than you do." "a dollar more or less don't amount to much," said clapp. "i'll tell you what it is, luke," he resumed after a pause, "i'm getting sick of centreville." "so am i," said luke, "but it don't make much difference. if i had fifty dollars, i'd go off and try my luck somewhere else, but i'll have to wait till i'm gray-headed before i get as much as that." "can't you borrow it?" "who'd lend it to me?" "i don't know. if i did, i'd go in for borrowing myself. i wish there was some way of my getting to california." "california!" repeated luke with interest. "what would you do there?" "i'd go to the mines." "do you think there's money to be made there?" "i know there is," said clapp, emphatically. "how do you know it?" "there's an old school-mate of mine--ralph smith--went out there two years ago. last week he returned home--i heard it in a letter--and how much do you think he brought with him?" "how much?" "eight thousand dollars!" "eight thousand dollars! he didn't make it all at the mines, did he?" "yes, he did. when he went out there, he had just money enough to pay his passage. now, after only two years, he can lay off and live like a gentleman." "he's been lucky, and no mistake." "you bet he has. but we might be as lucky if we were only out there." "ay, there's the rub. a fellow can't travel for nothing." at this point in their conversation, a well-dressed young man, evidently a stranger in the village, met them, and stopping, asked politely for a light. this clapp afforded him. "you are a stranger in the village?" he said, with some curiosity. "yes, i was never here before. i come from new york." "indeed! if i lived in new york i'd stay there, and not come to such a beastly place as centreville." "do you live here?" asked the stranger. "yes." "i wonder you live in such a beastly place," he said, with a smile. "you wouldn't, if you knew the reason." "what is the reason?" "i can't get away." the stranger laughed. "cruel parents?" he asked. "not much," said clapp. "the plain reason is, that i haven't got money enough to get me out of town." "it's the same with me," said luke harrison. "gentlemen, we are well met," said the stranger. "i'm hard up myself." "you don't look like it," said luke, glancing at his rather flashy attire. "these clothes are not paid for," said the stranger, laughing; "and what's more, i don't think they are likely to be. but, i take it, you gentlemen are better off than i in one respect. you've got situations--something to do." "yes, but on starvation pay," said clapp. "i'm in the office of the 'centreville gazette.'" "and i'm in a shoemaker's shop. it's a beastly business for a young man of spirit," said luke. "well, i'm a gentleman at large, living on my wits, and pretty poor living it is sometimes," said the stranger. "as i think we'll agree together pretty well, i'm glad i've met you. we ought to know each other better. there's my card." he drew from his pocket a highly glazed piece of pasteboard, bearing the name, frederick b. kensington. "i haven't any cards with me," said clapp, "but my name is john clapp." "and mine is luke harrison," said the bearer of that appellation. "i'm proud to know you, gentlemen. if you have no objection, we'll walk on together." to this clapp and luke acceded readily. indeed, they were rather proud of being seen in company with a young man so dashing in manner, and fashionably dressed, though in a pecuniary way their new acquaintance, by his own confession, was scarcely as well off as themselves. "where are you staying, mr. kensington?" said clapp. "at the hotel. it's a poor place. no style." "of course not. i can't help wondering, mr. kensington, what can bring you to such a one-horse place as this." "i don't mind telling you, then. the fact is, i've got an old aunt living about two miles from here. she's alone in the world--got neither chick nor child--and is worth at least ten thousand dollars. do you see?" "i think i do," said clapp. "you want to come in for a share of the stamps." "yes; i want to see if i can't get something out of the old girl," said kensington, carelessly. "do you think the chance is good?" "i don't know. i hear she's pretty tight-fisted. but i've run on here on the chance of doing something. if she will only make me her heir, and give me five hundred dollars in hand, i'll go to california, and see what'll turn up." "california!" repeated john clapp and luke in unison. "yes; were you ever there?" "no; but we were talking of going there just as you came up," said john. "an old school-mate of mine has just returned from there with eight thousand dollars in gold." "lucky fellow! that's the kind of haul i'd like to make." "do you know how much it costs to go out there?" "the prices are down just at present. you can go for a hundred dollars--second cabin." "it might as well be a thousand!" said luke. "clapp and i can't raise a hundred dollars apiece to save our lives." "i'll tell you what," said kensington. "you two fellows are just the company i'd like. if i can raise five hundred dollars out of the old girl, i'll take you along with me, and you can pay me after you get out there." john clapp and luke harrison were astounded at this liberal offer from a perfect stranger, but they had no motives of delicacy about accepting it. they grasped the hand of their new friend, and assured him that nothing would suit them so well. "all right!" said kensington. "then it's agreed. now, boys, suppose we go round to the tavern, and ratify our compact by a drink." "i say amen to that," answered clapp, "but i insist on standing treat." "just as you say," said kensington. "come along." it was late when the three parted company. luke and john clapp were delighted with their new friend, and, as they staggered home with uncertain steps, they indulged in bright visions of future prosperity. chapter xvii. aunt deborah. miss deborah kensington sat in an old-fashioned rocking-chair covered with a cheap print, industriously engaged in footing a stocking. she was a maiden lady of about sixty, with a thin face, thick seamed with wrinkles, a prominent nose, bridged by spectacles, sharp gray eyes, and thin lips. she was a shrewd new england woman, who knew very well how to take care of and increase the property which she had inherited. her nephew had been correctly informed as to her being close-fisted. all her establishment was carried on with due regard to economy, and though her income in the eyes of a city man would be counted small, she saved half of it every year, thus increasing her accumulations. as she sat placidly knitting, an interruption came in the shape of a knock at the front door. "i'll go myself," she said, rising, and laying down the stocking. "hannah's out in the back room, and won't hear. i hope it aint mrs. smith, come to borrow some butter. she aint returned that last half-pound she borrowed. she seems to think her neighbors have got to support her." these thoughts were in her mind as she opened the door. but no mrs. smith presented her figure to the old lady's gaze. she saw instead, with considerable surprise, a stylish young man with a book under his arm. she jumped to the conclusion that he was a book-pedler, having been annoyed by several persistent specimens of that class of travelling merchants. "if you've got books to sell," she said, opening the attack, "you may as well go away. i aint got no money to throw away." mr. ferdinand b. kensington--for he was the young man in question--laughed heartily, while the old lady stared at him half amazed, half angry. "i don't see what there is to laugh at," said she, offended. "i was laughing at the idea of my being taken for a book-pedler." "well, aint you one?" she retorted. "if you aint, what be you?" "aunt deborah, don't you know me?" asked the young man, familiarly. "who are you that calls me aunt?" demanded the old lady, puzzled. "i'm your brother henry's son. my name is ferdinand." "you don't say so!" ejaculated the old lady. "why, i'd never 'ave thought it. i aint seen you since you was a little boy." "this don't look as if i was a little boy, aunt," said the young man, touching his luxuriant whiskers. "how time passes, i do declare!" said deborah. "well, come in, and we'll talk over old times. where did you come from?" "from the city of new york. that's where i've been living for some time." "you don't say! well, what brings you this way?" "to see you, aunt deborah. it's so long since i've seen you that i thought i'd like to come." "i'm glad to see you, ferdinand," said the old lady, flattered by such a degree of dutiful attention from a fine-looking young man. "so your poor father's dead?" "yes, aunt, he's been dead three years." "i suppose he didn't leave much. he wasn't very forehanded." "no, aunt; he left next to nothing." "well, it didn't matter much, seein' as you was the only child, and big enough to take care of yourself." "still, aunt, it would have been comfortable if he had left me a few thousand dollars." "aint you doin' well? you look as if you was," said deborah, surveying critically her nephew's good clothes. "well, i've been earning a fair salary, but it's very expensive living in a great city like new york." "humph! that's accordin' as you manage. if you live snug, you can get along there cheap as well as anywhere, i reckon. what was you doin'?" "i was a salesman for a. t. stewart, our leading dry-goods merchant." "what pay did you get?" "a thousand dollars a year." "why, that's a fine salary. you'd ought to save up a good deal." "you don't realize how much it costs to live in new york, aunt. of course, if i lived here, i could live on half the sum, but i have to pay high prices for everything in new york." "you don't need to spend such a sight on dress," said deborah, disapprovingly. "i beg your pardon, aunt deborah; that's where you are mistaken. the store-keepers in new york expect you to dress tip-top and look genteel, so as to do credit to them. if it hadn't been for that, i shouldn't have spent half so much for dress. then, board's very expensive." "you can get boarded here for two dollars and a half a week," said aunt deborah. "two dollars and a half! why, i never paid less than eight dollars a week in the city, and you can only get poor board for that." "the boarding-houses must make a great deal of money," said deborah. "if i was younger, i'd maybe go to new york, and keep one myself." "you're rich, aunt. you don't need to do that." "who told you i was rich?" said the old lady, quickly. "why, you've only got yourself to take care of, and you own this farm, don't you?" "yes, but farmin' don't pay much." "i always heard you were pretty comfortable." "so i am," said the old lady, "and maybe i save something; but my income aint as great as yours." "you have only yourself to look after, and it is cheap living in centreville." "i don't fling money away. i don't spend quarter as much as you on dress." looking at the old lady'a faded bombazine dress, ferdinand was very ready to believe this. "you don't have to dress here, i suppose," he answered. "but, aunt, we won't talk about money matters just yet. it was funny you took me for a book-pedler." "it was that book you had, that made me think so." "it's a book i brought as a present to you, aunt deborah." "you don't say!" said the old lady, gratified. "what is it? let me look at it." "it's a copy of 'pilgrim's progress,' illustrated. i knew you wouldn't like the trashy books they write nowadays, so i brought you this." "really, ferdinand, you're very considerate," said aunt deborah, turning over the leaves with manifest pleasure. "it's a good book, and i shall be glad to have it. where are you stoppin'?" "at the hotel in the village." "you must come and stay here. you can get 'em to send round your things any time." "thank you, aunt, i shall be delighted to do so. it seems so pleasant to see you again after so many years. you don't look any older than when i saw you last." miss deborah knew very well that she did look older, but still she was pleased by the compliment. is there any one who does not like to receive the same assurance? "i'm afraid your eyes aint very sharp, ferdinand," she said. "i feel i'm gettin' old. why, i'm sixty-one, come october." "are you? i shouldn't call you over fifty, from your looks, aunt. really i shouldn't." "i'm afraid you tell fibs sometimes," said aunt deborah, but she said it very graciously, and surveyed her nephew very kindly. "heigh ho! it's a good while since your poor father and i were children together, and went to the school-house on the hill. now he's gone, and i'm left alone." "not alone, aunt. if he is dead, you have got a nephew." "well, ferdinand, i'm glad to see you, and i shall be glad to have you pay me a good long visit. but how can you be away from your place so long? did mr. stewart give you a vacation?" "no, aunt; i left him." "for good?" "yes." "left a place where you was gettin' a thousand dollars a year!" said the old lady in accents of strong disapproval. "yes, aunt." "then i think you was very foolish," said deborah with emphasis. "perhaps you won't, when you know why i left it." "why did you?" "because i could do better." "better than a thousand dollars a year!" said deborah with surprise. "yes, i am offered two thousand dollars in san francisco." "you don't say!" ejaculated deborah, letting her stocking drop in sheer amazement. "yes, i do. it's a positive fact." "you must be a smart clerk!" "well, it isn't for me to say," said ferdinand, laughing. "when be you goin' out?" "in a week, but i thought i must come and bid you good-by first." "i'm real glad to see you, ferdinand," said aunt deborah, the more warmly because she considered him so prosperous that she would have no call to help him. but here she was destined to find herself mistaken. chapter xviii. aunt and nephew. "i don't think i can come here till to-morrow, aunt deborah," said ferdinand, a little later. "i'll stay at the hotel to-night, and come round with my baggage in the morning." "very well, nephew, but now you're here, you must stay to tea." "thank you, aunt, i will." "i little thought this mornin', i should have henry's son to tea," said aunt deborah, half to herself. "you don't look any like him, ferdinand." "no, i don't think i do." "it's curis too, for you was his very picter when you was a boy." "i've changed a good deal since then, aunt deborah," said her nephew, a little uneasily. "so you have, to be sure. now there's your hair used to be almost black, now it's brown. really i can't account for it," and aunt deborah surveyed the young man over her spectacles. "you've got a good memory, aunt," said ferdinand with a forced laugh. "now ef your hair had grown darker, i shouldn't have wondered," pursued aunt deborah; "but it aint often black turns to brown." "that's so, aunt, but i can explain it," said ferdinand, after a slight pause. "how was it?" "you know the french barbers can change your hair to any shade you want." "can they?" "yes, to be sure. now--don't laugh at me, aunt--a young lady i used to like didn't fancy dark hair, so i went to a french barber, and he changed the color for me in three months." "you don't say!" "fact, aunt; but he made me pay him well too." "how much did you give him?" "fifty dollars, aunt." "that's what i call wasteful," said aunt deborah, disapprovingly. "couldn't you be satisfied with the nat'ral color of your hair? to my mind black's handsomer than brown." "you're right, aunt. i wouldn't have done it if it hadn't been for miss percival." "are you engaged to her?" "no, aunt deborah. the fact was, i found she wasn't domestic, and didn't know anything about keeping house, but only cared for dress, so i drew off, and she's married to somebody else now." "i'm glad to hear it," said deborah, emphatically. "the jade! she wouldn't have been a proper wife for you. you want some good girl that's willin' to go into the kitchen, and look after things, and not carry all she's worth on her back." "i agree with you, aunt," said ferdinand, who thought it politic, in view of the request he meant to make by and by, to agree with hie aunt in her views of what a wife should be. aunt deborah began to regard her nephew as quite a sensible young man, and to look upon him with complacency. "i wish, ferdinand," she said, "you liked farmin'." "why, aunt?" "you could stay here, and manage my farm for me." "heaven forbid!" thought the young man with a shudder. "i should be bored to death. does the old lady think i would put on a frock and overalls, and go out and plough, or hoe potatoes?" "it's a good, healthy business," pursued aunt deborah, unconscious of the thoughts which were passing through her nephew's mind, "and you wouldn't have to spend much for dress. then i'm gittin' old, and though i don't want to make no promises, i'd very likely will it to you, ef i was satisfied with the way you managed." "you're very kind, aunt," said ferdinand, "but i'm afraid i wasn't cut out for farming. you know i never lived in the country." "why, yes, you did," said the old lady. "you was born in the country, and lived there till you was ten years old." "to be sure," said ferdinand, hastily, "but i was too young then to take notice of farming. what does a boy of ten know of such things?" "to be sure. you're right there." "the fact is, aunt deborah, some men are born to be farmers, and some are born to be traders. now, i've got a talent for trading. that's the reason i've got such a good offer from san francisco." "how did you get it? did you know the man?" "he used to be in business in new york. he was the first man i worked for, and he knew what i was. san francisco is full of money, and traders make more than they do here. that's the reason he can afford to offer me so large a salary." "when did he send for you?" "i got the letter last week." "have you got it with you?" "no, aunt; i may have it at the hotel," said the young man, hesitating, "but i am not certain." "well, it's a good offer. there isn't nobody in centreville gets so large a salary." "no, i suppose not. they don't need it, as it is cheap living here." "i hope when you get out there, ferdinand, you'll save up money. you'd ought to save two-thirds of your pay." "i will try to, aunt." "you'll be wantin' to get married bimeby, and then it'll be convenient to have some money to begin with." "to be sure, aunt. i see you know how to manage." "i was always considered a good manager," said deborah, complacently. "ef your poor father had had _my_ faculty, he wouldn't have died as poor as he did, i can tell you." "what a conceited old woman she is, with her faculty!" thought ferdinand, but what he said was quite different. "i wish he had had, aunt. it would have been better for me." "well, you ought to get along, with your prospects." "little the old woman knows what my real prospects are!" thought the young man. "of course i ought," he said. "excuse me a few minutes, nephew," said aunt deborah, gathering up her knitting and rising from her chair. "i must go out and see about tea. maybe you'd like to read that nice book you brought." "no, i thank you, aunt. i think i'll take a little walk round your place, if you'll allow me." "sartin, ferdinand. only come back in half an hour; tea'll be ready then." "yea, aunt, i'll remember." so while deborah was in the kitchen, ferdinand took a walk in the fields, laughing to himself from time to time, as if something amused him. he returned in due time, and sat down to supper aunt deborah had provided her best, and, though the dishes were plain, they were quite palatable. when supper was over, the young man said,-- "now, aunt, i think i will be getting back to the hotel." "you'll come over in the morning, ferdinand, and fetch your trunk?" "yes, aunt. good-night." "good-night." "well," thought the young man, as he tramped back to the hotel. "i've opened the campaign, and made, i believe, a favorable impression. but what a pack of lies i have had to tell, to be sure! the old lady came near catching me once or twice, particularly about the color of my hair. it was a lucky thought, that about the french barber. it deceived the poor old soul. i don't think she could ever have been very handsome. if she was she must have changed fearfully." in the evening, john clapp and luke harrison came round to the hotel to see him. "have you been to see your aunt?" asked clapp. "yes, i took tea there." "have a good time?" "oh, i played the dutiful nephew to perfection. the old lady thinks a sight of me." "how did you do it?" "i agreed with all she said, told her how young she looked, and humbugged her generally." clapp laughed. "the best part of the joke is--will you promise to keep dark?" "of course." "don't breathe it to a living soul, you two fellows. _she isn't my aunt of all_!" "isn't your aunt?" "no, her true nephew is in new york--i know him.--but i know enough of family matters to gull the old lady, and, i hope, raise a few hundred dollars out of her." this was a joke which luke and clapp could appreciate, and they laughed heartily at the deception which was being practised on simple aunt deborah, particularly when ferdinand explained how he got over the difficulty of having different colored hair from the real owner of the name he assumed. "we must have a drink on that," said luke. "walk up, gentlemen." "i'm agreeable," said ferdinand. "and i," said clapp. "never refuse a good offer, say i." poor aunt deborah! she little dreamed that she was the dupe of a designing adventurer who bore no relationship to her. chapter xix. the romance of a ring. ferdinand b. kensington, as he called himself, removed the next morning to the house of aunt deborah. the latter received him very cordially, partly because it was a pleasant relief to her solitude to have a lively and active young man in the house, partly because she was not forced to look upon him as a poor relation in need of pecuniary assistance. she even felt considerable respect for the prospective recipient of an income of two thousand dollars, which in her eyes was a magnificent salary. ferdinand, on his part, spared no pains to make himself agreeable to the old lady, whom he had a mercenary object in pleasing. finding that she was curious to hear about the great city, which to her was as unknown as london or paris, be gratified her by long accounts, chiefly of as imaginative character, to which she listened greedily. these included some personal adventures, in all of which he figured very creditably. here is a specimen. "by the way, aunt deborah," he said, casually, "have you noticed this ring on my middle finger?" "no, i didn't notice it before, ferdinand. it's very handsome." "i should think it ought to be, aunt deborah," said the young man. "why?" "it cost enough to be handsome." "how much did it cost?" asked the old lady, not without curiosity. "guess." "i aint no judge of such things; i've only got this plain gold ring. yours has got some sort of a stone in it." "that stone is a diamond, aunt deborah!" "you don't say so! let me look at it. it aint got no color. looks like glass." "it's very expensive, though. how much do you think it cost?" "well, maybe five dollars." "five dollars!" ejaculated the young man. "why, what can you be thinking of, aunt deborah?" "i shouldn't have guessed so much," said the old lady, misunderstanding him, "only you said it was expensive." "so it is. five dollars would be nothing at all." "you don't say it cost more?" "a great deal more." "did it cost ten dollars?" "more." "fifteen?" "i see, aunt, you have no idea of the cost of diamond rings! you may believe me or not, but that ring cost six hundred and fifty dollars." "what!" almost screamed aunt deborah, letting fall her knitting in her surprise. "it's true." "six hundred and fifty dollars for a little piece of gold and glass!" ejaculated the old lady. "diamond, aunt, not glass." "well, it don't look a bit better'n glass, and i do say," proceeded deborah, with energy, "that it's a sin and a shame to pay so much money for a ring. why, it was more than half your year's salary, ferdinand." "i agree with you, aunt; it would have been very foolish and wrong for a young man on a small salary like mine to buy so expensive a ring as this. i hope, aunt deborah, i have inherited too much of your good sense to do that." "then where did you get it?" asked the old lady, moderating her tone. "it was given to me." "given to you! who would give you such a costly present?" "a rich man whose life i once saved, aunt deborah." "you don't say so, ferdinand!" said aunt deborah, interested. "tell me all about it." "so i will, aunt, though i don't often speak of it," said ferdinand, modestly. "it seems like boasting, you know, and i never like to do that. but this is the way it happened. "now for a good tough lie!" said ferdinand to himself, as the old lady suspended her work, and bent forward with eager attention. "you know, of course, that new york and brooklyn are on opposite sides of the river, and that people have to go across in ferry-boats." "yes, i've heard that, ferdinand." "i'm glad of that, because now you'll know that my story is correct. well, one summer i boarded over in brooklyn--on the heights--and used to cross the ferry morning and night. it was the wall street ferry, and a great many bankers and rich merchants used to cross daily also. one of these was a mr. clayton, a wholesale dry-goods merchant, immensely rich, whom i knew by sight, though i had never spoken to him. it was one thursday morning--i remember even the day of the week--when the boat was unusually full. mr. clayton was leaning against the side-railing talking to a friend, when all at once the railing gave way, and he fell backward into the water, which immediately swallowed him up." "merciful man!" ejaculated aunt deborah, intensely interested. "go on, ferdinand." "of course there was a scene of confusion and excitement," continued ferdinand, dramatically. 'man overboard! who will save him?' said more than one. 'i will,' i exclaimed, and in an instant i had sprang over the railing into the boiling current." "weren't you frightened to death?" asked the old lady. "could you swim?" "of course i could. more than once i have swum all the way from new york to brooklyn. i caught mr. clayton by the collar, as he was sinking for the third time, and shouted to a boatman near by to come to my help. well, there isn't much more to tell. we were taken on board the boat, and rowed to shore. mr. clayton recovered his senses so far as to realize that i had saved his life. "'what is your name, young man?' he asked, grasping my hand. "'ferdinand b. kensington,' i answered modestly. "'you have saved my life,' he said warmly. "'i am very glad of it,' said i. "'you have shown wonderful bravery." "'oh no,' i answered. 'i know how to swim, and i wasn't going to see you drown before my eyes.' "'i shall never cease to be grateful to you.' "'oh, don't think of it,' said i. "'but i must think of it,' he answered. 'but for you i should now be a senseless corpse lying in the bottom of the river,' and he shuddered. "'mr. clayton,' said i, 'let me advise you to get home as soon as possible, or you will catch your death of cold.' "'so will you,' he said. 'you must come with me.' "he insisted, so i went, and was handsomely treated, you may depend. mr. clayton gave me a new suit of clothes, and the next morning he took me to tiffany's--that's the best jeweller in new york--and bought me this diamond ring. he first offered me money, but i felt delicate about taking money for such a service, and told him so. so he bought me this ring." "well, i declare!" ejaculated aunt deborah. "that was an adventure. but it seems to me, ferdinand, i would have taken the money." "as to that, aunt, i can sell this ring, if ever i get hard up, but i hope i sha'n't be obliged to." "you certainly behaved very well, ferdinand. do you ever see mr. clayton now?" "sometimes, but i don't seek his society, for fear he would think i wanted to get something more out of him." "how much money do you think he'd have given you?" asked aunt deborah, who was of a practical nature. "a thousand dollars, perhaps more." "seems to me i would have taken it." "if i had, people would have said that's why i jumped into the water, whereas i wasn't thinking anything about getting a reward. so now, aunt, you won't think it very strange that i wear such an expensive ring." "of course it makes a difference, as you didn't buy it yourself. i don't see how folks can be such fools as to throw away hundreds of dollars for such a trifle." "well, aunt, everybody isn't as sensible and practical as you. now i agree with you; i think it's very foolish. still i'm glad i've got the ring, because i can turn it into money when i need to. only, you see, i don't like to part with a gift, although i don't think mr. clayton would blame me." "of course he wouldn't, ferdinand. but i don't see why you should need money when you're goin' to get such a handsome salary in san francisco." "to be sure, aunt, but there's something else. however, i won't speak of it to-day. to-morrow i may want to ask your advice on a matter of business." "i'll advise you the best i can, ferdinand," said the flattered spinster. "you see, aunt, you're so clear-headed, i shall place great dependence on your advice. but i think i'll take a little walk now, just to stretch my limbs." "i've made good progress," said the young man to himself, as he lounged over the farm. "the old lady swallows it all. to-morrow must come my grand stroke. i thought i wouldn't propose it to-day, for fear she'd suspect the ring story." chapter xx. a business transaction. ferdinand found life at the farm-house rather slow, nor did he particularly enjoy the society of the spinster whom he called aunt. but he was playing for a valuable stake, and meant to play out his game. "strike while the iron is hot!" said he to himself; "that's a good rule; but how shall i know when it is hot? however, i must risk something, and take my chances with the old lady." aunt deborah herself hastened his action. her curiosity had been aroused by ferdinand's intimation that he wished her advice on a matter of business, and the next morning, after breakfast, she said, "ferdinand, what was that you wanted to consult me about? you may as well tell me now as any time." "here goes, then!" thought the young man. "i'll tell you, aunt. you know i am offered a large salary in san francisco?" "yes, you told me so." "and, as you said the other day, i can lay up half my salary, and in time become a rich man." "to be sure you can." "but there is one difficulty in the way." "what is that?" "i must go out there." "of course you must," said the old lady, who did not yet see the point. "and unfortunately it costs considerable money." "haven't you got enough money to pay your fare out there?" "no, aunt; it is very expensive living in new york, and i was unable to save anything from my salary." "how much does it cost to go out there?" "about two hundred and fifty dollars." "that's a good deal of money." "so it is; but it will be a great deal better to pay it than to lose so good a place." "i hope," said the old lady, sharply, "you don't expect me to pay your expenses out there." "my dear aunt," said ferdinand, hastily, "how can you suspect such a thing?" "then what do you propose to do?" asked the spinster, somewhat relieved. "i wanted to ask your advice." "sell your ring. it's worth over six hundred dollars." "very true; but i should hardly like to part with it. i'll tell you what i have thought of. it cost six hundred and fifty dollars. i will give it as security to any one who will lend me five hundred dollars, with permission to sell it if i fail to pay up the note in six months. by the way, aunt, why can't you accommodate me in this matter? you will lose nothing, and i will pay handsome interest." "how do you know i have the money?" "i don't know; but i think you must have. but, although i am your nephew, i wouldn't think of asking you to lend me money without security. business is business, so i say." "very true, ferdinand." "i ask nothing on the score of relationship, but i will make a business proposal." "i don't believe the ring would fetch over six hundred dollars." "it would bring just about that. the other fifty dollars represent the profit. now, aunt, i'll make you a regular business proposal. if you'll lend me five hundred dollars, i'll give you my note for five hundred and fifty, bearing interest at six per cent., payable in six months, or, to make all sure, say in a year. i place the ring in your hands, with leave to sell it at the end of that time if i fail to carry out my agreement. but i sha'n't if i keep my health." the old lady was attracted by the idea of making a bonus of fifty dollars, but she was cautious, and averse to parting with her money. "i don't know what to say, ferdinand," she replied. "five hundred dollars is a good deal of money." "so it is, aunt. well, i don't know but i can offer you a little better terms. give me four hundred and seventy-five, and i'll give you a note for five hundred and fifty. you can't make as much interest anywhere else." "i'd like to accommodate you," said the old lady, hesitating, for, like most avaricious persons, she was captivated by the prospect of making extra-legal interest. "i know you would. aunt deborah, but i don't want to ask the money as a favor. it is a strictly business transaction." "i am afraid i couldn't spare more than four hundred and fifty." "very well, i won't dispute about the extra twenty-five dollars. considering how much income i'm going to get, it isn't of any great importance." "and you'll give me a note for five hundred and fifty?" "yes, certainly." "i don't know as i ought to take so much interest." "it's worth that to me, for though, of course, i could raise it by selling the ring, i don't like to do that." "well, i don't know but i'll do it. i'll get some ink, and you can write me the due bill." "why, aunt deborah, you haven't got the money here, have you?" "yes, i've got it in the house. a man paid up a mortgage last week, and i haven't yet invested the money. i meant to put it in the savings bank." "you wouldn't get but six per cent there. now the bonus i offer you will be equal to about twenty per cent." "and you really feel able to pay so much?" "yes, aunt; as i told you, it will be worth more than that to me." "well, ferdinand, we'll settle the matter now. i'll go and get the money, and you shall give me the note and the ring." "triumph!" said the young man to himself, when the old lady had left the room. "you're badly sold, aunt deborah, but it's a good job for me. i didn't think i would have so little trouble." within fifteen minutes the money was handed over, and aunt deborah took charge of the note and the valuable diamond ring. "be careful of the ring, aunt deborah," said ferdinand. "remember, i expect to redeem it again." "i'll take good care of it, nephew, never fear!" "if it were a little smaller, you could wear it, yourself." "how would deborah kensington look with a diamond ring? the neighbors would think i was crazy. no: i'll keep it in a safe place, but i won't wear it." "now, aunt deborah, i must speak about other arrangements. don't you think it would be well to start for san francisco as soon as possible? you know i enter upon my duties as soon as i get there." "yes, ferdinand, i think you ought to." "i wish i could spare the time to spend a week with you, aunt; but business is business, and my motto is, business before pleasure." "and very proper, too, ferdinand," said the old lady, approvingly. "so i think i had better leave centreville tomorrow." "may be you had. you must write and let me know when you get there, and how you like your place." "so i will, and i shall be glad to know that you take an interest in me. now, aunt, as i have some errands to do, i will walk to the village and come back about the middle of the afternoon." "won't you be back to dinner?" "no, i think not, aunt." "very well, ferdinand. come as soon as you can." half an hour later, ferdinand entered the office of the "centreville gazette." "how do you do, mr. kensington?" said clapp, eagerly. "anything new?" "i should like to speak with you a moment in private, mr. clapp." "all right!" clapp put on his coat, and went outside, shutting the door behind him. "well," said ferdinand, "i've succeeded." "have you got the money?" "yes, but not quite as much as i anticipated." "can't you carry out your plan?" asked clapp, soberly, fearing he was to be left out in the cold. "i've formed a new one. instead of going to california, which is very expensive, we'll go out west, say to st. louis, and try our fortune there. what do you say?" "i'm agreed. can luke go too?" "yes. i'll take you both out there, and lend you fifty dollars each besides, and you shall pay me back as soon as you are able. will you let your friend know?" "yes, i'll undertake that; but when do you propose to start?" "to-morrow morning." "whew! that's short notice." "i want to get away as soon as possible, for fear the old lady should change her mind, and want her money back." "that's where you're right." "of course you must give up your situation at once, as there is short time to get ready." "no trouble about that," said clapp. "i've hated the business for a long time, and shall be only too glad to leave. it's the same with luke. he won't shed many tears at leaving centreville." "well, we'll all meet this evening at the hotel. i depend upon your both being ready to start in the morning." "all right, i'll let luke know." it may be thought singular that ferdinand should have made so liberal an offer to two comparative strangers; but, to do the young man justice, though he had plenty of faults, he was disposed to be generous when he had money, though he was not particular how he obtained it. clapp and luke harrison he recognized as congenial spirits, and he was willing to sacrifice something to obtain their companionship. how long his fancy was likely to last was perhaps doubtful; but for the present he was eager to associate them with his own plans. chapter xxi. harry is promoted. clapp re-entered the printing office highly elated. "mr. anderson," said he to the editor, "i am going to leave you." ferguson and harry walton looked up in surprise, and mr. anderson asked,-- "have you got another place?" "no; i am going west." "indeed! how long have you had that in view?" "not long. i am going with mr. kensington." "the one who just called on you?" "yes." "how soon do you want to leave?" "now." "that is rather short notice." "i know it, but i leave town to-morrow morning." "well, i wish you success. here is the money i owe you." "sha'n't we see you again, clapp?" asked ferguson. "yes; i'll just look in and say good-by. now i must go home and get ready." "well, ferguson," said mr. andersen, after clapp's departure, "that is rather sudden." "so i think." "how can we get along with only two hands?" "very well, sir. i'm willing to work a little longer, and harry here is a pretty quick compositor now. the fact is, there isn't enough work for three." "then you think i needn't hire another journeyman?" "no." "if you both work harder i must increase your wages, and then i shall save money." "i sha'n't object to that," said ferguson, smiling. "nor i," said harry. "i was intending at any rate to raise harry's wages, as i find he does nearly as much as a journeyman. hereafter i will give you five dollars a week besides your board." "oh, thank you, sir!" said harry, overjoyed at his good fortune. "as for you, ferguson, if you will give me an hour more daily, i will add three dollars a week to your pay." "thank you, sir. i think i can afford now to give mrs. ferguson the new bonnet she was asking for this morning." "i don't want to overwork you two, but if that arrangement proves satisfactory, we will continue it." "i suppose you will be buying your wife a new bonnet too; eh, harry?" said ferguson. "i may buy myself a new hat. luke harrison turned up his nose at my old one the other day." "what will luke do without clapp? they were always together." "perhaps he is going too." "i don't know where he will raise the money, nor clapp either, for that matter." "perhaps their new friend furnishes the money." "if he does, he is indeed a friend." "well, it has turned out to our advantage, at any rate, harry. suppose you celebrate it by coming round and taking supper with me?" "with the greatest pleasure." harry was indeed made happy by his promotion. having been employed for some months on board-wages, he had been compelled to trench upon the small stock of money which he had saved up when in the employ of prof. henderson, and he had been unable to send any money to his father, whose circumstances were straitened, and who found it very hard to make both ends meet. that evening he wrote a letter to his father, in which he inclosed ten dollars remaining to him from his fund of savings, at the same time informing him of his promotion. a few days later, he received the following reply:-- "my dear son: "your letter has given me great satisfaction, for i conclude from your promotion that you have done your duty faithfully, and won the approbation of your employer. the wages you now earn will amply pay your expenses, while you may reasonably hope that they will be still further increased, as you become more skilful and experienced. i am glad to hear that you are using your leisure hours to such good purpose, and are trying daily to improve your education. in this way you may hope in time to qualify yourself for the position of an editor, which is an honorable and influential profession, to which i should be proud to have you belong. "the money which you so considerately inclose comes at the right time. your brother needs some new clothes, and this will enable me to provide them. we all send love, and hope to hear from you often. "your affectionate father, "hiram walton." harry's promotion took place just before the beginning of september. during the next week the fall term of the prescott academy commenced, and the village streets again became lively with returning students. harry was busy at the case, when oscar vincent entered the printing office, and greeted him warmly. "how are you, oscar?" said harry, his face lighting up with pleasure. "i am glad to see you back. i would shake hands, but i am afraid you wouldn't like it," and harry displayed his hands soiled with printer's ink. "well, we'll shake hands in spirit, then, harry. how have you passed the time?" "i have been very busy, oscar." "and i have been very lazy. i have scarcely opened a book, that is, a study-book, during the vacation. how much have you done in french?" "i have nearly finished telemachus." "you have! then you have done splendidly. by the way, harry, i received the paper you sent, containing your essay. it does you credit, my boy." mr. anderson, who was sitting at his desk, caught the last words. "what is that, harry?" he asked. "have you been writing for the papers?" harry blushed. "yes, sir," he replied. "i have written two or three articles for the 'boston weekly standard.'" "indeed! i should like to see them." "you republished one of them in the 'gazette,' mr. anderson," said ferguson. "what do you refer to?" "don't you remember an article on 'ambition,' which you inserted some weeks ago?" "yes, it was a good article. did you write it, walton?" "yes, air." "why didn't you tell me of it?" "he was too bashful," said ferguson. "i am glad to know that you can write," said the editor. "i shall call upon you for assistance, in getting up paragraphs occasionally." "i shall be very glad to do what i can," said harry, gratified. "harry is learning to be an editor," said ferguson. "i will give him a chance for practice, then," and mr. anderson returned to his exchanges. "by the way, oscar," said harry, "i am not a printer's devil any longer. i am promoted to be a journeyman." "i congratulate you, harry, but what will fitz do now? he used to take so much pleasure in speaking of you as a printer's devil." "i am sorry to deprive him of that pleasure. did you see much of him in vacation, oscar?" "i used to meet him almost every day walking down washington street, swinging a light cane, and wearing a stunning necktie, as usual." "is he coming back this term?" "yes, he came on the same train with me. hasn't he called to pay his respects to you?" "no," answered harry, with a smile. "he hasn't done me that honor. he probably expects me to make the first call." "well, harry, i suppose you will be on hand next week, when the clionian holds its first meeting?" "yes, i will be there." "and don't forget to call at my room before that time. i want to examine you in french, and see how much progress you have made." "thank you, oscar." "now i must be going. i have got a tough greek lesson to prepare for to-morrow. i suppose it will take me twice as long as usual. it is always hard to get to work again after a long vacation. so good-morning, and don't forget to call at my room soon--say to-morrow evening." "i will come." "what a gentlemanly fellow your friend is!" said ferguson. "what is his name, harry?" asked mr. anderson. "oscar vincent. his father is an editor in boston." "what! the son of john vincent?" said mr. anderson, surprised. "yes, sir; do you know his father?" "only by reputation. he is a man of great ability." "oscar is a smart fellow, too, but not a hard student." "i shall be glad to have you bring him round to the house some evening, harry. i shall be glad to become better acquainted with him." "thank you, sir. i will give him the invitation." it is very possible that harry rose in the estimation of his employer, from his intimacy with the son of a man who stood so high in his own profession. at all events, harry found himself from this time treated with greater respect and consideration than before, and mr. anderson often called upon him to write paragraphs upon local matters, so that his position might be regarded except as to pay, as that of an assistant editor. chapter xxii. miss deborah's eyes are opened. aunt deborah felt that she had done a good stroke of business. she had lent ferdinand four hundred and fifty dollars, and received in return a note for five hundred and fifty, secured by a diamond ring worth even more. she plumed herself on her shrewdness, though at times she felt a little twinge at the idea of the exorbitant interest which she had exacted from so near a relative. "but he said the money was worth that to him," she said to herself in extenuation, "and he's goin' to get two thousand dollars a year. i didn't want to lend the money, i'd rather have had it in the savings bank, but i did it to obleege him." by such casuistry aunt deborah quieted her conscience, and carefully put the ring away among her bonds and mortgages. "who'd think a little ring like that should be worth so much?" she said to herself. "it's clear waste of money. but then ferdinand didn't buy it. it was give to him, and a very foolish gift it was too. railly, it makes me nervous to have it to take care of. it's so little it might get lost easy." aunt deborah plumed herself upon her shrewdness. it was not easy to get the advantage of her in a bargain, and yet she had accepted the ring as security for a considerable loan without once questioning its genuineness. she relied implicitly upon her nephew's assurance of its genuineness, just as she had relied upon his assertion of relationship. but the time was soon coming when she was to be undeceived. one day, a neighbor stopped his horse in front of her house, and jumping out of his wagon, walked up to the door and knocked. "good-morning, mr. simpson," said the old lady, answering the knock herself; "won't you come in?" "thank you, miss deborah, i can't stop this morning. i was at the post-office just now, when i saw there was a letter for you, and thought i'd bring it along." "a letter for me!" said aunt deborah in some surprise, for her correspondence was very limited. "who's it from?" "it is post-marked new york," said mr. simpson. "i don't know no one in new york," said the old lady, fumbling in her pockets for her spectacles. "maybe it's one of your old beaux," said mr. simpson, humorously, a joke which brought a grim smile to the face of the old spinster. "but i must be goin'. if it's an offer of marriage, don't forget to invite me to the wedding." aunt deborah went into the house, and seating herself in her accustomed place, carefully opened the letter. she turned over the page, and glanced at the signature. to her astonishment it was signed, "your affectionate nephew, "ferdinand b. kensington." "ferdinand!" she exclaimed in surprise. "why, i thought he was in californy by this time. how could he write from new york? i s'pose he'll explain. i hope he didn't lose the money i lent him." the first sentence in the letter was destined to surprise miss deborah yet more. "dear aunt," it commenced, "it is so many years since we have met, that i am afraid you have forgotten me." "so many years!" repeated miss deborah in bewilderment. "what on earth can ferdinand mean? why, it's only five weeks yesterday since he was here. he must be crazy." she resumed reading. "i have often had it in mind to make you a little visit, but i have been so engrossed by business that i have been unable to get away. i am a salesman for a. t. stewart, whom you must have heard of, as he is the largest retail dealer in the city. i have been three years in his employ, and have been promoted by degrees, till i now receive quite a good salary, until--and that is the news i have to write you--i have felt justifed in getting married. my wedding is fixed for next week, thursday. i should be very glad if you could attend, though i suppose you would consider it a long journey. but at any rate i can assure you that i should be delighted to see you present on the occasion, and so would maria. if you can't come, write to me, at any rate, in memory of old times. it is just possible that during our bridal tour--we are to go to the white mountains for a week--we shall call on you. let me know if it will be convenient for you to receive us for a day. "your affectionate nephew, "ferdinand b. kensington." miss deborah read this letter like one dazed. she had to read it a second time before she could comprehend its purport. "ferdinand going to be married! he never said a word about it when he was here. and he don't say a word about californy. then again he says he hasn't seen me for years. merciful man! i see it now--the other fellow was an impostor!" exclaimed miss deborah, jumping, to her feet in excitement. "what did he want to deceive an old woman for?" it flashed upon her at once. he came after money, and he had succeeded only too well. he had carried away four hundred and fifty dollars with him. true, he had left a note, and security. but another terrible suspicion had entered the old lady's mind; the ring might not be genuine. "i must know at once," exclaimed the disturbed spinster. "i'll go over to brandon, to the jeweller's, and inquire. if it's paste, then, deborah kensington, you're the biggest fool in centreville." miss deborah summoned abner, her farm servant from the field, and ordered him instantly to harness the horse, as she wanted to go to brandon. "do you want me to go with you?" asked abner. "to be sure, i can't drive so fur, and take care of the horse." "it'll interrupt the work," objected abner. "never mind about the work," said deborah, impatiently. "i must go right off. it's on very important business." "wouldn't it be best to go after dinner?" "no, we'll get some dinner over there, at the tavern." "what's got into the old woman?" thought abner. "it isn't like her to spend money at a tavern for dinner, when she might as well dine at home. interruptin' the work, too! however, it's her business!" deborah was ready and waiting when the horse drove up the door. she got in, and they set out. abner tried to open a conversation, but he found miss deborah strangely unsocial. she appeared to take no interest in the details of farm work of which he spoke. "something's on her mind, i guess," thought abner; and, as we know, he was right. in her hand deborah clutched the ring, of whose genuineness she had come to entertain such painful doubts. it might be genuine, she tried to hope, even if it came from an impostor; but her hope was small. she felt a presentiment that it would prove as false as the man from whom she received it. as for the story of the manner in which he became possessed of it, doubtless that was as false as the rest. "how blind i was!" groaned deborah in secret. "i saw he didn't look like the family. what a goose i was to believe that story about his changin' the color of his hair! i was an old fool, and that's all about it." "drive to the jeweller's," said miss deborah, when they reached brandon. in some surprise, abner complied. deborah got out of the wagon hastily and entered the store. "what can i do for you, miss kensington?" asked the jeweller, who recognized the old lady. "i want to show you a ring," said aunt deborah, abruptly. "tell me what it's worth." she produced the ring which the false ferdinand had intrusted to her. the jeweller scanned it closely. "it's a good imitation of a diamond ring," he said. "imitation!" gasped deborah. "yes; you didn't think it was genuine?" "what's it worth?" "the value of the gold. that appears to be genuine. it may be worth three dollars." "three dollars!" ejaculated deborah. "he told me it cost six hundred and fifty." "whoever told you that was trying to deceive you." "you're sure about its being imitation, are you?" "there can be no doubt about it." "that's what i thought," muttered the old lady, her face pale and rigid. "is there anything to pay?" "oh, no; i am glad to be of service to you." "good-afternoon, then," said deborah, abruptly, and she left the store. "drive home, abner, as quick as you can," she said. "i haven't had any dinner," abner remarked, "you said you'd get some at the tavern." "did i? well, drive over there. i'm not hungry myself, but i'll pay for some dinner for you." poor aunt deborah! it was not the loss alone that troubled her, though she was fond of money; but it was humiliating to think that she had fallen such an easy prey to a designing adventurer. in her present bitter mood, she would gladly have ridden fifty miles to see the false ferdinand hanged. chapter xxiii. the plot against fletcher. the intimacy between harry and oscar vincent continued, and, as during the former term, the latter volunteered to continue giving french lessons to our hero. these were now partly of a conversational character, and, as harry was thoroughly in earnest, it was not long before he was able to speak quite creditably. about the first of november, fitzgerald fletcher left the prescott academy, and returned to his home in boston. it was not because he had finished his education, but because he felt that he was not appreciated by his fellow-students. he had been ambitious to be elected to an official position in the clionian society, but his aspirations were not gratified. he might have accepted this disappointment, and borne it as well as he could, had it not been aggravated by the elevation of harry walton to the presidency. to be only a common member, while a boy so far his social inferior was president, was more than fitzgerald could stand. he was so incensed that upon the announcement of the vote he immediately rose to a point of order. "mr. president," he said warmly, "i must protest against this election. walton is not a member of the prescott academy, and it is unconstitutional to elect him president." "will the gentleman point out the constitutional clause which has been violated by walton's election?" said oscar vincent. "mr. president," said fletcher, "this society was founded by students of the prescott academy; and the offices should be confined to the members of the school." harry walton rose and said: "mr. president, my election has been a great surprise to myself. i had no idea that any one had thought of me for the position. i feel highly complimented by your kindness, and deeply grateful for it; but there is something in what mr. fletcher says. you have kindly allowed me to share in the benefits of the society, and that satisfies me. i think it will be well for you to make another choice as president." "i will put it to vote," said the presiding officer. "those who are ready to accept mr. walton's resignation will signify it in the usual way." fletcher raised his hand, but he was alone. "those who are opposed," said the president. every other hand except harry's was now raised. "mr. walton, your resignation is not accepted," said the presiding officer. "i call upon you to assume the duties of your new position." harry rose, and, modestly advanced to the chair. "i have already thanked you, gentlemen," he said, "for the honor you have conferred upon me in selecting me as your presiding officer. i have only to add that i will discharge its duties to the best of my ability." all applauded except fletcher. he sat with an unpleasant scowl upon his face, and waited for the result of the balloting for vice-president and secretary. had he been elected to either position, the clionian would probably have retained his illustrious name upon its roll. but as these honors were conferred upon other members, he formed the heroic resolution no longer to remain a member. "mr. president," he said, when the last vote was announced, "i desire to terminate my connection with this society." "i hope mr. fletcher will reconsider his determination," said harry from the chair. "i would like to inquire the gentleman's reasons," said tom carver. "i don't like the way in which the society is managed," said fletcher. "i predict that it will soon disband." "i don't see any signs of it," said oscar. "if the gentleman is really sincere, he should not desert the clionian in the hour of danger." "i insist upon my resignation," said fletcher. "i move that it be accepted," said tom carver. "second the motion," said the boy who sat next him. the resignation was unanimously accepted. fletcher ought to have felt gratified at the prompt granting of his request, but he was not. he had intended to strike dismay into the society by his proposal to withdraw, but there was no consternation visible. apparently they were willing to let him go. he rose from his seat mortified and wrathful. "gentlemen," he said, "you have complied with my request, and i am deeply grateful. i no longer consider it an honor to belong to the clionian. i trust your new president may succeed as well in his new office as he has in the capacity of a printer's devil." fletcher was unable to proceed, being interrupted by a storm of hisses, in the midst of which he hurriedly made his exit. "he wanted to be president himself--that's what's the matter," said tom carver in a whisper to his neighbor. "but he couldn't blame us for not wanting to have him." other members of the society came to the same conclusion, and it was generally said that fletcher had done himself no good by his undignified resentment. his parting taunt levelled at harry was regarded as mean and ungenerous, and only strengthened the sentiment in favor of our hero who bore his honors modestly. in fact tom carver, who was fond of fun, conceived a project for mortifying fletcher, and readily obtained the co-operation of his classmates. it must be premised that fitz was vain of his reading and declamation. he had a secret suspicion that, if he should choose to devote his talents to the stage, he would make a second booth. this self-conceit of his made it the more easy to play off the following joke upon him. a fortnight later, the young ladies of the village proposed to hold a fair to raise funds for some public object. at the head of the committee of arrangements was a sister of the doctor's wife, named pauline clinton. this will explain the following letter which, fletcher received the succeeding day:-- "fitzgerald fletcher, esq.--dear sir: understanding that you are a superior reader, we should be glad of your assistance in lending _eclat_ to the fair which we propose to hold on the evening of the th. will you be kind enough to occupy twenty minutes by reading such selections as in your opinion will be of popular interest? it is desirable that you should let me know as soon as possible what pieces you have selected, that they may be printed on the programme. "yours respectfully, "pauline clinton, "(for the committee)." this note reached fletcher at a time when he was still smarting from his disappointment in obtaining promotion from the clionian society. he read it with a flushed and triumphant face. he never thought of questioning its genuineness. was it not true that he was a superior reader? what more natural than that he should be invited to give _eclat_ to the fair by the exercise of his talents! he felt it to be a deserved compliment. it was a greater honor to be solicited to give a public reading than to be elected president of the clionian society. "they won't laugh at me now," thought fletcher. he immediately started for oscar's room to make known his new honors. "how are you, fitz?" said oscar, who was in the secret, and guessed the errand on which he came. "very well, thank you, oscar," answered fletcher, in a stately manner. "anything new with you?" asked oscar, carelessly. "not much," said fletcher. "there's a note i just received. "whew!" exclaimed oscar, in affected astonishment. "are you going to accept?" "i suppose i ought to oblige them," said fletcher. "it won't be much trouble to me, you know." "to be sure; it's in a good cause. but how did they hear of your reading?" "oh, there are no secrets in a small village like this," said fletcher. "it's certainly a great compliment. has anybody else been invited to read?" "i think not," said fletcher, proudly. "they rely upon me." "couldn't you get a chance for me? it would be quite an honor, and i should like it for the sake of the family." "i shouldn't feel at liberty to interfere with their arrangements," said fletcher, who didn't wish to share the glory with any one. "besides, you don't read well enough." "well, i suppose i must give it up," said oscar, in a tone of resignation. "by the way, what have you decided to read?" "i haven't quite made up my mind," said fletcher, in a tone of importance. "i have only just received the invitation, you know." "haven't you answered it yet?" "no; but i shall as soon as i go home. good-night, oscar." "good-night, fitz." "how mad fitz will be when he finds he has been sold!" said oscar to himself. "but he deserves it for treating harry so meanly." chapter xxiv. reading under difficulties. on reaching home, fletcher looked over his "speaker," and selected three poems which he thought he could read with best effect. the selection made, he sat down to his desk, and wrote a reply to the invitation, as follows:-- "miss pauline clinton: i hasten to acknowledge your polite invitation to occupy twenty minutes in reading choice selections at your approaching fair. i have paid much attention to reading, and hope to be able to give pleasure to the large numbers who will doubtless honor the occasion with their presence. i have selected three poems,--poe's raven, the battle of ivry, by macaulay, and marco bozarris, by halleck. i shall be much pleased if my humble efforts add _eclat_ to the occasion. "yours, very respectfully, "fitzgerald fletcher." "there," said fletcher, reading his letter through with satisfaction. "i think that will do. it is high-toned and dignified, and shows that i am highly cultured and refined. i will copy it off, and mail it." fletcher saw his letter deposited in the post-office, and returned to his room. "i ought to practise reading these poems, so as to do it up handsomely," he said. "i suppose i shall get a good notice in the 'gazette.' if i do, i will buy a dozen papers, and send to my friends. they will see that i am a person of consequence in centreville, even if i didn't get elected to any office in the high and mighty clionian society." i am sorry that i cannot reproduce the withering sarcasm which fletcher put into his tone in the last sentence. when demosthenes was practising oratory, he sought the sea-shore; but fitzgerald repaired instead to a piece of woods about half a mile distant. it was rather an unfortunate selection, as will appear. it so happened that tom carver and hiram huntley were strolling about the woods, when they espied fletcher approaching with an open book in his hand. "hiram," said tom, "there's fun coming. there's fitz fletcher with his 'speaker' in his hand. he's going to practise reading in the woods. let us hide, and hear the fun." "i'm in for it," said hiram, "but where will be the best place to hide?" "here in this hollow tree. he'll be very apt to halt here." "all right! go ahead, i'll follow." they quickly concealed themselves in the tree, unobserved by fletcher, whose eyes were on his book. about ten feet from the tree he paused. "i guess this'll be a good place," he said aloud. "there's no one to disturb me here. now, which shall i begin with? i think i'll try the raven. but first it may be well to practise an appropriate little speech. something like this:"-- fletcher made a low bow to the assembled trees, cleared his throat, and commenced,-- "ladies and gentlemen: it gives me great pleasure to appear before you this evening, in compliance with the request of the committee, who have thought that my humble efforts would give _eclat_ to the fair. i am not a professional reader, but i have ever found pleasure in reciting the noble productions of our best authors, and i hope to give you pleasure." "that'll do, i think," said fletcher, complacently. "now i'll try the raven." in a deep, sepulchral tone, fletcher read the first verse, which is quoted below:-- "once upon a midnight dreary, while i pondered weak and weary, over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore, while i nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping, as of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door. ''tis some visitor,' i muttered, 'tapping at my chamber door-- only this and nothing more.'" was it fancy, or did fletcher really hear a slow, measured tapping near him--upon one of the trees, as it seemed? he started, and looked nervously; but the noise stopped, and he decided that he had been deceived, since no one was visible. the boys within the tree made no other demonstration till fletcher had read the following verse:-- "back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning, soon again i heard a tapping, something louder than before. 'surely,' said i, 'surely that is something at my window lattice; let me see then what thereat is, and this mystery explore-- let my heart be still a moment, and this mystery explore; 'tis the wind, and nothing more.'" here an indescribable, unearthly noise was heard from the interior of the tree, like the wailing of some discontented ghost. "good heavens! what's that?" ejaculated fletcher, turning pale, and looking nervously around him. it was growing late, and the branches above him, partially stripped of their leaves, rustled in the wind. fletcher was somewhat nervous, and the weird character of the poem probably increased this feeling, and made him very uncomfortable. he summoned up courage enough, however, to go on, though his voice shook a little. he was permitted to go on without interruption to the end. those who are familiar with the poem, know that it becomes more and more wild and weird as it draws to the conclusion. this, with his gloomy surroundings, had its effect upon the mind of fletcher. scarcely had he uttered the last words, when a burst of wild and sepulchral laughter was heard within a few feet of him. a cry of fear proceeded from fletcher, and, clutching his book, he ran at wild speed from the enchanted spot, not daring to look behind him. indeed, he never stopped running till he passed out of the shadow of the woods, and was well on his way homeward. tom carver and hiram crept out from their place of concealment. they threw themselves on the ground, and roared with laughter. "i never had such fun in my life," said tom. "nor i." "i wonder what fitz thought." "that the wood was enchanted, probably; he left in a hurry." "yes; he stood not on the order of his going, but went at once." "i wish i could have seen him. we must have made a fearful noise." "i was almost frightened myself. he must be almost home by this time." "when do you think he'll find out about the trick?" "about the invitation? not till he gets a letter from miss clinton, telling him it is all a mistake. he will be terribly mortified." meanwhile fletcher reached home, tired and out of breath. his temporary fear was over, but he was quite at sea as to the cause of the noises he had heard. he could not suspect any of his school-fellows, for no one was visible, nor had he any idea that any were in the wood at the time. "i wonder if it was an animal," he reflected. "it was a fearful noise. i must find some other place to practise reading in. i wouldn't go to that wood again for fifty dollars." but fletcher's readings were not destined to be long continued. when he got home from school the next day, he found the following note, which had been left for him during the forenoon:-- "mr. fitzgerald fletcher,--dear sir: i beg to thank you for your kind proposal to read at our fair; but i think there must be some mistake in the matter, as we have never contemplated having any readings, nor have i written to you on the subject, as you intimate. i fear that we shall not have time to spare for such a feature, though, under other circumstances, it might be attractive. in behalf of the committee, i beg to tender thanks for your kind proposal. "yours respectfully, "pauline clinton." fletcher read this letter with feelings which can better be imagined than described. he had already written home in the most boastful manner about the invitation he had received, and he knew that before he could contradict it, it would have been generally reported by his gratified parents to his city friends. and now he would be compelled to explain that he had been duped, besides enduring the jeers of those who had planned the trick. this was more than he could endure. he formed a sudden resolution. he would feign illness, and go home the next day. he could let it be inferred that it was sickness alone which had compelled him to give up the idea of appearing as a public reader. fitz immediately acted upon his decision, and the next day found him on the way to boston. he never returned to the prescott academy as a student. chapter xxv. an invitation to boston. harry was doubly glad that he was now in receipt of a moderate salary. he welcomed it as an evidence that he was rising in the estimation of his employer, which was of itself satisfactory, and also because in his circumstances the money was likely to be useful. "five dollars a week!" said harry to himself. "half of that ought to be enough to pay for my clothes and miscellaneous expenses, and the rest i will give to father. it will help him take care of the rest of the family." our hero at once made this proposal by letter. this is a paragraph from his father's letter in reply:-- "i am glad, my dear son, to find you so considerate and dutiful, as your offer indicates. i have indeed had a hard time in supporting my family, and have not always been able to give them the comforts i desired. perhaps it is my own fault in part. i am afraid i have not the faculty of getting along and making money that many others have. but i have had an unexpected stroke of good fortune. last evening a letter reached your mother, stating that her cousin nancy had recently died at st. albans, vermont, and that, in accordance with her will, your mother is to receive a legacy of four thousand dollars. with your mother's consent, one-fourth of this is to be devoted to the purchase of the ten acres adjoining my little farm, and the balance will be so invested as to yield us an annual income of one hundred and eighty dollars. many would think this a small addition to an income, but it will enable us to live much more comfortably. you remember the ten-acre lot to the east of us, belonging to the heirs of reuben todd. it is excellent land, well adapted for cultivation, and will fully double the value of my farm. "you see, therefore, my dear son, that a new era of prosperity has opened for us. i am now relieved from the care and anxiety which for years have oppressed me, and feel sure of a comfortable support. instead of accepting the half of your salary, i desire you, if possible, to save it, depositing in some reliable savings institution. if you do this every year till you are twenty-one, you will have a little capital to start you in business, and will be able to lead a more prosperous career than your father. knowing you as well as i do, i do not feel it necessary to caution you against unnecessary expenditures. i will only remind you that extravagance is comparative, and that what would be only reasonable expenditure for one richer than yourself would be imprudent in you." harry read this letter with great joy. he was warmly attached to the little home circle, and the thought that they were comparatively provided for gave him fresh courage. he decided to adopt his father's suggestion, and the very next week deposited three dollars in the savings bank. "that is to begin an account," he thought. "if i can only keep that up, i shall feel quite rich at the end of a year." several weeks rolled by, and thanksgiving approached. harry was toiling at his case one day, when oscar vincent entered the office. "hard at work, i see, harry," he said. "yes," said harry; "i can't afford to be idle." "i want you to be idle for three days," said oscar. harry looked up in surprise. "how is that?" he asked. "you know we have a vacation from wednesday to monday at the academy." "over thanksgiving?" "yes." "well, i am going home to spend that time, and i want you to go with me." "what, to boston?" asked harry, startled, for to him, inexperienced as he was, that seemed a very long journey. "yes. father and mother gave me permission to invite you. shall i show you the letter?" "i'll take it for granted, oscar, but i am afraid i can't go." "nonsense! what's to prevent?" "in the first place, mr. anderson can't spare me." "ask him." "what's that?" asked the editor, hearing his name mentioned. "i have invited harry to spend the thanksgiving vacation with me in boston, and he is afraid you can't spare him?" "does your father sanction your invitation?" "yes, he wrote me this morning--that is, i got the letter this morning--telling me to ask harry to come." now the country editor had a great respect for the city editor, who was indeed known by reputation throughout new england as a man of influence and ability, and he felt disposed to accede to any request of his. so he said pleasantly, "of course, harry, we shall miss you, but if mr. ferguson is disposed to do a little additional work, we will get along till monday. what do you say, mr. ferguson?" "i shall be very glad to oblige harry," said the older workman, "and i hope he will have a good time." "that settles the question, harry," said oscar, joyfully. "so all you've got to do is to pack up and be ready to start to-morrow morning. it's tuesday, you know, already." harry hesitated, and oscar observed it. "well, what's the matter now?" he said; "out with it." "i'll tell you, oscar," said harry, coloring a little. "your father is a rich man, and lives handsomely. i haven't any clothes good enough to wear on a visit to your house." "oh, hang your clothes!" said oscar, impetuously. "it isn't your clothes we invite. it's yourself." "still, oscar--" "come, i see you think i am like fitz fletcher, after all. say you think me a snob, and done with it." "but i don't," said harry, smiling. "then don't make any more ridiculous objections. don't you think they are ridiculous, mr. ferguson?" "they wouldn't be in some places," said ferguson, "but here i think they are out of place. i feel sure you are right, and that you value harry more than the clothes he wears." "well, harry, do you surrender at discretion?" said oscar. "you see ferguson is on my side." "i suppose i shall have to," said harry, "as long as you are not ashamed of me." "none of that, harry." "i'll go." "the first sensible words you've spoken this morning." "i want to tell you how much i appreciate your kindness, oscar," said harry, earnestly. "why shouldn't i be kind to my friend?" "even if he was once a printer's devil." "very true. it is a great objection, but still i will overlook it. by the way, there is one inducement i didn't mention." "what is that?" "we may very likely see fitz in the city. he is studying at home now, i hear. who knows but he may get up a great party in your honor?" "do you think it likely?" asked harry, smiling. "it might not happen to occur to him, i admit. still, if we made him a ceremonious call--" "i am afraid he might send word that he was not at home." "that would be a loss to him, no doubt. however, we will leave time to settle that question. be sure to be on hand in time for the morning train." "all right, oscar." harry had all the love of new scenes natural to a boy of sixteen. he had heard so much of boston that he felt a strong curiosity to see it. besides, was not that the city where the "weekly standard" was printed, the paper in which he had already appeared as an author? in connection with this, i must here divulge a secret of harry's. he was ambitious not only to contribute to the literary papers, but to be paid for his contributions. he judged that essays were not very marketable, and he had therefore in his leisure moments written a humorous sketch, entitled "the tin pedler's daughter." i shall not give any idea of the plot here; i will only say that it was really humorous, and did not betray as much of the novice as might have been expected. harry had copied it out in his best hand, and resolved to carry it to boston, and offer it in person to the editor of the "standard" with an effort, if accepted, to obtain compensation for it. chapter xxvi. the vincents at home. when harry rather bashfully imparted to oscar his plans respecting the manuscript, the latter entered enthusiastically into them, and at once requested the privilege of reading the story. harry awaited his judgment with some anxiety. "why, harry, this is capital," said oscar, looking up from the perusal. "do you really think so, oscar?" "if i didn't think so, i wouldn't say so." "i thought you might say so out of friendship." "i don't say it is the best i ever read, mind you, but i have read a good many that are worse. i think you managed the _denouement_ (you're a french scholar, so i'll venture on the word) admirably." "i only hope the editor of the 'standard' will think so." "if he doesn't, there are other papers in boston; the 'argus' for instance." "i'll try the 'standard' first, because i have already written for it." "all right. don't you want me to go to the office with you?" "i wish you would. i shall be bashful." "i am not troubled that way. besides, my father's name is well known, and i'll take care to mention it. sometimes influence goes farther than merit, you know." "i should like to increase my income by writing for the city papers. even if i only made fifty dollars a year, it would all be clear gain." harry's desire was natural. he had no idea how many shared it. every editor of a successful weekly could give information on this subject. certainly there is no dearth of aspiring young writers--scotts and shakspeares in embryo--in our country, and if all that were written for publication succeeded in getting into print, the world would scarcely contain the books and papers which would pour in uncounted thousands from the groaning press. when the two boys arrived in boston they took a carriage to oscar's house. it was situated on beacon street, not far from the common,--a handsome brick house with a swell front, such as they used to build in boston. no one of the family was in, and oscar and harry went up at once to the room of the former, which they were to share together. it was luxuriously furnished, so harry thought, but then our hero had been always accustomed to the plainness of a country home. "now, old fellow, make yourself at home," said oscar. "you can get yourself up for dinner. there's water and towels, and a brush." "i don't expect to look very magnificent," said harry. "you must tell your mother i am from the country." "i would make you an offer if i dared," said oscar. "i am always open to a good offer." "it's this: i'm one size larger than you, and my last year's suits are in that wardrobe. if any will fit you, they are yours." "thank you, oscar," said harry; "i'll accept your offer to-morrow." "why not to-day?" "you may not understand me, but when i first appear before your family, i don't want to wear false colors." "i understand," said oscar, with instinctive delicacy. an hour later, the bell rang for dinner. harry went down, and was introduced to his friend's mother and sister. the former was a true lady, refined and kindly, and her smile made our hero feel quite at home. "i am glad to meet you, mr. walton," she said. "oscar has spoken of you frequently." with oscar's sister maud--a beautiful girl two years younger than himself--harry felt a little more bashful; but the young lady soon entered into an animated conversation with him. "do you often come to boston, mr. walton?" she asked. "this is my first visit," said harry. "then i dare say oscar will play all sorts of tricks upon you. we had a cousin visit us from the country, and the poor fellow had a hard time." "yes," said oscar, laughing, "i used to leave him at a street corner, and dodge into a doorway. it was amusing to see his perplexity when he looked about, and couldn't find me." "shall you try that on me?" asked harry. "very likely." "then i'll be prepared." "you might tie him with a rope, mr. walton," said maud, "and keep firm hold." "i will, if oscar consents." "i will see about it. but here is my father. father, this is my friend, harry walton." "i am glad to see you, mr. walton," said mr. vincent. "then you belong to my profession?" "i hope to, some time, sir; but i am only a printer as yet." "you are yet to rise from the ranks. i know all about that. i was once a compositor." harry looked at the editor with great respect. he was stout, squarely built, with a massive head and a thoughtful expression. his appearance was up to harry's anticipations. he felt that he would be prouder to be mr. vincent than any man in boston, he could hardly believe that this man, who controlled so influential an organ, and was so honored in the community, was once a printer boy like himself. "what paper are you connected with?" asked mr. vincent. "the 'centreville gazette.'" "i have seen it. it is quite a respectable paper." "but how different," thought harry, "from a great city daily!" "let us go out to dinner," said mr. vincent, consulting his watch. "i have an engagement immediately afterward." at table harry sat between maud and oscar. if at first he felt a little bashful, the feeling soon wore away. the dinner hour passed very pleasantly. mr. vincent chatted very agreeably about men and things. there is no one better qualified to shine in this kind of conversation than the editor of a city daily, who is compelled to be exceptionally well informed. harry listened with such interest that he almost forgot to eat, till oscar charged him with want of appetite. "i must leave in haste," said mr. vincent, when dinner was over. "oscar, i take it for granted that you will take care of your friend." "certainly, father. i shall look upon myself as his guardian, adviser and friend." "you are not very well fitted to be a mentor, oscar," said maud. "why not, young lady?" "you need a guardian yourself. you are young and frivolous." "and you, i suppose, are old and judicious." "thank you. i will own to the last, and the first will come in time." "isn't it singular, harry, that my sister should have so much conceit, whereas i am remarkably modest?" "i never discovered it, oscar," said harry, smiling. "that is right, mr. walton," said maud. "i see you are on my side. look after my brother, mr. walton. he needs an experienced friend." "i am afraid i don't answer the description, miss maud." "i don't doubt you will prove competent. i wish you a pleasant walk." "my sister's a jolly girl, don't you think so?" asked oscar, as maud left the room. "that isn't exactly what i should say of her, but i can describe her as even more attractive than her brother." "you couldn't pay her a higher compliment. but come; we'll take a walk on the common." they were soon on the common, dear to every bostonian, and sauntered along the walks, under the pleasant shade of the stately elms. "look there," said oscar, suddenly; "isn't that fitz fletcher?" "yes," said harry, "but he doesn't see us." "we'll join him. how are you, fitz?" "glad to see you, oscar," said fletcher, extending a gloved band, while in the other he tossed a light cane. "when did you arrive?" "only this morning; but you don't see harry walton." fletcher arched his brows in surprise, and said coldly, "indeed, i was not aware mr. walton was in the city." "he is visiting me," said oscar. fletcher looked surprised. he knew the vincents stood high socially, and it seemed extraordinary that they should receive a printer's devil as a guest. "have you given up the printing business?" he asked superciliously. "no; i only have a little vacation from it." "ah, indeed! it's a very dirty business. i would as soon be a chimney-sweep." "each to his taste, fitz," said oscar. "if you have a taste for chimneys, i hope your father won't interfere." "i haven't a taste for such a low business," said fletcher, haughtily. "i should like it as well as being a printer's devil though." "would you? at any rate, if you take it up, you'll be sure to be well _sooted_." fletcher did not laugh at the joke. he never could see any wit in jokes directed at himself. "how long are you going to stay at that beastly school?" he asked. "i am not staying at any beastly school." "i mean the academy." "till i am ready for college. where are you studying?" "i recite to a private tutor." "well, we shall meet at 'harvard' if we are lucky enough to get in." fletcher rather hoped oscar would invite him to call at his house, for he liked to visit a family of high social position; but he waited in vain. "what a fool oscar makes of himself about that country clod-hopper!" thought the stylish young man, as he walked away. "the idea of associating with a printer's devil! i hope i know what is due to myself better." chapter xxvii. the office of the "standard." on the day after thanksgiving, harry brought out from his carpet-bag his manuscript story, and started with oscar for the office of the "weekly standard." he bought the last copy of the paper, and thus ascertained the location of the office. oscar turned the last page, and ran through a sketch of about the same length as harry's. "yours is fully as good as this, harry," he said. "the editor may not think so." "then he ought to." "this story is by one of his regular contributors, kenella kent." "you'll have to take a name yourself,--a _nom de plume_, i mean." "i have written so far over the name of franklin." "that will do very well for essays, but is not appropriate for stories." "suppose you suggest a name, oscar." "how will 'fitz fletcher' do?" "mr. fletcher would not permit me to take such a liberty." "and you wouldn't want to take it." "not much." "let me see. i suppose i must task my invention, then. how will old nick do?" "people would think you wrote the story." "a fair hit. hold on, i've got just the name. frank lynn." "i thought you objected to that name." "you don't understand me. i mean two names, not one. frank lynn! don't you see?" "yes, it's a good plan. i'll adopt it." "who knows but you may make the name illustrious, harry?" "if i do, i'll dedicate my first boot to oscar vincent." "shake hands on that. i accept the dedication with mingled feelings of gratitude and pleasure." "better wait till you get it," said harry, laughing. "don't count your chickens before they're hatched." "the first egg is laid, and that's something. but here we are at the office." it was a building containing a large number of offices. the names of the respective occupants were printed on slips of black tin at the entrance. from this, harry found that the office of the "weekly standard" was located at no. . "my heart begins to beat, oscar," said harry, naturally excited in anticipation of an interview with one who could open the gates of authorship to him. "does it?" asked oscar. "mine has been beating for a number of years." "you are too matter-of-fact for me, oscar. if it was your own story, you might feel differently." "shall i pass it off as my own, and make the negotiation?" harry was half tempted to say yes, but it occurred to him that this might prove an embarrassment in the future, and he declined the proposal. they climbed rather a dark, and not very elegant staircase, and found themselves before no. . harry knocked, or was about to do so, when a young lady with long ringlets, and a roll of manuscript in her hand, who had followed them upstairs advanced confidently, and, opening the door, went in. the two boys followed, thinking the ceremony of knocking needless. they found themselves in a large room, one corner of which was partitioned off for the editor's sanctum. a middle-aged man was directing papers in the larger room, while piles of papers were ranged on shelves at the sides of the apartment. the two boys hesitated to advance, but the young lady in ringlets went on, and entered the office through the open door. "we'll wait till she is through," said harry. it was easy to hear the conversation that passed between the young lady and the editor, whom they could not see. "good-morning, mr. houghton," she said. "good-morning. take a seat, please," said the editor, pleasantly. "are you one of our contributors?" "no, sir, not yet," answered the young lady, "but i would become so." "we are not engaging any new contributors at present, but still if you have brought anything for examination you may leave it." "i am not wholly unknown to fame," said the young lady, with an air of consequence. "you have probably heard of prunella prune." "possibly, but i don't at present recall it. we editors meet with so many names, you know. what is the character of your articles?" "i am a poetess, sir, and i also write stories." "poetry is a drug in the market. we have twice as much offered us as we can accept. still we are always glad to welcome really meritorious poems." "i trust my humble efforts will please you," said prunella. "i have here some lines to a nightingale, which have been very much praised in our village. shall i read them?" "if you wish," said the editor, by no means cheerfully. miss prune raised her voice, and commenced:-- "o star-eyed nightingale, how nobly thou dost sail through the air! no other bird can compare with the tuneful song which to thee doth belong. i sit and hear thee sing, while with tireless wing thou dost fly. and it makes me feel so sad, it makes me feel so bad, i know not why, and i heave so many sighs, o warbler of the skies!" "is there much more?" asked the editor. "that is the first verse. there are fifteen more," said prunella. "then i think i shall not have time at present to hear you read it all. you may leave it, and i will look it over at my leisure." "if it suits you," said prunella, "how much will it be worth?" "i don't understand." "how much would you be willing to pay for it?" "oh, we never pay for poems," said mr. houghton. "why not?" asked miss prune, evidently disappointed. "our contributors are kind enough to send them gratuitously." "is that fostering american talent?" demanded prunella, indignantly. "american poetical talent doesn't require fostering, judging from the loads of poems which are sent in to us." "you pay for stories, i presume?" "yes, we pay for good, popular stories." "i have one here," said prunella, untying her manuscript, "which i should like to read to you." "you may read the first paragraph, if you please. i haven't time to hear more. what is the title?" "'the bandit's bride.' this is the way it opens:-- "'the night was tempestuous. lightnings flashed in the cerulean sky, and the deep-voiced thunder rolled from one end of the firmament to the other. it was a landscape in spain. from a rocky defile gayly pranced forth a masked cavalier, roderigo di lima, a famous bandit chief. "'"ha! ha!" he laughed in demoniac glee, "the night is well fitted to my purpose. ere it passes, isabella gomez shall be mine."'" "i think that will do," said mr. houghton, hastily. "i am afraid that style won't suit our readers." "why not?" demanded prunella, sharply. "i can assure you, sir, that it has been praised by _excellent_ judges in our village." "it is too exciting for our readers. you had better carry it to 'the weekly corsair.'" "do they pay well for contributions?" "i really can't say. how much do you expect?" "this story will make about five columns. i think twenty-five dollars will be about right." "i am afraid you will be disappointed. we can't afford to pay such prices, and the 'corsair' has a smaller circulation than our paper." "how much do you pay?" "two dollars a column." "i expected more," said prunella, "but i will write for you at that price." "send us something suited to our paper, and we will pay for it at that price." "i will write you a story to-morrow. good-morning, sir." "good-morning, miss prune." the young lady with ringlets sailed out of the editor's room, and oscar, nudging harry, said, "now it is our turn. come along. follow me, and don't be frightened." chapter xxviii. accepted. the editor of the "standard" looked with some surprise at the two boys. as editor, he was not accustomed to receive such young visitors. he was courteous, however, and said, pleasantly:-- "what can i do for you, young gentlemen?" "are you the editor of the 'standard'?" asked harry, diffidently. "i am. do you wish to subscribe?" "i have already written something for your paper," harry continued. "indeed!" said the editor. "was it poetry or prose?" harry felt flattered by the question. to be mistaken for a poet he felt to be very complimentary. if he had known how much trash weekly found its way to the "standard" office, under the guise of poetry, he would have felt less flattered. "i have written some essays over the name of 'franklin,'" he hastened to say. "ah, yes, i remember, and very sensible essays too. you are young to write." "yes, sir; i hope to improve as i grow older." by this time oscar felt impelled to speak for his friend. it seemed to him that harry was too modest. "my friend is assistant editor of a new hampshire paper,--'the centreville gazette,'" he announced. "indeed!" said the editor, looking surprised. "he is certainly young for an editor." "my friend is not quite right," said harry, hastily. "i am one of the compositors on that paper." "but you write editorial paragraphs," said oscar. "yes, unimportant ones." "and are you, too, an editor?" asked the editor of the "standard," addressing oscar with a smile. "not exactly," said oscar; "but i am an editor's son. perhaps you are acquainted with my father,--john vincent of this city." "are you his son?" said the editor, respectfully. "i know your father slightly. he is one of our ablest journalists." "thank you, sir." "i am very glad to receive a visit from you, and should be glad to print anything from your pen." "i am not sure about that," said oscar, smiling. "if i have a talent for writing, it hasn't developed itself yet. but my friend here takes to it as naturally as a duck takes to water." "have you brought me another essay, mr. 'franklin'?" asked the editor, turning to harry. "i address you by your _nom de plume_, not knowing your real name." "permit me to introduce my friend, harry walton," said oscar. "harry, where is your story?" "i have brought you in a story," said harry, blushing. "it is my first attempt, and may not suit you, but i shall be glad if you will take the trouble to examine it." "with pleasure," said the editor. "is it long?" "about two columns. it is of a humorous character." the editor reached out his hand, and, taking the manuscript, unrolled it. he read the first few lines, and they seemed to strike his attention. "if you will amuse yourselves for a few minutes, i will read it at once," he said. "i don't often do it, but i will break over my custom this time." "thank you, sir," said harry. "there are some of my exchanges," said the editor, pointing to a pile on the floor. "you may find something to interest you in some of them." they picked up some papers, and began to read. but harry could not help thinking of the verdict that was to be pronounced on his manuscript. upon that a great deal hinged. if he could feel that he was able to produce anything that would command compensation, however small, it would make him proud and happy. he tried, as he gazed furtively over his paper at the editor's face, to anticipate his decision, but the latter was too much accustomed to reading manuscript to show the impression made upon him. fifteen minutes passed, and he looked up. "well, mr. walton," he said, "your first attempt is a success." harry's face brightened. "may i ask if the plot is original?" "it is so far as i know, sir. i don't think i ever read anything like it." "of course there are some faults in the construction, and the dialogue might be amended here and there. but it is very creditable, and i will use it in the 'standard' if you desire it." "i do, sir." "and how much are you willing to pay for it?" oscar struck in. the editor hesitated. "it is not our custom to pay novices just at first," he said. "if mr. walton keeps on writing, he would soon command compensation." harry would not have dared to press the matter, but oscar was not so diffident. indeed, it is easier to be bold in a friend's cause than one's own. "don't you think it is worth being paid for, if it is worth printing?" he persisted. "upon that principle, we should feel obliged to pay for poetry," said the editor. "oh," said oscar, "poets don't need money. they live on flowers and dew-drops." the editor smiled. "you think prose-writers require something more substantial?" "yes, sir." "i will tell you how the matter stands," said the editor. "mr. walton is a beginner. he has his reputation to make. when it is made he will be worth a fair price to me, or any of my brother editors." "i see," said oscar; "but his story must be worth something. it will fill up two columns. if you didn't print it, you would have to pay somebody for writing these two columns." "you have some reason in what you say. still our ordinary rule is based on justice. a distinction should be made between new contributors and old favorites." "yes, sir. pay the first smaller sums." if the speaker had not been john vincent's son, it would have been doubtful if his reasoning would have prevailed. as it was, the editor yielded. "i may break over my rule in the case of your friend," said the editor; "but he must be satisfied with a very small sum for the present." "anything will satisfy me, sir," said harry, eagerly. "your story will fill two columns. i commonly pay two dollars a column for such articles, if by practised writers. i will give you half that." "thank you, sir. i accept it," said harry, promptly. "in a year or so i may see my way clear to paying you more, mr. walton; but you must consider that i give you the opportunity of winning popularity, and regard this as part of your compensation, at present." "i am quite satisfied, sir," said harry, his heart fluttering with joy and triumph. "may i write you some more sketches?" "i shall be happy to receive and examine them; but you must not be disappointed if from time to time i reject your manuscripts." "no, sir; i will take it as a hint that they need improving." "i will revise my friend's stories, sir," said oscar, humorously, "and give him such hints as my knowledge of the world may suggest." "no doubt such suggestions from so mature a friend will materially benefit them," said the editor, smiling. he opened his pocket-book, and, drawing out a two-dollar bill, handed it to harry. "i shall hope to pay you often," he said, "for similar contributions." "thank you, sir," said harry. feeling that their business was at an end, the boys withdrew. as they reached the foot of the stairs, oscar took off his cap, and bowed low. "mr. lynn, i congratulate you," he said. "i can't tell you how glad i feel, oscar," said harry, his face radiant. "let me suggest that you owe me a commission for impressing upon the editor the propriety of paying you." "how much do you ask?" "an ice-cream will be satisfactory." "all right." "come round to copeland's then. we'll celebrate your success in a becoming manner." chapter xxix. mrs. clinton's party. when oscar and harry reached home they were met by maud, who flourished in her hand what appeared to be a note. "what is it, maud?" asked oscar. "a love-letter for me?" "don't flatter yourself, oscar. no girl would be so foolish as to write you a love-letter. it is an invitation to a party on saturday evening." "where?" "at mrs. clinton's." "i think i will decline," said oscar. "i wouldn't like to leave harry alone." "oh, he is included too. mrs. clinton heard of his being here, and expressly included him in the invitation." "that alters the case. you'll go, harry, won't you?" "i am afraid i shouldn't know how to behave at a fashionable party," said harry. "oh, you've only got to make me your model," said oscar, "and you'll be all right." "did you ever see such conceit, mr. walton?" said maud. "it reminds me of fletcher," said harry. "fitz fletcher? by the way, he will probably be there. his family are acquainted with the clintons." "yes, he is invited," said maud. "good! then there's promise of fun," said oscar. "you'll see fitz with his best company manners on." "i am afraid he won't enjoy meeting me there," said harry. "probably not." "i don't see why," said maud. "shall i tell, harry?" "certainly." "to begin with, fletcher regards himself as infinitely superior to walton here, because his father is rich, and walton's poor. again, harry is a printer, and works for a living, which fitz considers degrading. besides all this, harry was elected president of our debating society,--an office which fitz wanted." "i hope" said maud, "that mr. fletcher's dislike does not affect your peace of mind, mr. walton." "not materially," said harry, laughing. "by the way, maud," said oscar, "did i ever tell you how fletcher's pride was mortified at school by our discovering his relationship to a tin-pedler?" "no, tell me about it." the story, already familiar to the reader, was graphically told by oscar, and served to amuse his sister. "he deserved the mortification," she said. "i shall remember it if he shows any of his arrogance at the party." "fletcher rather admires maud," said oscar, after his sister had gone out of the room; "but the favor isn't reciprocated. if he undertakes to say anything to her against you, she will take him down, depend upon it." saturday evening came, and harry, with oscar and his sister, started for the party. our hero, having confessed his inability to dance, had been diligently instructed in the lancers by oscar, so that he felt some confidence in being able to get through without any serious blunder. "of course you must dance, harry," he said. "you don't want to be a wall-flower." "i may have to be," said harry. "i shall know none of the young ladies except your sister." "maud will dance the first lancers with you, and i will get you a partner for the second." "you may dispose of me as you like, oscar." "wisely said. don't forget that i am your mentor." when they entered the brilliantly lighted parlors, they were already half full. oscar introduced his friend to mrs. clinton. "i am glad to see you here, mr. walton," said the hostess, graciously. "oscar, i depend upon you to introduce your friend to some of the young ladies." "you forget my diffidence, mrs. clinton." "i didn't know you were troubled in that way.'" "see how i am misjudged. i am painfully bashful." "you hide it well," said the hostess, with a smile. "escort my sister to a seat, harry," said oscar. "by the way, you two will dance in the first lancers." "if miss maud will accept so awkward a partner," said harry. "oh, yes, mr. walton. i'll give you a hint if you are going wrong." five minutes later fletcher touched oscar on the shoulder. "oscar, where is your sister?" he asked. "there," said oscar, pointing her out. fletcher, who was rather near-sighted, did not at first notice that harry walton was sitting beside the young lady. he advanced, and made a magnificent bow, on which he rather prided himself. "good-evening, miss vincent," he said. "good-evening, mr. fletcher." "i am very glad you have favored the party with your presence." "thank you, mr. fletcher. don't turn my head with your compliments." "may i hope you will favor me with your hand in the first lancers?" "i am sorry, mr. fletcher, but i am engaged to mr. walton. i believe you are acquainted with him." fletcher for the first time observed our hero, and his face wore a look of mingled annoyance and scorn. "i have met the gentleman," he said, haughtily. "mr. fletcher and i have met frequently," said harry, pleasantly. "i didn't expect to meet you _here_," said fletcher with marked emphasis. "probably not," said harry. "my invitation is due to my being a friend of oscar's." "i was not aware that you danced," said fletcher who was rather curious on the subject. "i don't--much." "where did you learn--in the printing office?" "no, in the city." "ah! indeed!" fletcher thought he had wasted time enough on our hero, and turned again to maud. "may i have the pleasure of your hand in the second dance?" he asked. "i will put you down for that, if you desire it." "thank you." it so happened that when harry and maud took the floor, they found fletcher their _vis-a-vis_. perhaps it was this that made harry more emulous to get through without making any blunders. at any rate, he succeeded, and no one in the set suspected that it was his first appearance in public as a dancer. fletcher was puzzled. he had hoped that harry would make himself ridiculous, and throw the set into confusion. but the dance passed off smoothly, and in due time fletcher led out maud. if he had known his own interest, he would have kept silent about harry, but he had little discretion. "i was rather surprised to see walton here," he began. "didn't you know he was in the city? "yes, i met him with oscar." "then why were you surprised?" "because his social position does not entitle him to appear in such a company. when i first knew him, he was only a printer's apprentice." fletcher wanted to say printer's devil, but did not venture to do so in presence of a young lady. "he will rise higher than that." "i dare say," said fletcher, with a sneer, "he will rise in time to be a journeyman with a salary of fifteen dollars a week." "if i am not mistaken in mr. walton, he will rise much higher than that. many of our prominent men have sprung from beginnings like his." "it must be rather a trial to him to come here. his father is a day-laborer, i believe, and of course he has never been accustomed to any refinement or polish." "i don't detect the absence of either," said maud, quietly. "do you believe in throwing down all social distinctions, and meeting the sons of laborers on equal terms?" "as to that," said maud, meeting her partner's glance, "i am rather democratic. i could even meet the son of a tin-pedler on equal terms, provided he were a gentleman." the blood rushed to fletcher's cheeks. "a tin-pedler!" he ejaculated. "yes! suppose you were the son, or relation, of a tin-pedler, why should i consider that? it would make you neither better nor worse." "i have no connection with tin-pedlers," said fletcher, hastily. "who told you i had?" "i only made a supposition, mr. fletcher." but fletcher thought otherwise. he was sure that maud had heard of his mortification at school, and it disturbed him not a little, for, in spite of her assurance, he felt that she believed the story, and it annoyed him so much that he did not venture to make any other reference to harry. "poor fitz!" said oscar, when on their way home maud gave an account of their conversation, "i am afraid he will murder the tin-pedler some time, to get rid of such an odious relationship." chapter xxx. two letters from the west. the vacation was over all too soon, yet, brief as it was, harry looked back upon it with great satisfaction. he had been kindly received in the family of a man who stood high in the profession which he was ambitious to enter; he had gratified his curiosity to see the chief city of new england; and, by no means least, he had secured a position as paid contributor for the "standard." "i suppose you will be writing another story soon," said oscar. "yes," said harry, "i have got the plan of one already." "if you should write more than you can get into the 'standard,' you had better send something to the 'weekly argus.'" "i will; but i will wait till the 'standard' prints my first sketch, so that i can refer to that in writing to the 'argus.'" "perhaps you are right. there's one advantage to not presenting yourself. they won't know you're only a boy." "unless they judge so from my style." "i don't think they would infer it from that. by the way, harry, suppose my father could find an opening for you as a reporter on his paper,--would you be willing to accept it?" "i am not sure whether it would be best for me," said harry, slowly, "even if i were qualified." "there is more chance to rise on a city paper." "i don't know. if i stay here i may before many years control a paper of my own. then, if i want to go into politics, there would be more chance in the country than in the city." "would you like to go into politics?" "i am rather too young to decide about that; but if i could be of service in that way, i don't see why i should not desire it." "well, harry, i think you are going the right way to work." "i hope so. i don't want to be promoted till i am fit for it. i am going to work hard for the next two or three years." "i wish i were as industrious as you are, harry." "and i wish i knew as much as you do, oscar." "say no more, or we shall be forming a mutual admiration society," said oscar, laughing. harry received a cordial welcome back to the printing office. mr. anderson asked him many questions about mr. vincent; and our hero felt that his employer regarded him with increased consideration, on account of his acquaintance with the great city editor. this consideration was still farther increased when mr. anderson learned our hero's engagement by the "weekly standard." three weeks later, the "standard" published harry's sketch, and accepted another, at the same price. before this latter was printed, harry wrote a third sketch, which he called "phineas popkin's engagement." this he inclosed to the "weekly argus," with a letter in which he referred to his engagement by the "standard." in reply he received the following letter:-- "boston, jan., --, "mr. frank lynn,--dear sir: we enclose three dollars for your sketch,--'phineas popkin's engagement.' we shall be glad to receive other sketches, of similar character and length, and, if accepted, we will pay the same price therefor. "i. b. fitch & co." this was highly satisfactory to harry. he was now an accepted contributor to two weekly papers, and the addition to his income would be likely to reach a hundred dollars a year. all this he would be able to lay up, and as much or more from his salary on the "gazette." he felt on the high road to success. seeing that his young compositor was meeting with success and appreciation abroad, mr. anderson called upon him more frequently to write paragraphs for the "gazette." though this work was gratuitous, harry willingly undertook it. he felt that in this way he was preparing himself for the career to which he steadily looked forward. present compensation, he justly reasoned, was of small importance, compared with the chance of improvement. in this view, ferguson, who proved to be a very judicious friend, fully concurred. indeed harry and he became more intimate than before, if that were possible, and they felt that clapp's departure was by no means to be regretted. they were remarking this one day, when mr. anderson, who had been examining his mail, looked up suddenly, and said, "what do you think, mr. ferguson? i've got a letter from clapp." "a letter from clapp? where is he?" inquired ferguson, with interest. "this letter is dated at st. louis. he doesn't appear to be doing very well." "i thought he was going to california." "so he represented. but here is the letter." ferguson took it, and, after reading, handed it to harry. it ran thus:-- "st. louis, april , --. "jotham anderson, esq.,--dear sir: perhaps you will be surprised to hear from me, but i feel as if i would like to hear from centreville, where i worked so long. the man that induced me and harrison to come out here left us in the lurch three days after we reached st. louis. he said he was going on to san francisco, and he had only money enough to pay his own expenses. as luke and i were not provided with money, we had a pretty hard time at first, and had to pawn some of our clothes, or we should have starved. finally i got a job in the 'democrat' office, and a week after, luke got something to do, though it didn't pay very well. so we scratched along as well as we could. part of the time since we have been out of work, and we haven't found 'coming west' all that it was cracked up to be. "are ferguson and harry walton still working for you? i should like to come back to the 'gazette' office, and take my old place; but i haven't got five dollars ahead to pay my travelling expenses. if you will send me out thirty dollars, i will come right on, and work it out after i come back. hoping for an early reply, i am, "yours respectfully, "henry clapp." "are you going to send out the money, mr. anderson?" asked ferguson. "not i. now that walton has got well learnt, i don't need another workman. i shall respectfully decline his offer." both harry and ferguson were glad to hear this, for they felt that clapp's presence would be far from making the office more agreeable. "here's a letter for you, walton, also post-marked st. louis," said mr. anderson, just afterward. harry took it with surprise, and opened it at once. "it's from luke harrison," he said, looking at the signature. "does he want you to send him thirty dollars?" asked ferguson. "listen and i will read the letter." "dear harry," it commenced, "you will perhaps think it strange that i have written to you; but we used to be good friends. i write to tell you that i don't like this place. i haven't got along well, and i want to get back. now i am going to ask of you a favor. will you lend me thirty or forty dollars, to pay my fare home? i will pay you back in a month or two months sure, after i get to work. i will also pay you the few dollars which i borrowed some time ago. i ought to have done it before, but i was thoughtless, and i kept putting it off. now, harry, i know you have the money, and you can lend it to me just as well as not, and i'll be sure to pay it back before you need it. just get a post-office order, and send it to luke harrison, r---- street, st. louis, and i'll be sure to get it. give my respects to mr. anderson, and also to mr. ferguson. "your friend, "luke harrison." "there is a chance for a first-class investment, harry," said ferguson. "do you want to join me in it?" "no, i would rather pay the money to have 'your friend' keep away." "i don't want to be unkind or disobliging," said harry, "but i don't feel like giving luke this money. i know he would never pay me back." "say no, then." "i will. luke will be mad, but i can't help it." so both mr. anderson and harry wrote declining to lend. the latter, in return, received a letter from luke, denouncing him as a "mean, miserly hunks;" but even this did not cause him to regret his decision. chapter xxxi. one step upward. in real life the incidents that call for notice do not occur daily. months and years pass, sometimes, where the course of life is quiet and uneventful. so it was with harry walton. he went to his daily work with unfailing regularity, devoted a large part of his leisure to reading and study, or writing sketches for the boston papers, and found himself growing steadily wiser and better informed. his account in the savings-bank grew slowly, but steadily; and on his nineteenth birthday, when we propose to look in upon him again, he was worth five hundred dollars. some of my readers who are favored by fortune may regard this as a small sum. it is small in itself, but it was not small for a youth in harry's position to have saved from his small earnings. but of greater value than the sum itself was the habit of self-denial and saving which our hero had formed. he had started in the right way, and made a beginning which was likely to lead to prosperity in the end. it had not been altogether easy to save this sum. harry's income had always been small, and he might, without incurring the charge of excessive extravagance, have spent the whole. he had denied himself on many occasions, where most boys of his age would have yielded to the temptation of spending money for pleasure or personal gratification; but he had been rewarded by the thought that he was getting on in the world. "this is my birthday, mr. ferguson," he said, as he entered the printing-office on that particular morning. "is it?" asked ferguson, looking up from his case with interest. "how venerable are you, may i ask?" "i don't feel very venerable as yet," said harry, with a smile. "i am nineteen." "you were sixteen when you entered the office." "as printer's devil--yes." "you have learned the business pretty thoroughly. you are as good a workman as i now, though i am fifteen years older." "you are too modest, mr. ferguson." "no, it is quite true. you are as rapid and accurate as i am, and you ought to receive as high pay." "that will come in time. you know i make something by writing for the papers." "that's extra work. how much did you make in that way last year?" "i can tell you, because i figured it up last night. it was one hundred and twenty-five dollars, and i put every cent into the savings-bank." "that is quite an addition to your income." "i shall make more this year. i am to receive two dollars a column, hereafter, for my sketches." "i congratulate you, harry,--the more heartily, because i think you deserve it. your recent sketches show quite an improvement over those you wrote a year ago." "do you really think so?" said harry, with evident pleasure. "i have no hesitation in saying so. you write with greater ease than formerly, and your style is less that of a novice." "so i have hoped and thought; but of course i was prejudiced in my own favor." "you may rely upon it. indeed, your increased pay is proof of it. did you ask it?" "the increase? no, the editor of the 'standard' wrote me voluntarily that he considered my contributions worth the additional amount." "that must be very pleasant. i tell you what, harry, i've a great mind to set up opposition to you in the story line." "do so," said harry, smiling. "i would if i had the slightest particle of imagination; but the fact is, i'm too practical and matter-of-fact. besides, i never had any talent for writing of any kind. some time i may become publisher of a village paper like this; but farther than that i don't aspire." "we are to be partners in that, you know, ferguson." "that may be, for a time; but you will rise higher than that, harry." "i am afraid you overrate me." "no; i have observed you closely in the time we have been together, and i have long felt that you are destined to rise from the ranks in which i am content to remain. haven't you ever felt so, yourself, harry?" harry's cheek flushed, and his eye lighted up. "i won't deny that i have such thoughts sometimes," he said; "but it may end in that." "it often does end in that; but it is only where ambition is not accompanied by faithful work. now you are always at work. you are doing what you can to help fortune, and the end will be that fortune will help you." "i hope so, at any rate," said harry, thoughtfully. "i should like to fill an honorable position, and do some work by which i might be known in after years." "why not? the boys and young men of to-day are hereafter to fill the highest positions in the community and state. why may not the lot fall to you?" "i will try, at any rate, to qualify myself. then if responsibilities come, i will try to discharge them." the conversation was here interrupted by the entrance of mr. anderson, the editor of the "gazette." he was not as well or strong as when we first made his acquaintance. then he seemed robust enough, but now he was thinner, and moved with slower gait. it was not easy to say what had undermined his strength, for he had had no severe fit of sickness; but certainly he was in appearance several years older than when harry entered the office. "how do you feel this morning, mr. anderson?" asked ferguson. "i feel weak and languid, and indisposed to exertion of any kind." "you need some change." "that is precisely what i have thought myself. the doctor advises change of scene, and this very morning i had a letter from a brother in wisconsin, asking me to come out and visit him." "i have no doubt it would do you good." "so it would. but how can i go? i can't take the paper with me," said mr. andersen, rather despondently. "no; but you can leave harry to edit it in your absence." "mr. ferguson!" exclaimed harry, startled by the proposition. "harry as editor!" repeated mr. anderson. "yes; why not? he is a practised writer. for more than two years he has written for two boston papers." "but he is so young. how old are you, harry?" asked the editor. "nineteen to-day, sir." "nineteen. that's very young for an editor." "very true; but, after all, it isn't so much the age as the qualifications, is it, mr. anderson?" "true," said the editor, meditatively. "harry, do you think you could edit the paper for two or three months?" "i think i could," said harry, with modest confidence. his heart beat high at the thought of the important position which was likely to be opened to him; and plans of what he would do to make the paper interesting already began to be formed in his mind. "it never occurred to me before, but i really think you could," said the editor, "and that would remove every obstacle to my going. by the way, harry, you would have to find a new boarding-place, for mrs. anderson would accompany me, and we should shut up the house." "perhaps ferguson would take me in?" said harry. "i should be glad to do so; but i don't know that my humble fare would be good enough for an editor." harry smiled. "i won't put on airs," he said, "till my commission is made out." "i am afraid that i can't offer high pay for your services in that capacity," said mr. anderson. "i shall charge nothing, sir," said harry, "but thank you for the opportunity of entering, if only for a short time, a profession to which it is my ambition to belong." after a brief consultation with his wife, mr. anderson appointed harry editor pro tem., and began to make arrangements for his journey. harry's weekly wages were raised to fifteen dollars, out of which he waa to pay ferguson four dollars a week for board. so our hero found himself, at nineteen, the editor of an old established paper, which, though published in a country village, was not without its share of influence in the county and state. chapter xxxii. the young editor. the next number of the centreville "gazette" contained the following notice from the pen of mr. anderson:-- "for the first time since our connection with the 'gazette,' we purpose taking a brief respite from our duties. the state of our health renders a vacation desirable, and an opportune invitation from a brother at the west has been accepted. our absence may extend to two or three months. in the interim we have committed the editorial management to mr. harry walton, who has been connected with the paper, in a different capacity, for nearly three years. though mr. walton is a very young man, he has already acquired a reputation, as contributor to papers of high standing in boston, and we feel assured that our subscribers will have no reason to complain of the temporary change in the editorship." "the old man has given you quite a handsome notice, harry," said ferguson. "i hope i shall deserve it," said harry; "but i begin now to realize that i am young to assume such responsible duties. it would have seemed more appropriate for you to undertake them." "i can't write well enough, harry. i like to read, but i can't produce. in regard to the business management i feel competent to advise." "i shall certainly be guided by your advice, ferguson." as it may interest the reader, we will raise the curtain and show our young hero in the capacity of editor. the time is ten days after mr. anderson's absence. harry was accustomed to do his work as compositor in the forenoon and the early part of the afternoon. from three to five he occupied the editorial chair, read letters, wrote paragraphs, and saw visitors. he had just seated himself, when a man entered the office and looked about him inquisitively. "i would like to see the editor," he said. "i am the editor," said harry, with dignity. the visitor looked surprised. "you are the youngest-looking editor i have met," he said. "have you filled the office long?" "not long," said harry. "can i do anything for you?" "yes, sir, you can. first let me introduce myself. i am dr. theophilus peabody." "will you be seated, dr. peabody?" "you have probably heard of me before," said the visitor. "i can't say that i have." "i am surprised at that," said the doctor, rather disgusted to find himself unknown. "you must have heard of peabody's unfailing panacea." "i am afraid i have not." "you are young," said dr. peabody, compassionately; "that accounts for it. peabody's panacea, let me tell you, sir, is the great remedy of the age. it has effected more cures, relieved more pain, soothed more aching bosoms, and done more good, than any other medicine in existence." "it must be a satisfaction to you to have conferred such a blessing on mankind," said harry, inclined to laugh at the doctor's magniloquent style. "it is. i consider myself one of the benefactors of mankind; but, sir, the medicine has not yet been fully introduced. there are thousands, who groan on beds of pain, who are ignorant that for the small sum of fifty cents they could be restored to health and activity." "that's a pity." "it is a pity, mr. ----" "walton." "mr. walton,--i have called, sir, to ask you to co-operate with me in making it known to the world, so far as your influence extends." "is your medicine a liquid?" "no, sir; it is in the form of pills, twenty-four in a box. let me show you." the doctor opened a wooden box, and displayed a collection of very unwholesome-looking brown pills. "try one, sir; it won't do you any harm." "thank you; i would rather not. i don't like pills. what will they cure?" "what won't they cure? i've got a list of fifty-nine diseases in my circular, all of which are relieved by peabody's panacea. they may cure more; in fact, i've been told of a consumptive patient who was considerably relieved by a single box. you won't try one?" "i would rather not." "well, here is my circular, containing accounts of remarkable cures performed. permit me to present you a box." "thank you," said harry, dubiously. "you'll probably be sick before long," said the doctor, cheerfully, "and then the pills will come handy." "doctor," said ferguson, gravely, "i find my hair getting thin on top of the head. do you think the panacea would restore it?" "yes," said the doctor, unexpectedly. "i had a case, in portsmouth, of a gentleman whose head was as smooth as a billiard-ball. he took the pills for another complaint, and was surprised, in the course of three weeks, to find young hair sprouting all over the bald spot. can't i sell you half-a-dozen boxes? you may have half a dozen for two dollars and a half." ferguson, who of course had been in jest, found it hard to forbear laughing, especially when harry joined the doctor in urging him to purchase. "not to-day," he answered. "i can try mr. walton's box, and if it helps me i can order some more." "you may not be able to get it, then," said the doctor, persuasively. "i may not be in centreville." "if the panacea is well known, i can surely get it without difficulty." "not so cheap as i will sell it." "i won't take any to-day," said ferguson, decisively. "you haven't told me what i can do for you," said harry, who found the doctor's call rather long. "i would like you to insert my circular to your paper. it won't take more than two columns." "we shall be happy to insert it at regular advertising rates." "i thought," said dr. peabody, disappointed, "that you might do it gratuitously, as i had given you a box." "we don't do business on such terms," said harry. "i think i had better return the box." "no, keep it," said the doctor. "you will be willing to notice it, doubtless." harry rapidly penned this paragraph, and read it aloud:-- "dr. theophilus peabody has left with us a box of his unfailing panacea, which he claims will cure a large variety of diseases." "couldn't you give a list of the diseases?" insinuated the doctor. "there are fifty-nine, you said?" "yes, sir." "then i am afraid we must decline." harry resumed his writing, and the doctor took his leave, looking far from satisfied. "here, ferguson," said harry, after the visitor had retired, "take the pills, and much good may they do you. better take one now for the growth of your hair." it was fortunate that dr. peabody did not hear the merriment that followed, or he would have given up the editorial staff of the centreville "gazette" as maliciously disposed to underrate his favorite medicine. "who wouldn't be an editor?" said harry. "i notice," said ferguson, "that pill-tenders and blacking manufacturers are most liberal to the editorial profession. i only wish jewellers and piano manufacturers were as free with their manufactures. i would like a good gold watch, and i shall soon want a piano for my daughter." "you may depend upon it, ferguson, when such gifts come in, that i shall claim them as editorial perquisites." "we won't quarrel about them till they come, harry." our hero here opened a bulky communication. "what is that?" asked ferguson. "an essay on 'the immortality of the soul,'--covers fifteen pages foolscap. what shall i do with it?" "publish it in a supplement with dr. peabody's circular." "i am not sure but the circular would be more interesting reading." "from whom does the essay come?" "it is signed 'l. s.'" "then it is by lemuel snodgrass, a retired schoolteacher, who fancies himself a great writer." "he'll be offended if i don't print it, won't he?" "i'll tell you how to get over that. say, in an editorial paragraph, 'we have received a thoughtful essay from 'l. s.', on 'the immortality of the soul.' we regret that its length precludes our publishing it in the 'gazette.' we would suggest to the author to print it in a pamphlet.' that suggestion will be regarded as complimentary, and we may get the job of printing it." "i see you are shrewd, ferguson. i will follow your advice." chapter xxxiii. an unexpected proposal. during his temporary editorship, harry did not feel at liberty to make any decided changes in the character or arrangement of the paper; but he was ambitious to improve it, as far as he was able, in its different departments. mr. anderson had become rather indolent in the collection of local news, merely publishing such items as were voluntarily contributed. harry, after his day's work was over, made a little tour of the village, gathering any news that he thought would be of interest to the public. moreover he made arrangements to obtain news of a similar nature from neighboring villages, and the result was, that in the course of a month he made the "gazette" much more readable. "really, the 'gazette' gives a good deal more news than it used to," was a common remark. it was probably in consequence of this improvement that new subscriptions began to come in, not from centreville alone, but from towns in the neighborhood. this gratified and encouraged harry, who now felt that he was on the right tack. there was another department to which he devoted considerable attention. this was a condensed summary of news from all parts of the world, giving the preference and the largest space, of course, to american news. he aimed to supply those who did not take a daily paper with a brief record of events, such as they would not be likely, otherwise, to hear of. of course all this work added to his labors as compositor; and his occasional sketches for boston papers absorbed a large share of his time. indeed, he had very little left at his disposal for rest and recreation. "i am afraid you are working too hard, harry," said ferguson. "you are doing mr. anderson's work better than he ever did it, and your own too." "i enjoy it," said harry. "i work hard i know, but i feel paid by the satisfaction of finding that my labors are appreciated." "when mr. anderson gets back, he will find it necessary to employ you as assistant editor, for it won't do to let the paper get back to its former dulness." "i will accept," said harry, "if he makes the offer. i feel more and more that i must be an editor." "you are certainly showing yourself competent for the position." "i have only made a beginning," said our hero, modestly. "in time i think i could make a satisfactory paper." one day, about two months after mr. anderson's departure, ferguson and harry were surprised, and not altogether agreeably, by the entrance of john clapp and luke harrison. they looked far from prosperous. in fact, both of them were decidedly seedy. going west had not effected an improvement in their fortunes. "is that you, clapp?" asked ferguson. "where did you come from?" "from st. louis." "then you didn't feel inclined to stay there?" "not i. it's a beastly place. i came near starving." clapp would have found any place beastly where a fair day's work was required for fair wages, and my young readers in st. louis, therefore, need not heed his disparaging remarks. "how was it with you, luke?" asked harry. "do you like the west no better than clapp?" "you don't catch me out there again," said luke. "it isn't what it's cracked up to be. we had the hardest work in getting money enough to get us back." as luke did not mention the kind of hard work by which the money was obtained, i may state here that an evening's luck at the faro table had supplied them with money enough to pay the fare to boston by railway; otherwise another year might have found them still in st. louis. "hard work doesn't suit your constitution, does it?" said ferguson, slyly. "i can work as well as anybody," said luke; "but i haven't had the luck of some people." "you were lucky enough to have your fare paid to the west for you." "yes, and when we got there, the rascal left us to shift for ourselves. that aint much luck." "i've always had to shift for myself, and always expect to," was the reply. "oh, you're a model!" sneered clapp. "you always were as sober and steady as a deacon. i wonder they didn't make you one." "and walton there is one of the same sort," said luke. "i say, harry, it was real mean in you not to send me the money i wrote for. you hadn't it, had you?" "yes," said harry, firmly; "but i worked hard for it, and i didn't feel like giving it away." "who asked you to give it away? i only wanted to borrow it." "that's the same thing--with you. you were not likely to repay it again." "do you mean to insult me?" blustered luke. "no, i never insult anybody. i only tell the truth. you know, luke harrison, whether i have reason for what i say." "i wouldn't leave a friend to suffer when i had plenty of money in my pocket," said luke, with an injured air. "if you had been a different sort of fellow i would have asked you for five dollars to keep me along till i can get work. i've come back with empty pockets." "i'll lend you five dollars if you need it," said harry, who judged from luke's appearance that he told the truth. "will you?" said luke, brightening up. "that's a good fellow. i'll pay you just as soon as i can." harry did not place much reliance on this assurance; but he felt that he could afford the loss of five dollars, if loss it should prove, and it might prevent luke's obtaining the money in a more questionable way. "where's mr. anderson?" asked clapp, looking round the office. "he's been in michigan for a couple of months." "you don't say so! why, who runs the paper?" "ferguson and i," said harry. "i mean who edits it?" "harry does that," said his fellow-workman. "whew!" ejaculated clapp, in surprise. "why, but two years ago you was only a printer's devil!" "he's risen from the ranks," said ferguson, "and i can say with truth that the 'gazette' has never been better than since it has been under his charge." "how much does old anderson pay you for taking his place?" asked luke, who was quite as much surprised as clapp. "i don't ask anything extra. he pays me fifteen dollars a week as compositor." "you're doing well," said luke, enviously. "got a big pile of money laid up, haven't you?" "i have something in the bank." "harry writes stories for the boston papers, also," said ferguson. "he makes a hundred or two that way." "some folks are born to luck," said clapp, discontentedly. "here am i, six or eight years older, out of a place, and without a cent to fall back upon. i wish i was one of your lucky ones." "you might have had a few hundred dollars, at any rate," said ferguson, "if you hadn't chosen to spend all your money when you were earning good wages." "a man must have a little enjoyment. we can't drudge all the time." "it's better to do that than to be where you are now." but clapp was not to be convinced that he was himself to blame for his present disagreeable position. he laid the blame on fortune, like thousands of others. he could not see that harry's good luck was the legitimate consequence of industry and frugality. after a while the two left the office. they decided to seek their old boarding-house, and remain there for a week, waiting for something to turn up. the next day harry received the following letter from mr. anderson:-- "dear walton: my brother urges me to settle permanently at the west. i am offered a partnership in a paper in this vicinity, and my health has much improved here. the west seems the place for me. my only embarrassment is the paper. if i could dispose of the 'gazette' for two thousand dollars cash, i could see my way clear to remove. why can't you and ferguson buy it? the numbers which you have sent me show that you are quite capable of filling the post of editor; and you and ferguson can do the mechanical part. i think it will be a good chance for you. write me at once whether there us any likelihood of your purchasing. "your friend, "jotham anderson." harry's face flushed eagerly as he read this letter, nothing would suit him better than to make this arrangement, if only he could provide the purchase money. but this was likely to present a difficulty. chapter xxxiv. a friend in need. harry at once showed ferguson the letter he had received. "what are you going to do about it?" asked his friend. "i should like to buy the paper, but i don't see how i can. mr. anderson wants two thousand dollars cash." "how much have you got?" "only five hundred." "i have seven hundred and fifty," said ferguson, thoughtfully. harry's face brightened. "why can't we go into partnership?" he asked. "that is what we spoke of once," said ferguson, "and it would suit me perfectly; but there is a difficulty. your money and mine added together will not be enough." "perhaps mr. anderson would take a mortgage on the establishment for the balance." "i don't think so. he says expressly that he wants cash." harry looked disturbed. "do you think any one would lend us the money on the same terms?" he asked, after a while. "squire trevor is the only man in the village likely to have money to lend. there he is in the street now. run down, harry, and ask him to step in a minute." our hero seized his hat, and did as requested. he returned immediately, followed by squire trevor, a stout, puffy little man, reputed shrewd and a capitalist. "excuse our calling you in, squire trevor," said ferguson, "but we want to consult you on a matter of business. harry, just show the squire mr. anderson's letter." the squire read it deliberately. "do you want my advice?" he said, looking up from the perusal. "buy the paper. it is worth what anderson asks for it." "so i think, but there is a difficulty. harry and i can only raise twelve hundred dollars or so between us." "give a note for the balance. you'll be able to pay it off in two years, if you prosper." "i am afraid that won't do. mr. anderson wants cash. can't you lend us the money, squire trevor?" continued ferguson, bluntly. the village capitalist shook his head. "if you had asked me last week i could have obliged you," he said; "but i was in boston day before yesterday, and bought some railway stock which is likely to enhance in value. that leaves me short." "then you couldn't manage it?" said ferguson, soberly. "not at present," said the squire, decidedly. "then we must write to mr. anderson, offering what we have, and a mortgage to secure the rest." "that will be your best course." "he may agree to our terms," said harry, hopefully, after their visitor had left the office. "we will hope so, at all events." a letter was at once despatched, and in a week the answer was received. "i am sorry," mr. anderson wrote, "to decline your proposals, but, i have immediate need of the whole sum which i ask for the paper. if i cannot obtain it, i shall come back to centreville, though i would prefer to remain here." upon the receipt of this letter, ferguson gave up his work for the forenoon, and made a tour of the village, calling upon all who he thought were likely to have money to lend. he had small expectation of success, but felt that he ought to try everywhere before giving up so good a chance. while he was absent, harry had a welcome visitor. it was no other than professor henderson, the magician, in whose employ he had spent three months some years before, as related in "bound to rise." "take a seat, professor," said harry, cordially. "i am delighted to see you." "how you have grown, harry!" said the professor. "why, i should hardly have known you!" "we haven't met since i left you to enter this office." "no; it is nearly three years. how do you like the business?" "very much indeed." "are you doing well?" "i receive fifteen dollars a week." "that is good. what are your prospects for the future?" "they would be excellent if i had a little more capital." "i don't see how you need capital, as a journeyman printer." "i have a chance to buy out the paper." "but who would edit it?" "i would." "you!" said the magician, rather incredulously. "i have been the editor for the last two months." "you--a boy!" "i am nineteen, professor." "i shouldn't have dreamed of editing a paper at nineteen; or, indeed, as old as i am now." harry laughed. "you are too modest, professor. let me show you our last two issues." the professor took out his glasses, and sat down, not without considerable curiosity, to read a paper edited by one who only three years before had been his assistant. "did you write this article?" he asked, after a pause, pointing to the leader in the last issue of the "gazette." "yes, sir." "then, by jove, you can write. why, it's worthy of a man of twice your age!" "thank you, professor," said harry, gratified. "where did you learn to write?" harry gave his old employer some account of his literary experiences, mentioning his connection with the two boston weekly papers. "you ought to be an editor," said the professor. "if you can do as much at nineteen, you have a bright future before you." "that depends a little on circumstances. if i only could buy this paper, i would try to win reputation as well as money." "what is your difficulty?" "the want of money." "how much do you need?" "eight hundred dollars." "is that all the price such a paper commands?" "no. the price is two thousand dollars; but ferguson and i can raise twelve hundred between us." "do you consider it good property?" "mr. anderson made a comfortable living out of it, besides paying for office work. we should have this advantage, that we should be our own compositors." "that would give you considerable to do, if you were editor also." "i shouldn't mind," said harry, "if i only had a paper of my own. i think i should be willing to work night and day." "what are your chances of raising the sum you need?" "very small. ferguson has gone out at this moment to see if he can find any one willing to lend; but we don't expect success." "why don't you apply to me?" asked the professor. "i didn't know if you had the money to spare." "i might conjure up some. presto!--change!--you know. we professors of magic can find money anywhere." "but you need some to work with. i have been behind the scenes," said harry, smiling. "but you don't know all my secrets, for all that. in sober earnest, i haven't been practising magic these twenty-five years for nothing. i can lend you the money you want, and i will." harry seized his hand, and shook it with delight. "how can i express my gratitude?" he said. "by sending me your paper gratis, and paying me seven per cent. interest on my money." "agreed. anything more?" "yes. i am to give an exhibition in the village to-morrow night. you must give me a good puff." "with the greatest pleasure. i'll write it now." "before it takes place? i see you are following the example of some of the city dailies." "and i'll print you some handbills for nothing." "good. when do you want the money? will next week do?" "yes. mr. anderson won't expect the money before." here ferguson entered the efface. harry made a signal of silence to the professor, whom he introduced. then he said:-- "well, ferguson, what luck?" "none at all," answered his fellow-compositor, evidently dispirited. "nobody seems to have any money. we shall have to give up our plan." "i don't mean to give it up." "then perhaps you'll tell me where to find the money." "i will." "you don't mean to say--" began ferguson, eagerly. "yes, i do. i mean to say that the money is found." "where?" "prof. henderson has agreed to let us have it." "is that true?" said ferguson, bewildered. "i believe so," said the professor, smiling. "harry has juggled the money out of me,--you know he used to be in the business,--and you can make your bargain as soon as you like." it is hardly necessary to say that prof. henderson got an excellent notice in the next number of the centreville "gazette;" and it is my opinion that he deserved it. chapter xxxv. fletcher's opinion of harry walton. in two weeks all the business arrangements were completed, and ferguson and harry became joint proprietors of the "centreville gazette," the latter being sole editor. the change was received with favor in the village, as harry had, as editor pro tem. for two months, shown his competence for the position. it gave him prominence also in town, and, though only nineteen, he already was classed with the minister, the doctor and the lawyer. it helped him also with the weekly papers to which he contributed in boston, and his pay was once more raised, while his sketches were more frequently printed. now this was all very pleasant, but it was not long before our hero found himself overburdened with work. "what is the matter harry? you look pale," said ferguson, one morning. "i have a bad headache, and am feeling out of sorts." "i don't wonder at it. you are working too hard." "i don't know about that." "i do. you do nearly as much as i, as a compositor. then you do all the editorial work, besides writing sketches for the boston papers." "how can i get along with less? the paper must be edited, and i shouldn't like giving up writing for the boston papers." "i'll tell you what to do. take a boy and train him up as a printer. after a while he will relieve you almost wholly, while, by the time he commands good wages, we shall be able to pay them." "it is a good idea, ferguson. do you know of any boy that wants to learn printing?" "haven't you got a younger brother?" "the very thing," said harry, briskly. "father wrote to me last week that he should like to get something for ----." "better write and offer him a place in the office." "i will." the letter was written at once. an immediate answer was received, of a favorable nature. the boy was glad to leave home, and the father was pleased to have him under the charge of his older brother. after he had become editor, and part proprietor of the "gazette," harry wrote to oscar vincent to announce his promotion. though oscar had been in college now nearly two years, and they seldom met, the two were as warm friends as ever, and from time to time exchanged letters. this was oscar's reply:-- "harvard college, june . "dear mr. editor: i suppose that's the proper way to address you now. i congratulate you with all my heart on your brilliant success and rapid advancement. here you are at nineteen, while i am only a rattle-brained sophomore. i don't mind being called that, by the way, for at least it credits me with the possession of brains. not that i am doing so very badly. i am probably in the first third of the class, and that implies respectable scholarship here. "but you--i can hardly realize that you, whom i knew only two or three years since as a printer's apprentice (i won't use fletcher's word), have lifted yourself to the responsible position of sole editor. truly you have risen from the ranks! "speaking of fletcher, by the way, you know he is my classmate. he occupies an honorable position somewhere near the foot of the class, where he is likely to stay, unless he receives from the faculty leave of absence for an unlimited period. i met him yesterday, swinging his little cane, and looking as dandified as he used to. "'hallo! fletcher,' said i, 'i've just got a letter from a friend of yours.' "'who is it?' he asked. "'harry walton.' "'he never was a friend of mine,' said fitz, turning up his delicately chiselled nose,--'the beggarly printer's devil!' "i hope you won't feel sensitive about the manner in which fitz spoke of you. "'you've made two mistakes,' said i. 'he's neither a beggar nor a printer's devil.' "'he used to be,' retorted fitz. "'the last, not the first. you'll be glad to hear that he's getting on well.' "'has he had his wages raised twenty-five cents a week?' sneered fitz. "'he has lost his place,' said i. "fletcher actually looked happy, but i dashed his happiness by adding, 'but he's got a better one.' "'what's that?' he snarled. "'he has bought out the paper of mr. anderson, and is now sole editor and part proprietor.' "'a boy like him buy a paper, without a cent of money and no education!' "'you are mistaken. he had several hundred dollars, and as a writer he is considerably ahead of either of us.' "'he'll run the paper into the ground,' said fitz, prophetically. "'if he does, it'll only be to give it firmer root.' "'you are crazy about that country lout,' said fitz. 'it isn't much to edit a little village paper like that, after all.' "so you see what your friend fitz thinks about it. as you may be in danger of having your vanity fed by compliments from other sources, i thought i would offset them by the candid opinion of a disinterested and impartial scholar like fitz. "i told my father of the step you have taken. 'oscar,' said he, 'that boy is going to succeed. he shows the right spirit. i would have given him a place on my paper, but very likely he does better to stay where he is.' "perhaps you noticed the handsome notice he gave you in his paper yesterday. i really think he has a higher opinion of your talents than of mine; which, of course, shows singular lack of discrimination. however, you're my friend, and i won't make a fuss about it. "i am cramming for the summer examinations and hot work i find it, i can tell you. this summer i am going to niagara, and shall return by way of the st. lawrence and montreal, seeing the thousand islands, the rapids, and so on. i may send you a letter or two for the 'gazette,' if you will give me a puff in your editorial columns." these letters were actually written, and, being very lively and readable, harry felt quite justified in referring to them in a complimentary way. fletcher's depreciation of him troubled him very little. "it will make me neither worse nor better," he reflected. "the time will come, i hope, when i shall have risen high enough to be wholly indifferent to such ill-natured sneers." his brother arrived in due time, and was set to work as harry himself had been three years before. he was not as smart as harry, nor was he ever likely to rise as high; but he worked satisfactorily, and made good progress, so that in six months he was able to relieve harry of half his labors as compositor. this, enabled him to give more time to his editorial duties. both boarded at ferguson's, where they had a comfortable home and good, plain fare. meanwhile, harry was acknowledged by all to have improved the paper, and the most satisfactory evidence of the popular approval of his efforts came in an increased subscription list, and this, of course, made the paper more profitable. at the end of twelve months, the two partners had paid off the money borrowed from professor henderson, and owned the paper without incumbrance. "a pretty good year's work, harry," said ferguson, cheerfully. "yes," said harry; "but we'll do still better next year." chapter xxxvi. conclusion. i have thus traced in detail the steps by which harry walton ascended from the condition of a poor farmer's son to the influential position of editor of a weekly newspaper. i call to mind now, however, that he is no longer a boy, and his future career will be of less interest to my young readers. yet i hope they may be interested to hear, though not in detail, by what successive steps he rose still higher in position and influence. harry was approaching his twenty-first birthday when he was waited upon by a deputation of citizens from a neighboring town, inviting him to deliver a fourth of july oration. he was at first disposed, out of modesty, to decline; but, on consultation with ferguson, decided to accept and do his best. he was ambitious to produce a good impression, and his experience in the debating society gave him a moderate degree of confidence and self-reliance. when the time came he fully satisfied public expectation. i do not say that his oration was a model of eloquence, for that could not have been expected of one whose advantages had been limited, and one for whom i have never claimed extraordinary genius. but it certainly was well written and well delivered, and very creditable to the young orator. the favor with which it was received may have had something to do in influencing the people of centreville to nominate and elect him, to the new hampshire legislature a few months later. he entered that body, the youngest member in it. but his long connection with a debating society, and the experience he had gained in parliamentary proceedings, enabled him at once to become a useful working member. he was successively re-elected for several years, during which he showed such practical ability that he obtained a state reputation. at twenty-eight he received a nomination for congress, and was elected by a close vote. during all this time he remained in charge of the centreville "gazette," but of course had long relinquished the task of a compositor into his brother's hands. he had no foolish ideas about this work being beneath him; but he felt that he could employ his time more profitably in other ways. under his judicious management, the "gazette" attained a circulation and influence that it had never before reached. the income derived from it was double that which it yielded in the days of his predecessor; and both he and ferguson were enabled to lay by a few hundred dollars every year. but harry had never sought wealth. he was content with a comfortable support and a competence. he liked influence and the popular respect, and he was gratified by the important trusts which he received. he was ambitious, but it was a creditable and honorable ambition. he sought to promote the public welfare, and advance the public interests, both as a speaker and as a writer; and though sometimes misrepresented, the people on the whole did him justice. a few weeks after he had taken his seat in congress, a young man was ushered into his private room. looking up, he saw a man of about his own age, dressed with some attempt at style, but on the whole wearing a look of faded gentility. "mr. walton," said the visitor, with some hesitation. "that is my name. won't you take a seat?" the visitor sat down, but appeared ill at ease. he nervously fumbled at his hat, and did not speak. "can i do anything for you?" asked harry, at length. "i see you don't know me," said the stranger. "i can't say i recall your features; but then i see a great many persons." "i went to school at the prescott academy, when you were in the office of the centreville 'gazette.'" harry looked more closely, and exclaimed, in astonished recognition, "fitzgerald fletcher!" "yes," said the other, flushing with mortification, "i am fitzgerald fletcher." "i am glad to see you," said harry, cordially, forgetting the old antagonism that had existed between them. he rose and offered his hand, which fletcher took with an air of relief, for he had felt uncertain of his reception. "you have prospered wonderfully," said fletcher, with a shade of envy. "yes," said harry, smiling. "i was a printer's devil when you knew me; but i never meant to stay in that position. i have risen from the ranks." "i haven't," said fletcher, bitterly. "have you been unfortunate? tell me about it, if you don't mind," said harry, sympathetically. "my father failed three years ago," said fletcher, "and i found myself adrift with nothing to do, and no money to fall back upon. i have drifted about since then; but now i am out of employment. i came to you to-day to see if you will exert your influence to get me a government clerkship, even of the lowest class. you may rest assured, mr. walton, that i need it." was this the proud fitzgerald fletcher, suing, for the means of supporting himself, to one whom, as a boy, he had despised and looked down upon? surely, the world is full of strange changes and mutations of fortune. here was a chance for harry to triumph over his old enemy; but he never thought of doing it. instead, he was filled with sympathy for one who, unlike himself, had gone down in the social scale, and he cordially promised to see what he could do for fletcher, and that without delay. on inquiry, he found that fletcher was qualified to discharge the duties of a clerk, and secured his appointment to a clerkship in the treasury department, on a salary of twelve hundred dollars a year. it was an income which fletcher would once have regarded as wholly insufficient for his needs; but adversity had made him humble, and he thankfully accepted it. he holds the position still, discharging the duties satisfactorily. he is glad to claim the hon. harry walton among his acquaintances, and never sneers at him now as a "printer's devil." oscar vincent spent several years abroad, after graduation, acting as foreign correspondent of his father's paper. he is now his father's junior partner, and is not only respected for his ability, but a general favorite in society, on account of his sunny disposition and cordial good nature. he keeps up his intimacy with harry walton. indeed, there is good reason for this, since harry, four years since, married his sister maud, and the two friends are brothers-in-law. harry's parents are still living, no longer weighed down by poverty, as when we first made their acquaintance. the legacy which came so opportunely improved their condition, and provided them with comforts to which they had long been strangers. but their chief satisfaction comes from harry's unlooked-for success in life. their past life of poverty and privation is all forgotten in their gratitude for this great happiness. the next and concluding volume of this series will be herbert carter's legacy. generously made available by the internet archive/american libraries.) sketches of successful new hampshire men illustrated with steel portraits. manchester: john b. clarke. . entered according to act of congress in the year , by john b. clarke, in the office of the librarian of congress, at washington, d. c. publisher's preface. this volume contains portraits and biographical sketches of eighty-eight new hampshire men whose deserved success in their several callings has made them conspicuous in the professional, business, and political world. it should be the first of a series,--the beginning of a work so extensive as to include similar presentations in regard to all the prominent men of our state, when it would exceed in value and interest to new hampshire people all other publications of a biographical nature. the glory of our state centers in and is reflected from her great men and noble women, whose history should be familiar to all who by birth or association are interested in her fame and welfare, and especially to those in whose hands rests her future, and who may need the strengthening influence of their example. to this end this volume will contribute. its preparation has occupied a long time, and involved much labor and expense. my connection with it has been that of a publisher, whose duties i have endeavored to discharge faithfully and acceptably. all else is to be credited to others. the sketches are printed in the order in which they were furnished. john b. clarke. manchester, n. h., july, . contents. page adams, charles, jr. adams, phinehas amory, william balch, charles e. barnard, daniel bartlett, charles h. barton, levi winter blair, henry william bracewell, john briggs, james f. bryant, napoleon b. buffum, david hanson carpenter, josiah chandler, george byron chandler, william e. cheney, gilman cheney, person c. clark, joseph bond clarke, john b. clarke, william c. cogswell, francis cogswell, george cogswell, thomas cogswell, william colby, anthony crosby, asa and sons cumner, nathaniel wentworth currier, moody daniell, warren f. dearborn, cornelius van ness dunlap, archibald harris edgerly, martin v. b. french, john c. george, john hatch gilman, virgil c. goodell, david h. goodwin, ichabod graves, josiah g. griffin, simon g. hall, daniel harriman, walter hayes, albert h. head, natt jewell, david lyman kent, henry o. kimball, john marsh, charles martin, benjamin franklin maxfield, rufus a. mcduffee, john means, william gordon miner, alonzo a. moulton, john carroll murphy, charles m. nesmith, george w. norcross, amasa parker, john m. peabody, charles a. pillsbury, george alfred pillsbury, oliver pierce, thomas p. pike, chester potter, chandler e. prescott, benjamin f. richards, dexter riddle, william p. rollins, edward ashton rollins, edward h. sargent, jonathan everett sawyer, charles h. sawyer, jonathan shaw, albert m. sherburne, henry c. smyth, frederick spalding, edward spalding, george burley stark, george sulloway, alvah w. tilton, charles elliott tuttle, hiram a. wallace, rodney wallingford, zimri s. weston, james a. wheeler, samuel metcalf white, jeremiah w. white, nathaniel wilder, marshall p. williams, charles [illustration: geo. stark] gen. george stark. by h. w. herrick. in the remarkable development of railroad traffic in this country within the last fifty years, many prominent men of our state identified with this interest have achieved an enviable success. a leading position among these representative men will be accorded to general george stark, who, within the last forty years, has been associated with the successful organization and management of several of the most wealthy and influential of these corporations. beginning at an early age with some of the first of these enterprises in new england, he has been identified with their history; and he has also had, within the last five years, a controlling hand in the resuscitation and extension of the great northern pacific line, that will soon span the continent from the great lakes to the pacific ocean. this successful business career has been honorably distinguished, inasmuch as it has, in all its phases, recognized the sound business principles that govern supply and demand in the legitimate carrying-trade. as the leading medium between the producer and consumer, the railroad interest thrives only with the prosperity and good will of both; and in this, its legitimate sphere, seeks neither to control production or traffic, except in those reciprocal relations which contribute to the public good. the influences attending the early life of gen. stark favored the development of the qualities of character that have made his business career marked and successful. his father, frederick g. stark, was the son of john, the third of the children of major-general john stark, the hero of bennington, the latter being, therefore, the third in ancestral order removed from the subject of this sketch. george stark was born at manchester, n. h., april , , a few months after the death of his illustrious military ancestor. his father at this time occupied the old manor-house formerly owned by judge blodget, originator of the famous blodget canal. this time-honored structure has been destroyed by the demand of modern improvements, and its site, at the entrance of the canal around amoskeag falls, is now only marked by the ruins of the sheds connected with it. the locks and canals, in connection with like works on the merrimack river, were owned by the union locks and canal company, and frederick g. stark occupied the position of general superintendent and manager. he was also proprietor of a general-supply store for river-men and the population adjacent, and was, moreover, land surveyor for the neighboring country. he also held the position of general magistrate, and was, withal, the most influential man of the vicinity, leading in all commercial enterprise and traffic. he died in . the early days of young stark were favored with the oversight and directing influence of an excellent mother,--a lady of genial, kindly character, rare mental qualities, and showing a benevolent and christian solicitude both for her own family and general society in the neighborhood. she died in . of the four children, juliet (mrs. henry c. gillis) died in ; emma (mrs. j. g. cilley) died in ; william, the youngest, well remembered as possessing rare literary abilities, and known as author and poet, died in . at the age of nine years george was taken from the schools of the amoskeag district, and for the succeeding four years studied in the academies of pembroke and milford. his mental culture in these advanced schools was chiefly in the line of mathematics, yet natural aptitude and diligence supplied in after life many deficiencies in education. at the close of his school-days in pembroke and milford george returned to manchester, in , finding the scenes of his childhood transformed from their previous quiet to a busy preparation, by engineers and laborers, for the new city of manchester. the young school-boy was placed as assistant with the chief engineer and surveyor, uriah a. boyden, and worked one season on the preliminary surveys for the canal, factories, and streets of the embryo city. during this season, and a few years succeeding, when not employed on surveys, he attended the academies of bedford, sanbornton, and the high school at lowell, mass.,--the last being then under the charge of moody currier, esq. in the autumn of , at the early age of fourteen, he was employed with the staff of engineers engaged in the locating surveys of the nashua & lowell railroad. this line, only fifteen miles in length, was two years in process of building, giving an amusing contrast to the long routes now located and built in one season. the years and were spent in alternate seasons of field work with the engineers and study at the academies. upon the completion of the nashua & lowell road, the enterprising business men of concord had ready for the engineers the work of further locating the line from nashua to concord. this extension of thirty-six miles was commenced in , and our young surveyor, then only seventeen years old, was complimented with the post of assistant engineer, and given the charge of portions of the line, both in the surveys and laying the track. at the close of this service he was employed for a time on the preliminary surveys of the northern railroad. in , stark was invited by the land and water power company of manchester to enter its service, make surveys, and superintend the building of the lower canal. this work was finished in the same year in which it was begun. the following season we find him engaged on surveys for the vermont central, and subsequently on the old colony railroad, where he first served as assistant, and afterwards as resident engineer, in which position he remained until the completion of the work in . from this period to the year he was in the service of his old friend and employer, mr. boyden, engaged on surveys and drawings for mill-work. at the close of his engagement with mr. boyden, stark returned to manchester and spent a good part of the season in making surveys and drawing a map of the compact part of the city, with reference to drainage. he also made a survey, accompanied with a report, upon the feasibility of supplying the city with water from massabesic lake. the success of the new lines of railroad in new hampshire stimulated interest in this form of investment, and several new roads and extensions were projected. the nashua & wilton and stony brook lines were the first lateral roads built, as feeders to the trunk roads of the merrimack valley, and stark was appointed chief engineer of both. on the completion of these lines, the boston, concord, & montreal road, which had been built from concord to sanbornton, was extended northward, and the post of chief engineer was offered to stark. his health failing in the summer of , while engaged in this work, he left business cares and spent several months in recuperation, accepting, in the autumn of the same year, the situation of treasurer and assistant superintendent of the nashua & lowell railroad, then under the management of judge charles f. gove. this position was held until the early part of , when he received the high compliment of an appointment as superintendent of the hudson river railroad. he had been in this position but little more than a year when an urgent offer was made to him to take the office vacated by the resignation of judge gove, the superintendent of the nashua & lowell railroad and its branches. this position, being more congenial than that of the new york road, was accepted, and he entered upon the duties of his new situation at once. in , four years after his appointment to the last mentioned office, he was offered the post of managing agent of the boston & lowell road and its branches, in connection with the nashua & lowell line. the magnitude of the operations of these two roads, with their auxiliary lines, was very great, and in their management required executive ability of the first order. the responsibilities of the position were onerous, and involved the appointment of superintendents, subordinate officers, and foremen, determining a code of regulations for their guidance, the adjustment of time-tables, tariff-rates, and fares, the purchase of supplies, and many other cares incident to the working of a complex and extended carrying-trade. the manner in which these duties were discharged was attested by the smooth working of the organization in its details, and the satisfactory results to the stockholders. in this period of service, which included about eighteen years, the great depot on causeway street, boston, was erected under the general management and supervision of gen. stark. in its first inception, this magnificent building, with its approaches, was intended to furnish terminal facilities for two or more roads. a contract to that effect was completed with the massachusetts central road. negotiations were also entered into with the eastern railroad company for a joint occupancy of the building, and a proposal was obtained from that company to pay fifty thousand dollars annual rental, besides bearing a proportionate share of the running expenses. stark submitted this proposal to his associates, recommending its acceptance; but it was declined, on the ground of inadequate compensation, the president of the boston & lowell and nashua & lowell roads saying, in his written reply to stark:-- "while the income is certainly important to us, we have built the station for our own accommodation, with our eyes open, and i think our directors won't flinch from our position and divide with them, unless they pay well for it." the unsuccessful termination of this negotiation, and the want of accord in other matters of general policy between stark and some of the then prominent directors of his roads, embarrassed him in his duties, and he resigned the position of general manager in march, , but retained his seat in the board of directors until the following year. during his business connection with the combined roads of the merrimack lower valley, the influence of gen. stark in developing great public business interests is recognized by all familiar with the subject. the far-reaching and comprehensive plans for a direct through line connecting boston with the west, realized in by connection of the lines of the merrimack valley, vermont central, ogdensburg, and other roads, were the direct result of stark's labors and influence; and he was manager, for several years, of the line from boston to ogdensburg. upon leaving his position as general manager of the boston & lowell and connecting lines, stark was chosen, in the spring of the same year ( ), by the bondholders of the northern pacific railroad, as one of a committee of six to re-organize and resuscitate that enterprise, left in its well remembered dilapidated condition by the financial panic of . after carefully investigating the condition of affairs and the actual and prospective resources of the road, a plan of re-organization was submitted by the committee, accepted by the bondholders, and the road taken out of the hands of the receiver. in september following, a board of new officers was chosen, in which we find the name of gen. stark as vice-president and director. to these positions he had an annual re-election until by resignation he severed his connection with the corporation in . the magnitude of the northern pacific road and its branches is well known to the public; to detail its operations and resources would require too much space here, even if presented in the most condensed form. intended ultimately to connect the great northern lakes with the pacific coast, its entire length, when completed, will exceed two thousand miles,--as long as the combined length of the union pacific and central pacific roads. at the time of the election of gen. stark to its management about five hundred and fifty miles of the track were operated; at the present time nearly a thousand miles of track are laid, including over a hundred miles on the pacific coast. after retiring from active service in the northern pacific road, gen. stark established, in connection with his son, j. f. stark, a banking-house in new york city. though most of his business connections have been in the railroad interest, gen. stark has found time for attention to duties in other directions. in he was commissioned, by gov. haile of new hampshire, as brigadier-general of the third brigade of new hampshire militia. in he accepted the post of colonel commanding of the governor's horse-guards, an organization comprising the _elite_ of the military men of the state. in , in the capacity of brigadier-general, he received orders from governor goodwin to proceed to portsmouth and take charge of the organization of troops, at the opening of the rebellion. the promptness and efficiency with which this service was performed is still fresh in the memory of the public, and the state owes the management of this recruiting station much of the credit attached to new hampshire for promptly responding to the call of the general government. at one time fifteen hundred troops were at this station, waiting orders from the war department. gen. stark has not been prominent in political life, or identified with the intrigues and contests of political partisanship. the political affinities of his ancestors were with the democratic party, and he has been identified with it, yet promptly breaking the restraints of strictly party lines at the call of patriotism, as at the opening of the late civil war. in the four years succeeding he represented the first ward of nashua in the state legislature, and in and was the candidate of the democratic party for governor. while at this period party spirit was embittered and active, and the republicans largely in the ascendant, the conservative and popular character of their leader gave the democrats a handsome gain in the popular vote. the qualities of character that contribute to success in large fields of commercial enterprise are sometimes difficult to define, while their influence is apparent and is seen and felt by all. a prominent trait is great deliberation in reaching decisions, yet firmness in maintaining them. sagacious insight of character in choosing agents and subordinates, while holding them to a strict accountability, is also a quality of executive merit. we see this last trait in a marked degree in the small sums represented in the items, "damages" and "gratuities," in all reports of the railroad management of gen. stark. every employe, from the highest to the lowest position, on roads under his superintendence, had printed instructions of duties, to which he was required to assent. under no circumstances were men retained in important posts who used intoxicating liquors, and no _cafe_ or restaurant connected with the stations was allowed to keep alcoholic drinks for sale. in _personnel_ gen. stark is characterized by a quiet, deliberate, yet courteous manner that is not disturbed by the varied conditions and incidents of business life. this trait of an habitual mental equipoise is a peculiarity that impresses itself prominently on an observer. he has a natural, unrestrained manner in conversation, and social qualities that are freely manifested in company with tested and worthy friends. as a writer of business documents and reports he manifests power, method, and perspicuity, and his manuscript shows a careful arrangement, neatness and precision of chirography quite remarkable in one of his extensive business experience. at the age of fifty-eight he is yet in the full tide and vigor of business life. his family residence at nashua, though showing no taste for ostentation or display, is an elegant structure in the villa style, furnished with every comfort and convenience, and adorned with works of art. gen. stark was married, in , to elizabeth a. parker, daughter of daniel parker, of bedford, n. h. she died in . in he was united by marriage to mary g. bowers, daughter of col. joseph bowers, of chelmsford, mass. his two children are john f. and emma g. stark. hon. hiram a. tuttle. by john wheeler, m. d. hon. hiram a. tuttle was born in barnstead, october , , being the elder of a family of two sons. his father, george tuttle, and his grandfather, col. john tuttle, were also natives of the same town. his great-grandfather, john tuttle, settled in barnstead in , coming there from that locality in dover known as "back river," where a part of the tuttle family had resided since the settlement there of their emigrant ancestor, john tuttle, who came from england before . his mother, judith mason davis, is a descendant from samuel davis, a soldier of the revolution, and one of the primeval settlers of barnstead. brave soldiers of the davis family from four generations have represented that town in the four great wars in which the country has been engaged. when mr. tuttle was nine years of age he moved, with his father's family, to the adjoining town of pittsfield, where he attended the public schools and pittsfield academy, while the latter was under the charge, successively, of i. f. folsom, lewis w. clark, and prof. dyer h. sanborn. after having been engaged in several vocations, in all of which he showed industry and faithfulness, at the age of seventeen years he became connected with the clothing establishment of lincoln & shaw, of concord, where he remained several years. the ability and zeal which he exhibited while there won for him the confidence and respect of his employers, who established him in the management of a branch store in pittsfield, of which he soon became the proprietor. his business increased gradually at first, and then rapidly till his establishment had gained an extensive patronage, and ranked among the largest clothing-houses in the state. it is so favorably remembered by former residents and patrons that orders are received for goods from distant states and territories. mr. tuttle has also been interested in real estate. he has built many dwelling-houses, including a fine residence for himself, and the best business buildings in the village. in many ways he has promoted the growth, social and business interests, and general prosperity of his adopted town. he is a trustee of the savings bank, a director of the national bank, and a trustee of the academy in pittsfield. [illustration: hiram a. tuttle] when he had attained his majority, in , he expressed his intention of casting his first vote with the republicans, although all his relatives belonged to the democratic party. the democrats of pittsfield had been victorious and powerful since the days of jackson, under such distinguished leaders as moses norris, jr., charles h. butters, and lewis w. clark, all being able lawyers, impressive public speakers, and having popular manners. mr. norris, a native of the town, represented it repeatedly in the legislature, was speaker of the house twice, a councilor, representative in congress four years, and was elected to the united states senate for six years while residing here. the ability and courteous manners of mr. clark (now judge lewis w. clark) made him no less popular than mr. norris, with all classes, during the shorter time he was in business life in town. seeing in young tuttle qualities that might make him troublesome if opposed to them, but useful if in accord with their party, the democrats used their most eminent persuasive powers to induce him to cleave to the party of all his kindred and vote with the hitherto victorious; but he obeyed his convictions and remained true to the republican party. in the republicans, though so long hopelessly beaten, made a sharp contest. when the day of election came, mr. clark was elected moderator, having been a most acceptable presiding officer for several years. the election of town clerk was made the test of the strength of the two parties. after a very exciting ballot, mr. tuttle was elected town clerk and the democrats were beaten for the first time in thirty-three years. although pittsfield has a democratic majority under normal circumstances, mr. tuttle has received the support of a large majority of its votes at times when his name has been presented for position. in and he was representative to the legislature. in he received an appointment, with the rank of colonel, on the staff of governor cheney, and with the governor and staff visited the centennial exhibition at philadelphia. he was elected a member of the executive council from the second district in , and was re-elected in , under the new constitution, for the term of two years. mr. tuttle has been very successful in all that he has undertaken; but his thrift has never made him arrogant or indifferent. he has cheerfully shared with others the results of the good fortune that providence has granted him. he is an agreeable and companionable gentleman in all the honorable relations of life. as a citizen, neighbor, and friend, he is held in the highest estimation. he has furnished employment for many, and has been kind to the poor, very respectful to the aged, charitable to the erring, and a sympathizing helper of the embarrassed and unfortunate. few men have more or firmer personal friends whose friendship is founded on kindness and substantial favors received. he gives with remarkable generosity to all charitable objects presented to him, and is very hospitable in his pleasant home. mr. tuttle accepts the christian religion, and worships with the congregational church. while he contributes very liberally for the support of the denomination of his choice, he does not withhold a helping hand from the other religious sects in his town. in his domestic relations he has been very fortunate. he married, in , miss mary c. french, the only child of john l. french, esq., formerly cashier of the pittsfield bank. their only child,--hattie french tuttle,--born january , , is a member of the junior class in wellesley college. rev. alonzo a. miner, d. d. by rev. george h. emerson, d. d. the subject of this sketch owes his name to the grace of one of england's greatest kings. in the wars between england and france, to which belongs the renown of cressy and poictiers, the english sovereigns accepted such assistance in munitions and men as their subjects could proffer. henry bullman of mendippe hills, somersetshire, was a miner. he fitted out a company of one hundred, armed with battle-axes, many of them laborers in his mines, and presented the same to edward iii. for his use in continental conquest. in his gratitude edward conferred upon him a coat of arms and gave him the name of "miner." this honored subject, and the first of the name of miner, died in . from him descended thomas miner, who came to boston with the elder winthrop in . charles miner, of the fifth generation from thomas, was a revolutionary soldier. at the close of the war he removed from connecticut to new hampshire. a descendant of king edward's friend, seventh in descent from thomas, the grandson of charles, alonzo ames miner was the son of benajah ames and amanda (cary) miner,--an only son and the second of five children. he was born at lempster, sullivan county, n. h., aug. , . grace miner, granddaughter of thomas, above named, married samuel grant, jr., of windsor, conn., april , . from that union descended ulysses s. grant, ex-president of the united states. the subject of this sketch inherited neither fortune nor even health. mental powers, a constitutional integrity, and a lack of the lower ambitions came as his only birthright. all else is his by conquest. till the years of late boyhood he was an invalid. his opportunities for education in the village school were very intermittent. his feeble health and a grave uncertainty as to his ever reaching mature manhood constantly broke in upon the systematic training of the school. he filled out the school studies in the invalid's chair at home. none predicted for him length of days. even the cautious physician made thirty years the utmost limit of life allotted him. he, however, supplemented his broken studies with academic training at hopkinton, lebanon, and franklin, n. h., and at cavendish, vt. beginning public life as a school-teacher at the age of sixteen, he took charge of the village school, alternating this labor with his studies at the academies. his pupilage at cavendish was soon followed by promotion. mr. john garvin was the principal. he was a very zealous calvinist. young miner was a no less zealous universalist. it was at a time when sectarian lines were sharply drawn. it was then a custom with zealous calvinists to regard universalists, not simply as unsound in doctrine, but also as wicked in life and conduct! but mr. garvin saw something in the young pupil that dispelled the prejudice. he took him into partnership in the management of the school in . in this position young miner served a year. [illustration: a. a. miner] in , certain gentlemen of unity, proposing to establish an academy at that village, saw in mr. miner, now near his majority, their man. he accepted their proposition. the school, named the "scientific and military academy," was for both sexes, with military training for boys. four years of his principalship were successful beyond expectation. in some of the terms the number of scholars reached one hundred and fifty. august , , he was married to maria s. perley of lempster, who entered the school as preceptress. she has ever been his faithful and devoted helpmeet. not a few of those who have strong sympathy with dr. miner's theological belief are persuaded that there was something providential in his call to the ministry of the universalist church,--the service he has rendered that body being so great, in several regards so exceptional. he does not appear to have been converted to universalism. he literally was a "born universalist." while anxious friends assigned but a narrow limit to so frail a constitution, the invalid felt that his place was to be in the ministry of the universalist church. of this he made no secret. it became a matter of course that on reaching maturity he would become a preacher of the faith he so deeply cherished. the success of the unity school might have fixed another in the profession of teaching. it had no weight in diverting mr. miner from what he deemed a higher call. several of his patrons solicited him to begin his ministry in unity in connection with his school duties. he complied. in february, , he preached his first sermon in chester, vt. in the following may he began a regular ministry, preaching half of the time in unity, and devoting the other half to a circuit which included about twenty of the neighboring villages. after six months of this twofold labor he resigned his principalship; but he was persuaded to remain yet another year,--all the time filling his appointments on sunday. at the new hampshire convention of universalists, held at nashua, june, , he was ordained to the sacred office. in the november succeeding he was called to the pastorate of the universalist church at methuen, mass. such was the success of his new labors that a reputation for very exceptional gifts as an orator, logician, and preacher, spread. it was seen that his call to a larger and more exacting field of duty was but a question of early time. in the city of lowell, the rev. abel c. thomas had met with extraordinary success as pastor of the second universalist church. after a pastorate of little less than three years he resigned to accept a call to brooklyn, n. y. certain of his parishioners said to him, in the hearing of the writer of this sketch, that his withdrawal would be a calamity to the lowell parish. grateful for this tribute he replied: "put into the pulpit the man i will name, and i pledge you that the church shall go on prospering and to prosper." there was a pause and all ears were both curious and anxious. mr. thomas added: "that man is a. a. miner." a unanimous call of the committee and of the congregation was extended. on the first sunday of july , the rev. a. a. miner preached his introductory sermon as pastor of the lowell second universalist parish. the prediction of mr. thomas proved true. in a pastorate of six years mr. miner greatly strengthened, materially and spiritually, the church to which he ministered. in cordial co-operation with the pastor of the first universalist church,--at first rev. thomas b. thayer, and afterwards rev. e. g. brooks,--he labored with eminent success. the citizens soon discovered that the new minister was of "many-sided talents." then began that drain upon his strength, branching off, according to his specialties, into as many channels, whereby he has been, perhaps, as thoroughly and as variously "utilized" as any man of this period. then began trusts, official positions on school boards, charity boards, and every other conceivable board, the faithful performance of any one of which would have made an average reputation,--all discharged by one person, and he never having a thoroughly healthy day, presents simply a marvel. during an early year of his lowell ministry, a crisis came in the career of the universalist church; and lowell happened to be its turning point. there was a universalist paper published at lowell, the _star of bethlehem_. it was edited by the universalist pastors. a third parish had been founded, and the rev. h. g. smith became its pastor. he was associated with messrs. miner and brooks in the management of the paper, each contributing over his own signature. about the year the unitarian ministry was suddenly rent by one of its ministers, in ability, magnetism, and rhetorical skill without a peer among his brethren,--the rev. theodore parker. he had adopted german rationalism in regard to the bible and christianity, and by the boldness of his utterances and the felicity of his manner was rapidly forming that radical wing which to-day appears to dominate in the unitarian body. such a leading was not likely to be restricted to any one sect. was it to enter and change the character of the universalist movement? the rev. mr. smith showed that he was thoroughly imbued with the new doctrine; and he was rapidly making converts among the younger members of his ministerial fraternity. rev. messrs. miner and brooks, fully persuaded that the new idea was a false one, thought that they foresaw that its free acceptance by the universalist ministry and people would at an early day endanger the stability of their church. they met the issue without reserve and with no regard to consequences personal to themselves. in the pulpit and in the paper they vigorously protested against the course of mr. smith. an anxious discussion followed, and it spread. it was taken into the ecclesiastical body, the boston association, where a resolution deprecating and protesting against the "deistical innovation" was passed by a strong majority. this was in . a few years later the writer of this inquired of the rev. thomas whittemore in regard to that rationalistic excitement. his answer was, "miner and brooks took it in hand at lowell and the association killed it." this episode apparently weakened the universalist cause in lowell. the writer is one of the large number who have no doubt that the promptness and thoroughness of the lowell pastors averted a calamity. may , , mr. miner was called to the pastorate of the school-street church, boston. having the entire confidence of his renowned senior, the rev. hosea ballou, he rapidly worked disaffection out of the parish, thoroughly organized it, got the more than confidence of its leading members; and he has carried it forward to the present day with a degree of high success seldom paralleled in any denomination. in the early part of the year his people decided to enlarge the edifice. the closing of services while the reconstruction was in progress gave mr. miner an opportunity to recruit his wasted strength by european travel. in june, , rev. hosea ballou died full of honors. another call upon his administrative ability as president of tufts college led to the settlement of associate pastors. but, apart from these interludes, dr. miner has been the sole pastor since the death of mr. ballou. in the movement to found tufts college, of the very small number of devoted friends, dr. miner has not occupied a second place. subscribing himself liberally, a few of his parishioners felt the contagion of example and made generous pledges. the rev. otis a. skinner, d. d., was the first agent for collecting funds, and with heroic perseverance in this pioneer work he raised the larger part of $ , ,--the minimum upon which the work could begin. this, however, was but a beginning. the assets to-day are not far from one million dollars. the influence of dr. miner in reaching this result has been pre-eminent. the corner-stone was laid in . mr. miner giving the address. on the death of its first president, rev. hosea ballou, d, d. d., mr. miner was constrained to accept the presidency. he was inaugurated, july , . previous to this, the principal trust, he had served the college as trustee, secretary, and treasurer. it was largely by his devices that the money was raised to meet the current expenses during the infancy and the poverty of the institution. in harvard college conferred upon him the honorary s. t. d. he had received the honorary a. m. from tufts in ; and that of ll. d. was conferred by tufts in . his presidency continued till , at which date he acceded to the urgent call of his parish, and resigned the presidency of the college and took the sole pastorate of his church, which, in , had dedicated the large and costly temple at the corner of columbus avenue and clarendon street, in which it has worshiped from that date to the present. again his labor was effective. out of the pulpit as well as in it, giving his heart and energy to its interests, the old parish entered upon a new era of prosperity. a pastor does well who holds to himself one generation. dr. miner now has under his influence a third generation, and the "spell" is not weakened. in the period of his pastorates, he has conducted more than one thousand eight hundred funeral services, and solemnized more than two thousand five hundred weddings. on removing to boston, in , mr. miner found himself in the center of new calls upon his "many-sided" talents. he was seen to be financier, organizer, popular leader, platform orator. thence "missions" multiplied and increased. the limits of this sketch permit but the baldest statement of his labors, all of which he has rendered with singular skill. of course he was put upon the school board of the city. then the state made demands, and he is now serving a second term of eight years on the state board of education. at a dinner given in his honor on occasion of his departure for a short period to california, the then gov. washburn bore testimony to the inventiveness and far-reaching wisdom with which he was aiding to advance the educational interests of the commonwealth. he has been six years chairman of the board of visitors of the state normal art school. he has served as one of the overseers of harvard college. he is one of the "hundred orators," having delivered the fourth of july oration in boston in . add to such duties constant lecturing before lyceums, temperance meetings, and peace societies, his frequent addresses at academic commencements, and membership of various associations which we have not space to mention,--how so many offices can be discharged, and all with acknowledged fidelity, is a question that perplexes. in the way of duty he has made enemies. but neither friends nor foes ever accused him of seeking any of these high responsibilities. in every instance the position sought the man. his pre-eminent gift has seemed to the writer to consist in speaking to a point and with a view to a particular effect. when he appeared before the legislative committee to plead for a state grant to tufts college, the committee unanimously reported in favor,--one of the members adding that the eloquence with which the claim had been urged had convinced the committee that it _was_ a claim. the late samuel burbank of lowell gave the writer this incident: dr. miner had occasion to address a meeting of stockholders of an insurance company whose affairs had got into a bad way. when he was through, the late samuel lawrence, turning to mr. burbank, said: "that is the universalist minister,--well, if he will abandon his pulpit he may have charge of any of our manufactories at any salary he may ask." like his faith, dr. miner's interest in the temperance reform is a "born conviction." from his youth to his present hour, he has never wavered in his belief that the drinking curse is the giant evil. in the pulpit, the lyceum, the caucus, on the platform, he has labored to create and enforce law to resist the ever threatening danger. in politics he makes it the chief state issue, and in was the candidate of the prohibition party for governor of massachusetts. in he led before the legislative committee the protest against the repeal of the prohibitory law, in opposition to the efforts of gov. andrew. his speech on that occasion has become an arsenal of facts pertaining to the ethics and the practicability of the statute. rev. theodore l. cuyler, d. d., said to the writer of this: "your dr. miner has made a great speech,--a very great one: it will never be answered." for ten years he has been the president of the temperance alliance. in token of his great service before the legislature, the alliance presented him a costly dore bible. he also had another "token" in the shape of threatened violence and the defacement of his house. this was meant as dishonor. dishonor? could the apostle articulate his thought, for what titles jerusalem could have conferred would he exchange the "forty stripes save one?" but in all these varied toils, his church and faith have had the uppermost place. by instinct and habit an extemporaneous speaker, the one field he has least worked is that of literature with the pen. an occasional article for the church periodicals and a sunday-school manual have at times occupied him. but most of his published works were spoken, and taken down by reporters. he is one of some half-dozen boston preachers who are favorites with the reporters of the boston dailies. "old forts taken," his latest publication, was the rhetoric of his "off hand" speaking, save as the transcript of the reporter may have been revised. but, whether laboring by speech or pen, he has never permitted any duty or position to hold other than a second place beside his duties to the church of his love. in the movement which has transformed the once scattered societies of his denomination into a compact, organized, and working church, no one has rendered a more effective service. of its first home mission he is literally the pioneer. no one more faithfully represents the controversial and aggressive spirit of the doctrines of his church; but no one has done more to make that church effective for practical righteousness and christian worship. he has now reached the decline, not of his powers, nor of his zeal, nor of his work, but only of his years. may the evening of his days be as serene and pleasant as his youth and maturity have been industrious, faithful, and true. [illustration: henry o. kent] col. henry o. kent. by h. h. metcalf. among the best known of the representative men of new hampshire, col. henry o. kent of lancaster is conceded a prominent position. the kent family is of english origin, the first of the name in this country being among the settlers of old newbury, mass., in . john kent, a scion of this stock, died in , at cape ann, mass., aged eighty years. his son, jacob, born at chebacco (now essex), mass., in , settled in plaistow in this state. in , a regiment commanded by col. john goffe was raised in new hampshire for the invasion of canada, one company of which was officered by john hazen, captain; jacob kent (above named), first lieutenant; and timothy beadle, second lieutenant. this regiment marched to number four (charlestown), cutting a road through the forest to the green mountains, and thence to crown point on lake champlain, where they took water transportation. after a successful campaign they returned through the wilderness, _via_ the newbury meadows or the "cohos country," with the fertility of which region lieut.-col. jacob bayley, capt. hazen, and lieutenants kent and beadle were so favorably impressed that they determined to return and found a settlement. the project was soon carried out, bayley and kent locating on the western, and hazen and beadle on the eastern, side of the river, from which settlements sprang the towns of newbury and haverhill. jacob kent died at newbury, in , at the age of eighty-six years. he was a noted man in his section, commander of the first company of militia in the towns of newbury and haverhill "in our province of new hampshire," as says his commission, signed in by benning wentworth, which, with his sword, borne in two wars, is now in col. kent's possession. during the revolution, while burdened with the cares of the infant settlement, he was an earnest actor in the scenes which gave us our independence. he was colonel of the forces in his vicinity, and on the advance of burgoyne started with his regiment for the field, and was present with it at the capitulation at saratoga. the original homestead is still in the family, col. jacob kent--a gentleman through a long life well known in the political, military, and social circles of vermont--being the present owner. jacob kent, first named, left three sons,--jacob, john, and joseph. john kent, grandfather of the subject of this sketch, settled in the town of lyman, where he died in , leaving four sons and one daughter. the father of col. kent--richard peabody kent--was one of these sons, his mother, tabitha peabody, being a daughter of lieutenant richard peabody of the revolutionary army. he is still in active business in lancaster, where he settled and engaged in mercantile pursuits in . during this long career his affairs have been transacted with scrupulous integrity, exactitude, and honor. though never in public life, he has always taken a deep interest in the material and educational welfare of the community. on the maternal side the ancestry of col. kent is traced to richard mann, "a planter in the family of elder brewster," who was one of the colony of the mayflower. from him descended that john mann, born december , , who was the first permanent settler of the town of orford, n. h., october, . to him were born fifteen children, of whom solomon mann was well known in the state. emily, second daughter of solomon mann, married henry oakes, an active and well known business man at waterford and fairlee, vt. to henry and emily (mann) oakes were born three daughters and a son. one of the daughters, emily mann oakes, was married to richard p. kent at littleton, june , . to this union there were born three children--sons--henry oakes, edward richard, and charles nelson. henry oakes kent was born in lancaster, february , . he attended the district school and lancaster academy, and graduated from norwich military university in the class of , receiving later the degree of a. m. he studied law with hon jacob benton, and was admitted to the bar at lancaster in may, . soon after, he became the proprietor of the _coos republican_, and assumed the editorial and business management of that paper, his strong interest in political affairs and the fortunes of the republican party, with which he was actively indentified, impelling him to this step, in taking which he relinquished the prospect of a successful and distinguished career at the bar. in the management of the _republican_, both financial and editorial, he displayed rare skill and ability. his leading articles were always strong, vigorous, earnest, and secured for his paper, notwithstanding its remote location from the capital, an influential position among the party journals of the state. it is safe to say that from the time when he assumed its management until , when he sold it,--a period of twelve years,--no paper in the state rendered more efficient support to the party with which it was allied, or advocated more heartily all measures tending to advance the material prosperity of the section in which it was located, than did the _coos republican_ under the direction of col. kent. since he has attended to a large and growing general office business, to which he had previously given more or less attention, and also to the interests of the savings bank for the county of coos, for which institution he secured the charter in , and of which he is and has been a trustee and the treasurer. he is also an owner and manager of the lancaster paper-mill; is treasurer of the pleasant valley starch company, and is president of the lancaster and kilkenny railroad company, a corporation organized to develop the resources of the adjoining forest town of kilkenny. the encouragement of local enterprise and industry has, indeed, always been one of his characteristics. as has been indicated, col. kent entered political life as a republican, and was an active advocate of the cause and policy of that party, with pen and voice, until after the election of gen. grant to the presidency. in , when but twenty-one years of age, he was chosen assistant clerk of the house of representatives, and re-elected the following year. in he was chosen clerk of the house, discharging the duties of that office, for three successive years, with a readiness and efficiency which have never been excelled by any incumbent. in those days the previous question was not in vogue, and roll-calls were frequent. so familiar did col. kent become with the roll, which embraced over three hundred names, that he called it from memory, and it is related that, having called the roll nineteen times in one day, it became so impressed upon his mind that he called it over at night in his sleep, after retiring at the eagle. in he was chosen a representative from lancaster, and served with marked ability, his previous experience as clerk admirably fitting him for the discharge of legislative duties. he served that year as chairman of the committee on military affairs; a position of great importance, considering the fact that we were then in the midst of the war period. his next appearance in the legislature was in , when he served as chairman of the committee on railroads, and again in , when he was at the head of the finance committee. during each year of his legislative service he occupied a prominent position among the leaders of his party in the house, displaying marked ability in debate, and energy and industry in the committee-room. in a commission was appointed, by the states of maine and new hampshire, "to ascertain, survey, and mark" the boundary between them. the line had been established in , and revised in , when ichabod bartlett and john w. weeks were the commissioners on the part of new hampshire. the duty of representing this state upon the commission of was assigned to col. kent, and the work was performed during the autumn of that year, through the wilderness, from the crown monument, as far south as the towns of fryeburg and conway. col. kent's connection with this work is perpetuated in the mountain bearing his name, on the northeastern frontier, laid down on the state map of , and in subsequent surveys. in he was one of the presidential electors of this state, and from to inclusive, he was one of the bank commissioners. at the outbreak of the rebellion col. kent volunteered in aid of the union cause. he was ordered to concord by gov. goodwin, commissioned assistant adjutant-general, with the rank of colonel, and assigned to duty in the recruiting service. raising a company in a few days at lancaster, he was ordered to portsmouth, where he aided to organize and send out the second regiment and to fit the garrison at fort constitution. he continued on duty as assistant adjutant-general (the only one ever appointed in new hampshire) until after the earlier regiments had left the state; but when a call was issued for three additional regiments from new hampshire, in the fall of , he was commissioned colonel of the seventeenth, which was raised mainly by his personal efforts and upon the strength of his name, and organized and thoroughly drilled and disciplined under his command. under the exigencies of the service, however, and by orders received from the secretary of war, the regiment was consolidated with the second, whose ranks had become heavily depleted, the men being transferred and the officers necessarily mustered out, the governor in "general orders," regretting the necessity for this action and complimenting the seventeenth for its high discipline and soldierly demeanor. as it was, few men, if any, in the state, did more than col. kent to promote the efficiency of the service, and to maintain the reputation of new hampshire for prompt and patriotic effort in the union cause,--a cause which he sustained by pen and voice and active personal effort throughout the entire struggle. he has been connected with the grand army of the republic since its organization, is past commander of his post, and is a frequent and popular speaker at the veterans' reunions and on memorial-day occasions. col. kent was an active member of the organization known as the "governor's horse-guards," which was formed for parade on the occasion of the annual inauguration of the governor, in which he held the office of major in , and rode as colonel in , , and . in his association with, and labor for, the republican party, col. kent was actuated by his opposition to the institution of slavery, which he regarded as prejudicial to the republic. he maintained his convictions earnestly, yet candidly, in his paper and on the stump. but after the war and the downfall of slavery, he favored the burial of past issues and sectional bitterness, and the restoration of fraternal relations, as essential to the general prosperity of the country. regarding the policy of the administration as inimical to such result, he was unable to sustain it. he therefore disposed of his paper, which as a party organ he could not conscientiously carry to the opposition, and engaged in the development and organization of the liberal movement, which resulted in the cincinnati convention and the nomination of horace greeley for president in . he participated in that convention, and was a member of the national and chairman of the state liberal republican committee in and . in the liberals ran an independent state ticket, but united with the democracy on a common platform in . the resolutions of the liberal convention, announcing such purpose, were presented in the democratic convention by col. kent, whose appearance and announcement elicited strong demonstrations of enthusiasm in that body. the campaign thus opened, ended in the election of a democratic governor and legislature,--a result to which the earnest labors of col. kent largely contributed. in recognition of his efficient services, as well as acknowledged ability, he was accorded the democratic congressional nomination in the third district in , and again in and . in each of the attendant canvasses, he spoke continuously, and ran largely ahead of his party vote, especially in his own town and vicinity. in all subsequent campaigns col. kent has heartily devoted his energies to the furtherance of democratic principles, and has been active upon the stump in new hampshire and outside the state, and always with numerous calls and large audiences. col. kent is now fully engaged in the direction of his business concerns, which furnish an ample field for his energies and talent; yet he has in no degree abated his interest in public and political affairs. as has been said, he has given earnest encouragement to all enterprises calculated to promote the material welfare and prosperity of his section. in the advancement of educational interests he has also been earnestly engaged. he is a trustee and chairman of the executive committee of the corporation of lancaster academy, and is also a trustee of norwich university, and president of the "associated alumni and past cadets" of that institution. in he addressed the associated alumni at their reunion, and in , by request, delivered an address at commencement which for its eloquence and patriotic sentiments secured hearty and general commendation. he was, last year, one of the corporators of the yorktown centennial association, named by the legislature of virginia. he has long been prominent in the masonic order, having passed the chair in north star lodge at lancaster, and frequently been district deputy grand master. in and he was grand commander of the order of knights templars and appendant orders for the jurisdiction of new hampshire. in he was made the recipient of a past masters badge of solid gold, from the masons of his section. col. kent was married, in boston, january , , to berenice a. rowell. they have two children, a daughter,--berenice emily,--born october , , and a son,--henry percy,--born march , . his religious associations are with the episcopal church, and he is, with his family, a regular attendant upon the service of st. paul's at lancaster. of fine presence, genial and courteous manners, and strong personal magnetism, public spirited, generous, and obliging, his popularity in his section is great, as is evidenced by the large vote which he always receives when his name is upon the ticket, in his own town. still young, endowed with strong mental powers, well known as a writer and public speaker, ambitious and courageous, it is fair to presume that he will yet attain still greater prominence and usefulness in public and private life. [illustration: marshall p. wilder _president of the american pomological society and president of the unites states agricultural society._ portrait taken at the age of seventy.] marshall p. wilder, ph. d. by john ward dean, a. m., librarian of the new england historic-genealogical society. there are few men in our community whose lives afford as striking an example of what can be achieved by concentration of power and unconquerable perseverance as does that of col. wilder. the bare enumeration of the important positions he has held, and still holds, and the self-sacrificing labors he has performed is abundant evidence of the extraordinary talent and ability, and the personal power and influence, which have enabled him to take a front rank as a benefactor to mankind. marshall pinckney wilder, whose christian names were given in honor of chief-justice marshall and general pinckney, eminent statesmen at the time he was born, was the oldest son of samuel locke wilder, esq., of rindge, n. h., and was born in that town, september , . his father, a nephew of the rev. samuel locke, d.d., president of harvard college, for whom he was named, was thirteen years a representative in the new hampshire legislature, a member of the congregational church in rindge and held important town offices there. his mother, anna, daughter of jonathan and mary (crombie) sherwin, (married may , ,) a lady of great moral worth, was, as her son is, a warm admirer of the beauties of nature. the wilders are an ancient english family, which the "book of the wilders," published a few years ago, traces to nicholas wilder, a military chieftain in the army of the earl of richmond at the battle of bosworth, . there is strong presumptive evidence that the american family is an offshoot from this. president chadbourne in his life of col. wilder, and the author of the "book of the wilders," give reasons for this opinion. the paternal ancestors of col. wilder in this country performed meritorious services in the indian wars, in the american revolution, and in shays' rebellion. his grandfather was one of the seven delegates from the county of worcester, in the massachusetts convention of , for ratifying the constitution of the united states, who voted in favor of it. isaac goodwin, esq., in the worcester magazine, vol. ii. page , bears this testimony: "of all the ancient lancaster families, there is no one that has sustained so many important offices as that of wilder." at the age of four marshall was sent to school, and at twelve he entered new ipswich academy, his father desiring to give him a collegiate education, with reference to a profession. when he reached the age of sixteen, his father gave him the choice, either to qualify himself for a farmer, or for a merchant, or to fit for college. he chose to be a farmer; and to this choice may we attribute in no small degree the mental and physical energy which has distinguished so many years of his life. but the business of his father increased so much that he was taken into the store. he here acquired such habits of industry that at the age of twenty-one he became a partner, and was appointed postmaster of rindge. in , he sought a wider field of action and removed to boston. here he began business under the firm name of wilder & payson, in union street, then as wilder & smith, in north market street, and next in his own name, at no. , central wharf. in he became a partner in the commission house of parker, blanchard, & wilder, water street, next parker, wilder, & parker, pearl street, and now parker, wilder, & co., winthrop square. mr. wilder is the oldest commission merchant in domestic fabrics in active business in boston. he has passed through various crises of commercial embarrassments, and yet he has never failed to meet his obligations. he was an original director in the hamilton, now hamilton national, bank, and in the national insurance company. the latter trust he has held over forty years, and he is now in his fiftieth year in the former. he has been a director in the new england mutual life insurance company for nearly forty years, and also a director in other similar institutions. but trade and the acquisition of wealth have not been the all-engrossing pursuits of his life. his inherent love of rural pursuits led him, in , to purchase a house in dorchester originally built by gov. increase sumner, where, after devoting a proper time to business, he gave his leisure to horticulture and agriculture. he spared no expense, he rested from no efforts, to instill into the public mind a love of an employment so honorable and useful. he cultivated his own grounds, imported seeds, plants, and trees, and endeavored by his example to encourage labor and elevate the rank of the husbandman. his garden, green-houses, and a forest of fruit-trees occupied the time he could spare from business, and here he has prosecuted his favorite investigations, year after year, for half a century, to the present day. soon after the massachusetts horticultural society was formed, mr. wilder was associated with the late gen. henry a. s. dearborn, its first president, and from that time till now has been one of its most efficient members, having two years since delivered the oration on the occasion of its fiftieth anniversary. one of the most important acts of this society was the purchase of mount auburn for a cemetery and an ornamental garden. on the separation of the cemetery from the society, in , through mr. wilder's influence, committees were appointed by the two corporations, judge story being chairman of the cemetery committee, and mr. wilder of the society committee. the situation was fraught with great difficulties; but mr. wilder's conservative course, everywhere acknowledged, overcame them all, and enabled the society to erect an elegant hall in school street, and afterwards the splendid building it now occupies in tremont street, the most magnificent horticultural hall in the world. in he was chosen president, and held the office for eight successive years. during his presidency the hall in school street was erected, and two triennial festivals were held in faneuil hall, which are particularly worthy of notice. the first was opened september , , and the second on the fiftieth anniversary of his birth, september , , when he retired from the office of president, and the society voted him a silver pitcher valued at one hundred and fifty dollars, and caused his portrait to be placed in its hall. as president of this association he headed a circular for a convention of fruit-growers, which was held in new york, october , , when the american pomological society was formed. he was chosen its first president, and he still holds that office, being in his thirty-third year of service. its biennial meetings have been held in new york, philadelphia, cincinnati, boston, rochester, st. louis, richmond, chicago, and baltimore. on these occasions president wilder has made appropriate addresses. the last meeting was held september, , at boston, where he presided with his usual vigor and propriety, at the advanced age of eighty-three. in february, , the norfolk agricultural society was formed. mr. wilder was chosen president, and the hon. charles francis adams, vice-president. before this society, his first address on agricultural education was delivered. this was the first general effort in that cause in this country. he was president twenty years, and on his retirement he was constituted honorary president, and a resolution was passed recognizing his eminent ability and usefulness in promoting the arts of horticulture and agriculture, and his personal excellence in every department of life. he next directed his efforts to establishing the massachusetts board of agriculture, organized, as the massachusetts central board of agriculture, at a meeting of delegates of agricultural societies in the state, september, , in response to a circular issued by him as president, of the norfolk agricultural society. he was elected president, and held the office till , when it became a department of the state, and he is now the senior member of that board. in the massachusetts school of agriculture was incorporated, and he was chosen president; but before the school was opened congress granted land to the several states for agricultural colleges, and in the legislature incorporated the massachusetts agricultural college. he was named the first trustee. in the first class was graduated, and in he had the honor of conferring the degree of bachelor of science on twenty young gentlemen graduates. he delivered addresses on both occasions. in , through his instrumentality, the united states agricultural society was organized at washington. this society, of which he was president for the first six years, exercised a beneficial influence till the breaking out of the late civil war. he is a member of many horticultural and agricultural societies in this and foreign lands. col. wilder, at an early age, took an interest in military affairs. at sixteen he was enrolled in the new hampshire militia, and at twenty-one he was commissioned adjutant. he organized and equipped the rindge light infantry, and was chosen its captain. at twenty-five he was elected lieutenant-colonel, and at twenty-six was commissioned as colonel of the twelfth regiment. soon after his removal to boston he joined the ancient and honorable artillery company. in he was chosen commander of the corps, having four times previously declined nominations. he entered into correspondence with prince albert, commander of the royal artillery company of london, founded in , of which this corps, chartered in , is the only offspring. this correspondence established a friendly intercourse between the two companies. in june, , prince albert was chosen a special honorary member of our company, and twenty-one years later, in , col. wilder, who then celebrated the fiftieth or golden anniversary of his own membership, nominated the prince of wales, the present commander of the london company, as an honorary member. they are the only two honorary members that have been elected by the company, and both were commanders of the honorable artillery company of london when chosen. the late elegantly illustrated history of the london company contains a portrait of col. wilder as he appeared in full uniform on that occasion. in , he was induced to serve for a single term in the massachusetts legislature as a representative for the town of dorchester. in he was elected a member of gov. briggs's council, and the year following, a member of the senate and its president. in , he was the member for new england of the national committee of the "constitutional union party," and attended, as chairman of the massachusetts delegation, the national convention in baltimore, where john bell and edward everett were nominated for president and vice-president of the united states. he was initiated in charity lodge no. , in troy, n. h., at the age of twenty-five, exalted to the royal arch chapter, cheshire no. , and knighted in the boston encampment. he was deputy grand master of the grand lodge of massachusetts, and was one of the six thousand masons who signed, dec. , , the celebrated "declaration of the freemasons of boston and vicinity;" and at the fiftieth anniversary of that event, just celebrated in boston, mr. wilder responded for the survivors, six of the signers being present. he has received all the masonic degrees, including the d, or highest and last honor of the fraternity. at the world's masonic convention, in , at paris, he was the only delegate from the united states who spoke at the banquet. on the th of november, , a festival of the sons of new hampshire was celebrated in boston. the hon. daniel webster presided, and mr. wilder was the first vice-president. fifteen hundred sons of the granite state were present. the association again met on the th of october, , to participate in the obsequies of mr. webster at faneuil hall. on this occasion the legislature and other citizens of new hampshire were received at the lowell depot, and addressed by mr. wilder in behalf of the sons of that state resident in boston. the sons celebrated their second festival nov. , , at which mr. wilder occupied the chair as president, and delivered one of his most eloquent speeches. they assembled again june , , to receive and welcome the new hampshire regiment of volunteers and escort them to music hall, where mr. wilder addressed them in a patriotic speech on their departure for the field of battle. the two hundred and twenty-fifth anniversary of the settlement of dorchester was celebrated on the th of july, . the oration was by edward everett; mr. wilder presided and delivered an able address. on the central tablet of the great pavilion was this inscription: "marshall p. wilder, president of the day. blessed is he that turneth the waste places into a garden, and maketh the wilderness to blossom as a rose." in january, , he was solicited to take the office of president of the new england historic-genealogical society, vacated by the death of gov. andrew. he was unanimously elected, and is now serving the fourteenth year of his presidency. at every annual meeting he has delivered an appropriate address. in his first address he urged the importance of procuring a suitable building for the society. in , he said: "the time has now arrived when absolute necessity, public sentiment, and personal obligations demand that this work be done and done quickly." feeling himself pledged by this address, he, as chairman of the committee then appointed, devoted three months entirely to the object of soliciting funds, during which time more than forty thousand dollars was generously contributed by friends of the association; and thus the handsome edifice. no. somerset street, was procured. this building was dedicated to the use of the society, march , . he has since obtained donations amounting to upwards of twelve thousand dollars, as a fund for paying the salary of the librarian. in , he presided at the first public meeting called in boston in regard to the collocation of institutions on the back bay lands, where the splendid edifices of the boston society of natural history and the massachusetts institute of technology now stand. of the latter institution he has been a vice-president, and the chairman of its society of arts. he was one of the twelve representative men appointed to receive the prince of wales in , at the banquet given him in boston; also one of the commissioners in behalf of the universal exposition in paris, , when he was placed at the head of the committee on horticulture and the cultivation and products of the vine, the report of which was published by act of congress. in , he made a trip to the south for the purpose of examining its resources; and in , with a large party, he visited california. the result of mr. wilder's observations have been given to the public in a lecture before the massachusetts state board of agriculture, which was repeated before the boston mercantile library association, the amherst and the massachusetts agricultural colleges, dartmouth college, the horticultural society, and the merchants of philadelphia, and bodies in other places. his published speeches and writings now amount to over eighty in number. a list to the year is printed in the "cyclopedia of american literature." dartmouth college, as a testimonial to his services in science and literature, conferred upon him, in the year , the degree of doctor of philosophy. the hon. paul a. chadbourne, ll. d., late president of williams college, in a recent memoir of mr. wilder remarks: "the interest which col. wilder has always manifested in the progress of education, as well as the value and felicitous style of his numerous writings, would lead one to infer at once that his varied knowledge and culture are the results of college education. but he is only another illustrious example of the men who, with only small indebtedness to schools, have proved to the world that real men can make themselves known as such without the aid of the college, as we have abundantly learned that the college can never make a man of one who has not in him the elements of noble manhood before he enters its halls." in , mr. wilder married miss tryphosa jewett, daughter of dr. stephen jewett, of rindge, a lady of great personal attractions. she died on a visit to that town, july , , leaving four children. on the th of august, , mr. wilder was united to miss abigail, daughter of capt. david baker, of franklin, mass., a lady of education, accomplishments, and piety, who died of consumption april , , leaving five children. he was married a third time on the th of september, , to her sister, miss julia baker, who was admirably qualified to console him and make his dwelling cheerful, and who has two sons, both living. no man has been more blessed in domestic life. we know not where there would be a more pleasing picture of peace and contentment exhibited than is found in this happy family. in all his pursuits and avocations, mr. wilder seems to have realized and practiced that grand principle which has such a bearing and influence on the whole course of life,--the philosophy of habit, a power almost omnipotent for good or evil. his leisure hours he devotes to his pen, which already has filled several large volumes with descriptions and delineations of fruits and flowers proved under his own inspection. the life of col. wilder is a striking instance of what an individual may accomplish by industry, indomitable perseverance, and the concentration of the intellectual powers on grand objects. without these, no talent, no mere good fortune could have placed him in the high position he has attained as a public benefactor. he has been pre-eminent in the establishment and development of institutions. few gentlemen have been called upon so often, and upon such various occasions, to take the chair at public meetings or preside over constituted societies. few have acquitted themselves so happily, whether dignity of presence, amenity of address, fluency of speech, or dispatch of business be taken into consideration. as a presiding officer he seems "to the manner born." his personal influence has been able to magnetize a half-dying body into new and active life. this strong personal characteristic is especially remarked among his friends. no one can approach him in doubt, in despondency, or in embarrassment, and leave him without a higher hope, a stronger courage and a manlier faith in himself. the energy which has impelled him to labor still exists. in closing this sketch, we may remark that a complimentary banquet was given him, september , , on the eightieth anniversary of his birth. on this occasion the rev. james h. means, d. d., his pastor for nearly thirty years, the hon. charles l. flint, secretary of the board of agriculture, the hon. john phelps putnam, judge of the massachusetts superior court, and others paid tributes to the high moral character, the benevolent disposition, and the eminent services of the honored guest of the evening. judge putnam closed as follows: "our dear old friend, we greet you. on this auspicious occasion we wish you many returns of your natal day. _serus in coelum redeas_,--late may you return to the heavens. and when that day comes, on which, in the onward march of life you shall fall by the way-side, may you fall as falls the golden fruit in this autumn time,-- 'sustained and soothed by an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave like one who wraps the drapery of his couch about him, and lies down to pleasant dreams.'" [illustration: john m. parker] hon. john m. parker. by wm. h. stinson. among the many worthy sons of the old granite state who by their business enterprise, executive ability, and genial manners have won a position on her honored roll, appears the name of john mcgaw parker, who was born in goffstown, september , , the eldest son of william parker by his second marriage, one of the early settlers of the town. his mother, hannah adams, of derry, was a most estimable lady, whose christian influence over her family of three children was most enobling. she was a descendant from that honored and illustrious family whose representatives were called to the executive head of our nation. she died february , , having reached the age of four score years. we trace the ancestry of his father to josiah parker, who came from england to cambridge, mass., prior to . his son, rev. thomas parker, was the first settled pastor at dracut, mass., where he died in . a son of his settled in litchfield, this state, from whose family sprung the father of the subject of this sketch. during his early youth, young parker received such training and advantages as were offered by the district school, united with the best of home influences. at the age of eleven years he was placed in the academy at hopkinton, by his father, who was desirous of giving his son the benefit of a business education; the following year he entered old derry academy at derry, where his education was completed. displaying much aptitude for business, his father, who was engaged in the lumbering and the mercantile trade, as well as farming, placed him in his store as clerk; the succeeding year he was clerk in a store at concord, but the next year, , he returned to his home, taking charge of the business of his father, who was in failing health, and who died on the th of august following, at the age of sixty-four years. his father's death necessitated changes in home affairs, and in march, , he entered the store of william whittle, at goffstown, where he remained until twenty-one years of age; he then returned once more to his home and went into the mercantile trade at his father's old stand. this was in ; he continued the same until , when he formed a partnership with his younger brother, david a., under the firm name of j. m. & d. a. parker, which union continues at the present time. in addition to the mercantile and agricultural interests, they have engaged extensively in the wood and lumber business, and as the "lumber kings" in their section of the state their business has grown and developed into one of no inconsiderable magnitude, requiring the investment of a large capital which has accumulated through their indomitable energy and business sagacity, backed by a judgment of such soundness as years of experience can but give. the building of the n. h. central railroad, now the manchester & north weare road, chartered in , added greatly to their business facilities for the transportation of their wood, bark, and lumber, which enterprise received their earnest encouragement. on the th of november, , he married letitia c., second daughter of the late capt. charles stinson, of dunbarton, who was born march , . their married life has been a truly happy one, and such a kindly home as all members of the household will ever revert to with the fondest of recollections. they have three children: charles stinson, born november , ; henry woodman, born february , ; frank adams, born june , . the two former, charles and henry, inheriting their father's traits of character for business, are merchants at goffstown village, while frank is pursuing his studies at gilmanton academy. since the organization of the republican party, mr. parker has ever been a zealous advocate of its principles, and his abilities have been recognized most honorably by his political party in their public preferments. in he was elected a commissioner for his county, and re-elected in ; and a member of the state senate in and . among his associates in this body were hon. walter harriman, hon. john g. sinclair, hon. austin f. pike, and hon. john d. lyman. he represented his town in the legislature in . in , without consultation and greatly to his surprise, he was selected as the nominee, by his party, for councilor from his district, and owing to his popularity received a majority of the suffrages at the election following, in the face of a democratic majority of six hundred in the district the year previous; and was re-elected in . at the institution of the state board of equalization, in , he was commissioned by the court as one of the five members; re-appointed in , and selected as president of the board. when the guaranty savings bank of manchester was organized, in , he was elected its president, a position still retained; and is also a member of the board of directors of the merchants national bank of the same city. mr. parker filled the position of postmaster at the goffstown office during a period of four years; and he has a wide reputation in all the surrounding towns as one of the most successful auctioneers, where his services are ever in demand. being possessed of a judicious and candid mind, he is often called to act in the capacity of referee, where his mature judgment has assisted in the friendly adjustment of disputed and antagonistic questions which threatened the peace and harmony of families, neighborhoods, and towns. his business prosperity enables him to exercise a liberal spirit towards objects and institutions that tend towards worthy ends; and he is certainly one of the most industrious of men, whether attending to the demands of the farm, the store, the lumber interests, selling of estates, or to the almost countless calls from his public and minor private duties that come crowding to his immediate notice. in all matters of a public nature he has ever taken an active interest, especially in the growth of enterprise in his native town. mr. parker's love for social life allows the years to sit lightly. of a happy, open disposition, ever approachable, at his delightful residence at parker's station, goffstown, presided over by his amiable and generous-hearted wife, a cordial welcome is assured all who enter his hospitable doors. [illustration: chas. h. bartlett.] hon. charles h. bartlett. charles henry bartlett was born in sunapee, n. h., october , . he is the fourth son of john and sarah j. (sanborn) bartlett, and is a lineal descendant, in the eighth generation, of richard bartlett, who came from england to newbury, mass., in the ship "mary and john," in . the original orthography of the name was barttelot, which is still preserved by the family in england, whose ancestral home in stopham, sussex county, has remained in possession of the family for nearly a thousand years, and the present occupant, hon. walter b. barttelot, is the member of parliament from that county. in the same ancestral line is found the name of hon. josiah bartlett, who, as a delegate in the continental congress from new hampshire, was the first man to vote "yea" on the passage of the declaration of independence, july , , and the second to affix his signature thereto. all the bartletts whose names appear in the annals of our state trace their lineage to the same ancestry. mr. bartlett has four brothers,--joseph s., who resides in claremont, and solomon, john z. and george h., who reside in sunapee; and two sisters,--mrs. thomas p. smith and mrs. john felch. his parents are still living, at the advanced age of eighty-two years, in the enjoyment of an ample competency, the fruits of a long life of earnest and cheerful labor, and the practice of a stern, self-denying economy, the characteristic of the best type of our new england husbandry. mr. bartlett's early life was mainly spent upon his father's farm, laboring through the summer season and attending school during the winter. he early developed a decided taste for literary pursuits, and from childhood devoted a liberal share of his leisure moments to the perusal of such books as were accessible to him. he also contributed liberally to the current literature of the day, and showed remarkable facility in both prose and poetic composition. he received his academic education at the academies at washington and new london, after which he commenced the study of law in the office of metcalf & barton at newport. he studied subsequently with george & foster at concord, and with morrison & stanley at manchester, being admitted to the bar of hillsborough county, from the office of the latter, in . in that year he began the practice of his profession at wentworth, n. h., and in removed to manchester, where he has since resided. for some two years he was law partner with the late hon. james u. parker, the partnership terminating with the retirement of the latter from active business. in june, , he was appointed, by judge clark, clerk of the united states district court for the new hampshire district, since which time he has not actively practiced his profession, but has devoted himself to the duties of his office, which became very onerous and responsible upon the passage of the bankrupt law, about the time of his appointment. the holding of this office under the government of the united states has disqualified him from accepting any office under the state government. he was clerk of the new hampshire senate from to , gov. smyth's private secretary in and , treasurer of the state reform school in and . in the same year he was unanimously chosen city solicitor, but declined a re-election, owing to his appointment as clerk of the district court. in he was elected, as the nominee of the republican party, mayor of the city, and served till february , , when he resigned in accordance with the policy of the national government at that time, which forbade united states officials from holding state or municipal offices. his cheerful co-operation with the administration in this matter, though at the sacrifice of a most conspicuous public position, was handsomely recognized by president grant, through attorney-general williams. his last official act as mayor was to order the city treasurer to pay the amount due him for salary to the firemen's relief association. mr. bartlett has been a trustee of the merrimack river savings bank from to the present time, and a trustee of the people's savings bank from its organization in . he is also a director in the merchants national bank. he was the master of washington lodge of freemasons from april, , to april, , and now holds the position of united states commissioner, to which he was appointed in . the only positions of trust he has held since his appointment as clerk of the united states court, are as a member of the last constitutional convention, and chairman of the commission appointed by the governor and council to investigate the affairs of the new hampshire insane asylum. mr. bartlett married, december , , at sunapee, miss hannah m. eastman, of croydon, n. h., by whom he had one son, charles leslie, who died at the age of four years, and one daughter, carrie bell, a member of the manchester high school. clarke's "history of manchester," from which the foregoing facts are gathered, closes its biographical sketch of mr. bartlett as follows: "mr. bartlett has a keen, well balanced mind, whose faculties are always at his command. he thinks readily, but acts cautiously, and seldom makes a mistake. hence he has been financially successful in almost everything he has undertaken. he is one of the most practical lawyers in the state, and was for several years in charge of the law department of the _mirror_, giving general satisfaction, and his withdrawal, when his business compelled it, was a source of much regret to the readers of that paper." in , dartmouth college conferred upon him the honorary degree of master of arts. [illustration: moody currier] hon. moody currier, ll. d. forty years ago, when manchester, now the metropolis of new hampshire, was little more than a wasting waterfall and an unpeopled plain, a few young men who had the sagacity to see, the courage to grapple with, and the strength to control the possibilities of the location, made it their home. one of these was moody currier, who was then seeking for a spot in which a willing hand and a busy brain could carve out a successful career. his boyhood had been spent upon a farm, where he supported himself by work during the day, and gratified his desire for knowledge by studying by the light of pitch-knots in the evening. in this manner he fitted himself to enter hopkinton academy, and by similar methods worked his way into and through dartmouth college, where he graduated with high honors in . during his collegiate course he earned enough by teaching and other work in the vacations to pay his expenses, but his graduation found him without funds, and, as the readiest way to lay the foundation of his fortune, he taught school at concord one term and the hopkinton academy one year, and then accepted an invitation to take charge of the high school at lowell, mass., where he remained until . meantime he had read law, and in the spring of that year came to manchester, was admitted to the bar, and formed a partnership with hon. george w. morrison for the practice of his profession, which continued for two years, when it was dissolved, and he pursued his business independently until . during this time he had acquired a large and lucrative practice, and while attending to the interests of his clients had established a reputation as one of the safest and most sagacious financiers in the young city, which led the founders of the amoskeag bank, when that institution was organized, to elect him its cashier. he accepted the position, and from that time has been prominently identified with many of the largest and most successful moneyed corporations in the city and state. he was cashier of the amoskeag bank until it was re-organized as a national bank, when he was elected its president, which position he still occupies. he has been treasurer of the amoskeag savings bank since its foundation, in , a director of the people's savings bank and of the manchester mills since their organization. he was a director of the blodget edge tool company, and a director and treasurer of the amoskeag axe company, during the existence of those corporations. he was treasurer of the concord railroad in and ; has been treasurer of the concord & portsmouth railroad since , president of the eastern railroad in new hampshire since , treasurer of the new england loan company since , and a director of the manchester gas-light company since ; and has held many other places of responsibility,--in all of which his prudence, foresight, and good judgment have grasped the opportunities which have eluded so many, avoided the whirlpools in which so many have been ingulfed, and secured for stockholders and depositors regular and satisfactory dividends. while thus adding to the fortunes of others, he has not been unmindful of his own, and is one of the wealthy men of the state, able to command whatever money will buy, and to give liberally to any cause that commends itself to his judgment. but while it has been the business of mr. currier to manage vast moneyed concerns, the demands of his calling have not been permitted to choke out his love of books and study. the literary tastes, and habits of close and tireless application, which inspired the boy to struggle for and obtain a liberal education, survive in the man, and have made him a persistent student until he is one of the most accomplished scholars in the state. while a teacher at concord, he edited a literary journal in that city, and after coming to manchester published and edited, for several years, a weekly newspaper. since he became a banker he has spent much of his leisure in his well filled library, finding his recreation in adding to his knowledge of the classics, mastering the problems of exact science, and exploring the fields of _belles-lettres_. he has written, for his own amusement, many poems of much merit, a volume of which was published for circulation among his friends in , and he is a master of the art of expression in terse and polished prose. his scholarly attainments were recognized by bates college in , which conferred upon him the degree of ll.d. as a citizen, mr. currier occupies a high place in the city with whose material growth he has been so largely identified. he is an earnest advocate of whatever tends to her advancement, a judicious counselor, and a liberal giver. he was one of the founders of her city library, to which he has made large donations, that, with one of her public fountains, attest alike his generosity and his judgment; and there have been few projects for her improvement which have not found in him a strong and ready helper. prior to he acted with the democratic party, which elected him clerk of the state senate in , , but the agitation of the slavery question enlisted him in the ranks of the free-soil forces, and from the organization of the republican party he has been one of its most earnest and effective supporters. in and he was a member of the senate, being its president the latter year; and in and , was a member of the governor's council, and chairman of the committee for raising and equipping the troops necessary to fill the state's quota in the war of the rebellion. in this position his business ability and methods were of great service, and to him, at least as much as to any other one man, is due the creditable reputation which the state won in that trying period. in he was one of the presidential electors who cast the vote of new hampshire for hayes and wheeler, and in , had he permitted his friends to use his name, would have been a prominent candidate for the governorship in the state convention that year, as he was in the primary meetings. mr. currier has been married three times. he has no children living. he resides in an elegant home in manchester, in which are reflected his cultivated tastes and ample fortune. though able to look back upon a long career, he is in the enjoyment of excellent health and the full strength of his manhood, and while carrying the business burdens that would crush most men, finds leisure to enjoy the fruits of his industry, frugality, and judgment. [illustration: a. norcross] hon. amasa norcross. amasa norcross, a. m., of fitchburg, mass., was born in rindge, n. h., january , . his father, daniel norcross, was a farmer in new hampshire, and was the grandson of jeremiah norcross, the immigrant ancestor of the family, who arrived in this country in the year , and settled at watertown, mass. daniel norcross was a man of sterling integrity, a large land-holder, and the incumbent of many offices of honor and trust. his wife, _nee_ mary jones, was also a native of new hampshire. amasa norcross received an excellent academic education, first in the academy of his native town, and subsequently in a similar institution at new ipswich, n. h. selecting the profession of law for the life exercise of his talents and energies, in he became a student in the office of the hon. nathaniel wood of fitchburg, and in was admitted to the bar. since that time he has pursued his professional labors in the city where he now resides. he is to-day the senior member of the fitchburg bar, and for many years he has been a recognized leader of the legal fraternity in that section of the state. in , , and , mr. norcross was a member of the massachusetts house of representatives, having been elected thereto on the republican ticket. in he was a member of the committee of probate and chancery, of which governor andrew, then a member of the house, was chairman; and in and he was a member of the judiciary committee. in august of the last-named year, he was appointed, by president lincoln, united states assessor for the ninth congressional district of massachusetts. the district was large, comprising seventy-two townships. he filled the office with signal ability and satisfaction for ten years, and until the office of assessor was abolished by act of congress. in the authorities of dartmouth college conferred upon him the degree of master of arts. in the session of , mr. norcross was appointed a member of the joint committee of the senate and house of representatives to examine and amend the report of the commissioners appointed to codify the laws of the state. he gave to this work his entire attention for several months, when report was made by the committee to the adjourned session of the legislature, held in the autumn of that year. upon this committee were several distinguished lawyers, among whom were gen. caleb cushing and gen. benjamin f. butler. in he was a member of the massachusetts senate and chairman of the judiciary committee of that body. he was also chairman of the committee on federal relations. to him was assigned the honor of drafting the report which recommended rescinding the resolutions of censure upon charles sumner which had been passed by the legislature of massachusetts. previous efforts to relieve that distinguished statesman from that burden had failed; this succeeded. the rescinding resolutions reached senator sumner at washington a few days before his death, and doubtless contributed materially to soothe his last hours. in the fall of , mr. norcross was elected representative to congress on the republican ticket, over his political opponent, s. o. lamb of greenfield. in he was elected a second time, over the candidates of two political parties. he has been an active member of the republican party since its organization, and is now serving his third term in congress, having been again re-elected in . in the several conventions resulting in his nomination and election, he was always supported by the better elements in his party. local affairs have always received a proportionate share of mr. norcross's attention. on the organization of the city government of fitchburg, in , he received the honor of first election to the mayoralty of the new city. he was re-elected the following year. in the administration of its affairs his executive ability was marked. necessary public improvements were effected, and all bear tokens of his excellent judgment and skill. with financial and other public organizations he has been, for many years, prominently identified. he is a director in the rollstone national bank of fitchburg, in the worcester north savings institution, and in the fitchburg fire insurance company. the interest of mr. norcross in benevolent and educational institutions has been deep and constant, and he has done much for their advancement. he took an active part in organizing the fitchburg benevolent union, was its first president, and he is now one of its life members. for fifteen years he has been a trustee of the lawrence academy at groton, mass. by act of the legislature of massachusetts he was made one of the original members of the corporation known as the cushing academy, located at ashburnham, and by the same act was designated as the member authorized to call the first meeting of the trustees, of which board he is still a member. he has contributed largely to the organizing and building up of this now flourishing academy. for more than thirty years the labors of mr. norcross connected with his large legal practice have been arduous and continuous. in june, , he was married to s. augusta, daughter of benjamin and rebecca wallis, of ashby, mass. she died march , . [illustration: geo. a. pillsbury] hon. george alfred pillsbury. by frank h. carleton. new hampshire is a small state, yet her sons and daughters are scattered far and wide. they have not only built up a prosperous and influential commonwealth at home, furnishing a talent and genius too great to be circumscribed by territorial lines, but they have greatly aided in laying the foundations and building up the newer sections of our country. let any person pass through the mighty west, and thence to the great northwest which to-day is doing vastly more than any section to supply the world with bread, and he will be surprised to find the great number of sons of new hampshire who have attained reputation, position, and influence. in the highest ranks of commerce, at the bar, and from the pulpit, they wield a great influence. their names are too numerous to be enumerated, yet it is to but few that the distinction is given of being distinguished in two states, and these as far apart as minnesota and new hampshire. to this small but honored class belongs the subject of this brief sketch, george alfred pillsbury, one of a family whose name suggests high qualities. the family history has been traced as far back as joshua pillsbury, who settled a grant of land at what is now newburyport, mass., in the year ,--a grant which for over two hundred and forty years has been in the possession of the pillsbury family. following him, next came in the line of descent caleb pillsbury, who was born january , , for several years and at the time of his decease a member of the massachusetts provincial legislature. caleb pillsbury left a son micajah, who was born in amesbury, mass., may , , and married sarah sargent. the result of this union was four daughters, and four sons--stephen, joseph, john, and moses. with this family micajah pillsbury removed to sutton, n. h., where he remained until his death, in , occupying various positions of town trust. his wife survived him several years. of these sons, stephen pillsbury was a baptist clergyman, who died in londonderry. the other brothers, including john pillsbury, the father of the subject of this sketch, were all magistrates of the town of sutton. the youngest sister married nathan andrews, a gentleman well known in the annals of sutton. john pillsbury was born in . he was prominent in the town affairs of sutton, being a selectman for several years, and representing the town in the state legislature. he was also a captain in the militia in those days of the fife and drum, when a commission had a significance. on april , , he married susan wadleigh, daughter of benjamin wadleigh, a settler in sutton in . benjamin wadleigh was a descendant of robert wadleigh of exeter, a member of the provincial legislature of massachusetts. on the maternal side the ancestry was good. the maternal grandmother was the daughter of ebenezer kezar, who, it is related, concealed the girl whom he afterwards married, under a pile of boards, at the time mrs. duston was captured, in . he was identified with the early history of sutton in many ways. as we have said, john and susan pillsbury were the father and mother of the subject of these lines. they were a hardy, vigorous, and exemplary parent stock. to them were born five children, to wit: simon wadleigh pillsbury, born june , ; george alfred, august , ; dolly w., september , ; john sargent, july , ; and benjamin franklin, march , . all of the children received the common-school education of those days; but simon w., whose natural fondness for study distinguished him as a young man, gave his attention to special branches of study, particularly mathematics, in which he became known as one of the best in the state. he delivered the first public lecture in sutton on the subject of temperance. but too much study wore down his health, and he died in , cutting short a promising future. of the other brothers, john sargent is too well known to need mention. when a boy of sixteen he became a clerk for his brother, george alfred, at warner, n. h. in he formed a business partnership with walter harriman in warner, neither of these two men in those days dreaming that in the future one would be the governor of a state on the atlantic seaboard, and the other of one on the banks of the great mississippi. in john s. settled in minnesota, at the falls of st. anthony, around which has grown up the beautiful city of minneapolis, with a population of sixty thousand. he shortly entered into the hardware trade, in which he built up the largest business in the state, acquiring a fortune, serving for a dozen years or more as state senator, and finally being elected governor for three successive terms of two years each, being the only governor of minnesota accorded a third term. his entire administration, which ceased in january, , was a remarkable one, characterized by many acts of wisdom, chief among which was the adjustment of the dishonored state bonds issued at an early day for railroad purposes. the remaining brother, benjamin f. pillsbury, remained in sutton until , where he filled many places of trust, being elected selectman, treasurer, and state representative. in he removed to granite falls in western minnesota, where he is extensively engaged in the real estate, grain, and lumber business, and is reckoned one of the leading citizens of his section. but we have been drawn somewhat from the subject of this article. as we have stated, george alfred pillsbury was born in sutton, n. h., august , . he received a thorough common-school education in the rudimentary branches. of a very quick and active temperament, he very early in life had a strong determination to enter business for himself. at the age of eighteen he became a clerk to a boston merchant. after a year's experience there, he returned to sutton and entered into the manufacture of stoves and sheet-iron ware, in company with a cousin, john c. pillsbury. he continued in this business until february , when he went to warner into the store of john h. pearson, where he remained until the following july, when he purchased the business on his own account, and continued in it for some eight years. in the spring of he entered into a wholesale dry-goods house in boston, and in again returned to warner and engaged in business there until the spring of , when he sold out his interest and went out of mercantile business entirely. during his residence in warner he was postmaster from to , was selectman in and , town treasurer in , and a representative to the general court in and . he was also selected as chairman of the committee appointed to build the merrimack county jail in concord, in - , with the general superintendence of the construction of the work, which was most faithfully done. in november, , mr. pillsbury was appointed purchasing agent of the concord railroad, and commenced his duties in the following december, having in the meantime moved his family to concord. for nearly twenty-four years he occupied this position, and discharged its duties with rare business ability, showing wise judgment in all his purchases, which amounted to more than three million dollars, and settling more cases of claims against the corporation for alleged injuries to persons and property than all the other officers of the road. he had great quickness of perception and promptness in action, two wonderful business qualities, which, when rightly used, always bring success. during his residence of twenty-seven years in concord, he gradually acquired a position which all may envy. various positions of trust, both in public matters and as a private adviser, were discharged by him most faithfully. he was one of the committee appointed by the union school-district to build the high school and several other school buildings. he was also interested in the erection of several of the handsome business blocks and fine residences in the city. in the year , mr. pillsbury, with others, established the first national bank of concord. from the first he was one of the directors, and in became its president, which position he held until his departure from the state. he was also more instrumental than any other person in organizing the national savings bank in . of the savings bank he was the first president, and held the position until , when he resigned. during mr. pillsbury's management of the first national bank, it became, in proportion to its capital stock, the strongest bank in the state. up to december, , when the treasurer was discovered to be a defaulter to a large amount, the savings bank was one of the most successful in the state; but this defalcation, with the general crash in business, required its closing up. its total deposits up to the time mentioned exceeded three million dollars. the bank finally paid its depositors nearly dollar for dollar and interest, notwithstanding the large defalcation by its treasurer. mr. pillsbury was elected a representative to the general court from ward five, in and , and was appointed chairman of the committee on the apportionment of public taxes during the session of the legislature in . for several years mr. pillsbury was a member of the city councils of concord, and his intimate knowledge of public affairs led the people to twice elect him as mayor, a position the duties of which he discharged with that rare ability which had characterized all his other affairs; and it was during this time that he decided, after much consideration, and with deep reluctance, to leave concord and move to minneapolis, minn., where he had already acquired large interests. when this resolution was made public, it drew forth strong and wide-spread protests from the citizens and neighbors whom he had served so long, for they felt the state could illy afford to lose such a man. but of this we will speak later. during his residence in concord he was identified with all measures to promote the public good. both by his business judgment and his ready purse did he aid the benevolent and religious organizations. he was actively engaged in establishing the centennial home of concord, for the aged, making large contributions and serving at a trustee. he was also a generous giver to the orphans' home at franklin, and was a trustee from the time of its foundation until he left the state. in he was appointed, by the city councils, chairman of a committee of three to appraise all the real estate of the city for taxation purposes. several objects attest his generosity and public spirit, among which might be mentioned the gift to the city of the fine bell in the tower of the board of trade building, and the handsome organ in the first baptist church,--a joint gift from himself and his son, hon. charles a. pillsbury, of minneapolis. he also made several large contributions towards building and endowing the academy at new london. upon his preparing to leave concord for the west, in the spring of , expressions of regret came to him from all sources. complimentary resolutions were unanimously adopted by both branches of the city government, and by the first national bank, the latter testifying most emphatically to his integrity and superior business qualities. the first baptist church, of which he was an active member during his residence in concord, and its society also passed similar resolutions. the webster club, composed of some fifty of the leading citizens, also adopted resolutions regretting deeply his departure. a private testimonial signed by over three hundred of the leading citizens of all branches of business, all the members of the city government, all the banking officers and professional men, was presented, and on the eve of his departure an elegant bronze statue was presented to himself and wife by members of the first baptist church. in church affairs and acts of private charity he had always shown a strong interest, which drew him friends from all classes of people. coming to minneapolis he was at once recognized, and from the moment he established himself there he took an assured position. he at once entered actively into the milling business (in which he had long been interested) in the firm of c. a. pillsbury & co., composed of himself, his brother, gov. j. s. pillsbury, and his two sons, hon. c. a. pillsbury and fred c. pillsbury,--to-day the largest producers of flour in the world, operating five large flouring-mills with a capacity of seven thousand five hundred barrels per day. the business of this firm, while selling a large amount of flour in the united states, has been gradually directed to the european trade, supplying the foreign markets with the very best brands of breadstuffs. to-day there is not a european market in which their flour is not sold extensively and given the highest quotations. mr. pillsbury, much against his wishes, has been crowded again into public life in minnesota, and only a few weeks since, while on a trip to the pacific coast, in company with president villard, to look after the interests of the northern pacific railroad, he was elected a member of the city council of minneapolis. he is also president of the board of trade, vice-president of the northwestern national bank, president of the minneapolis free dispensary, and president of the minnesota baptist state association. despite his years, mr. pillsbury has all the activity and impulses of a man of forty. he is a great friend of young men, aiding them not only by advice but in a practical manner, and, without seeking popularity, finding himself beloved by all. in the city of his adoption he has built himself a handsome residence with spacious grounds. his love for his old home manifests itself in all his tastes, and in his residence he has wrought in the beautiful new hampshire granite brought from his old home in concord. in , mr. pillsbury married margaret s. carleton, a lady beloved by all, who has always busied herself in acts of goodness and benevolence. no one has ever known her but to love her. from this marriage three children were born, two sons and a daughter,--charles a., born october , ; mary adda, born april , ; and fred c., born august , . mary adda died may , . charles a. graduated at dartmouth college in ; has been an active and successful business man in minneapolis for the past twelve years, for the last four years has been a member of the state senate, and is a man greatly respected by all. fred c. is a practical business man, possessed of sound judgment, and is rapidly making his way in the world. it is needless to speak of the qualities which have given a gentleman like george a. pillsbury the position and influence of which we have spoken. they are apparent to all. starting with integrity and great strength of purpose, possessed of a keen perception, a shrewd judge of men, and an impressive bearing, he has attained an eminence which all may admire. well may new hampshire point with pride to such a man. [illustration: josiah carpenter] josiah carpenter esq. by h. h. metcalf. the men who make and whose lives illustrate the material prosperity and progress of a nation or people are those, as a rule, whose life and labor have been devoted in the main to the financial, commercial, and business interests of the country. politicians, stump-orators, and office-holders of long continuance in place and power, may attain greater celebrity or a wider transient popularity, and move more effectually for the time being the tide of public sentiment; yet the influence which moves the deep and silent yet strong and resistless currents which make for the substantial progress and development of the race, is that which is exercised by the active, energetic, and persistent man of business, whose ready and thorough conception of the demands of industry, trade, and finance, and whose prompt action at their behest, make him not only the master of his own fortune, but, to a great extent, that of others. of this class of men the subject of this sketch is a prominent representative in this state. josiah carpenter was born in the town of chichester, may , . his ancestry goes back in direct line to william carpenter, who in the year , at the age of sixty-two years, embarked with his son william, aged thirty-three, and his wife, abigail, and their four children, for america, sailing in the ship "bevis," from the port of southampton, england, and making their home at weymouth, mass. from joseph, one of the four children named, the line of descent runs through benjamin, born january , , john, born march , , and john, born january , , to josiah, the grandfather of the subject of this sketch, and for whom he was named. the senior josiah carpenter was born in stafford, conn., october , , being one of a family of five sons and two daughters. himself and three of his brothers served in the patriot army in the war of the revolution, one of the brothers being killed while on sentinel duty at roxbury neck. he graduated with the highest honors from dartmouth college in the class of , studied for the ministry, and, november , , was ordained and installed pastor of the first congregational church in chichester, which pastorate he retained for a period of nearly forty years, establishing and maintaining a reputation for geniality, benevolence, and hospitality which gained for him the affectionate regard and esteem of his people. throughout his entire career as a citizen and a minister of the gospel, he labored earnestly and diligently to advance every undertaking which had for its object the public good, or the advancement of the cause of religious truth, as he understood it. he married, april , , hannah morrill, of canterbury; and their children were nancy, david morrill, john thurston, clarissa, hannah, and oliver, none of whom are now living. the second child--david morrill carpenter--was born in chichester, november , , and, after receiving a good academic education, commenced active life in his native town in the capacity of a country merchant, which business he followed with much success for many years; but subsequently turned his attention to agriculture, becoming the owner of an extensive farm, which he cultivated for several years in a most successful manner. notwithstanding the constant demands of his private occupation, which, as his success demonstrated, were never neglected, a great portion of his time during the period of his active life was always claimed by the public duties imposed by his fellow-citizens. almost continually for twenty-five years he held one or more town offices, being several years chosen as the representative of his town in the state legislature, the duties of which position he discharged with ability and fidelity. he served as a member of the board of commissioners for merrimack county, and was also, for more than thirty years, one of the trustees of the merrimack county savings bank of concord; he was also for a long time a director of the mechanics bank of that city; and was almost invariably in attendance upon the weekly meetings of the boards of the respective institutions. january , , he was united in marriage with mary, daughter of jonathan chesley perkins, of wells, maine, who married hannah dennett, of portsmouth, december , , and shortly removed with his young wife to the town of loudon in this state, adjoining chichester, which was then almost a wilderness, where he cleared up a large farm, became a prosperous and influential citizen of the town, and reared a family of six children, of whom mary, above mentioned, was the fourth. the children of david m. and mary (perkins) carpenter were charles h., josiah, the subject of this sketch, clara a., sarah l., and frank p., besides two daughters, who died in early life. in , mr. carpenter removed to the town of epsom, where he purchased a large farm, in the management of which his son josiah was associated with him, upon which he remained until he retired from active business, in , in which year he removed to concord, where he resided until his death, december , , seven years subsequent to the death of his wife, who departed this life, november , , at the age of sixty-eight years. a man of wide influence, universally exerted for good, he lived beloved and died respected. he had been a soldier in the war of , enlisting at the outbreak of hostilities, although but a boy at the time; yet, like his father, who had served in the revolution, he would never accept from the government the pension to which he was legally entitled. charles h., the eldest son and child of david m. carpenter, resides in the town of chichester, where he has always had his residence, and where he has won a reputation, not only as one of the successful farmers, but most prominent citizens, of the town and of the county. his farming property embraces more than a thousand acres of land. he is also quite extensively engaged as a dealer in real estate and lumber. clara a., the eldest surviving daughter, is the wife of samuel c. merrill, a prosperous flour manufacturer and flour and grain dealer, of paterson, n. j., formerly a well known wholesale merchant of manchester. sarah l. married prof. james w. webster, of maiden, mass., a teacher of experience and ability, now and for many years past principal of the hancock school, boston, formerly a successful teacher in concord. frank p., the youngest son, is a member of the enterprising and well known firm of drake & carpenter of manchester, who are extensively engaged in the wholesale flour and grain trade. the subject of this sketch,--josiah, the second son of david morrill carpenter,--although engaged to some extent in boyhood in assisting his father upon the farm, secured an academical education at pembroke and pittsfield academies, and at the new hampshire conference seminary at sanbornton bridge (now tilton). very early in life he manifested an aptitude for business, and engaged for some time in youth in the purchase and sale of live stock, not only in this section but at the southwest. returning home from kentucky about the time his father removed to epsom, he engaged with him in extensive farming operations in that town. he received, soon after, an appointment as deputy-sheriff for the county of merrimack, and also for the counties of belknap and hillsborough, which position he held for several years, and in which he transacted a large amount of business. for three or four years previous to his father's removal to concord, the entire management of the farm was substantially in his hands, which, together with his official business and individual enterprises in different directions, gave ample scope for his energy and capacity. in the farm in epsom was sold, and, his father having removed to concord, mr. carpenter, in april of that year, established his residence in the town of pittsfield, having been tendered and accepted the cashiership of the pittsfield bank. he discharged the duties of that position so satisfactorily that upon its conversion to a national bank, in , he was continued as cashier and also made a member of the board of directors. he continued his residence in pittsfield until the spring of , remaining all the while in management of the bank's affairs, while at the same time engaging in various lines of business in his own behalf. nor did he fail to devote attention to public affairs. never a politician, but always a stanch democrat, he took no little interest in the success of his party, as well as the welfare of the town and community. he was frequently intrusted with official responsibilities by his fellow-citizens of pittsfield, and represented them in the legislature in and . in the fall of , his health having become impaired from overwork, he went south to spend the winter, upon the advice of his physicians, going first to new orleans, whence he made a trip up the river, where he had a fine opportunity for viewing the operations of the army in that quarter, the time being soon after gen. butler's occupancy of the city. later in the season he visited cuba, where he remained some time, returning in the spring greatly invigorated, and with improved general health. he was elected treasurer of merrimack county in , and again the following year, receiving at each election a support considerably in excess of his party vote. long prominent in the councils of his party in his section of the state, he has served also, at different times, as a member of the democratic state committee. in march, , desiring a more extensive field of business operation, mr. carpenter resigned his position as cashier of the pittsfield national bank and removed to the city of manchester, where, with characteristic vigor and enterprise, he immediately set about the work of procuring a charter for and organizing the second national bank of manchester, of which institution he has been a director and cashier since its organization. the national bank being well established, he assisted in securing a charter for and organizing the mechanics savings bank, of which he has been from the first a trustee and the treasurer. both these institutions, under his skillful supervision, have attained a prosperous and flourishing condition. aside from his general banking operations, he has in manchester, as elsewhere, dealt extensively in notes, bonds, and real estate, and has been, for the past few years, quite largely engaged in building. in company with ex-gov. smyth, he is proprietor of smyth and carpenter's block, on elm street, the northern half of which has recently been completed. this block is four stories high and basement; has a frontage, on elm street, of two hundred feet, a depth of one hundred feet; contains ten stores on the first floor, with offices and tenements above; and is, beyond question, the largest brick block in the state in the ownership of any single firm. mr. carpenter has always manifested an interest in educational affairs, and has been specially interested in the establishment and prosperity of the holderness school for boys, located at holderness in this state, under the auspices of the episcopalian denomination, with which he is associated. he has been one of the trustees of this school from the inception of the enterprise, and is also the treasurer. he devoted much time and personal care to the work of remodeling the buildings at the outset, and, since then, to their enlargement as the growth and success of the school has demanded. september , , mr. carpenter was united in marriage with georgianna butters drake, born january , , a lady of fine mental capacity and attainments, endowed with the graces and virtues essential to true womanhood, and at home alike in the social as well as the domestic circle. she was the only daughter and eldest child of the late col. james drake of pittsfield, a prominent citizen of that town, well known in public life, who filled various responsible offices, including that of state senator, and who died april , . he was a descendant of the celebrated sir francis drake, the english explorer and naval commander who was the first englishman to circumnavigate the globe, and attained the rank of vice-admiral of the british navy. the family were among the earliest settlers of new england, and trace their ancestry more than six hundred years. the elder brother of mrs. carpenter--frank j. drake--is the partner of mr. carpenter's younger brother--frank p.--in the firm of drake & carpenter, heretofore mentioned, while her younger brother--nathaniel s.--is in business at pittsfield. two children have been born to mr. and mrs. carpenter,---a daughter, georgia ella, born october , , an accomplished young lady who resides with her parents, and a son who died in infancy. their residence is a fine brick mansion, among the most substantial in the city, on north elm street, at the corner of sagamore. mr. carpenter is now in the prime of life, though his business career has already been more extended and successful than that of most men of similar vocation who have been engaged a lifetime therein. filling various positions of trust and responsibility, public and corporate, with the greatest acceptability; of sound judgment, strong will, quick perception and a practical, well balanced mind, and unquestioned integrity of action; enjoying the general confidence of the public, and in a special degree that of those persons obliged or accustomed to seek advice or assistance from others, in matters of business,--his success may indeed be regarded as far greater than that of those ordinarily known as fortunate business men, while there yet remains, in the ordinary course of life, ample time for farther successes and greater achievements. [illustration: chas. williams] hon. charles williams. by o. c. moore. it has long seemed to the writer that the successful organizer of modern industry deserved a high place in public estimation. the qualities usually found in such a person constitute as rare a combination as can be found in any department of human activity. those qualities are industry, probity, intelligence, judgment, and executive ability. these virtues will always be found to lie at the foundation of a well ordered and prosperous state. when to these are added enterprise and energy, there is little wanting either to the successful individual or to the growing community. it is to this class of men that new england owes much of its pre-eminence to-day. what the pioneer settlers did to smooth the path for their successors; what the forefathers of the revolution contributed to establish a new government and place it upon a self-supporting basis,--the men who established the industrial enterprises of new england have done for their posterity and the perpetuity of republican institutions. if new england should be stripped to-morrow of her mills, shops, and foundries, and the wealth and institutions that they in turn have created, new england would be but little more than an obscure and unenterprising hill country, with a diminishing population and lessening influence. she would have a noble and inspiring history, but her glory would be departed. hon. charles williams, the subject of this sketch, belongs to the untitled american nobility of organizers of industry. he comes of an old industrial stock, and can trace his lineage back, through six generations of workers, to a stalwart ancestor in old wales. the williamses formed a large part of the population of wales, "somewhat like the o's of ireland and the mac's of scotland." it is an interesting fact that the ancestor of oliver cromwell, in the fourth remove, was a williams, known as morgan ap williams, of glamorganshire, wales, a gentleman of property, who married a sister of lord thomas cromwell, afterwards earl of essex. carlyle speaks of the protector as "cromwell _alias_ williams." the "encyclopedia americana" states positively that the genealogy of cromwell is traced to richard williams, who assumed the name of cromwell from his maternal uncle, thomas cromwell, secretary of state to henry viii. however this may be, richard williams, the sixth remove in a direct line from the subject of this sketch, came to america from glamorganshire, wales, in , and settled in taunton, mass. among his descendants were hon. john mason williams, a distinguished jurist of massachusetts; gen. seth williams, of augusta, me., a graduate of west point, and a distinguished officer in the mexican war; hon. ruel williams, of augusta, me.; and hon. lemuel williams, a member of congress from massachusetts. it is a coincidence of note that the occupation of the subject of this sketch, as well as that of his lineal descendants, follows the distinctive characteristic of the welch ancestry. glamorganshire is famous for its iron and coal mines, and its iron-works are on the most extensive scale, it having sixty blast furnaces, some of which give employment to six thousand men. the direct descent from richard williams of taunton is as follows: benjamin williams, settled in easton, mass.; josiah williams, settled at bridgewater, mass. seth williams, the great-grandfather of mr. williams, was born at bridgewater, may , . at the age of eighteen he went to easton, mass., and took up one thousand acres of government land. he married susannah forbes, of bridgewater, and built the homestead now standing in easton. edward williams, his son, married sarah lothrop, of bridgewater, in , still retaining the "homestead," where lieut. seth williams, the father of the subject of this sketch, was born january , . he was a tanner by trade, and took part in the war of . he married sarah mitchael, daughter of colonel mitchael, of bridgewater, mass., an active man in the revolutionary war, and for many years a member of the legislature from easton. they were married in , and lived near the "homestead." they had eight children, charles, the present subject, being the third son, born at easton, august , . the first seventeen years of his life were spent on the farm, receiving such rudimentary education as could be obtained at a district school. at the age of eighteen he apprenticed himself to gen. shepherd leach, proprietor of the "easton iron-works," for the term of four years, to learn the foundry business, with a compensation of twenty-five dollars for the first year, fifty dollars for the second, seventy-five dollars for the third, and one hundred and twenty-five dollars for the fourth. by the death of gen. leach the contract was surrendered; but young williams still continued in the employ of his successor, mr. lincoln drake, until the panic of . in this stagnation of business at the east, he determined to go west, and purchased several hundred acres of land near springfield, ill. the now flourishing capital of the state was then represented by a few dwelling-houses, one church, and a small hotel. this "new west" could then boast of no railroads, and the difficulty of getting produce to market, which was mainly by flat-boats down the mississippi, offered but little attraction to farming, and he returned east. for two years he was employed in the foundry at north chelmsford, mass., and the subsequent three years in the amoskeag foundry at manchester, n. h. mr. williams came to nashua in , at the age of twenty-nine, endowed with good health, correct habits, and an honorable ambition. in company with his elder brother, seth, they established the foundry business, under the firm name of s. & c. williams, erecting a building eighty by one hundred feet, and the business commenced. it was in the same year that two other important and still flourishing industries were begun in nashua,--the manufacture of shuttles and bobbins by j. & e. baldwin, and the manufacture of mortise-locks and doorknobs by l. w. noyes and david baldwin. this was the day of small beginnings, and only twenty-five hands were employed in the foundry for several years. the business grew steadily, however, and everything seemed propitious. on the second of july, , a fire broke out in the works, and, in spite of all exertions, the entire property was consumed, including all the patterns. the total loss was estimated at forty thousand dollars. it was a staggering blow, as these young men had no insurance. men of less courage and energy would have succumbed to such a misfortune; but on the very day of the fire the work of rebuilding was begun, and pushed with rapidity, a brick structure taking the place of the wood one destroyed. the partnership of s. & c. williams was dissolved in , and the business has since been continued by charles. his brother seth has been extensively employed in similar business. the business of the williams foundry in nashua has steadily increased, and was never more extensive than to-day. the pay-roll shows one hundred and twenty-five hands employed. strict attention to business, unyielding integrity, and thorough mastery of his calling have been mr. williams's secret of success. he was one of five who organized the second national bank, and has since held the position of vice-president of the bank. mr. williams was elected a member of the common council soon after the organization of the city, in , but from that time until he neither sought nor held any political office. in this centennial year, however, his party turned instinctively towards him as its most available candidate for mayor, and at the nominating caucus he received an almost unanimous nomination. the nomination was ratified, and mr. williams became the centennial mayor of nashua. his administration was characterized by the same prudence, fidelity, and success that have crowned his business career. he was nominated for re-election, and the nomination was ratified at the polls by an increased vote and a largely increased majority. one of the social events of mr. williams's term of service was the visit of president hayes and his cabinet to the city, and at the mayor's residence, which was elaborately decorated for the occasion, mrs. hayes held a public reception, which was attended by a great throng of people from the city and the surrounding towns. in his domestic relations mr. williams has been one of the most fortunate and happiest of men. in he married eliza a. weston, a cultivated christian woman, and a devoted wife and mother, daughter of capt. sutheric weston, of antrim, n. h.; both are members of the first congregational church, nashua, rev. frederick alvord, pastor. three children have blessed the union. seth weston williams, born april , , a graduate of yale college, class of , and of bellevue medical college, new york. after travel and study in europe he returned to his native land, and had just entered on the practice of his profession, with the brightest prospects of usefulness and eminence, holding a responsible appointment in bellevue hospital, when, on a visit to portland, he was attacked with congestion of the brain, which terminated his promising career at the age of thirty. the other children are charles alden williams, born august , , married october , , kate n. piper; he was graduated from the scientific department at phillips academy, andover, mass., under dr. william taylor, in , and further pursued the same course of study at the school of technology in boston, mass., and will succeed his father in business; and mrs. marian williams-viets, born march , , married, november , , herbert allen viets, of troy, new york. feeling in himself the want of an early education, mr. williams spared no pains in bestowing superior advantages upon his children, all of whom received a liberal education. in he planned a year's travel abroad with his family, but the critical condition of business in the country at that time prevented his leaving home. the plan was carried out, however, under the care of dr. seth williams, the trip covering the tour of the continent, and of the orient as far east as damascus. hon. levi winter barton. by rev. j. w. adams. ancestral excellence is an invaluable legacy. as a rule, "blood will tell," and the marked physical, mental, and moral traits of a prominent family are likely to re-appear in many successive generations. and, added to this hereditary wealth, comes the inspiration of a noble example, suggesting the possibility and the desirability of worthy, helpful living. the subject of this sketch was fortunate in this regard. in the garnered wealth of a vigorous, talented, and virtuous ancestry, he has "a goodly heritage." * * * * * from an abundance of reliable data, we extract only so much from the genealogical record as is necessary to the integrity of the direct lines from a very distant past to the present. levi w. barton's parents were bezaleel barton, d, and hannah (powers) barton. let us glance at the _maternal_ ancestry. the family of power (or le poer, as formerly written) was of norman extraction, and settled in england at the conquest of that kingdom by the normans, under william, duke of normandy, in the person of power, or le poer, who is recorded in "battle abbey" as one of the commanders at the battle of hastings, in . soon after, sir john le poer resided in poershayse, devonshire, england. in , one of his descendants, sir roger le poer, went with earl stougbon in his invasion and partial conquest of ireland, where he greatly distinguished himself, and received large grants of land. he was the ancestor of a succession of distinguished men, among whom were sir nicholas le poer, who had a summons to parliament, in , as baron le poer, and sir richard, sir peter, sir eustace, and sir arnold le poer. the barony, descending by writ to heirs, female as well as male, is now held by the marquis of waterford. the earl of lynn, for a term of one hundred years, and the marquis of waterford, were of that descent, through lady catharine poer. the family was also a distinguished one in england, from the norman conquest down. in , richard poer of this line, high sheriff of gloucestershire, eng., was killed defending the "lord's day;" and sir henry le poer distinguished himself greatly as a commander under the duke of wellington. this remarkable family has outlived the dynasties of the conqueror, the plantaganets, the tudors, and the stuarts, and flourishes yet. since the time of queen elizabeth, they have returned to their early orthography of power; and finally, in america, have added the "s," making it powers. walter powers, the ancestor of all the powers families of croydon, n. h., was born in . he came to salem, mass., in . he married, january , , trial, daughter of deacon ralph shepherd. they moved to nashoba, and he died there in . the town, in , was incorporated by the name of littleton (mass.). [illustration: l. w. barton] of the nine children of walter and trial powers, the eldest, william, was born in , and married, , mary bank. of the nine children of william and mary (bank) powers, william, d, was b. , in nashoba, and m., , lydia perham. of the four children of william, d, and lydia (perham) powers, lemuel was b. in , and m. thankful leland, of grafton, mass., daughter of capt. james leland. all except the eldest of their children settled in croydon. n. h.; and two of his sons served croydon as soldiers in the revolution. although not an "original grantee of croydon," he owned "proprietors' rights" at an early day, and often attended "proprietors'" meetings at the inn of his brother-in-law, lieut. phinehas leland, as moderator. he died in northbridge, mass., . of the ten children of lieut. lemuel and thankful (leland) powers, ezekiel was b. in grafton, mass., march , , and m., jan. , , hannah hall of uxbridge, mass., who was daughter of lieut. edward and lydia (brown) hall. levi w. barton was her great-grandson. they came to croydon in . he was a prominent citizen, and held here many offices of trust. he was a man of industry and indomitable energy. he d. in croydon, nov. , . his widow d. oct. , . of the seven children of ezekiel and hannah (hall) powers, ezekiel, d (the first male child born in croydon), was b. may , . he m. susannah rice, jan. , . of the six children of ezekiel, d, and susannah (rice) powers, hannah (mother of levi w.) was b. feb. , , and m. bezaleel barton. edward hall (the earliest ancestor of lieut. edward hall, who settled in croydon about ) was at duxbury, mass., in , and d. at rehoboth, nov. , . the direct line by generations is: st, edward; d, benjamin; d, edward; th, lieut. edward, b. in wrentham, mass., july , ; went with his father in to uxbridge, where he held commissions under the king of great britain. he m., aug. , , lydia brown. about they came to croydon, n. h., where he was moderator, march, , tax-collector and constable, , and selectman, , , and . he d. in croydon, dec. , . his widow d. aug. , . th, hannah, b. oct. , , who m. ezekiel powers and settled in croydon. at this point the hall unites with the powers genealogy, and the last-named persons were great-grandparents of levi w. barton. the bartons are of english descent. without undertaking to be precise as to the details of kinship, we are able to identify the following as among their earliest ancestry in new england. marmaduke barton was in salem, mass., as early as . edward was in salem in . rufus fled from the persecution of the dutch at manhattan, n. y., and settled in portsmouth, r. i., in , and died . mrs. eliza barton testified in an important case at piscataqua, n. h., in . edward, undoubtedly the one living in salem in , and husband of eliza barton, came to exeter, n. h., in , and died at cape porpoise, jan., . benjamin barton of warwick, son of rufus barton, m., june , , susannah everton. edward barton, son of edward of exeter, took the freeman's oath in . doctor john barton (probably son of doctor james barton) m., april , , lydia roberts of salem, mass. james barton, b. in , came to boston, mass., before . he d. in weston, mass., in . samuel barton (probably son of doctor james barton) was b. in . he testified in a witch case (in favor of the witch, be it said to his credit) in salem, mass., in . stephen barton was at bristol (then in mass.) in . col. william barton, b. in providence, in ,--who with a small body of men crossed narragansett bay on the night of july , , passed, unnoticed, three british vessels, landed, reached the quarters of the english general, prescott, and captured him, and for which, history informs us, he received from congress the gift of a sword, a commission as colonel, and a tract of land in vermont,--was a descendant of samuel barton and hannah his wife, ancestors of the bartons of croydon. they were living in framingham, mass., as early as , and moved to oxford, mass., in , where his will was proved sept. , . of their eight children, samuel was b. in framingham, oct. , ; and in., may , , elizabeth bellows. of the children of samuel and elizabeth (bellows) barton, bezaleel was b. july , , and m., april , , phebe carlton, a lady noted for her beauty. of the children of bezaleel and phebe (carlton) barton, were phebe (one of whose grand-daughters was the wife of dr. judson), bezaleel, benjamin, and peter who was b. at sutton. mass., sept. , , and went with his parents to royalston. mass., in , where he m. hepsibeth baker, nov. , . bezaleel barton and his sons, bezaleel, benjamin, and peter, served royalston as soldiers in the revolution. bezaleel, senior, was killed at the battle of bunker hill. peter and hepsibeth (baker) barton came to croydon, n. h., in , where he resided until , when he removed to sunapee, where he d. sept. , . he was chosen selectman of croydon from to , inclusive. he shared largely the confidence of the public, and was noted for his strict integrity. of his thirteen children born in croydon, bezaleel, d, was b. july, , and m. hannah powers, daughter of ezekiel powers, at which point the barton and powers genealogies unite. * * * * * of the children of bezaleel barton, d, and hannah (powers) barton, levi winter was b. march , . the father, a man of marked social qualities, and frank and genial in his bearing, died before the son had reached his majority, and previous to this business had taken the father from home, so that most of the responsibilities of the family rested upon the mother. but it is no idle pun upon her maiden name to say that she was a _power_ in that household. she exercised a healthful and unchallenged discipline. her intuitive vision saw every material necessity of the family; her unsurpassed executive capacity was equal to every demand; and, what is quite as essential to the formation of a symmetrical character, her moral and religious precepts and example compelled a recognition of the claims of god and man. the sick and the poor of her neighborhood were often greatly indebted to her for the wisdom of her counsels, the abundance of her alms-deeds, and the warmth of her sympathy. universally venerated and esteemed, she died in croydon, sept. , , aged years. inheriting the best qualities of such an ancestry, molded and inspired by such a mother, and in boyhood acquiring his fiber in the severe but practical school of tireless industry, rigid economy, and heroic self-denial and self-reliance, we might anticipate for mr. barton a character and a career which would place him among the best and foremost citizens of his state, and entitle him to an important chapter in its history. we hazard nothing when we say that he has made that anticipation a reality, and that he has afforded us another conspicuous example of what the humblest may achieve under the fostering genius of republican institutions. his district-school education, often interrupted by demands upon his manual labor, consisted of ten brief winter terms. at eighteen he assumed the responsibility of his own education and support. he had no money, but he had what is better, courage and muscle. he went to work. his books were always near by, so that, whenever there was a leisure moment, "the horny hands of toil" would grasp and his hungry mind would feast upon them. he would brook no discouragements. no hours were allowed to run to waste. often on rainy days he would call on his old friend, john cooper, esq., to receive instruction. these efforts, supplemented by a term under dr. miner of boston, qualified him to teach in the common schools. but for awile he devoted himself chiefly to farming. at twenty-one he married miss mary a. pike, one of newport's worthiest young ladies. she died the next year, leaving an infant son, col. ira mcl. barton, now deceased. the death of his wife was a severe blow to one in whose nature the domestic element is so marked. with the light of his home gone out, and with his life-plan destroyed, he seemed almost paralyzed for a time. but the bent steel of his intense personality was sure to react. the second year after this bereavement he entered kimball union academy, to pursue a classical course under that distinguished teacher, dr. cyrus richards. having but one hundred dollars when he entered, he was compelled to teach winters and to toil with his hands during the summer vacations; but his uncompromising zeal carried him successfully through the three years' course. we cannot repress our admiration for the young man whom neither bereavement nor poverty could crush, but who, in spite of the most disheartening circumstances, earns the right to stand in the front rank with his most brilliant competitors. this he did. in the same spirit, and still relying upon his own exertions for means, he entered dartmouth college in , and honorably graduated in . his oration, on graduation, was highly commended by the public journals of the day. at the commencement and close of the terms, he would make the journeys to and from college, twenty-one miles, on foot. during his senior year he studied law with hon. daniel blaisdell of hanover. after graduating, mr. barton taught five terms in the canaan academy, and at the same time was a law student with judge kittredge. during this period he was appointed postmaster of canaan. in the early part of he left canaan, and completed his legal studies with messrs. metcalf & corbin of newport, and was there admitted to the bar in the july following. in he formed a law partnership with hon. ralph metcalf, which continued until mr. metcalf was elected governor. he then became the law partner of shepherd l. bowers, esq., with whom he was associated until . notwithstanding his extensive law practice, mr. barton has been engaged, to a considerable extent, in building, farming, stock-raising, and fruit-growing. no man with equal means has contributed more to the growth and permanent improvement of the village of newport. none have done more by their own personal industry to convert rough fields into attractive streets, luxuriant gardens, and pleasant homes. taught from childhood to cultivate the soil, he has, all along through his busy life, found his highest enjoyment in turning aside from the turmoil of professional labors to the more genial occupation of agricultural pursuits. as evidence of his superior legal abilities, and of the public esteem in which he is held, we point to the following record: he was register of deeds for sullivan county from to , inclusive; county solicitor from to ; representative to the state legislature in , , , , and ; and state senator in and . during all these seven years of service in both houses, he was a member of the judiciary committee, and for five years its chairman. in he was chairman of the board of commissioners appointed to audit the war debt of the state. in he was a member of the convention which revised the state constitution; and was chosen republican elector of president and vice-president of the united states. gov. harriman appointed him bank commissioner, but he declined the office. gov. prescott appointed him, in , one of the commissioners to revise and codify the statutes of new hampshire. his many friends have fondly hoped to see him elected to congress. it is conceded that his abilities and his fidelity to important public trusts reveal his eminent fitness for such a position. but local divisions, for which he is in no way responsible, have thus far prevented his nomination. his name has come twice before the nominating conventions, and each time with a very flattering vote. when mr. barton commenced the practice of law in newport, he found there able rivals for the honors of the profession, whose reputations were well established. i cannot better express the truth than to use the language of a writer who, speaking of this period of his life, says:-- "the field seemed to be fully and ably occupied, but from the outset his success was assured. it immediately became apparent that he would bring to the discharge of the duties of his new position the same energy and devotion to principle which had hitherto characterized his actions. from that time to the present, he has enjoyed the confidence of the public. as counselor, he is cautious and careful, dissuading from, rather than urging on, litigation. as an advocate, he is eloquent, zealous, bold, and persistent. his faithfulness and devotion to the interests of his clients have often been a subject of remark." mr. barton's legislative experience began in , that intensely feverish period of the rebellion. the democratic party was represented by its ablest orators and most skillful parliamentarians. they were artful, bitter, and desperate. the majority could not afford to waste or misapply its resources. competent leadership was essential to the utilization of the republican strength. fortunately this was found. it came from the ranks of the "raw recruits." wary and watchful, alert and forcible, mr. barton promptly and successfully met the assaults of the opposition, and sometimes "carried the war into africa." the house soon acknowledged his leadership,--a leadership which he maintained at the subsequent sessions. the soldiers will never forget his fearless advocacy of the measure allowing them to vote in the field. this cost him his re-appointment as solicitor; but he was not the man to sacrifice so sacred a principle for the loaves and fishes of office. in and he occupied the responsible position of chairman of the republican legislative caucus. in the sessions of and , the manchester _mirror_, _independent stateman_, and other papers spoke in the highest terms of his service, giving him the credit of punctual attendance, praiseworthy diligence, and of ably championing the best measures that were enacted, and pointing him out as a probable candidate for the national congress. his long and able legislative experience has never been stained by political corruption, or by the betrayal of any moral question. john cooper, esq., in the _granite monthly_ of may, , has truthfully said: "through all these years of political life he presents a record without a blemish." mr. barton is a man of well proportioned, commanding physique, and is well preserved by temperate living and total abstinence from all intoxicants and narcotics. he is also a man of fluent and agreeable speech, of fine conversational powers, and is the inspiration of every social circle which he enters. at home as well as abroad, in private as well as in public life, he is the invariable advocate of every moral and social reform. he is an honor to the masonic fraternity, whose principles he worthily represents. he is the warm and helpful friend of the methodist episcopal church, to which he belongs; but he has an unaffected contempt for all sectarian narrowness. his sense of justice is intuitive, his sympathy quick, and in its exercise he regards neither state nor condition. the destitute and forsaken always find in him a true friend. from boyhood he has been an avowed and uncompromising opposer of slavery, and of whatever oppresses the masses, whether white or black. if he sometimes asserts and maintains his opinions with earnestness and warmth, he never does so with malice. in the advocacy of what he deems to be just, he is never turned aside by motives of self-interest. in he married miss lizzie f. jewett, of hollis,--a cultured, christian lady. her amiability, good sense, and force of character render her every way worthy of her distinguished husband. their "silver wedding" was observed in , and was honored by a large circle of friends. besides other tokens of appreciation bestowed at that time, hon. edmund burke presented, in behalf of the donors, an elegant silver service. their children are herbert j., florence f., natt l., and jesse m. the eldest son, herbert j. barton, was born september , . he prepared for college at tilton, and graduated at dartmouth in the class of . he has taught with great success in providence, r. i., also for two years as principal in the newport high school, and, still later, as principal in the high school of waukegan, ill. in he was admitted to the bar of illinois at chicago, and is now associated in practice with his father. he married, august , , miss sarah l. dodge, daughter of leander f. dodge of newport, a very intelligent and worthy young lady. the son has many of the elements which have contributed to the father's success, and we expect his native state will hear from him. florence f. graduated from the newport high school in , and is a young lady of fine promise. in conclusion we remark, mr. barton stands well at home. conscious of his personal integrity and of the worthiness of his aims, his well earned honors clustering thickly upon him, beloved by his family and community, and cheered by the favor of providence, he may with great propriety congratulate himself that he has not lived in vain. and as his physical and intellectual forces seem not in the least abated, we may fondly hope that his fellow-citizens may for many years to come enjoy the benefits of his practical wisdom and patriotic devotion; and that his posterity may as nobly sustain the name of barton as he has the names of those from whom he descended. hon. rodney wallace. rodney wallace, of fitchburg, mass., was born in new ipswich, n. h., december , . he is the son of david and roxanna wallace, who spent the latter years of life at rindge in the same state. whether the family is of english or scotch origin is extremely difficult to decide. if the orthography of the last century is correct, then it is english; if not, scotch. the point possesses more genealogical than real importance. people are free to change their names as they list, and have always exercised that privilege; and under either garb the name has been borne by noble and distinguished men in the old world. the first of this family who came to this country settled in ipswich, mass. benoni wallis removed from this place to lunenburg, mass., and there married, on the d of july, , rebecca brown, of lynn. they continued to reside in lunenburg until her death, august , . he died march , . david wallis, son of benoni, was born october , . he married susannah conn, and died in ashburnham, january , . david wallace, son of david and susannah (conn) wallis, was born in ashburnham, july , . he married, july , , roxanna gowen, of new ipswich, and removed to rindge in , where he died may , . she died in fitchburg, february , . in the exercise of his own right and discretion, he restored what he doubtless held to be the original spelling of his name, and always wrote it wallace. rodney wallace, when twelve years of age, went from home to work upon a farm for the sum of forty dollars for the first year, with the privilege of attending school eight weeks in the winter; and from this time until arriving at the age of twenty he worked for wages, attending school from eight to ten weeks in the winter. his education was thus acquired, during the few winter months, in the common country schools of that time. from the age of twenty until his removal to fitchburg, he was employed and intrusted with business for the late dr. stephen jewett, of rindge, n. h. in he removed to fitchburg and became a member of the firm of shepley & wallace, wholesale dealers in books, stationery, etc., which firm, under this name and the name of r. wallace & co., became one of the best known firms in this line of business in new england. after several years of successful management of that business, he withdrew from the firm, engaged in the manufacture of paper, and connected himself with several other manufacturing interests in fitchburg. in whatever interest mr. wallace has been engaged, he has not only been fortunate in its pecuniary issues, but also in the speedy command of the confidence and respect of his associates. true moral principle has been united with unquestioned probity, business tact, and liberal, intelligent management, and he is held in high estimation, both as a citizen and as a friend. his usefulness has been approved by long, earnest, and efficient service; and his liberality, by unostentatious but generous donations to the support of many laudable undertakings. [illustration: rodney wallace] in , mr. wallace entered into the business of manufacturing paper with three other gentlemen, under the name of the fitchburg paper company. one by one these gentlemen sold their respective interests to mr. wallace, and in he became sole owner of the entire property. from that time until the present day he has carried on the business under the old firm name of the fitchburg paper company. he has, since he became sole owner, made large additions of land to the property, rebuilt the original mill and filled it with the most improved machinery, erected a new mill with the latest improvements of every kind, and built additional store-houses, etc., until he has increased the producing capacity from two thousand five hundred pounds per day, to sixteen thousand pounds of hanging, card, and glazing paper per day of twenty-four hours. the mills, the ample store-houses, the out-buildings and dwelling-houses make up a little village, wanting nothing but distance from the city to claim a name of its own. for the direction of several monetary and corporate interests his services have been frequently sought. he has been president and director of the fitchburg gas-light company since ; a director of the fitchburg national bank since ; partner in the fitchburg woolen mill company, with the hon. wm. h. vose and hon. rufus s. frost, since ; a director of the putnam machine company since ; and has just been chosen director of the parkhill manufacturing company, recently organized for the manufacture of ginghams. for several years he has been a trustee of the fitchburg savings bank, a director of the fitchburg mutual fire insurance company, president of the fitchburg board of trade (four years), a director of the fitchburg railroad company, and a trustee of smith college, northampton, mass. though thoroughly patriotic and keenly alive to the importance of current issues, the magnitude of the private and corporate interests committed to his care would not permit the alienation of close personal attention from them to political matters, and whatever offices he has held have sought him, instead of his seeking them. he was a selectman in the years , , and , and a representative to the general court in , but declined a re-election the following year, on account of ill health. he was a member of the governor's council in and , and has just been re-elected to serve in the same position the present year. mr. wallace was married, on the st of december, , to sophia, youngest daughter of thomas ingalls, esq., of rindge. she died june , , leaving two sons. the eldest, herbert i., born february , , is a graduate of harvard college, class of ; and the younger, george r., obtained his education in the fitchburg high school, and a two years' special course in the institute of technology, boston. they are both now with their father. mr. wallace married, for his second wife, sophia f. bailey, of woodstock, vt., on the th day of december, . gen. simon g. griffin. by rev. a. b. crawford. gen. griffin was born in nelson, n. h., on the th of august, . his ancestors, as far back as they can be traced, were prominent men in the communities where they lived, gifted with more than ordinary intellect and force of character. his grandfather, samuel griffin, esq., came from methuen, mass., soon after the revolutionary war, married a daughter of rev. jacob foster, at that time the settled minister at "packersfield," now nelson, and took up his residence in that town. his superior abilities soon brought him forward to fill responsible positions, and for many years he represented the town in the legislature, and held the highest town offices. both he and the general's maternal grandfather, nehemiah wright, were patriot soldiers in the revolutionary army, and both were present at the battle of bunker hill. his father, nathan griffin, was equally gifted with the earlier progenitors of the race; but, losing his health in the prime of his manhood, the care of rearing the family of seven children fell upon the mother. her maiden name was sally wright,--one of the loveliest of her sex, both in person and character,--and the general owes much to her wise counsels and careful training. she died recently, at the age of ninety-four, in the full possession of her mental faculties. when but six years of age, in consequence of the illness of his father, the boy was sent to live for some years with his uncle, gen. samuel griffin, of roxbury, n. h. he, too, had a decided talent for military affairs, had been a volunteer in the war of , was prominent in the state militia, and was fond of repeating the military histories and descriptions of battles and campaigns that he had read, thus producing a deep and lasting impression on the mind of the lad. but never, after he was seven years old, could the boy be spared from work on the farm to attend school during summer. ten or twelve weeks each winter at the district school was all the "schooling" he ever had; but his leisure hours were spent in reading and study, and, in spite of his want of advantages, at eighteen years of age he began to teach with marked success. he had also read much history, and the lives of the great military chieftains of ancient and modern times; and thus by inheritance, and by his early training and reading, he had become unconsciously fitted for the special work before him, and had cultivated the patriotic spirit and ability for military affairs which have won for him an honorable place among the distinguished soldiers of our state, and made him, as confessed on all sides, one of the best volunteer officers in the war of the rebellion. continuing his studies while teaching winters and working on the farm summers, he mastered all the higher english branches usually taught in colleges, studied latin and french, and went through a large amount of miscellaneous reading. in he married ursula j., daughter of jason harris, esq., of nelson; but soon after the birth of a son, the following year, both mother and son died. returning to his former occupation of teaching, he took up the study of law, and while thus engaged represented his native town two years in the legislature, serving the second term as chairman of the committee on education. [illustration: s. g. griffin brig. & brevet maj. genl. u.s.a.] he was admitted to the bar in , and had just begun the practice of his profession at concord when the war broke out. throwing aside his law-books, he took up the study of military tactics, joined a company then forming at concord, under the first call for troops,--volunteering as a private, but when it came to organization was chosen captain,--and finding the quota of new hampshire full under the first call, immediately volunteered, with a large number of his men, for three years or the war, under the second call. recruiting his company to the maximum, he joined the second regiment at portsmouth, was mustered into the united states service in june, , and commanded his company at the first battle of bull run, handling it with coolness and bravery, although it was under a sharp fire, and lost twelve men, killed and wounded. it was the celebrated "goodwin rifles," co. b, d n. h. vols., armed with sharp's rifles, by the exertions of capt. griffin and his friends,--the only company sent from the state armed with breech-loaders. in he was promoted to be lieutenant-colonel of the th n. h. vols., and joined that regiment at its rendezvous in keene. the regiment was assigned to burnside's expedition to north carolina, and landed at hatteras island in january, . in march it removed to roanoke island, and on the th of april, lieut.-col. griffin was sent in command of an expedition, composed of six hundred men with five gunboats, to break up a rebel rendezvous near elizabeth city, n. c. landing at daybreak the next morning, he attacked and broke up the camp, capturing seventy-four prisoners, three hundred and fifty stands of arms, and a quantity of ammunition. on the th of april, at the battle of camden, n. c., he commanded his regiment, which formed the reserve. at the critical moment he moved it forward in line of battle, within short musket range, halted the line, gave the command to fire, and the regiment poured in a volley with wonderful coolness and precision. the enemy broke and fled, and the battle was won. on the d of april, , he was commissioned colonel of the regiment. assigned to reno's division, which was sent to aid pope in virginia, he commanded his regiment at the second bull run, where it was ordered, with its brigade, to attack the enemy in a piece of wood. forcing their way for some distance, they received a murderous fire in front and from the left flank and rear. thinking it must be friends firing into them by mistake, col. griffin took the colors and waved them in that direction, but the fire only came the sharper; and finding himself nearly surrounded by an immense force, and deserted by the other regiments, he gave the order to retreat, and brought off the remnant of his men, bearing the colors himself. at the battles of chantilly and south mountain he commanded his regiment; and at antietam, after one attempt to carry the bridge in front of burnside had been made and failed, col. griffin was ordered to make the assault with his own regiment and the second maryland. the charge was gallantly made, but the approaches were difficult, the enemy's fire destructive, and the column was checked; but re-enforcements were brought up, and the bridge was carried, and the sixth new hampshire, with col. griffin at its head, was the first to plant its colors on the heights beyond. for gallantry in this action he was recommended for promotion to brigadier-general. at fredericksburg he commanded his regiment, which again suffered severely in the assault on the heights. soon after that battle he obtained a leave of absence, and was married to margaret r. lamson, of keene, n. h., with whom he is still living, and by whom he has two sons. early in the year , the ninth corps was transferred to the department of ohio, and col. griffin was placed in command of the second brigade, second division, serving in kentucky. from there the first and second divisions were sent to aid grant at vicksburg; and, upon the fall of that city, sherman moved upon jackson, miss., the capital of the state, driving johnston before him. while approaching the town, col. griffin was at one time in command of the advanced line, consisting of three brigades, when a sharp attack was made by the enemy, at three o'clock in the morning, with a view to breaking our lines by surprise, but was repulsed with considerable loss. returning to kentucky, he took command of the second division, and marched over the cumberland mountains, joining gen. burnside at knoxville. several regiments of the corps had been left in kentucky, and col. griffin was sent to conduct them forward to knoxville. before they had started on the march, however, kentucky itself was threatened with raids, in consequence of our defeat at chickamauga, and col. griffin and his troops were retained for the defense of that state. while on that duty his regiment re-enlisted for three years, or the war; and in january, , he was ordered with it to covington, ky., where they were remustered into the united states service, and immediately proceeded to new hampshire on their thirty days' furlough, granted by the terms of re-enlistment. in the spring of , the ninth corps re-assembled at annapolis, under gen. burnside, and col. griffin was assigned to the command of the second brigade, second division. on the th of may the corps joined the army of the potomac, on the rapidan, and at two o'clock on the morning of the th, col. griffin was sent with his brigade to attack the enemy, and later in the day made a brilliant charge in repelling an attack made on the second corps. at spottsylvania court-house, may , gen. hancock made the assault at four o'clock in the morning. griffin occupied the right of the ninth corps, on the left of hancock, though some distance from him, with orders to support that officer. promptly at four o'clock griffin advanced with his brigade in line of battle, and made directly for the point of attack indicated by the sound of hancock's guns. as he approached, he galloped forward to see just where to make the connection. passing out of a wood into an open field, he found hancock's troops wild with excitement over their success, but with organizations completely broken up by the charge they had made. looking across a valley to a slope beyond, he saw a large force of rebels advancing rapidly to make a counter attack. hastening back to his command, he brought it forward into position just in time to take that advancing column in front and flank with a destructive fire. other brigades came up and formed on his left, and for five hours a terrific fire was kept up, and the furious onslaught of three confederate divisions was repulsed. the loss on each side was fearful, but hancock's corps, and possibly the army, was saved from being swept away, and a victory was won. by this gallant act col. griffin "won his star," being made a brigadier-general of volunteers by president lincoln, on the recommendation of generals burnside and grant, and confirmed by the senate without debate, reference, or a dissenting vote. on the th he made a reconnoissance with his brigade, and handled it with coolness and skill in the fights of north anna, tolopotomy creek, bethesda church, and cold harbor. on the arrival of the army in front of petersburg, june , he was placed in command of two brigades, and made a skillful attack on the enemy's advanced lines at daylight next morning, capturing one thousand prisoners, fifteen hundred stands of arms, four pieces of artillery, with caissons, horses, and ammunition, and opening the way into petersburg had supports been ready in time. at the battle of the "mine" he commanded his brigade, and did every thing that could be done in his place to insure success; also at the weldon railroad, poplar grove church, and hatcher's run. at the final breaking of the lines in front of petersburg, on the d of april, , after charging the enemy's picket line and capturing two hundred and forty-nine prisoners during the night previous, he formed his brigade near fort sedgwick, in column by regiments, with three companies of pioneers in front armed only with axes to cut away the _abatis_. just at daybreak, at a preconcerted signal, in connection with gen. hartranft on his right and col. curtin on his left, he led his column to the charge. nothing could exceed the coolness and intrepidity with which officers and men pressed forward under a terrific fire of grape, canister, and musketry; for our artillery had opened and given the enemy warning. tearing away the _abatis_, they dashed over the parapet, seized the guns, captured hundreds of prisoners, and held the line. the loss was frightful, but the backbone of the rebellion was broken; and when the news of the assault reached richmond, on that sunday morning, jefferson davis crept out of church and stole away, a fugitive; and petersburg and richmond were occupied by our troops next morning. for gallantry in that action gen. griffin was brevetted a major-general of volunteers, and succeeded to the command of the second division, ninth corps, holding that position till the close of the war, with the exception of a short time while he was president of an examining board of officers at washington. he joined in pursuit of the rebel forces, and his division formed a part of the column that encompassed lee and compelled him to surrender. returning with the army and encamping at alexandria, he led his division in the grand review, on the d of may; and when the last regiment of his command had been mustered out, he also, in august, , was mustered out of the service of the united states. gen. griffin's service had been a most honorable one. brave, able, and patriotic, he was always in demand at the front, and his service was of the most arduous kind. he took an active part in twenty-two great battles, besides being engaged in numberless smaller fights and skirmishes, and his troops were never under fire, or made a march of any importance, except with him to lead them. yet he never received a scratch, although he had seven ball-holes through his clothes, and had two horses killed and five wounded under him in action; and he never lost a day's duty from sickness,--the result, no doubt, of temperate habits. as an example of the severity of his service in grant's campaign of , he left alexandria with six regiments, reporting twenty-seven hundred fighting men. at the close of the campaign he had lost three thousand men, killed and wounded,--three hundred more than his whole number,--new regiments having been assigned to him, and the older ones filled up with recruits. at the close of the war the government appointed him a field officer in one of the regiments in the regular army; but he had no desire for the life of a soldier when his country no longer needed his services, and he declined the offer. in , , and , he represented keene in the new hampshire state legislature, serving the last two years as speaker of the house, which position he filled with marked ability, showing rare talent as a presiding officer. in january, , he presided over the republican state convention; and dartmouth college that year conferred on him the degree of master of arts, _causa honoris_. in he was nominated for congress by the republicans of the third district, but the opposition carried the state that year, and, although making a good run, he was defeated by a few votes. renominated in , he was again defeated by a small majority. the habits of study so diligently cultivated by gen. griffin in youth have never been laid aside, but are still kept up in the midst of an active and busy life, he being engaged in large enterprises in the south and west. as a public speaker he is able, graceful, and convincing, and his work always shows thorough preparation, correct taste, and sound judgment. in a book of garfield's speeches, with a short sketch of his life, published by a firm in st. louis, a few memorial addresses, selected as the best delivered in the country, are inserted as a supplement, and gen. griffin's, delivered at keene, and the same day at marlborough, is found among them. in his home, where he is cordially seconded by mrs. griffin, there is a tender and affectionate union of the members, a courteous hospitality, a library rich in choice books which are read and known, and all the comforts and enjoyments of a true new england home; and from that home abundant good works go out that make for the well-being of a community. [illustration: d. l. jewell] col. david lyman jewell. by j. n. mcclintock. the chief industry of the flourishing village of suncook is the manufacture of cotton cloth. the china, the webster, and the pembroke mills are three great establishments under one management, built on the banks of the suncook river, and operated principally by its power, where this class of goods is made. about these mills, which give steady employment to over fifteen hundred operatives, has grown up a substantial village, with fine public buildings, spacious stores, elegant private residences, and long blocks of neat tenement-houses, inhabited by a liberal and public-spirited class of citizens, and governed by a wise and judicious policy which renders this community comfortable, attractive, and law-abiding. the man to whose clear head and skillful hand is intrusted the management of this great corporation, of such vital importance to the village of suncook, is a genial gentleman of forty-five, col. david l. jewell, a brief outline of whose life it is my purpose to sketch. david lyman jewell, son of bradbury and lucinda (chapman) jewell, was born in tamworth, n. h., january , . in the midst of the grandest scenery of new england, under the shadows of the ossipee mountains, and in view of bold chocorua, our friend was ushered to this earthly pilgrimage. colonel jewell is a descendant of mark jewell, who was born in the mirth of devonshire, england, in the year , and died in sandwich, n. h., the th of february, . he descended from the same original stock as bishop john jewell of devonshire. mark jewell came to this country in , married, and located in durham this state; he was the father of three sons, mark, jr., bradbury, and john. mark. jr., was the first white man that settled in tamworth, in , on what is now called "stevenson's hill," removing soon after to "birch intervale," as known at the present time. he married ruth vittum, of sandwich, in ; they were the parents of sixteen children. he was prominent in all town affairs, and sometimes preached, and was familiarly called among his fellow-townsmen "elder" or "priest" jewell. bradbury, son of elder jewell, married mary chapman in , by whom he had two sons, bradbury and david. bradbury jewell, a pupil of samuel hidden, was a teacher of considerable note, and his memory is tenderly cherished to-day by many of his pupils throughout the state. while engaged in teaching he pursued a course of medical studies, and in , having completed them, collected his worldly goods and removed to newmarket, a place presenting a larger field for practice. there he commenced in earnest his chosen profession; but, being of a delicate constitution, the exposure incident to a physician's life soon told upon his limited strength; he was taken sick, and died "ere the sun of his life had reached its meridian," leaving his widow, with two little children, in indigent circumstances, to combat with a cold and selfish world. a wealthy merchant of the place, having no children, wished to adopt young david, offering to give him a college education and leave him heir to his worldly possessions; but with a mother's love for her offspring mrs. jewell refused the offer, and resolved to rear and educate her children as well as her limited means would allow. being a woman of undaunted spirit, she opened a boarding-house for factory operatives, when factory girls were the intelligent daughters of new england farmers, who regarded this new industry a most favorable opportunity for honorable employment. having brothers in massachusetts, and thinking to better sustain herself and children, mrs. jewell removed to newton upper falls, mass., following the same occupation there. in that village young jewell first attended school, the teacher of which was a former pupil of his father. to render his mother more substantial assistance than he could afford her by doing irksome chores, he went to work in the factory when but nine years of age, receiving for a day's work, from quarter of five in the morning until half past seven in the evening, the very munificent sum of sixteen cents a day, or one dollar a week. he worked nine months and attended school three, every year, until he was nearly thirteen years of age, when the close confinement was found detrimental to his health, and he was taken from the mill and placed on a farm. the next three years he passed in healthful, happy, out-door work. returning home from the farm strong, robust, and vigorous, he re-entered the mill, where he was variously occupied, becoming familiar with the operations of the numerous machines in each department, but more particularly those pertaining to the carding-room, where his step-father, thomas truesdell, was an overseer, learning as he pursued his work, gradually and insensibly, things that to-day are of incalculable benefit for the business in which he is now engaged. he little thought, however, when moving his stool from place to place in order to facilitate his labor, he would some day be at the head of similar works many times greater in magnitude than those in which he was then employed. his inherited mechanical taste developed by his life among machinery, and when he was seventeen years of age he gladly entered a machine-shop. here his ready perception of form rendered his work attractive and his improvement rapid. before completing his apprenticeship he felt keenly the want of a better education, and determined to obtain it. his exchequer was very low, but having the confidence of friends he readily obtained a loan, and in the spring of he entered the wesleyan academy at wilbraham, mass. the principal, after a casual examination, said: "well, you don't know much, do you?" being quick at repartee young jewell replied: "no, sir; if i did, i would not be here." this brief sip at the fountain of knowledge only increased his thirst for more, and in september of the same year he entered the state normal school at bridgewater, mass., under the regime of marshall conant, a life-long friend and counselor. mr. jewell from the first was a favorite among his classmates,--courteous, genial, pleasant in disposition, something careless withal; physically vigorous, and always the first at athletic sports when relieved from study. mathematics, of which he was very fond, and natural philosophy were his favorite branches of study, and free-hand drawing his delight, as slates, book-covers, and albums attested. while in school he made rapid advancement in knowledge, and graduated in the spring of , having acquired, as his diploma reads, "a very creditable degree of knowledge of the several branches taught therein. besides these attainments, mr. jewell possesses a tact and skill for rapid sketching and delineation which give life to his blackboard illustrations." to show the forethought possessed by him in a marked degree, before graduating he had secured a school to teach in new jersey, and the day after the closing exercises were over he started for his new field of labor. he taught with great success in new jersey and also in new york, some three years. one school of which he was principal numbered three hundred scholars, and employed five assistant teachers, most of whom were his seniors in years. like his father, he gained an enviable reputation as a teacher, and his credentials speak of him in the highest terms, as a competent, faithful, and pleasing instructor, and a most excellent disciplinarian. one superintendent of schools remarks: "he was the best teacher that has been employed in the town for thirty years." while engaged in teaching, mr. jewell pursued a course of study in engineering and surveying, and finally determined to follow engineering as a profession. he gave up school-teaching, left the "foreign shores of jersey" and entered the office of r. morris copeland and c. w. folsom, of boston. his first work was the resurvey of cambridgeport. he afterwards worked in dorchester and on narragansett bay. but this new occupation had just been engaged in when "the shot heard round the world" was fired on sumter, and the tocsin of war sounded the alarm. surveying, like all other business, came to a stand-still; the compass was changed for a musket, distances measured by the steady tramp of the soldiery, and the weary flagman became the lonely sentinel. about this time the owners of the pembroke mill and property connected therewith, in pembroke and allenstown, n. h., decided to increase their business by building a new mill twice the capacity of the one then owned by them. knowing mr. jewell to be a good draughtsman, having employed him during the construction of the pembroke mill, they again engaged him for like duties. consulting with their then resident agent, he prepared the required working plans and drawings for the webster mill. the work on the building was soon under way and rapidly pushed to completion. while thus engaged the agent at newton died, and the immediate care of the mills was given to mr. jewell until (as the treasurer said) he could find the right man. finishing his work at suncook, and having conducted the affairs of the company at newton in a very satisfactory manner, the treasurer tendered him the agency of the mills. in accepting the position, his career as agent began where, fifteen years before, he commenced the work that fitted him so thoroughly for the successful management of the same. the mills were in a bad condition, the machinery old, and "run down," and the owners impatient and anxious. nothing daunted, however, mr. jewell entered heartily into the business, making such changes that at the time he tendered his resignation he had doubled the production, and greatly improved the quality of the goods manufactured. looms built more than fifty years ago, and improved by mr. jewell, are still running and producing nearly as many yards per day, and of as good quality, as those made at the present time. these mills were run throughout the war, paying for cotton as high as one dollar a pound, and selling the cloth for thirty-five cents a yard. mr. jewell was very anxious to enlist during the exciting times of war, but was prevailed upon by the owners to continue in charge of their works, and by the entreaties of his wife, who was hopelessly ill, to remain at her side. the treasurer and part owner of the mills at newton upper falls was also treasurer and large owner of the mills at suncook. in the suncook company agitated the subject of enlarging their works by the addition of another mill, and in active operations were commenced upon the china mill, which was, when completed, the largest works of the kind contained under one roof in the state. mr. jewell again fulfilled the office of engineer and draughtsman. the company's agent at suncook, wishing to devote his time exclusively to the construction of the new mill, desired that mr. jewell come from newton several days each week to look after the manufacturing in the two mills. thus for more than two years he acted as agent at newton, also as superintendent of the webster and pembroke mills. in , before the china mill had fairly commenced operations, the agent resigned his position. mr. jewell, having at newton proved diligent, faithful, and capable, was appointed in his stead. resigning his position at newton he removed with his family to suncook, and assumed the management of the triumvirate corporation, june , . again he was obliged to go through nearly the same routine as at newton. the machinery, however, was more modern, but had been neglected, supplies scantily distributed, and the power was inadequate to the demand. with indomitable perseverance he has remedied the defects, by providing reservoirs, more thoroughly utilizing the water power, adding new and valuable improvements, putting in powerful steam apparatus capable of running during the most severe drought. he has increased the annual product from twelve million yards in to twenty-seven million yards in , with substantially the same machinery, showing what tireless perseverance and devotion to duty can accomplish. mr. jewell is one of the directors in the china savings bank, suncook. he is also a member of the new england cotton manufacturers' association, and of the new hampshire club. mr. jewell was honored by being appointed aide-de-camp, with the rank of colonel, on governor head's staff, and smilingly speaks of turning out _officially_ more times than any one of the other members. he is a member of the governor head staff association, an active member of the ancient and honorable artillery company of boston, a member of the amoskeag veterans of manchester, a member of the new hampshire veterans' association, and an honorary member of the old twelfth new hampshire regiment. he was elected captain of the jewell rifles, named in his honor, but graciously declined, and was made an honorary member. the masonic fraternity also claims him, being an active member of the "jewell" lodge, suncook, also named in his honor, and of the trinity royal arch chapter, horace chase council r. and s. m., and mount horeb commandry, concord, n. h. he is a member of the supreme council, having taken all the scottish rites up to the d degree, and is an active member of the massachusetts consistory s.'. p.'. r.'. s.'. d degree, boston, and a member of the connecticut river valley association. colonel jewell is a public-spirited citizen. to him suncook is largely indebted for its material advancement since his residence in this community. three times have his presence of mind and mechanical skill been the means of saving the village from entire destruction by fire. to him is the place indebted for its very effective water-works to guard against fires in the future. in happy combination with the great executive ability of the subject of our sketch, are a fine literary taste and decided artistic talent. the former has opportunity for gratification in a library rich in standard works, and the latter is attested by the exterior architectural decorations and interior embellishments that beautify his home. in private life, col. jewell is genial, affable and approachable. in religious thought he affiliates with the congregationalists; but the sabbath is to him a day of rest. mr. jewell married, in august, , mary a. grover, daughter of ephraim grover, of newton, mass. she died october , . he was married the second time, may , , to ella louise sumner, daughter of lewis sumner, of needham, mass. mr. jewell has kept aloof from politics, but is a good republican; and, should he be the standard-bearer of the party in any future contest, he could probably lead his forces to victory. [illustration: chas. m. murphy] hon. charles m. murphy. by john b. stevens, jr. we live in days when the success of men apparently born to lives of grinding toil is a pregnant sign of the times. such opportunities are now open to him who has a good order of ability, with high health and spirits, who has all his wits about him, and feels the circulation of his blood and the motions of his heart, that the lack of early advantages forms no barrier to success. a striking illustration of the truth of these statements is exhibited in the following sketch. charles m. murphy, son of john and mary m. (meader) murphy, was born in alton, belknap county, n. h., november , . in his parents moved to barnstead, n. h., and settled upon the tasker farm at the south end of the town. here the child grew in stature, and filled out and braced his frame by hard manual labor. scanty record is left of these years of severe work and continuous struggle; but there is little doubt that the discipline developed an indomitable will and sturdy self-reliance--which alone enable poor men's children to grapple with the world--that under more favorable circumstances might never have shown their full capacity of force and tenacity. again, it is widely believed--and nowhere more strongly than in opulent cities and busy marts--that a boy is better bred on a farm, in close contact with the ground, than elsewhere. he is quite as likely to be generous, brave, humane, honest, and straightforward, as his city-born contemporary; while, as to self-dependence, strength, and stamina, he ordinarily has a great advantage over his rival. he attended the district school, during the winter terms, until of an age suitable to leave the parental care, when he enjoyed for two terms the advantages of the academy at norwich, vt. at school it appears that he was diligent and ambitious, and, from his great physical strength and natural cheerfulness of temperament, very active in all athletic exercises. then began the severe and practical duties of life; and, being the oldest of four boys, for some years he assisted his father in educating and advancing the interests of his brothers. john e. murphy became a prominent dentist, practicing in pittsfield, n. h., and marblehead, mass., and died at the early age of thirty-five. frank murphy, m. d., a graduate of dartmouth college, practiced his profession in strafford and northwood; but died in the very flush and promise of life, at the age of twenty-nine. albert warren murphy, d. d. s., a graduate of the philadelphia dental college, after one year's practice in boston, removed, in , to paris, france, where his professional labors brought him both credit and profit. at the expiration of two years, an active interest in spanish affairs and a desire to test the business advantages of the country led him to spain. he soon settled in madrid, and in was appointed dentist to the royal court. relieved from his generous labors at home, the subject of our sketch was married, at the age of twenty-two, to sabrina t. clark, daughter of isaac clark, esq., of barnstead, n. h., and for six months tried independent farming; but, though fully aware what a life full of joy and beauty and inspiration is that of the country, and not destitute of a natural taste for rural pursuits, at the expiration of the time named he surrendered his acres to his father, and with less than one hundred and fifty dollars moved to dover and began the study of dentistry with dr. jefferson smith. to this business he brought the same will power and ability to prolong the hours of labor which marked his early life, and in two years was pronounced competent to practice in his new calling. dr. smith soon died, and the recently emancipated student not only succeeded very largely to his practice, but enlarged and built upon it till a reputation and an income were secured which made travel and study easy and profitable. for eighteen years this patient, hopeful man labored and experimented, adding each season to his knowledge and skill, losing hardly a day except while studying for his degree at the boston dental college. in , as the result of long and careful study of the business interests of the country, he withdrew entirely from his profession and embarked his all in the precarious occupation of a broker. here his coolness, sagacity, and equableness of temper found their proper field, and such a measure of success has followed as falls to the lot of few men not bred from youth amid the fluctuations of the stock market. in his new occupation he is indefatigable in procuring information, and alike keen in discerning new traits in men and shrewd in contrasting them with those which are more common and better known. very naturally the subject of our sketch took a lively interest in political affairs upon becoming of age. a strong and devoted republican, in his adopted city his influence in local politics has been felt for years. he was a member of the state house of representatives in and ; attached to the staff of gov. straw; appointed and confirmed as consul to moscow--honor declined; a member of the chicago convention in , where he stoutly supported blaine so long as a ray of hope remained; president of the dover five cent savings bank--from a state of torpor and weakness it has grown under his guiding hand into activity and strength; elected mayor of the city of dover in , and recently chosen for another term; recipient of the honorary degree of a. b. from lewis college in . through all his mature life, col. murphy has been a busy man. but the energetic and successful are not exempt from the sorrows common to humanity. three children, who, if spared, might put off to a distant day the weariness that inevitably comes with advancing years, died while young; and finally the partner of all his vicissitudes bade him a final adieu. his second wife, mrs. eliza t. hanson, widow of the late john t. hanson, of dover, dispenses a gracious hospitality in the spacious and richly furnished cushing-street mansion. in closing we may add, col. murphy combines qualities which are generally found apart,--a love for work amounting to dedication, and a readiness to assist the unfortunate which seems ingrained. his abode is full of cheerfulness. no one comes there who does not receive a hearty welcome; no one departs without feeling as if leaving a home. [illustration: hy. c. sherburne] henry c. sherburne. henry clay sherburne, son of reuben r. and sally (rackleyft staples) sherburne, was born in charlestown, mass., december , . his father was a native of pelham and his mother of newmarket; so, although born outside the limits of the state, he is wholly of new hampshire lineage. his early education, obtained in the public schools of boston, terminated when he was fifteen years of age, at which time he entered the employ of holbrook & tappan, hardware dealers, in whose store he remained three years. at the age of eighteen years he gained his first experience in railroad business, serving as a clerk in the freight department of the boston & lowell railroad, under his father, who was agent of the upper roads doing business with that corporation. accepting a clerkship in the office of the concord railroad, he removed to concord in . after a year's service with the concord railroad, he entered the employ of the concord & claremont railroad, where he remained until , a period of thirteen years. in july, , after the adjournment of the legislature of that year, of which he was a member from ward five, concord, he removed to boston, entering into the business of railroad supplies in partnership with his brother, charles w. sherburne. he remained there until march, , when he was elected president and a director of the northern railroad. during his residence in boston, in , he was elected president of the new york & boston despatch express company, which position he still holds. in the summer of he was elected president and a director of the concord & claremont and sullivan railroads, and subsequently a director of the concord railroad. in september, , he was chosen general manager of the boston, lowell, and concord railroads, under the business contracts between those roads. in he was sole trustee of the hinkley locomotive-works, upon the failure of that company, and operated the works for about two years. he is now a resident of ward four, concord. he has a wife, and one son--henry a. sherburne, eleven years of age. zimri s. wallingford. by hon. joshua g. hall. famous as the small farming towns of new hampshire have been in producing men eminent in the learned professions, they have not been less prolific in furnishing young men who have achieved distinction and borne great sway in what are recognized as the more practical business pursuits. inventors, constructors, skilled artisans, the men who have taken the lead in developing our manufacturing interests and bringing toward perfection intricate processes, those who have increased the volume of trade at home and abroad, and have become merchant princes, have come, as a rule, from the plain farm-houses and common schools of our thousand hillsides. the stern virtues, the rigid frugality, and the unflagging industry always insisted on in the home life, supplemented by the limited but intensely practical learning gained in the district school, have furnished successive generations of young men compact, firm, and robust in their whole make-up, strong of body, clear and vigorous of mind, the whole impress and mold of their moral natures in harmony with right doing. these men have been a permeating force for good through all classes of our population, and towers of strength in our national life. the life of the subject of this sketch is a well rounded example of such young men. zimri scates wallingford, the son of samuel and sallie (wooster) wallingford, was born in milton, in the county of strafford, october , . nicholas wallington, who came, when a boy, in the ship "confidence," of london, to boston in the year , settled in newbury, mass., where he married, august , , sarah, daughter of henry and bridget travis, who was born in . he was captured on a sea-voyage, and never returned; and his estate was settled in . with his children (of whom he had eight), the surname became _wallingford_. john wallingford, son of the emigrant nicholas, born in , married mary, daughter of judge john and mary tuttle, of dover, n. h.; but he lived in that part of rowley, mass., now known as bradford. he had seven children; one of these was hon. thomas wallingford, of that part of ancient dover afterwards somersworth, and now known as rollinsford, who was one of the wealthiest and most eminent men of the province, associate justice of the supreme court from until his death, which took place at portsmouth, august , . the eldest son of john wallingford, and grandson of the emigrant, was john wallingford, born december , , settled in rochester, n. h., and became an extensive land-owner. his will, dated october , , was proved january , . his son, peter wallingford, who inherited the homestead and other land in rochester (then including milton), made his will april , , which was proved august , . his son, david wallingford, settled upon the lands in milton, then a wilderness. he died in , being the father of samuel wallingford, who was father of zimri s. [illustration: z. s. wallingford] upon his mother's side, mr. wallingford is descended from rev. william worcester, the first minister of the church in salisbury, mass., and ancestor of the eminent new england family of that name or its equivalent, _wooster_. lydia wooster, great-aunt of mr. wallingford, was the wife of gen. john sullivan of durham, major-general in the army of the revolution, and the first governor of the state of new hampshire; she was mother of hon. george sullivan of exeter, who was attorney-general of this state for thirty years. in the father of mr. wallingford died, leaving his widow with four children, of which this son, then nine years of age, was the eldest. at the age of twelve he commenced learning the trade of a country blacksmith. when he had wrought for his master as his boyish strength would allow for two years, he determined not to be content with being simply a blacksmith, and entered the machine-shop of the great falls manufacturing company at great falls, n. h., and served a full apprenticeship at machine-building there, in maryland, virginia, and in the city of philadelphia. august , , mr. wallingford married alta l. g. hilliard, daughter of rev. joseph hilliard, pastor of the congregational church in berwick, maine, from to . their children have been ( ) john o. wallingford, who was sergeant-major, and became lieutenant in the fifteenth n. h. volunteers, in the war of the rebellion; was severely wounded in the assault on port hudson; and was afterwards captain in the eighteenth n. h., an officer of great merit, whose death at his home in dover, march , , was the result of disease contracted in his war service. ( ) mary c., now wife of sidney a., phillips esq., counselor-at-law in framingham, mass.; ( ) julia, residing with her parents. in , mr. wallingford entered the employ of the cocheco manufacturing company, dover, n. h., as master machine-builder, and remained in that capacity until . during that period, mr. wallingford and a partner, by contract, constructed new machinery, cards, looms, dressing-frames, and nearly everything necessary for the re-equipment of the mills. the then new and large mill at salmon falls was also supplied with the new machinery necessary, in the same manner. in he became superintendent of the company's mills, under the then agent, captain moses paul, and upon the death of that gentleman, was, on the first day of august, , appointed agent of the company. he has continued to fill that office to the present time. taking into account the great social and public influence, as well as the recognized ability with which his predecessor had for many years administered the affairs of the cocheco company, the magnitude of its operations, the force and grasp of mind necessary to carry on its affairs successfully, it was evident to all familiar with the situation upon the death of captain paul, that no ordinary man could occupy the place with credit to himself, or to the respect of the public, or the satisfaction of the corporation. fully conscious of the responsibility assumed, and full of the determination which an ardent nature is capable of, not only to maintain the reputation of his company but to extend its operations and raise the standard of its manufactured goods, it is not overstating the fact to say that in the last twenty years few manufacturing companies have made greater strides in the extent of their works, in the quality of their goods, or their reputation in the great markets, than has the cocheco under the management of mr. wallingford. always strong financially, its wheels have never, during that time, been idle in any season of panic or monetary depression. honorable, and ever generous to all its employes, its machinery has never stopped for a day at the demand of any organized strike. the pride, as well as the main business interest of dover, mr. wallingford has always made his company popular with the people; its word proverbially is as good as its bond. the importance of the work is seen in the fact that the mills were, when mr. wallingford took charge, of a so-called capacity of fifty-seven thousand spindles; it is now one hundred and twenty thousand; and the reputation of the goods is world-wide. twelve hundred operatives are on the books of his charge. to a stranger to the home life of dover these results seem the great life-work of mr. wallingford; but such an one, in making up his estimate, will fail to do justice to some of the elements of character which have, by skillful adaptation, contributed to so great success. to one so observing, the marked traits of the individual are lost sight of in the results of his career. to those only who are personally familiar with the individual are the real elements of success apparent. of course, without the strong common sense and good judgment which we sum up as "business sagacity," mr. wallingford's successes would have been failures; but, to one familiar with his daily life for a score of years, it is apparent that the crowning excellence of his life, and the power which has supplemented his mental force and rounded out his life, have been his stern moral sense. perhaps the most noticeable trait in his character from childhood has been his love of justice and right, and his hatred of wrong and injustice in all its forms. under such a man, no employe, no matter how humble his position, could be deprived of his just consideration; no interest of his corporation could be allowed to ask from the public authorities any indulgence or advantage not fairly to be accorded to the smallest tax-payer. had he gone no farther than to insist on this exact counterpoise of right and interest, as between employer and employe, and between the interest represented by him and the public interest, his course would have stood out in marked contrast with the conduct of too many clothed with the brief authority of corporate power. had this strict observance of the relative rights of all concerned been as nicely regarded by associated capital generally as it has been by the cocheco company under the management of mr. wallingford and his lamented predecessor, no "brotherhood" for the protection of labor, no "strikes" organized and pushed to bring too exacting employers to their senses and to an observance of the common rights of humanity, would have had an existence, and none would have had occasion to view with jealous eye the apprehended encroachment of corporate power on private right. but while so insisting on justice in everything, no man has a kindlier vein of character, or a warmer sympathy for deserving objects of charity. impulsive, naturally, no distressed individual or deserving cause appeals to him in vain, or long awaits the open hand of a cheerful giver. to a man so endowed by nature, so grounded in right principles, and so delighting in the exercise of a warm christian charity, we may naturally expect the result that we see in this man's life,--success in his undertakings, the high regard of all who know him, and the kindliest relations between the community at large and the important private interests represented by him in his official capacity. fifty years ago, when the subject of this sketch, a mere child, was leaving his widowed mother's side to learn his trade, the public mind was just beginning to be aroused from its long lethargy to a consideration of the abolition of slavery in the united states. the sleep of men over the subject had been long, and their consciences seem hardly to have suffered a disturbing dream. church as well as state was a participator in the system, and with unbecoming haste rose up to put beyond its fellowship and pale the first agitators of emancipation. garrison had just been released, through the kindness of arthur tappan, from an imprisonment of forty-nine days in baltimore jail, for saying in a newspaper that the taking of a cargo of negro slaves from baltimore to new orleans was an act of "domestic piracy," and was issuing the first number of the _liberator_, taking for his motto, "my country is the world, my countrymen are all mankind;" and declaring, "i am in earnest, i will not equivocate, i will not excuse, i will not retreat a single inch, i will be heard." the agitation of the abolition of slavery, which was to end only with emancipation, had thus begun. the discussion found its way into the public prints, and among the thinking circles of all rural new england. the blacksmith's apprentice read what the newspapers had to say, and listened to the neighborhood discussions on the great question. his sense of justice and humanity was aroused, and he adopted the motto and declaration of purpose as announced by garrison; and from early youth till the time when lincoln's proclamation assured the full success of the object aimed at, mr. wallingford was the earnest friend of the slave and the active promoter of all schemes looking to his emancipation. with garrison, phillips, parker, douglas, rogers, and the other leading anti-slavery men, he was a hearty co-worker, and for years on terms of warm personal friendship. during the winter of - , hon. jeremiah clemens of alabama made a speech in the united states senate, in which he claimed that northern mechanics and laborers stood upon a level with southern slaves, and that the lot of the latter was in fact envious when compared with that of the former classes. this speech at once called out from hon. john p. hale, then a member of the senate, a reply in keeping with the demands of the occasion and with the great powers of mr. hale as an orator. soon after, a meeting of the mechanics of dover was held, at which mr. wallingford presided, and at which resolutions expressing the feelings of the meeting toward mr. clemens's speech were passed, and a copy furnished to that gentleman by mr. wallingford. upon the receipt of these resolutions, senator clemens published in the _new york herald_ a letter addressed to mr. wallingford, propounding ten questions. these questions were framed, evidently, with the design, not so much of getting information about the actual condition of the workingmen of the free states as to draw from mr. wallingford some material that could be turned to the disadvantage of the system of free labor. mr. wallingford replied through the press, february , , in a letter which at once answered the impulsive and haughty "owner of men," and triumphantly vindicated our system of free labor. for directness of reply, density, and clearness of style, few published letters have equaled it. it must have afforded mr. clemens material for reflection, and it is not known that he afterwards assailed the workingmen of the nation. from the formation of the republican party, mr. wallingford has been one of its active supporters. though no man has been more decided in his political convictions, or more frank in giving expression to them, no one has been more tolerant of the opinions of others, or more scrupulous in his methods of political warfare. despising the tricks of the mere partisan, and abhorring politics as a trade, he has always been content to rest the success of his party on an open, free discussion of the issues involved. not deeming it consistent with his obligations to his company to spend his time in the public service, he has refused to accede to the repeated propositions of his political friends to support him for important official positions; but he was a member of the constitutional constitution of , and presidential elector for , casting his vote for hayes and wheeler. he is and has been for years, president of the savings bank for the county of strafford, a director of the strafford national bank, president of the dover library association, and a director in the dover & winnipesaukee railroad. in his religious belief mr. wallingford is a unitarian, and an active member of the unitarian society in dover. general walter harriman. by rev. s. c. beane. the name of no new hampshire man of the present generation is more broadly known than that of walter harriman. his distinguished services to the state, both in the legislature and in the executive chair; his honorable service as an officer of the union army; the important trusts he has held at the hands of one and another of our national administrations; and, not least, his brilliant gifts as an orator, which have made him always welcome to the lyceum platform and have caused him to be widely and eagerly sought for in every important election campaign for many years,--combine to make him one of the most conspicuous men in our commonwealth. the harriman family is of english origin. rev. ezekiel rogers, a man of eminence in the church, was born in yorkshire, england, in . he graduated at the university of cambridge, in . becoming a dissenter from the church of england, after twenty-five years of faithful service, his ministerial functions were suspended. he says of himself: "for refusing to read that accursed book that allowed sports on god's holy sabbath, i was suspended, and by it and other sad signs driven, with many of my hearers, into new england." this stanch puritan arrived on these shores in . in his devoted flock there was an orphan lad, sixteen years of age, named leonard harriman, and from this youthful adventurer the subject of our sketch descended, being of the seventh generation. rogers selected for his colony an unoccupied tract of country between salem and newburyport, mass., to which he gave the name of rowley, that being the name of the parish in yorkshire to which he had long ministered. the oldest son of leonard harriman was massacred, with ninety of his comrades,--"the flower of essex county,"--in king philip's war, september , , at bloody brook. the great-grandfather of walter harriman saw eight years of hard service in the french and revolutionary wars. his grandfather settled in the wilds of warner, at the foot of the mink hills, but lost his life, by an accident, at the early age of twenty-eight. his father, the late benjamin e. harriman, was a man of character and influence through an honorable life. he reared a large family at the ancestral home in warner, where the subject of our sketch, being the third son, was born april , . muscle and intellect and the heroic virtues can have no better nursery than the rugged farm-life of new england, and the warner homestead was a challenge and stimulus to the qualities that were needed in the future man of affairs. this child of the third generation that had occupied the same house and tilled the same soil, grew up with a stalwart physical organization and a fine loyalty to his native town, a deep interest in its rude history and traditions, and a sympathy with the common people, which in turn made him a favorite with all. to this day there is to him no spot, save his present home, to be compared with his birthplace, and there are no people so interesting and endeared as his old neighbors in the rugged hill-town. he has recently written a history of warner, which is regarded as "one of the most systematic, comprehensive, and generally interesting works of the kind yet given to the public in the state." the harriman home still remains in the possession of the family, and, though the ex-governor now resides in concord, he spends many a day in every year amidst the old familiar scenes. his "schooling" was obtained at the harriman district school, and at the academy in the adjoining town of hopkinton. [illustration: walter harriman] when hardly more than a boy, he made a successful trial of the excellent self-discipline of school-teaching, and at different times taught in new hampshire, vermont, massachusetts, and new jersey. while in the latter state, at the age of twenty-two, he became deeply interested in the principles of liberal christianity (the form of religious faith which he has steadfastly held to this day), and occasionally wrote sermons, which were well received from the pulpit, and some of which found their way into print. it was certain from his early youth that nature designed him for a public speaker, the rare oratorical gifts which afterwards distinguished him having shown themselves gradually and prophetically in the district school-house and the village academy. this tentative experience in preaching, undertaken of his own motion and without conferring with flesh and blood, resulted in his settlement, in , over the universalist church in harvard, mass., where he remained in active service four years. returning now to warner, and soon leaving the pulpit altogether, he became the senior partner in trade with john s. pillsbury, late governor of minnesota,--probably the only instance in our history where two young business partners in a retired country town have afterwards become the chief executives of different states. in , mr. harriman was elected by his townsmen to the new hampshire house of representatives, where he almost immediately became prominent as a leader in debate on the democratic side. of his record as a party man little need to be said, except that from first to last, and whatever his affiliations, he has shown great independence in espousing measures and principles which commended themselves to his judgment and conscience, even when it put him in a minority with his political associates. in his first legislative term, on the question of commuting the death sentence of a woman who was sentenced to be hung for murder, he not only advocated such commutation, but was a leader in the movement for the abolition of capital punishment altogether, to which purpose he has ever since stood committed. in the legislature of , he was the leading advocate of the homestead exemption law, at which time a resolution was adopted, submitting the question to the people. the voters of the state gave their approval at the next march election, and in the following june the act was consummated. no legislature has dared to repeal it, and the foresight and courage of its authors and earliest advocates have been so approved by thirty years of experience that it is doubtful if a single citizen can be found to-day who would desire to undo their work. it was no accident or trifling smartness that could give a man prominence in those two legislatures of a third of a century ago. among the men of marked ability, now deceased, who held seats in those years, were horton d. walker, samuel h. ayer, lemuel n. pattee, edmund parker, samuel lee, john preston, william haile, richard jenness, william p. weeks, thomas e. sawyer, wm. h. y. hackett, nathaniel b. baker, charles f. gove, thomas m. edwards, josiah quincy, and scores of others, now living, of equal merit. in this galaxy of brilliant minds, it is no exaggeration to say that, young as he was, mr. harriman was an honored peer in legislative duty and debate. besides the two years named, he represented warner again in the house in , when he was his party's candidate for speaker. he also represented district no. in the state senate in and . in and he held the responsible office of state treasurer. appointed in , by the president of the united states, on a board of commissioners (with ex-congressman james h. relfe of missouri, and col. wm. spencer of ohio), to classify and appraise indian lands in kansas, he spent a year of official service in that inviting territory, then turbulent with ruffianism. border raids, burnings, and murder were daily occurrences. but the duties of this office were faithfully attended to, and no breath of complaint was overheard against the delicate work of this board. during the reign of that un-american political heresy, popularly called know-nothingism, in , , and , mr. harriman was its firm and unyielding enemy. in a discussion of this question with hon. cyrus barton at loudon center, mr. harriman had closed his first speech, and mr. barton had just begun a reply, when he dropped dead on the platform,--a tragedy which lingers sadly in the memory of his friendly antagonist of that day. the outbreak of the civil war began an era in the life of every public man in the nation. it projected issues which made party allegiance a secondary affair. it sent many honest and earnest men across the party lines, while some of our best citizens simply took their stand for the time being outside all political folds, independent, and ready for whatever calls the exigencies of the country might give forth. in that fateful spring of , mr. harriman became the editor and one of the proprietors of the _weekly union_ at manchester, which heartily espoused the war policy of mr. lincoln's administration for the preservation of the republic, and thus found himself the leader and spokesman of what were known as the "war democrats." he was placed in nomination as a candidate for governor of the state, at a large mass convention of this class of voters, held at manchester in february, , and this movement resulted in defeating a choice by the people and throwing the election into the legislature. no man uttered braver or more eloquent words for the union cause than mr. harriman, and his tongue and pen were an important element in the rousing of the citizens of new hampshire to the graver duties of the hour. in august, , he was made colonel of the eleventh new hampshire regiment of volunteers. he led this regiment to the field, and was at its head most of the time until the close of the war, except the four months, from may to september, , when he was an inmate of confederate prisons. with some other captured union officers, he was, for seven weeks of this time, imprisoned in that part of charleston, s. c, which was most exposed to the fire of the union guns from morris island, but providentially, though that part of the doomed city was destroyed, no harm came to him from the guns of his fellow-loyalists. the first set battle in which the eleventh regiment bore a part was that of fredericksburg, in december, , when, with unflinching courage, col. harriman and his men faced the dreadful carnage of that long day before marye's height, less than three months after their arrival in the field. the loss of the regiment in this engagement was terrific. passing over much (for want of space) that is thrilling and praiseworthy, we find the eleventh under their colonel, at the front, in the battle of the wilderness, may , , when they made a daring and stubborn onset on the confederate intrenchments, carrying before them two successive lines of the enemy's works. but among the five thousand union men that were captured in that bloody engagement, the commander of the eleventh n. h. was included. col. harriman and the survivors of his charge were present at the final grapple of the war before petersburg, and on the d day of april, , he led a brigade of nine large regiments (a force three times as great as the whole american army at bunker hill) into that fated city, on the heels of lee's fleeing command. the war was now virtually ended, the surrender of lee at appomattox followed six days afterwards, and the eleventh regiment, of proud and honorable record, was mustered out of service in the following june. their commander was appointed brigadier-general u. s. v., by brevet, "for gallant conduct during the war," to date from march , . on his arrival home, at the close of the war, gen. harriman was elected to the office of secretary of state, by the legislature then in session, and he at once entered upon the duties of the office, which he held two years, and until his promotion to the gubernatorial chair. in the large republican convention, consisting of six hundred and seventy-five delegates, and held at concord in january, , he was nominated, on the first ballot, as candidate for governor of the state. one of the most salient and memorable incidents connected with this period was the joint canvass made, by amicable arrangement, between gen. harriman and the hon. john g. sinclair, the democratic candidate. such canvasses are not uncommon in the west and south; but in new england, and with two men of such forensic ability as these distinguished nominees possessed, it was an event fraught with great popular interest, and which drew forth, possibly, the most earnest and eloquent discussions of questions to which a new england people has ever listened. many flattering notices were given of these discussions. there were thirteen in all. commenting on one of the number, a leading newspaper said of gen. harriman: "soaring above all petty personal allusions, he held the audience as if spell-bound, and made all his hearers, for the time being, lovers of the whole country,--of the union, of liberty, and independence throughout the world. he spoke not as a politician, but as a patriot, a statesman, a philanthropist, and his noble sentiments had such power of conviction that it was impossible to ward off the results by argument." his election followed by a decisive majority. the campaign of occurred at a time when a strong reaction was setting against the republican party throughout the country. fresh candidates for the presidency were about to be nominated; the impeachment of andrew johnson was in progress; military rule had been established in the south; utter financial ruin was hotly foretold; and the dominant party was suffering crushing reverses in many of the leading states. to add to the discouragements of this party in new hampshire, when the municipal elections came on in december, portsmouth and manchester rolled up adverse majorities, and the tide was tending strongly in one direction. encouraged by such promising signs, the democratic party held its state convention at the early day of the th of november. their old and tried war-horse, john g. sinclair, was again put upon the track, and his election was, by the party, deemed a foregone conclusion. a long and fierce contest ensued. gov. harriman met his fellow-citizens, face to face, in every section of the state. he addressed immense meetings, holding one every secular day for six weeks, and failing to meet no appointment on account of weariness, storms, or any other cause. he was triumphantly re-elected, obtaining a larger vote than any candidate for office had ever before received in new hampshire. of gov. harriman's administration of the affairs of the state, in its principal features, with the exacting duties and the keen prudence required of the chief executive in those days of large indebtedness, unbalanced accounts, and new legislation to meet the new and unprecedented demands, his constituents seem to have been hearty and unanimous in their approval. their feelings may be summed up and expressed in the words of the _boston journal_, when it said: "the administration of gov. harriman will take rank among the best that new hampshire has ever had." general harriman was appointed naval officer of the port of boston, by president grant, in april, , which office he accepted after the expiration of his gubernatorial term in june following. he was re-appointed in , for a term of four years. the affairs of this office were conducted in such manner as to preclude any word of criticism. gen. harriman has engaged in political canvasses repeatedly in most of the northern states, and in he participated extensively in the state campaign in north carolina. in this latter canvass, the key-note of the national campaign was pitched, and the result of the desperate contest there in august made the re-election of gen. grant in november a certainty. thousands have warmly testified to the rare oratorical powers of the subject of this sketch, the _meriden_ (conn.) _recorder_ being one of the number. that paper says of him: "as a platform speaker, we never heard his equal. his delivery is fine, his logic clear as crystal, his manner easy and natural, and his physical force tremendous. with a voice clear and distinct as a trumpet, of immense compass, volume, and power, his influence over an audience is complete. he affects nothing, but proceeds at once to the work in hand, and from the very outset carries his hearers with him, rising, at times, with the inspiration of his theme, to the loftiest flights of eloquence." gov. harriman has been twice married; first, in , to miss apphia k., daughter of capt. stephen hoyt, of warner, who died two years afterwards; and again in , to his present wife, miss almira r. andrews. by the latter marriage he has had three children. georgia, the only daughter, is the wife of joseph r. leeson, an enterprising importer of boston. walter channing, the oldest son, married miss mabel perkins, of portsmouth. he is a promising and successful lawyer, living at exeter, and solicitor of rockingham county. the younger son, benjamin e. having prepared himself for the medical profession at some of the best schools in the land, took his degree at dartmouth college in , and began practice in manchester. but his health soon failing, after patient and determined efforts for its recovery, and after attempting in another place to resume his professional work, he died at his father's home in concord, in may, , lamented, not only by his own family, but by a large circle of devoted and enthusiastic friends. his wife, so early bereaved, was miss jessie b., only daughter of the late col. isaac w. farmer, of manchester. a biographical paper read before the n. h. medical society, by dr. a. h. crosby (a physician of wide reputation), and printed, portrays the character of dr. harriman in generous outline, and fine and tender tinting, and from it we know that he was a young man of high integrity, large capacities for friendship, and superior equipment for his life-work. there are two grandsons to represent the family, one in the home of each of the governor's surviving children. the home of gov. harriman in concord, where he has now lived since , is a delightful one, and no one enjoys it with more satisfaction than he himself. a great traveler, by the necessities of his public career, he has a mastering fondness for quiet domestic life, and never are his rich stores of experience, his knowledge of men, and his fine sense of humor with its exhaustless fund of material, more ready at his command than of an evening in his own house. he writes for various of the standard publications of new england, and no time hangs wearisome on his mind. he wears the honorary degree of a. m., conferred by dartmouth college in . a good citizen and neighbor, a delightful companion, free and familiar and sympathetic with all persons, his intellectual power now at high noon, and never better able to serve his time than now, it would seem that many years of useful activity are before him ere the restful evening descends. [illustration: sam m wheeler] hon. samuel metcalf wheeler. hon. samuel metcalf wheeler was born in newport, n. h., may , . he was the only son--having one sister--of albira and melinda (metcalf) wheeler, who came of families of remarkably vigorous constitution and decided longevity; and from his ancestry, doubtless, mr. wheeler inherits the intellectual and physical ability which has made him so careful in breadth of study, and so successful as a legal adviser at the bar and in legislative debate and action. mr. wheeler's early education was obtained in the seminary at claremont, n. h., the military academy at windsor, vt., at newbury seminary, vt., and in private instruction in the languages. in he entered upon the study of law in the office of walker & slade, at royalton, vt.; seven months later he entered that of tracy & converse at woodstock, vt., where he remained two years and a half; and for some months afterwards he read law with hon. ralph metcalf, an ex-governor of new hampshire, from whose office he was admitted to the bar in . he commenced practice in newport, where he remained about a year. the next four or five years he practiced in fisherville, and in he removed to dover, where he at once entered upon a large and successful practice, and where he still remains. at first he was in business connection with john h. wiggin. esq., which lasted for two years. subsequently, in , he associated with himself hon. joshua g. hall, then commencing practice, and the law firm of "wheeler & hall" continued for eight years. since that time. mr. wheeler, while having the assistance made necessary by his practice, has remained without a partner. as a lawyer, mr. wheeler has long been recognized as a leader. his natural abilities, strengthened and brightened by patient study, which has made him familiar with the law and precedents, and his learning, supplemented by the power to see all the features of a case and a conscientious devotion to the interest of his client, make him a safe adviser. his particular success, however, has undoubtedly been in the trial of jury causes, where his extensive study, quickness of perception, tact, and forensic ability, and a habit of thought which grasps particulars into a whole, tending to one strong impression upon listeners, have been the elements which have made him very strong. mr. wheeler was from the first one of the pillars of republican strength in strafford county; and when the party in dover has needed some one to represent it with conspicuous ability it has very often called upon him. he represented that city in the legislature in , , , , and , and in was a member of the constitutional convention of new hampshire. in the house, he was on the judiciary committee in , and its chairman in , also chairman of the finance committee in ; and in the constitutional convention was chairman of one of the four only leading committees, vis., that on the bill of rights. in he was chosen speaker of the house, receiving nearly all the votes of his party in caucus, and much beyond his party vote in the house. he was rechosen in , again receiving more than the vote of his party. as a member of the house, he was always recognized as a leader whose counsel it was safe to follow and whose opposition was generally fatal; and, as speaker, he was distinguished for his dignity, courtesy, and knowledge of parliamentary law. he was several times the leading republican candidate for congress in the first district, and the peculiar methods by which other men were put into the place which the people demanded he should fill have disgraced and weakened the party in that section ever since. in the year , mr. wheeler received the honorary degree of master of arts from dartmouth college. he was president of the dover national bank from to . mr. wheeler married, december , , priscilla e., daughter of joseph w. and phebe (wheeler) clement, of franklin, n. h. they have but one child,--helen maud,--born march , . mr. wheeler is still in the prime of successful practice in dover. [illustration: edward spalding] hon. edward spalding, m. d. the subject of this sketch, born at amherst, n. h., september , , was the son of dr. matthias spalding, who was of the fifth generation in direct descent from edward spalding, who came to new england about , and settled first at braintree, mass., removing a few years later to chelmsford, mass., of which he was one of the earliest proprietors. col. simeon spalding married, for his second wife, mrs. abigail wilson, whose maiden name was johnson, the fourth generation in descent from edward johnson of woburn, who came from kent county, england. matthias spalding was one of the youngest of her children, born at chelmsford, june , , and graduated at harvard college in . adopting the medical profession, he went abroad to perfect his education by attending lectures in london. having a natural aptitude for the practice of medicine and surgery, with this superior training, he was soon distinguished for his successful treatment of disease, and his services were widely sought. in , after the settlement of matthias spalding at amherst, he married rebecca wentworth, daughter of hon. joshua atherton, and sister of charles h. atherton, an eminent lawyer and father of hon. charles g. atherton, late united states senator. mrs. spalding was a woman of a refined nature and elegant manners. of eight children, edward was the first son and the fourth child. favored in his parentage, he was also favored in the circumstances and companionships of his early life. the society of amherst embraced a number of families of superior talents and education. among the children of these families he was an active, manly, and generous boy, fond of fishing and athletic sports, and popular with his schoolmates. when eleven years of age he was sent to chelmsford, to be under the instruction of rev. abiel abbott. at thirteen, he was one of a company of amherst lads who became students at pinkerton academy, in derry, then in charge of abel f. hildreth, a celebrated master in those days. while preparing for college, he was associated with jarvis gregg, stephen chase, james f. joy, and james mccollom, who were subsequently distinguished as scholars, becoming tutors in the college at hanover, after graduation. in college young spalding made good use of his opportunities, and counted among his friends and classmates at dartmouth rev. f. a. adams, ph. d., prof. joseph c. bodwell, d. d., hon. j. f. joy, ll. d., john lord, ll. d., judge fowler of concord, and rev. e. quincy s. waldron, president of borromeo college, md. in the autumn following his graduation, in , young spalding went to lexington, ky., hoping to obtain employment as a teacher. the effort to establish a private classical school in lexington, though widely advertised, was not successful. the patronage did not answer to the promises of the ambitious prospectus, and, after a trial of a few weeks, the enterprise was abandoned as unremunerative. the west was not to be the scene of dr. spalding's life, nor teaching his employment. mr. spalding returned to new england in the spring of , and commenced the study of medicine in the office of his father at amherst. he attended three courses of lectures in the harvard medical school at boston, and was graduated at that institution in the summer of . having spent a few months riding with his father, and observing his treatment of the sick, he decided to enter on what seemed a promising field for a physician at nashua. accepting an invitation from the elder dr. eldredge, he became a partner with him in practice. after this partnership was dissolved the business increased, and he gained for himself an extensive and valuable patronage. he enjoyed the confidence of a large circle of families, and his success as a physician had given him an enviable reputation. in the meantime he had been called to assume responsibilities of a fiduciary nature, involving such care and labor as seriously to interfere with his professional engagements. the transition to these new employments was the natural sequence of the excellent judgment and rare capacity for business which he manifested. the accuracy and promptitude with which his accounts were rendered to the probate, and the just consideration for the feelings and interests of all persons concerned in the settlement of the estates committed to his trust, brought such a pressure of occupation that he was compelled to relinquish his profession. he had now been in practice twenty-five years, and satisfactory as his services as a physician had been to the community, he was yet to perform an imperative and valuable service by his judicious management of important trusts and his earnest co-operation in the direction and enlargement of new enterprises. in addition to his engagements in the settlement of large estates, he became interested in banking, manufacturing, and railroads, holding various offices of labor and responsibility in these institutions and corporations. he was for several years treasurer of the nashua savings bank and subsequently its president. he was one of the original projectors of the "pennichuck water-works," of which company he is president. a director in both of the large cotton manufacturing companies which have contributed so much to the prosperity of the city, he has also fulfilled similar duties in other corporations elsewhere. for a time a director, he has become the president, of the indian head national bank. in municipal and town offices he has performed important duties, taking a lively interest in the progress of popular education. he has been a member of the school committee a large portion of the time that he has lived in nashua, and is now chairman of the board of education. a member of the new hampshire historical society, his encouragement and assistance are gratefully acknowledged by several gentlemen who have been engaged in the preparation and publication of genealogical and town histories. he has also been actively engaged in building up the city library, of which he has been a trustee from the beginning of the enterprise. never seeking political preferment, and personally disinclined to the strife for political distinctions, he was elected mayor of the city in , and served as delegate to the baltimore convention in the same year. he was a member of the state convention for the revision of the constitution in , and councilor for two years during the administration of his excellency governor prescott, and . in he was elected a trustee of dartmouth college, a position which he still retains, and in which he has contributed to the substantial prosperity of the institution by frequent, unobtrusive gifts, and the steady service of a loyal and judicious mind. he has also represented dartmouth college as a trustee of the college of agriculture and the mechanic arts during the whole period of its existence as a department of instruction. on the d of june, , dr. spalding was united in marriage with dora everett, second daughter of joseph and mary appleton barrett, of new ipswich, a family associated favorably with the history of the town so widely known by the character and achievements of its sons. by this marriage dr. spalding had three children, of whom two daughters are living; the second child, a son. edward atherton, died november , , aged eleven years and two months. with this exception, the life of dr. spalding has been singularly exempt from afflictive changes. happy in the circle of his kindred and the connections formed by marriage, his home has been a welcome resort to the youth of both families, while the older generation was tenderly cared for by the thoughtful and continued ministrations of this son and his companion. as might be inferred from what has been said of the general esteem in which dr. spalding is held, he has many personal friends among men of thoughtful and scholarly habits. himself a student, and thoroughly awake to whatever affects the nation's welfare, he has been a careful reader of current history. he has marked the progress of the various moral and political questions that agitate the minds of the people and shape the legislation of the country, with deep concern that the issues might be favorable to the principles of truth and righteousness. a sincere believer in the teachings of our divine lord, he has recognized as a christian the claims of the country, as well as the claims of the city where he dwells. a liberal and constant contributor to the institutions which are organized to extend the knowledge of christ throughout the world, he is known as the patron and advocate of missions at home and abroad. for many years he has been the president of the new hampshire bible society. he has cheerfully borne his full proportion of the expenses incident to the maintenance of the local institutions of public worship and religious instruction in the church and society with which he is connected. when the meeting-house of the first congregational church was burned, he at once proposed to his friend, mr. isaac spalding, that they two should each give ten thousand dollars towards the cost of rebuilding,--a proposition to which mr. spalding promptly assented, thus insuring the immediate erection of the commodious and pleasant edifice which that church now owns. with such a variety of offices and engrossing employments still demanding his attention, we should anticipate that the duties would become burdensome, and the skillful hand lose something of its cunning; but the doctor is still vigorous and works easily. this continued capacity for labor is doubtless owing to the natural endowments of a man who has nurtured his forces by avoiding excesses on the one hand, and on the other by carefully husbanding his strength. he has not only arranged his business on system, but he has resolutely reserved to himself, annually, seasons of almost absolute rest. retaining his early fondness for fishing, for a few weeks in every year he has resorted to the mountain streams and inland lakes of northern new england for his favorite recreation. in these excursions he has sought the head waters of most of our rivers, and become acquainted with the grand and beautiful scenery of the mountain region. he has learned the haunts and habits of all the fish to be found in our streams, and of the birds that frequent our forests. by this method has he renewed his youth, while, with others of congenial tastes, he has made his knowledge tributary to the public good, by joint efforts to restore the migratory fishes to the waters of the state, from which, by artificial obstructions, they have been shut out. the board of fish and game commissioners for new hampshire, of which dr. spalding is chairman, is an outgrowth of this joint endeavor that promises to enlarge the piscatory resources of the state. with this record of the number and variety of trusts which are still in his hands, and the appointments that he must meet daily, and from week to week, it is evident that the doctor is still capable of continuous labor. his grateful testimony addressed to his classmates is, "i have enjoyed almost uninterrupted health, and a degree of happiness and prosperity far beyond the common lot." the sources of his good fortune are not to be sought in extraordinary gifts or peculiar helps. beginning life with a sound mind and sound body, he has cherished both by regular habits and studious industry. by fidelity and painstaking in business, by generous and considerate treatment of others, by using his influence and property in befriending the needy and helping young men struggling with adverse circumstances, by cherishing the friendship of good men in all classes of society, and in daily recognition of his need of guidance and wisdom from god,--he has escaped the envy and conflicts which beset a selfish and ambitious career. happy in his employments, and enjoying the good that followed his exertions, men have witnessed his advancement with pleasure and sought to do him honor. his life illustrates the value of those personal excellences which all may cultivate, and shows the readiness of mankind to recognize their worth. to such as are seeking to do right and serve their generation, the example is encouraging, and assures us that energy, integrity, and beneficence are not without rewards. [illustration: yours truly james a. weston] hon. james a. weston. by h. h. metcalf. much has been written in praise of manchester, the foremost city of the state in size and importance, in the extent and variety of its manufacturing establishments and in the energy, activity, and public spirit of its citizens. it has been called, also, the "city of governors," and four of the nine living ex-chief-magistrates of the state have their residence within its borders; while still another, residing in the immediate vicinity, is reckoned as substantially a manchester man. yet, after all, but one native of manchester has ever held the office of governor of new hampshire. what is far more remarkable is the fact, that of twenty men who have been chosen mayor of manchester, one alone was born within its limits. he and manchester's only native born governor are one and the same,--the subject of this sketch,--a man who, from the work he has accomplished, as well as from the distinction he has received at the hands of his fellow-citizens, has long been accorded a conspicuous position among the representative men of his city and state. james adams weston was born in manchester, august , . he is a descendant of the seventh generation from john weston, of buckinghamshire, england, who aided in establishing the colony at weymouth (then wiscasset), mass., where he went into mercantile business, being among the first to engage in the colonial trade. returning to england a few years subsequently, he suddenly died there; but in , john weston, a young son of the deceased, made his way to america, where he joined some of his kindred who had emigrated in the mean time. he finally settled in reading, mass., and was the progenitor of the family of which james a. weston is a representative.[ ] in , amos weston, a descendant of john, removed from reading, with his family, and settled in manchester, then derryfield. he was a farmer by occupation, and located in the southeastern part of the town. this amos weston was a man of character and influence, and was a member of the committee, chosen in march, , to petition the legislature to change the name of derryfield to manchester. a son of the above, amos weston, jr., removed with his parents to derryfield, and located upon land adjoining that of his father, clearing up from the wilderness the farm since well known in manchester as the "weston place." he married betsy, a daughter of col. robert wilson, of londonderry, a leading citizen of the town, whose father, james wilson, came from londonderry, ireland, more than one hundred and fifty years ago, and settled at the place now known as wilson's crossing. amos weston, jr., was a man of strong mind and sound judgment, and was much in the public service. he officiated as town clerk five years; as selectman, fifteen years, being eleven years chairman of the board; was three times the representative from manchester in the legislature; and a member of the constitutional convention of . from his union with betsy wilson--an estimable and exemplary woman--five children resulted. of these, the youngest, james a. weston, is the sole survivor. like most sons of new hampshire farmers, mr. weston passed a considerable portion of his time in youth in tilling the soil; but secured a substantial education at the district school and the manchester and piscataquog academies. with a strong aptitude for mathematics, he soon determined to apply himself to the study of civil engineering, with a view to making that his avocation in life, teaching school winters in the meantime. so rapidly did he prepare himself for his chosen occupation that at the age of nineteen years he was appointed assistant civil engineer of the concord railroad, and immediately (in ) commenced work in superintending the laying of the second track of that road. in he was promoted to the position of chief engineer, which he held for a long series of years. for several years, also, he discharged the duties of road master and master of transportation of the concord and manchester & lawrence railroads. as chief engineer of the concord & portsmouth railroad, he superintended the construction of a considerable portion of the line, as he subsequently did that of the suncook valley railroad. as a civil engineer, he occupies a place in the front rank in his profession in new england; and his services have been in demand far beyond his ability to respond, in making surveys for proposed railways, water-works, etc. prominent among the public works with which he has been connected in this capacity, may be mentioned the concord water-works, supplying the capital city with water from penacook lake, for which he made the survey, and whose construction he superintended. in his political convictions and associations, mr. weston has been a democrat from youth. never a machine politician, or even a zealous partisan, though a devoted supporter of the principles and policy of his party, he has won and held the personal respect of both friends and opponents in political affairs; so that, when a candidate for public office (which he has never been except at the urgent solicitation of those who regarded his candidacy essential to party success), he has never failed of strong popular support, measurably exceeding that of his party strength alone. in he was persuaded to accept the democratic nomination for mayor of the city. previous to this time manchester had almost universally been regarded as a republican or whig city. the year previous to mr. weston's nomination the republican candidate had been elected by nearly four hundred and fifty majority. he was defeated, however, by a majority of about two hundred and fifty; while the following year he came within eighteen votes of defeating the opposing candidate, ex-mayor theodore t. abbot, who received on a former occasion a larger vote than had ever been cast for any other candidate. again, in , mr. weston was pressed into service by his party associates in the city, as a mayoralty candidate against hon. joseph b. clark, then mayor, and republican candidate for re-election. this canvass resulted in his election by a majority of two hundred and seventy-two, and by a larger vote than had ever been received by any previous candidate except that for mayor abbot, in . at the next election the republicans made a strong and determined effort to regain their ascendency in the city; but, although they had carried the city for gen. grant for president, at the election but a few weeks previous, by about six hundred majority, the ward returns at the municipal election gave mayor weston a majority of seven votes over his republican opponent, hon. isaac w. smith. the "revising" process was resorted to, however, and the latter declared elected by twenty-three majority. in , mr. weston defeated mayor smith by a good majority, and was re-elected the following year. naturally enough, mayor weston's remarkable success as the standard-bearer of his party in the city of manchester, and the increased popularity he had secured by wise and efficient administration of municipal affairs in that large and prosperous community, suggested him to the democracy of the state at large as a most fit and available candidate for the gubernatorial nomination; and at the state convention, in january, , he was made the nominee of the party for governor. the election resulted in no choice of governor by the people, though mr. weston received a decided plurality of the votes cast, and was chosen governor by the legislature in june following,--the republicans thus losing control of the state government for the first time since their advent to power in . determined to retrieve their fallen fortunes, the republican leaders, in , brought to the front, as their standard-bearer and gubernatorial nominee, hon. ezekiel a. straw, agent of the amoskeag manufacturing company, a man of great resources and unparalleled influence in manufacturing circles, not only in manchester, but throughout the state. his defeat of gov. weston in the following canvass was a matter of no surprise to either party; and his re-election the subsequent year naturally resulted. the democracy, however, insisted on continuing mr. weston as their candidate; and in he secured a handsome plurality, and was again elected governor by the legislature. in december previous he had received the unusual distinction of a fourth election as mayor of his city, being chosen by a majority much larger than he had ever before received, reaching some six hundred votes. although there was great partisan excitement in the state during mr. weston's second administration, his official integrity and thorough devotion to the welfare of the state were conceded even by his most determined political opponents; and no man holds in fuller measure the respect and esteem of the people, regardless of party, than does james a. weston, the only living democrat who ever occupied that position. in the prosperity of his native city, in every material direction, mr. weston has manifested a deep and abiding interest, and no man has labored more zealously or efficiently for the promotion thereof. in illustration may be cited the fact that to his efforts, individual and official, more than those of any other man, the city is indebted for the projection and completion of its superior water-works, by which an ample supply of pure water is secured from lake massabesic. various sources of supply had long been considered, but he had been, from the first, an advocate of the massabesic project, and his influence had done much to secure its favorable consideration. in , while mayor of the city, he had the satisfaction of seeing definite action determined upon in that direction. having been actively engaged in securing the necessary legislation, and becoming ex officio a member of the board of commissioners established to carry out the work, he devoted his efforts heartily to its inauguration, and no day of his life, probably, ever brought him more sincere gratification than that which witnessed the completion of this important work,--a source of daily blessing to the people of his city, and of just pride to those under whose advice and direction it was projected and executed, among whom he is properly regarded most prominent. he is still a member of the board of water commissioners; is chairman of the board of trustees of the manchester cemetery fund, a member of the committee on cemeteries, and has long served as its clerk and treasurer. gov. weston served as chairman of the new hampshire centennial commission, was appointed by congress a member of the centennial board of finance, and his efforts contributed largely to the excellence of the new hampshire exhibit and the general success of the exposition. he also served as chairman of the building committee of the manchester soldiers' monument, and has recently been appointed a member of the state board of health, established under the act of the last legislature. with all his public and professional work, gov. weston has been for several years actively and prominently connected with important business interests. he was for some time one of the trustees of the amoskeag savings bank, and some three years since was chosen president of the city national bank, which was changed to the merchants national bank in october, , at whose head he still remains. he was also the prime mover in the organization of the guaranty savings bank of manchester, which commenced business in december, , of which he is clerk and treasurer, as well as one of the trustees. this institution, under his administration, has been almost unprecedentedly prosperous, and is one of the most solid financial establishments in the city and state. he is treasurer of the suncook valley railroad, and a director and clerk of the manchester horse railroad, a corporation in whose establishment he was actively engaged. he has been chairman of the finance committee of the new hampshire fire insurance company from its organization until the present time; vice-president also until the resignation of the presidency by gov. straw, in january, , since when he has been president. this flourishing corporation--the only one of the kind in the state, whose capital stock is about to be increased to half a million dollars, and which already ranks with the most prosperous in the country--owes its success, in no small degree, to gov. weston's sound judgment and careful management. when, in august, , after protracted litigation, the supreme court appointed trustees for the bondholders of the manchester & keene railroad, who assumed control of the road, gov. weston was selected as chairman of the board by which the road has since been operated. in , gov. weston received from dartmouth college the honorary degree of master of arts. he has long been a member of the masonic order, has taken all the degrees conferred in the manchester bodies, and is now serving his eighteenth term as treasurer of trinity commandry, knights templar. for ten years past he has been a member of the well known military organization, the amoskeag veterans. his religious associations are with the franklin-street congregational church, of which society he has long been an active member and treasurer. his residence has been in his native city from his birth until the present time, with the exception of seven years at concord, from to . february , , he married anna s., daughter of mitchel gilmore, esq., of concord, a cultivated lady of strong domestic tastes, by whom he has an interesting family of five surviving children,--the eldest born, a son (herman), having died at the age of four and a half years,--grace helen, born july , ; james henry, july , ; edwin bell, march , ; annie mabel, september , ; charles albert, november , . their home, at the corner of maple and myrtle streets, is a spacious yet modest and tasty dwelling, the abode of domestic comfort and social enjoyment. other men in new hampshire have attained greater wealth and more varied public honors; but when all the elements of substantial success are considered, there are none, certainly, who outrank the subject of this sketch. cautious, sagacious, and methodical; with a well balanced mind, and executive ability of a high order; scrupulously exact in the performance of every duty and the discharge of every trust, public or private; uniformly courteous in his intercourse with others, and mindful of every obligation to society and humanity,--the ample measure of success he has attained, and the general esteem in which he is held, are but the legitimate outcome of his life and conduct. footnotes: [ ] a genealogy of the weston families in america, prepared under the direction and patronage of gov. weston, is nearly ready for publication. [illustration: john kimball] hon. john kimball. by j. n. mcclintock. a stranger in concord is at first most impressed by its natural beauties, enhanced by the foresight of the fathers of the town. nature and art are rarely combined. beautiful shade trees are on every hand, as they are in many other of the favored cities of the union. concord is distinctively attractive in its perfection. the roads and streets are carefully graded; the bridges are substantial and elegant structures; the system of water supply, gas-works, and sewers, unseen, is excellent and complete; the school-houses are appropriate and ornamental; the private and public buildings are well built and neatly maintained; the fire department is exceptionally fine; the property of the city is discretely acquired, and well cared for; the policy of the city is at once progressive and liberal. to no one man can be given the credit of accomplishing all these satisfactory results; they are the fruits of unity of purpose of the many, guided by a large, public-spirited policy dictated by a few. to no one, however, is the city of concord more indebted for its material advancement and internal improvement, during the first quarter century of its municipal existence, than to its esteemed citizen, hon. john kimball. the name is a household word in concord. it conveys a meaning to the present generation peculiar to itself. it is the name of a man who, springing from the sturdy yeoman and artisan stock,--from the people,--has won his way, by tireless industry, unblemished integrity, sterling honesty, and sound good sense, to positions of responsibility and prominence. * * * * * the kimball family is one of the oldest in new england. it sprang from . richard kimball, who, with his wife, ursula, and seven children, left their home in the mother country, braved the dangers of a stormy ocean, landed on the inhospitable shores of an unbroken wilderness, and commenced a new life, deprived of the comforts and luxuries of civilization, but blessed with political and religious liberty. he came from the old town of ipswich, county of suffolk, in the east of england, sailed on the ship "elizabeth," and in the year , at the age of thirty-nine, settled in ipswich, in the bay colony. the next year he was admitted a freeman, which must be accepted as evidence that he was a puritan in good standing. he was the father of eleven children, and died june , . from this patriarchal family most of the kimballs of new england can trace their descent. . richard kimball, son of richard and ursula (scott) kimball, was born in england, in , and was brought to this country by his parents, in childhood. he was a wheelwright by trade; married mary gott; was the father of eight children; settled in wenham, mass., as early as , and died there may , . the mother of his children died september , . . caleb kimball, son of richard and mary (gott) kimball, was born in wenham, april , . he was a mason by trade; was the father of eight children; settled for a time at exeter, n. h., and died in wenham, january , . his widow died in wenham, january , . . john kimball, son of caleb and sarah kimball, was born in wenham, mass., december , . he settled on the land purchased by his father in exeter, n. h., and married abigail lyford, february , . she was the mother of six children, and died in exeter, february , . he afterwards married sarah wilson, of exeter, september , . they were the parents of nine children. the fifteen children of john kimball were all born in exeter. . joseph kimball, son of john and abigail (lyford) kimball, was born in exeter, january , . in early life he married, and was the father of two children, but was left a childless widower in a few years. he afterwards married sarah smith. they were the parents of nine children. in he removed to canterbury, and settled on a farm just north of shaker village. in early life he was stricken with blindness, and never looked upon the town of canterbury, and never saw six of his children. he died november , . his wife died march , . . john kimball, son of joseph and sarah (smith) kimball, was born in exeter, november , ; married sarah, daughter of benjamin moulton, of kensington, november , ; moved to canterbury, february , , and settled on their homestead near shaker village, where they resided nearly sixty years. they were the parents of nine children. his wife died april , . he died february , , reaching the good old age of more than ninety-three years. he was well known throughout central new hampshire, and did a large business in buying wool. . benjamin kimball, son of john and sarah (moulton) kimball, was born in canterbury, december , ; married ruth ames, daughter of david ames, february , , and settled in boscawen in the spring of , on the farm known as the frost place, high street. in he removed to the village of fisherville, where he died july , . he was an active and influential business man. in he erected the dam across the contoocook river, and the brick grist-mills standing near the stone factory. he took an active part in all that was essential to the general and religious welfare of the town. in march preceding his death he was elected to represent the town in the legislature, but his health was so impaired that he was not able to take his seat. . john kimball, the subject of this sketch, the son of benjamin and ruth (ames) kimball, was born in canterbury, april , . in infancy he was taken by his parents to boscawen, where in early youth he had the educational advantages which the district schools of the town afforded. he enjoyed the privilege of attending the concord academy only one year, after which he was apprenticed with a relative to learn the trade of constructing mills and machinery. on attaining his majority, in , his first work was to rebuild the grist-mill near boscawen plain. afterward he followed the same business in suncook, manchester, lowell, and lawrence. in he was employed by the directors of the concord railroad to take charge of the new machine and car shops then building at concord. he was appointed master mechanic of the concord railroad in , and retained the position eight years, when he relinquished mechanical labor for other pursuits. as a mechanic, mr. kimball inherited a great natural aptitude, and has few superiors. his sound judgment and skill were in constant requisition in the responsible office in the railroad service he held for so many years; and the experience and training there acquired have been of great value to the city and state when his services have been demanded by his fellow-citizens. in , mr. kimball was elected to the common council of the city of concord. in he was re-elected, and was chosen president of that body. in he was elected a member of the state legislature; and was re-elected in , serving as chairman of the committee on state-prison. from the year to the year , mr. kimball served the city of concord as collector of taxes and city marshal. in he was appointed, by president lincoln, collector of internal revenue for the second district of new hampshire, including the counties of merrimack and hillsborough, and held the office for seven years, collecting and paying over to the treasurer of the united states nearly seven millions of dollars. in , mr. kimball was elected mayor of concord, and was re-elected to this honorable and responsible office in , , and . immediately after mr. kimball assumed the duties of this office a severe freshet either carried away or rendered impassable five of the seven bridges spanning the merrimack and contoocook rivers. the work of rebuilding these structures devolved immediately upon him, as superintendent of roads and bridges. the federal bridge and the bridge at fisherville, both of iron, are monuments of his progressive ideas. during his administration the system of water supply from long pond was carried on to successful completion, and the purest of water has since been at the command of every citizen. this work required a large sum of money, which was so carefully expended that no one has felt the burden save as a blessing. the fire department was invested with new dignity by the city government during those years. the firemen had their demands for appropriate buildings fully satisfied, and are proud, as is the whole city, of the beautiful central fire station and other buildings of the department, which compare favorably with any in the country. aside from his mechanical skill, mr. kimball long since won the enviable reputation of an able and successful financier. in , upon the organization of the merrimack county savings bank, he was elected its treasurer, and has held the office ever since. to him, for many years, have been intrusted the settlement of estates, the management of trust funds, and the care of the property of widows and orphans. as treasurer of the new hampshire bible society and orphans' home, he has given to those institutions the benefit of his financial experience. for the benefit of the city of concord, the mechanical skill and financial ability of mr. kimball were fully exercised. during his term of office as mayor he was one of the water commissioners, _ex officio_, and president of the board in . he was subsequently appointed a water commissioner, in , for a term of three years; re-appointed in , and has been president of the board since his first appointment. upon the death of hon. nathaniel white, mr. kimball was elected president of the concord gas-light company, having held the office of director for several years. what little credit is due a member of the constitutional convention of is his. he represented the fifth ward in concord, and served the convention acceptably as chairman of its finance committee. the demand for a new state-prison, in union with the philanthropic ideas of the age, culminated, in the year , in an act of the legislature providing for a new state-prison, and granting for the purpose a very moderate appropriation, hedged in by every possible safeguard. the governor, benjamin f. prescott, with the advice of his council, immediately upon the passage of the law appointed three commissioners to carry into effect the provisions of the act. mr. kimball was chosen chairman of the board. upon these commissioners has devolved the duty of constructing the massive pile of buildings known as the new state-prison, commodious for the officers, humane and comfortable for the inmates, acceptable to the authorities and the people, and within the limits of the appropriation. in the autumn of the structure was appropriately dedicated to its future uses, by fitting ceremony. col. john h. george, of concord, delivered the address, and in closing said:-- "it is a matter of further and warm congratulation that its erection has been intrusted to a competent commission; that good judgment and intelligent investigation have characterized the plan; that no corrupt jobbery has polluted its construction; and that for every dollar expended a fair and honest result has been obtained. and in this connection it is but just to say that the fitness and labors of the chairman of the board especially should receive public recognition. to the successful performance of the duties of his office he brought unusual mechanical skill and large experience in the construction of public works." in , when the manchester & keene railroad was placed in the hands of the court, mr. kimball was appointed, by chief-justice doe, one of the trustees. in november, , mr. kimball was chosen a senator from district number ten, and upon the organization of the legislature in june, , he was elected to the office of president of the senate, in importance the second office in the state. as presiding officer, he is dignified, courteous, and impartial. he carried to the position a fund of information, a wealth of experience, controlled by sound judgment, and strong convictions. politically, mr. kimball is a republican. for fifteen years, since , he has been treasurer of the republican state committee. with him right takes precedence of policy. it takes no finesse to know on what side he is to be found. in his dealings he is upright, has confidence in himself and in his own judgment, and it is hard to swerve him. he is frank and free in his general intercourse, bluff and often brusque in manner, but never discourteous. he is a man of large and progressive views, and actuated by the most conscientious motives. his character for integrity is without blemish, and as firmly established as the granite hills. in he joined the church at his old home in boscawen, and ever since has affiliated with the congregationalists. for many years he has been a member of the south congregational church of concord. he is eminently a man of affairs,--of acts, not words. his reading is of a scientific character, varied by genealogical and historical research. in person, mr. kimball is of commanding presence and muscular figure, inclined to be spare, but of apparently great physical powers. in private life he is a devoted friend, a kind neighbor, an esteemed citizen, and a charitable, tolerant, self-reliant man. in early manhood, may , , mr. kimball was joined in marriage to maria h. phillips, of rupert, vermont. their only child, clara maria kimball, born march , , was married june , , to augustine r. ayers, a successful merchant of concord. five children--ruth ames, john kimball, helen mcgregor, joseph sherburne,[ ] and josiah phillips--have been born to them. footnotes: [ ] deceased. [illustration: j. e. sargent] jonathan everett sargent, ll.d by j. n. mcclintock. judge sargent, now of concord, has been well known throughout the state for more than a quarter of a century. besides an extensive legislative acquaintance, he has, as judge of the different courts and as chief-justice of the state, held terms of court in every shire town and half-shire town in every county in the state. he has been emphatically the architect of his own fortune, and by his energy and perseverance has reached the highest post of honor in his profession in his native state. he is genial and social with his friends; he loves a joke, and belongs to that small class of men "who never grow old." he loves his home, his family, and his books. no man enjoys the study of history and of poetry, of philosophy and of fiction, better than he, while law and theology come in for a share of attention,--a kind neighbor, a respected citizen, a ripe scholar, a wise legislator, an upright judge, an honest man. in the year , peter sargent, the grandfather of the subject of this sketch, moved from hopkinton. n. h., to new london, at that time equally well known as heidleburg. this locality had been known by this latter name for nearly a quarter of a century. it was granted by the masonian proprietors, july , , to jonas minot and others, as the "addition of alexandria." it was first settled in , and was incorporated as a town by the legislature, june , . peter sargent, who thus moved into the town two years after its incorporation, was one of ten brothers, all born in amesbury, mass., who settled as follows: amasa, ezekiel, thomas, and moses always lived at amesbury; james settled in methuen, mass.; peter, nathan, and stephen came to hopkinton, n. h., and settled there; and abner and ebenezer came to warner, n. h., and settled there. these ten brothers, with four sisters, were the children of deacon stephen sargent, of amesbury, mass. [christopher sargent, an older brother of deacon stephen, graduated at harvard, entered the ministry, and was the first settled minister of methuen, mass. his eldest son, nathaniel peaslee sargent, graduated at harvard, practiced law at haverhill, and was for many years a judge of the supreme judicial court of massachusetts, and was chief justice of the state in and , when he died aged sixty.] deacon stephen sargent was the son of thomas, d, who was the son of thomas, st, who was the son of william sargent. stephen married judith ordway, of west newbury, mass., september , ; was chosen deacon of the second congregational church in amesbury, may , ; and died october , . william sargent was born in england about , and was the son of richard sargent, an officer in the royal navy. it is believed he came to virginia at an early day, with william barnes, john hoyt, and others. he married judith perkins for his first wife, who died about , when he, with several daughters, was one of the twelve men who commenced the settlement of ipswich, mass., that year. he soon after went to newbury and helped form a settlement there; and about he, with several others, commenced a settlement at hampton. he soon after, about , removed to salisbury, and was one of the eighteen original proprietors, or commoners, who settled in new salisbury, since known as amesbury. his second wife's name was elizabeth, by whom he had two sons, thomas and william. he had several lots of land assigned him at different times; was one of the selectmen of the town in . he died in , aged seventy-three. peter sargent married ruth nichols, of amesbury or newbury, mass., and came to hopkinton, n. h., in or , where they lived some eighteen years, and raised a large family, and when he went to new london took them all with him. his children were anthony, abigail, ruth, judith, peter, ebenezer, amasa, john, molly, ezekiel, stephen, william, and lois. these all came from hopkinton to new london in , except lois, who was born subsequently in new london. ebenezer, the father of the judge, was born in hopkinton, april , , and was, of course, thirteen years old when he came to new london with his father's family. after becoming of age he procured him a farm, and, on the th of november, , he married prudence chase, of wendell (now sunapee), the daughter of john and ruth (hills) chase. they had ten children, as follows: anna, rebekah, ruth, seth freeman, aaron lealand, sylvanus thayer, lois, laura, jonathan kittredge, and jonathan everett. jonathan kittredge died young, the other nine lived to mature age, and five of them, three sons and two daughters, still survive. the parents always lived upon a farm, securing what was then considered as a competence, and both died in new london, having lived together more than sixty-five years. the following, then, is the order of descent:-- . richard sargent, of england. . william, son of richard, born in . . thomas, son of william, born in april, . . thomas, jr., son of thomas, born in november, . . stephen, son of thomas. jr., born in september, . . peter, son of stephen, born about . . ebenezer, son of peter, born in april, . . jonathan everett sargent, was born at new london, october , . he lived at home, working upon the farm until he was seventeen years of age, and, being the youngest child, his father had arranged for him to live at home and take care of his parents, and have the farm at their decease. the son, however, had little love for the farm, and, as soon as the care and support of his parents could be provided for in another way, he arranged with his father that he was to have the remaining four years of his time till twenty-one, was to clothe himself, and pay his own bills, and call for nothing more from his father. he fitted for college at hopkinton academy, and at kimball union academy, meriden, and in entered dartmouth college, having paid his way by teaching school winters and laboring in vacations. by teaching school every winter and two fall terms in canaan academy during his college course, he earned enough to pay all his expenses in college with the exception of $ , which he borrowed of his father, and repaid the same, with interest, within two years. though out of college two terms, besides winters in teaching, and another term on account of sickness, yet he was always ready at each examination to be examined with his class. he was elected a member of the phi beta kappa society, and graduated, in , among the first in his class. mr. sargent had long before this made up his mind to turn his attention to the law as a profession, and he accordingly began the study of the law at once with hon. william p. weeks, of canaan, and remained with him till the spring of , when he was advised by his physician to go south for his health. he went first to washington, soon after to alexandria, d. c., where he taught a high school, then to maryland, where he remained a year in a family school, when, having regained his health, he returned to new hampshire in september, . he had, upon his arrival in washington, entered his name as a law student in the office of hon. david a. hall of that city, and continued the study of the law under his direction, while engaged in teaching, and he was admitted to the bar in the courts of the district of columbia in april, , only about twenty months after leaving college. by the rule of that court any one might be admitted upon examination, without regard to the length of time he had studied; and he was examined in open court by chief-justice cranch and his associates upon the bench, and was admitted. after returning home, he continued his legal studies with mr. weeks until the july law term, in sullivan county, in , when he was admitted to the bar in the superior court of judicature in this state. he then went into company with mr. weeks at canaan, where he remained till , when he removed to wentworth and opened an office there. he had been appointed solicitor for grafton county in november, , while at canaan, and he at once commenced a lucrative business at wentworth; was re-appointed solicitor in for five years more, thus holding the office for ten years, to , performing the duties to the entire acceptance of the county and the people. he declined a re-appointment. in he was first elected a member of the legislature from wentworth, and served as chairman of the committee on incorporations. the next year he was re-elected, and was made chairman of the judiciary committee; and in he was again a member, and was nominated with great unanimity and elected speaker of the house of representatives. he served with ability and impartiality and to the general acceptance of the members. the next winter a new man was to be selected as a candidate for senator in his district, and he was nominated, and was elected in march, in a close district, by about three hundred majority. he was elected president of the senate in . he was renominated in the spring of , but the know-nothing movement that year carried everything before it, and he was defeated, with nearly all the other democratic nominees in the state. on april , , he was appointed a circuit justice of the court of common pleas for the state. but in june of that year the old courts were abolished, mainly upon political grounds, and new ones organized, and new judges appointed. judge sargent received a request from gov. metcalf that he would accept the second place on the bench of the new court of common pleas. this offer had not been expected, but upon consultation with friends it was accepted, and judge sargent was appointed an associate justice of the court of common pleas. he acted as judge of the new court of common pleas for four years, until , when, by a statute of that year, that court was abolished, and one new judge was to be added to the supreme judicial court, making the number of supreme judges six instead of five, as before. judge sargent was immediately appointed to that place on the supreme bench. he was then the youngest member of the court in age, as well as in the date of his commission. he remained upon the bench of that court just fifteen years, from to . in march, , upon the death of chief-justice bellows, judge sargent was appointed chief-justice of the state, which place he held until august, , when the court was again overturned to make room for the appointees of the prevailing political party. chief-justice sargent, at the time of his appointment as chief-justice, had become the oldest judge upon the bench, both in age and date of commission. his written opinions are contained in the sixteen volumes of the new hampshire reports, from the th to the th, inclusive, numbering about three hundred in all. many of these are leading opinions upon various subjects, and show great learning and research. after the repeal of the missouri compromise, and the attempt to make kansas a slave state, judge sargent acted with the republican party. upon leaving the bench, in august, , he was solicited to go into the practice of the law in concord with william m. chase, esq., whose late partner, the hon. anson s. marshall, had recently been suddenly removed by death. judge sargent accepted this offer, and thus at once stepped into an extensive and lucrative practice. this arrangement was made for five years. in he was elected a member of the constitutional convention of this state. in this convention he acted a prominent part. he was made chairman of the judiciary committee, the same place held by judge levi woodbury in the convention of . he took an active part in the debates and discussions of that body, and wielded an influence probably second to no one in the convention. he was also elected, by his ward in concord, a member of the house of representatives for the years and . early in steps were taken for a revision of the statutes, and judge sargent was appointed chairman of a committee, with hon. l. w. barton of newport, and judge j. s. wiggin of exeter, to revise and codify the statutes of the state. their work was completed and the statutes enacted by the legislature, to take effect the first of january, . the volume was prepared and printed by the committee before the day appointed. it is the largest volume of statutes ever printed in the state, and it is believed not to be inferior to any other in any important particular. in the fall of , judge sargent was invited by a committee of the citizens of new london to prepare a centennial address, to be delivered on the one hundredth anniversary of the incorporation of the town. he at once accepted the invitation and set about the work, and on the th day of june, , he delivered his address, and the occasion was distinguished by a larger collection of people, probably, than ever met in the town upon any former occasion. the address was published in the _granite monthly_, in the numbers for july, august, and september, , and has been favorably noticed as a work of great labor and research. dartmouth college conferred on him the degree of master of arts, in course, three years after graduation; also, the honorary degree of doctor of laws, at its centennial commencement, in . in compliance with a request from a committee of the trustees, he prepared and delivered at the commencement of at dartmouth college a memorial address upon the late hon. joel parker, formerly chief-justice of this state and afterwards professor of law in harvard college. this duty judge sargent performed in a manner creditable to himself and satisfactory to the friends of the late judge parker. his address has been printed with other similar addresses in memory of other deceased judges, graduates of dartmouth, by other distinguished sons of the college. in he was elected grand master of the grand lodge of free and accepted masons for the state of new hampshire, and was re-elected the next year. after this he declined a re-election. he has for many years been an active member of the new hampshire historical society, and for the last five or six years has been one of its vice-presidents. for some years past he has been connected with the national state capital bank as one of its directors. the loan and trust savings bank at concord commenced business august , , and in the nine years since then its deposits have increased to over a million and a quarter of dollars. judge sargent has been president of this bank, and one of its investment committee since its commencement, and has given his personal attention to its affairs. in the new hampshire centennial home for the aged was organized and incorporated, and january , , a home was opened in concord. judge sargent has been president of this institution four years, and has taken a deep interest in its prosperity and success. about the st of september, , at the end of five years from the commencement of his partnership in business, he retired from the practice of law. since he commenced the practice of the law, in , his residence has been as follows: in canaan four years, to ; in wentworth twenty-two years, to ; and in concord since. the judge has acquired a competency, has one of the finest residences in the city, and is enjoying life with his friends and his books. judge sargent married, first, maria c. jones, of enfield, daughter of john jones, esq., november , , by whom he had two children. john jones sargent, the elder, graduated at dartmouth college in , and died in oshkosh, wisconsin, october , , just as he was ready to commence the practice of the law. the second, everett foster, died young. for his second wife, he married louisa jennie paige, daughter of dea. james k. paige, of wentworth, september , , by whom he has had three children,--maria louise, annie lawrie, and george lincoln. the second died young; the eldest and youngest survive. judge sargent is a leading member of the south congregational church in concord, and, while decided in his own opinions, he is liberal and tolerant in judging of the faith, and charitable in judging of the conduct, of others. as a lawyer, he was always faithful and true to his clients, a wise counselor and an able advocate. as a legislator, he has been conservative and safe. as a judge, he always studied to get at the right of the case, to hold the scales of justice evenly, to rule the law plainly, and to get the questions of fact, and the evidence as it bore upon them, clearly and distinctly before the jury. any one who attended the courts where he presided as a judge could see at once that he was patient and painstaking, industrious and persevering, vigilant and discriminating, impartial and fearless; and any one who reads his written opinions will see that they exhibit great research, learning, and ability. john hatch george. by h. h. metcalf. the man who makes his way to the front rank at the bar and in politics, and holds his position without dispute for more than a quarter of a century, must be a person of ability, energy, and sagacity. especially is this true in new hampshire, which, from the earliest period of our national history, has produced some of the ablest lawyers and the keenest politicians known to the country. such a man is col. john hatch george, of concord, whose name has long been a household word at every democratic fireside in the state, and whose eminent legal position is recognized throughout new england. born in concord, where he has ever since resided, november , , col. george is now fifty-seven years of age. his parents were john and mary (hatch) george, the former a prominent, respected, and energetic citizen, who, though a native of hopkinton, located in concord in early manhood; the latter, a daughter of samuel hatch, a leading citizen of the town of greenland, among whose grandchildren are included the hon. albert r. hatch and john s. h. frink, esq., both also known as eminent lawyers and leading democrats. gaining his preliminary education in the excellent public schools of his native town and in the old concord academy, col. george entered dartmouth college in , being then fifteen years of age, where he diligently pursued his studies for about three years, until the death of his father compelled his return home and the non-completion of his college course. the faculty subsequently conferred upon him his graduating degree, which was followed by that of master of arts. among his classmates at dartmouth were several who became prominent at the bar and in public life, including the late hon. harvey jewell, and hons. a. a. ranney and horatio g. parker, of boston, and the present governor of this state, hon. charles h. bell. if young george was unfortunate in the loss of his father, and in the failure to complete the college course consequent thereon, he was especially fortunate in being favored with the kindly regard of that brilliant son of new hampshire, gen. franklin pierce, who, as a friend of the family, had become conversant with his qualities and characteristics, and readily discerned the line of action best calculated for the development and successful exercise of his powers. fortunate as he was, however, in the enjoyment of the friendship of gen. pierce at this time, it may safely be assumed that he never would have been the recipient of such favor had he not given evidence of the possession of abilities above the common order. the really great lawyer has a lofty regard for his profession, and will never be found influencing any one to enter upon its pursuit who is not likely to honor the profession and bring credit to himself. when, therefore, upon the invitation of gen. pierce, young george entered upon the study of the law in the office of the former,--as he did soon after leaving college, and at the time when that distinguished man was in active practice,--it was under circumstances every way propitious to that ultimate success creditable alike to each. during his three years of legal study under such tutelage, he made that rapid progress which characterizes the advance of the ambitious and enthusiastic young man, well equipped, mentally and physically, for the work in hand, thoroughly in love therewith, guided by wise counsel and inspired by brilliant example; and when, in , he was admitted to the bar, and entered upon the practice of his profession in his native city, it was with unusual thoroughness of preparation. [illustration: john h. george] at the opening of his professional career, col. george was again particularly fortunate. gen. charles h. peaslee had long ranked among the most careful lawyers of the state, and had acquired an extensive practice. he was a warm friend of gen. pierce, professionally and politically, and, like him, an intimate friend of the george family. entering largely into public life, its engrossing duties withdrew his attention more and more from professional engagements, rendering desirable a partnership alliance with some active and competent young man. such alliance was offered to and promptly accepted by young george, who thus auspiciously commenced his professional career. the limits of this sketch will not permit a detailed account of the progress and success of its subject; but it may be stated, that from his entrance upon legal practice to the present time all his energies and faculties have been heartily devoted to the labors and duties of his profession, in whose performance he has won a high measure of fame, as well as a fair amount of that substantial reward which the world largely regards as the prime object of human effort. his connection with gen. peaslee continued about five years, and was followed by a professional alliance of a similar character with sidney webster, esq., then a young lawyer of fine abilities and brilliant promise, who has since become distinguished in legal and diplomatic circles. this partnership continued till mr. webster left concord to become private secretary to gen. pierce, upon the accession of the latter to the presidency in . soon afterward, col. george formed partnership relations with hon. william l. foster, who subsequently became and long remained a judge of the supreme court of the state, and with them hon. charles p. sanborn was also for a time associated. since the recent resignation of judge foster, his connection with col. george has been resumed. not only in behalf of an extensive private clientage have the professional services of col. george been employed, but for many years, also, in behalf of the public,--he having been appointed solicitor for merrimack county in , and re-appointed in , discharging the duties of the office until , when he was removed for partisan reasons, the republican party signalizing its ascendency by a clean sweep of all democratic officials. from to , he was u. s. attorney for the district of new hampshire, appointed by president pierce. there are, undoubtedly, many men at the bar, in this and other states, as well grounded in legal principles as col. george, and even more familiar with the text-books, who have fallen far short of the success he has attained. it is one thing to be able to state abstract legal principles, and quite another correctly to apply those principles to the facts in any given case. it has ever been the habit of col. george, in the conduct of a cause, to thoroughly familiarize himself with all the facts and circumstances connected therewith. the mastery of the cause itself leaves little difficulty in the determination of the law bearing thereon, and is the strongest guaranty of success in its management before a jury; and it is in the conduct of jury causes that col. george has won the greater measure of his success. gifted with great perceptive powers and a ready knowledge of men, and familiar as he ever is with the cause in hand, in all its bearings, he is never taken at a disadvantage, no matter how able or alert the opposing counsel. in handling witnesses, and especially in cross-examination, he has shown unusual tact and ability. he reads the mind of a witness almost intuitively, and understands how to bring out the essential facts even from the most reluctant, and to do so in the manner best calculated to make the desired impression upon the minds of the jury. as an advocate, he is equaled by few and excelled by none of our new hampshire lawyers; yet his power in this regard consists in the systematic, logical, and intensely earnest presentation of all the facts which go to make up and strengthen his cause, and to destroy or weaken that of his opponents, rather than in the oratory which abounds in eloquently rounded periods and impassioned appeals. in this connection may well be quoted the words of one who, knowing col. george from youth, has written of him as follows:-- "intense earnestness, and a faculty of an immediate and powerful concentration of all his mental faculties on any subject which interested him, were the predominant peculiarities of the early manhood of mr. george. when he came to the bar, he manifested a power of felicitous language, and a largeness of vocabulary, which were rarely to be seen even in the most practiced speakers. he never prepared beforehand the words of his spoken utterances, either at the bar, in the committee-room, or on the stump. whatever he could see and understand at all, he saw and understood clearly. the strength of his feelings, the enormous power and range of his vocabulary, added to this clearness of vision, made mere verbal preparation unnecessary for him. his speaking was made up of a clear perception of the turning-point of his case, and then of pungent epigram, sparkling paradox, rattling attack, vivid repartee, hearty humor, and, when occasion called for, of a fearlessness of denunciation of what he believed to be wrong or unjust or unfair, which made him, even at the outset of his brilliant career, a dangerous antagonist for the most practiced and powerful members of the new hampshire bar." though not retiring from general practice, col. george has devoted his attention largely to railroad law for many years past, having accepted, in , the position of solicitor for the boston & lowell railroad, and established an office in boston for the transaction of business in connection with that position. for nearly twenty years previous to that date he had served as clerk and counsel of the concord railroad corporation, and had already become familiar with the law of railways and their general relations to the public. to-day there is no higher living authority upon railroad law in new england than col. george,--no man who understands more thoroughly or can state more clearly the respective rights, duties, and obligations of railroad corporations and the people, in relation to each other, a general understanding of which is becoming more and more essential to the fullest measure of our national prosperity. his public addresses upon the subject, his arguments before legislative committees, courts, and juries, are models of clearness and cogency, admirable in construction and convincing in effect. notwithstanding his uninterrupted devotion to the law, col. george is no less generally known in politics than at the bar. well grounded in the faith of the democratic party in his youthful years, his intimate association with pierce, peaslee, and other distinguished leaders of that organization in his early manhood served to intensify his feelings and convictions in that regard, so he has ever been a ready and zealous exponent of democratic principles and a champion of the democratic cause, contributing his services without stint in conventions, in committee work, and upon the stump, doing able and brilliant service in the latter direction in all parts of the state, and in almost every campaign for the past thirty-five years. he long since came to be regarded as one of the most powerful and effective political debaters in the state. his efforts upon the stump are characterized by the same earnestness, the same sledge-hammer logic, and the same comprehensive array of facts, as at the bar. his mode of warfare, political as well as legal, is of the napoleonic order. he never assumes the defensive, and if placed in such position by any combination of circumstances he soon transforms it into one of active aggression. from to , inclusive, col. george served as chairman of the democratic state committee, and again in . in he was also selected as the new hampshire member of the democratic national committee, and he was especially active in the campaign, both in the state and the country at large, which resulted in the election of his friend, gen. pierce, to the presidency. his service upon the national committee continued until . he was a member of the democratic national convention in , and chairman of the state delegation in the national convention at cincinnati, in . at the state convention of his party, in september of that year, he presided, delivering, upon assuming the chair, one of the ablest addresses ever heard upon a similar occasion. his party having been in the minority in new hampshire for the past twenty-five years, he has been comparatively little in public office. aside from the non-partisan positions heretofore mentioned, he was for three years--in , , and again in --clerk of the state senate. in he was chosen a member of the legislature, but resigned his seat to accept the office of united states attorney. in this connection it may be mentioned that in he was tendered, by president pierce, the office of secretary of the territory of minnesota, which he at first was inclined to accept, but, after deliberation, determined to forego the chances for political promotion ordinarily involved in an appointment of that character, and remain with his friends and his law practice in his own state. in , col. george received the democratic nomination for congress in the second district, and again in , when he made a vigorous canvass, and was defeated by a very close vote. in he received the votes of the democratic members of the legislature as their candidate for united states senator. had he deserted his party and allied himself with the majority when the republicans came into ascendency, he might readily have commanded the highest honors in the gift of the state, as others less able than himself have done; but his position in the honest regard of the people, irrespective of party, is far higher to-day for having remained true to his convictions and steadfast and active in their maintenance. his military title comes from his service as chief of the staff of gov. dinsmoor from to . he was also for several years commander in the brilliant and popular organization known as the "governor's horse-guards." as a popular orator, outside the domain of law and politics, col. george also takes high rank. his oration upon daniel webster, at the recent centennial celebration of the birth of that most illustrious son of new hampshire, under the auspices of the webster club of concord, is surpassed in power and felicity of expression by none which the event anywhere called forth. col. george was united in marriage, in september, , with miss susan ann brigham, daughter of capt. levi brigham, of boston, who died may , , leaving five children, three sons and two daughters. in july, , he married miss salvadora meade graham, daughter of col. james d. graham of the united states engineers, by whom he has one child, a daughter. his eldest son, john paul, graduated at dartmouth college in , entered the harvard law school, and is now a student-at-law in the office of george & foster. his second son, charles peaslee, graduated in june, , at the naval school at annapolis, and is now a midshipman in the u. s. navy. his third son, benjamin pierce, is a member of the sophomore class in dartmouth college. his eldest daughter, jane appleton, is the wife of mr. henry e. bacon, and resides in portland, me.; his second daughter, anne brigham, is at home; while the youngest daughter, charlotte graham, is at school in washington, d. c. the family residence of col. george is the old paternal mansion on north main street, in concord, wherein he was born. he has also an excellent farm a few miles out of the city, in hopkinton, where he makes his summer home, and where, in his little leisure from professional labor, he indulges a fondness for rural pursuits, and especially for the breeding and care of domestic animals, which was one of the characteristics of his boyhood. incidental as this may be, his farm is known as one of the most highly cultivated in the section where it is located, and his horses and jersey cattle are the admiration of all lovers of good stock. as a citizen, col. george is public-spirited, and freely devotes his time and energies to the furtherance of every movement and the advocacy of every measure which he believes calculated to promote the material or educational welfare of the community. no man in concord has done more than he to advance the prosperity of the city in every essential regard. the efficiency of the public schools has ever been an object of deep interest to him; and as a private citizen, as a member of building committees, and in the board of education, he has given his services freely in perfecting the admirably equipped public-school system, which is far from the least of the attractions which render our capital city one of the most desirable places of residence in new england. the general extension of the railway system of the state, to which most that has been accomplished in the development of its material resources for the last twenty-five years is due, has ever found an enthusiastic supporter in col. george, who has been and still is directly connected with several railroad enterprises in different sections, which have proved of great local and general advantage. few men have more or warmer friends than col. george. a man of positive opinions, frankly and honestly declared, he commands the sincere respect of those with whom he comes in contact in all the relations of life, private, social, public, and professional. formidable as an opponent, he is nevertheless fair and honorable, as he is true and faithful as a friend and ally. he is a prominent member of the masonic order, having attained the rank of sovereign grand inspector-general of the d degree, and a member of the "supreme council of the ancient and accepted scottish rite of the northern jurisdiction of the united states." this brief sketch can perhaps be no more appropriately concluded than in the following language of the gentleman (sidney webster, esq.,) heretofore quoted: "years of incessant toil, while they have diminished somewhat the energetic temperament and the exuberant animal spirits of col. george's youth, and have naturally softened his once blunt and almost brusque manner in debate, have not diminished the real force and strength of his genuine character, for character is just what col. george has always had. as the ripples of his experience spread over a wider and wider area, he may have less and less confidence in the infallibility of any man's opinions, and less belief in the importance to society of any one man's action; but col. george has reached and passed his half century with his mental faculties and his moral faculties improving and strengthening, year by year. new hampshire has to-day very few among her living sons better equipped to do triumphant battle for her in the high places of the world." [illustration: wm g means] william gordon means. william gordon means, for sixteen years clerk and paymaster of the amoskeag manufacturing company, and afterwards treasurer of the manchester locomotive-works, was born at amherst, hillsborough county, april , . he is of the third generation in descent from col. robert means, who came to new hampshire from stewartstown, ireland, in , and commenced business at merrimack, with dea. jacob mcgaw, who emigrated to this country about the same year. this partnership, which had prospered, was dissolved when amherst became the shire town, and col. means opened a store there, in which he prosecuted a successful business. a man of great energy, he was prominent in the affairs of the town; elected its representative at the general court three times, also a member of the senate three years, and councilor for hillsborough county, his name is identified with the most important measures of that period. col. means had a large family. several of the daughters were married to gentlemen who subsequently attained great distinction in the learned professions. of the sons, robert became a lawyer, and david mcgregor, who bore the name of his mother (a daughter of rev. david mcgregor of londonderry), succeeded his father as a merchant. he married catherine, daughter of hon. joshua atherton, who is described as a woman of vigorous understanding and positive convictions, ready in conversation, and of sprightly and pleasing manners. by this marriage, david mcg. means had three sons and six daughters, of whom the subject of this sketch was the third son and the fourth child, receiving the name of his uncle, hon. william gordon, at that time a lawyer of great promise in amherst. among his schoolmates, william g. means is remembered as a quick-witted boy, fond of adventure, and overflowing with fun. the schools in amherst at that date did not furnish advantages of a high order. aside from the training of the household, the youth had no superior privileges, except a few terms at pinkerton academy, derry, then under the care of abel f. hildreth, an eminent teacher. for parts of three years he attended this school, in company with his brother james, edward and alfred spalding, e. d. boylston, and other students from amherst. in the autumn of , mr. means went to boston, and entered the store of daniel mcgregor, then a dealer in dry goods,--finding employment, after an apprenticeship of four or five years, in the house of robert appleton & co. by the commercial crisis of , like hundreds of young men similarly situated, he was thrown out of employment, and returned to his home in amherst. these years of service in boston were not without their valuable uses, though a new direction was soon to be given to his capacity for business. he saw the perils that beset the career of the tradesman, and learned the wisdom of that conservatism which underlies the avenues of success in mercantile pursuits. while living in boston, he became interested in the lady who was subsequently to share his fortunes and build his house. in march, , mr. means became clerk of the amoskeag manufacturing company at manchester, taking charge of the books and pay-rolls of the land and water-power department, then under the direction of robert read, esq. the city had no existence except in the plans of the projectors. there was not a mill on the east side of the river, not a building except the scattered farm-houses; the canal had been laid out, a site for a cotton mill set off, but nothing was finished. it was during this constructive period of the city's history that he was occupied with the oversight of workmen, the execution of land sales, and the varied duties of the amoskeag counting-room, thus gathering the knowledge and experience which qualified him for the important agencies that have since engrossed his time. in , desiring a more independent position, he resigned his place in the amoskeag company, and united with o. w. bailey, aretas blood, and joseph m. stone in organizing a company for building railway engines. by the act of incorporation, they took the name of "manchester locomotive-works." without adequate capital, and with adverse times, the projectors of the enterprise had a weary struggle before them. having no reputation as builders, and with limited capacity for production, it was not easy to obtain patronage; but with the pluck and persistence which deserved success, the proprietors determined to make only first-class engines. at the end of ten years they had gained a position which commanded wide confidence, and they then began to divide profits. since that time, with occasional interruptions, the business has steadily increased, so that, in the number, size, and weight of the engines now constructed, the product of a month often exceeds in value the entire product of some previous years. in , mr. means was elected treasurer of the salmon falls manufacturing company. the mills of this company were in the eastern portion of the state, and for convenience of access he removed his family to andover, mass., still retaining his place as treasurer of the locomotive-works, and having an office for the business of both companies in boston. under his management the condition of the salmon falls company was much improved. the capital stock of the company was, by cash payment to its stockholders, reduced from $ , , to $ , . new mills were erected, and the productive capacity of the concern enlarged by one-fourth, without any assessments or sacrifices on the part of the stockholders,--a result which illustrates beyond dispute the good judgment and skill of the management. mr. means resigned the treasurership september , . on the th day of february, , mr. means was married to martha allen, daughter of bethuel and martha (bent) allen, of newton, mass. they have had eight children, of whom six are now living,--four sons and two daughters. the sons, as they have reached manhood, have found employment in the corporations with which the father is connected. in politics, mr. means has been whig and republican. conversant with the affairs of government, and a careful observer of public men, he has manifested a generous appreciation of the good qualities of those with whom he did not agree. loving justice, and abhorring the wrongs by which any class of his fellow-men suffered injury, he strongly adhered to the principles and steadfastly upheld the policy of the party with which he voted. in he was elected representative from ward three in manchester, and served one term in the house at concord. having removed from ward three, he was not returned a second time. in religion, mr. means has firmly held to the evangelical system of doctrine. in early manhood he made profession of his faith by uniting with the congregational church in his native town; transferring his membership to the hanover-street church in manchester, and thence to the south church in andover, with successive chances of residence. in all of these places he has proved a stanch friend of the ministry and a liberal supporter of christian institutions. a man of clear convictions and of marked independence of character, he has not stood aloof from the community, but, cherishing a hearty respect for human nature, he has taken an active part in the popular movements in behalf of education and local improvements. to the appeals for charitable aid, whether coming from individuals or churches or institutions of learning, the response has been cordial. the establishment of the means prizes at phillips academy illustrates his discriminating beneficence. in times of difficulty and depression he has been helpful in bearing burdens, making good deficiencies, and quietly upholding the cause he had espoused. for a few years past the family have spent the winter season in boston; but, whether in city or country, the man is unchanged. he is still interested in the welfare of the church and the state, thoughtful of his friends and former associates, considerate of neighbors, and bestowing sympathy and assistance where they are needed, seeks to keep alive the ancient virtues of new england life, and maintain the best standards of service and citizenship. ex-governor frederick smyth. frederick smyth was born march , , in candia, rockingham county, n. h. his ancestors were farmers, men and women of thrift and intelligence. he was trained in the hardest kind of farm labor, receiving, in addition, such education as the good common schools of that town could give, supplemented by a brief course at phillips academy at andover, mass. with a view to further education, he taught school several winters, and in found employment at the store of george porter, esq., in manchester. elm street was then a sandy and uninviting thoroughfare, with only one other store. at the end of the year mr. smyth's employer persuaded him to give up the idea of a college education and adopt a mercantile life. he soon became a partner in the business, which was successfully carried on until , in which year he was elected city clerk,--the beginning of a long official career, local and national. in , mr. smyth was elected mayor, the city then containing a population of fifteen thousand. mayor smyth's first message contained many practical suggestions; for instance, that the police or school committee be empowered to take vagrant children from the streets and put them in school; that proper sidewalks be constructed and maintained; and that a special committee be appointed to confer with the corporations in regard to the introduction of pure water. in may of that year he set trees on elm street, the commons, and about land owned by the city. to this matter the mayor gave his personal attention, and not only at that time but every year since, with few exceptions, has inspected the trees and given notice to the proper authorities of any lack. this thorough attention to detail, and desire for doing the work belonging to his office personally and not by proxy, was characteristic of mayor smyth. in march, , he was re-elected by an increased majority, and the year was marked by the annexation of parts of bedford and goffstown to manchester, and by the rebuilding of the amoskeag falls bridge. the subject of lighting the streets with gas was first introduced to the attention of the city councils at that time, and a few lamps experimentally established. the free public library was also urged,--a recommendation then somewhat in advance of the popular sentiment. it was, however, advocated by the late hon. samuel d. bell and some others, and was finally carried through both branches of the city government without serious opposition. it has resulted in the establishment of a library of which any city might be proud, and a building for its accommodation costing, with the recent annex, nearly forty thousand dollars. a special vote of the trustees at that time recorded their appreciation of mayor smyth's effective exertions in the matter. having been a third time elected mayor and with still increased majority, the annual message of set forth the working plan of the library, proposed a change of city charter to allow the consolidation of school-districts, and again urged the imperative need of a supply of pure water. at the close of this term of office he declined a re-election, but was soon appointed, by the governor, chairman of a committee to locate and build a house of "reformation for juvenile offenders." his associates in this work were the late hon. matthew harvey, ex-governor, and judge of the united states circuit court, and hon. hosea eaton. [illustration: frederick smyth governor of new hampshire - ] the first report of the commissioners was a vindication of the humane policy of the state, containing a sketch of what had been done in this and other countries for the reform of young offenders, with a full report of progress made. in may, , the house was dedicated to its purpose with appropriate ceremonies, and the commissioners were complimented by gov. haile for the fidelity with which the task was accomplished. while engaged in the supervision of this work, mr. smyth represented ward three in manchester in the legislature of and . he was made treasurer of the reform school and of the n. h. agricultural society, holding the latter office during ten years of its greatest usefulness. it was in this time, judge nesmith being president, that daniel webster spoke at one of the annual fairs in manchester to the farmers of his native state, and edward everett made one of those matchless speeches which lives in perennial beauty like the landscape it describes. mr. smyth was at the same time a director of the u. s. agricultural society, manager of the fairs held by that association at louisville, richmond, chicago, and cincinnati, and vice-president of the american pomological society. such varied activities having brought him favorably to the attention of people throughout the state, he received some votes in the convention which nominated the hon. ichabod goodwin for governor. the next year mr. smyth was made president of the convention. in he was appointed, by secretary chase, an agent to receive subscriptions to the national loan, and being cashier and principal business manager of the merrimack river bank and of the savings bank, he invested largely for them in government bonds. the bank of discount soon after became known as the "first national bank." in , mr. smyth was appointed by government a commissioner to the international exhibition at london, and was then made one of the jurors. the favorable exhibit made by the textile fabrics of manchester was in no small degree owing to the care with which he looked after their disposal. his appointment gave him unusual facilities for study and observation in the highest circles of london and england, and he was also accredited from the various associated bodies with which he was connected at home to the royal agricultural society. upon these and kindred topics he wrote some interesting letters, which were published in the _n. h. journal of agriculture_. he also took a trip on the continent, accompanied by c. l. flint, esq., secretary of the massachusetts board of agriculture. the gathering proportions of the war at home, however, led him to cut short his travels, and he arrived at new york, via london, in september. he now gave his time to the care of the banks, encouraging subscriptions to the national loans, and taking active part in measures calculated to strengthen faith in the administration. in may, , a fair was held in smyth's hall in aid of the sanitary commission, at which nearly four thousand dollars were raised. mr. smyth gave the use of the hall and his personal efforts as chairman of the committee, sparing no pains to make the occasion successful; and his enthusiasm and zeal stimulated that of others. after the battle of gettysburg and of the wilderness, he went to the front and gave efficient aid in caring for the sick and wounded. one result of exposure to the burning sun and malaria of the battle-field was the first serious illness of his life. in that same year, when the importance of good municipal government was felt to be superior to partisan considerations, at the solicitation of men prominent in both parties, mr. smyth allowed his name to be used as a candidate for mayor the fourth time. he was elected practically without opposition, and his election had the desired effect, to give confidence to all classes and stability to the financial standing of the city. it has been noticed that he was thought of before this as a possible candidate for governor, and the feeling had so strengthened that in he was nominated for that office, his chief competitor in the convention being the late hon. onslow stearns. the nomination proved a very popular one, and after an active canvass he was elected by a majority of over six thousand, the highest given to any man for twenty-four years. such support was very gratifying to the governor-elect; but, nevertheless, he felt that he had undertaken no light task. the state debt, which heretofore in times of peace seldom exceeded a few thousands, had now arisen to millions. moreover, loans must be made in competition with other states and with the general government. state bonds were hard to sell at any price, and all the time expenditures were going on. in less than three months from governor smyth's inaugural message he had raised, by personal solicitation, largely from banks at manchester, over one million of dollars, and the credit of the state, strained but not impaired by its patriotic efforts, was firmly re-established. much time in this year was occupied in the reception and discharge of returning soldiers, and from june until christmas day, when the last regiment was mustered out, the state echoed to the tread of the home-coming veterans. governor smyth's correspondence at this time reveals great care taken for the needs of the men, for inmates of military hospitals, or for companies unnecessarily detained in camp. in this busy period he found time to make brief practical speeches at portsmouth, milford, and various other places, each of them calculated to draw attention to the resources and credit of new hampshire, and to foster a healthy confidence in our ability to overcome every difficulty. he also delivered in concord the annual address before the new england agricultural society, the late govs. andrew of massachusetts and buckingham of connecticut, with other n. e. governors, being present, and highly commending the address. this year governor smyth was made one of the corporators of the national asylums for disabled soldiers, and served on the committee whose duty it was to arrange the working details, with gen. grant, admiral farragut, gen. butler, surg.-gen. barnes, hon. h. j. raymond, ex-gov. todd, and admiral davis. in he was unanimously nominated for re-election as governor, and, as before, chosen by a handsome majority. some events of the second year are of much interest. the appointment of dr. bouton as state historian, resulting in the preservation and publication of the provincial records, was a peculiarly fitting act; laws in regard to the river fisheries were carried into effect; and initial steps taken toward the foundation of the agricultural college, of which gov. smyth is at this date a trustee and the treasurer. the financial and executive report of the two years' work is very concisely given in the valedictory address of june , . on two occasions the governor spoke briefly at the annual dinner of the sons of new england, at delmonico's in new york, and was very warmly received. some of the most influential and respectable papers of the state advocated his nomination for a third term; he, however, definitely declined the honor in a letter to the _statesman_. he was a delegate at large to the republican national convention which renominated gen. grant, and was also a member of the last constitutional convention of new hampshire. in he was chosen, by vote of congress, one of the managers of the military asylums for six years, other members of the board being hon. r. j. oglesby of illinois, gen. b. f. butler, hon. l. b. gunekel of ohio, jay cooke of philadelphia, and gen. martindale of new york, with the president, secretary of war, and chief-justice, _ex officiis_, any one of whom had authority to admit to the homes on application being made in due form. the proper discharge of these duties involved a vast amount of correspondence, much travel, and constant care. gov. smyth was re-elected for a second six years' term in , and was vice-president of the board. in , the house being democratic and the senate nearly a tie, gen. shields was proposed as his successor, but failed of an election. two years later, however, the democracy were able to unite on a successor. since the close of his term as governor, he has delivered addresses on several occasions,--one before the vermont state agricultural society, another at the dedication of a soldiers' monument at washington, n. h., and, later, the "oration to the unknown dead," delivered on "decoration day" before louis bell post no. , g. a. r., in ; and in , an address on a similar occasion, at rochester, n. h. in he was appointed, by president hayes, honorary commissioner to the international exposition at paris. accompanied by mrs. smyth, he left new york, april , in the steamer russia, for liverpool. visiting london and some english cities by the way, they reached paris at the grand opening. soon after they left marseilles for alexandria, egypt, and from thence made a tour of the holy land, _via_ cairo, ismailia, and the suez canal, afterward journeying to the levant, stopping at constantinople, smyrna, athens, and other points of interest. they were received with uniform courtesy and attention by officials at the u. s. legations, and particularly spoke of the interest manifested in their welfare by ministers noyes at paris, maynard in constantinople, reed at athens, consul-general fairman at cairo. nearly everywhere they seem to have found friends to smooth the roughness of the traveler's path; and on their return to paris, which they did by way of rome, switzerland, and most of the continental cities, it was regarded as an exceptional piece of good fortune to be present at the memorial celebration in honor of m. thiers. ex.-gov. smyth was there also received as a member of the stanley club. while thus absent, he wrote a series of interesting letters, which were published in the _mirror and american_, and read with pleasure by a large circle of acquaintances. since returning from the east he and mrs. smyth have made an extended trip into mexico, touching at cuba by the way. their experience in that land of the sun appears to have been equally pleasant with that in other places. the ex-governor, frequently if not always accompanied by his wife, has visited almost every nook and corner of our own land except, possibly, alaska, and is therefore well qualified to make comparisons. this long and varied experience in affairs, in acquaintance with men, and in travel, has made him a very interesting man in conversation whenever he chooses to indulge in the reminiscences of a not distant past. his house abounds in tokens of travel, curious and rare bits from many lands, and he has entertained there, from time to time, many distinguished guests. before local associations and to personal friends he has given some familiar and delightful talks on what he has seen in these vacations of a busy life. he also pays the penalty of success in other ways, which, if flattering, are not always agreeable. his advice is daily sought, not only, as is natural, in financial and political matters, but on matters more remote from his habits of thought. but, whatever it may be, he gives cheerfully, and no man more readily lends a hand to those who are trying to help themselves. offices of trust also flock to one who has proved himself capable of taking good care of his own affairs, and among appointments which he holds at this date, not before named, are: 'director of the concord, suncook valley, and boston & acton railroads; director and treasurer of the manchester horse-railroad; vice-president of the new england agricultural society; president and director of the northern telegraph company; treasurer of the elliot hospital; cashier and manager of the first national bank of manchester; trustee and treasurer of the merrimack river savings bank: vice-president of the american pomological society. in the faculty of dartmouth college conferred on him the degree of a. b. charles elliott tilton. charles elliott tilton, son of hon. samuel tilton, was born in sanbornton, september , , and in that part set off and incorporated as the town of tilton. he received his early education in the common schools, and at the age of fifteen was put under the instruction of prof. dyer h. sanborn of sanbornton academy. later he was admitted into the norwich university (a military school), where he remained three years. when war was declared with mexico, gen. ransom, the president of the university, was commissioned to raise a regiment, and induced nearly every student to enlist, offering young tilton the command of a company, which honor, through the influence of his father, was declined. about this date he left home, going to new york, where he remained with his brother a short time. he then sailed for the west indies and south america in pursuit of a fortune. at this point a business career was inaugurated which for thirty years called for untiring labor. he visited all the islands, prospected the orinoco and amazon rivers to their head waters, went overland to caracas and la guayra, thence to maracaybo, st. martha, carthagena, and chagres. here he heard of gold discoveries in california, and proceeded at once to san francisco _via_ panama. a hasty survey of the outlook satisfied him that "merchandising" rather than digging for gold afforded better chances for success, and on this foundation determined to build his fortune. in he went to oregon, and in the succeeding year formed a copartnership with w. s. ladd. esq., for general mercantile pursuits, which continued until . that his operations were diversified and on a large scale, the public prints of that era are ample evidence. he was interested in establishing a line of vessels to run between oregon and china, one of which, the "c. e. tilton," had made the quickest passage from new york to oregon on record to the present time. she was subsequently sold to the japanese government and by them converted into a man of war, and was finally sunk in an encounter with the u. s. ship "powhattan." in the banking-house of ladd & tilton, portland, was organized, so favorably known and generally advertised during the settlement of the presidential vote of that state in . he remained a partner in this institution twenty-one years, retiring in . in all this period mr. tilton was interested in many other enterprises on the pacific coast and frontier. among these may be mentioned the navigation of the columbia and willamette rivers. he was one of five who controlled what has developed into the oregon railway & navigation company, with a capital of $ , , . he had an interest in the banking firm of ladd & bush, salem, in the first national bank of portland, and first national bank of walla walla, w. t. at the same time he was largely engaged in transportation across the plains. he fully understood the requirements for merchandise in utah, montana, wyoming, and colorado. he furnished and dispatched large trains from san bernardino, cal., to utah, and from st. joseph, mo., to colorado, and from there to montana, giving his personal attention to them all. this was no pastime twenty years ago. a country largely held by hostile indians had to be traversed, and few trains reached their destination unmolested. desperate encounters frequently occurred, resulting in more or less loss to life and property, and once ending in the capture of an entire train by the "red devils." other obstacles had to be met, incident to such undertakings, like storms, swollen rivers, and break-downs, which would have seemed insuperable to any one of less force of character. realizing what the great west might be, he purchased land in all the territories, which investments have proved advantageous. he engaged in many other transactions which his keen perceptions led him to believe would be remunerative, so that, in fact, there were but few enterprises of importance connected with the growth and development of the pacific slope, whether pertaining to its finance, internal improvements, or its foreign and domestic commerce, in which the cool and sagacious subject of this sketch was not a participator. [illustration: c. w. tilton.] to organize and direct successfully such varied and extended operations, outlined here only in part, required a mind strong in perception and purpose. a union of these qualities, with that adventurous spirit which led the youth of eighteen to the sources of the orinoco and the pampas of the amazon in pursuit of wealth, constituted a mental alliance which could well measure the possibilities of a new country and avail himself of their fulfillment. in all this time mr. tilton enjoyed excellent health and immunity from serious accident. after living amidst the steaming malaria of tropical lagoons, sleeping by the side of his mustang on the plains, blockaded by the storms of the sierras, assailed by the hostile apaches, he returns to his native hills unscathed, with a sound constitution and the early purpose of his will fully accomplished. mr. tilton's munificence has manifested itself most liberally to his townsmen within two years. in that time he has erected and conveyed to them a town hall finished in an elegant and substantial manner. it contains a market and town office, a store and post-office, all commodiously arranged, no expense being spared which would add to convenience. they return to the treasury a handsome rental. the hall proper is easily approached, is finished in hard wood, as is all the interior of the building. it is artistically frescoed in water-colors and gilt, lighted with gas, has a stage fitted with drop-curtains, changes of scenery, a beautiful proscenium, proper furniture, a steinway piano, all after the most approved styles. the building, with its appointments, is the admiration of visitors and the pride of towns-people. he has placed an iron bridge, the present season, from main street to island park, costing over eighteen hundred dollars. the public are allowed at all times to use and occupy this delightful resort. its airy summerhouse, built after an european model, surrounded by works of art, is unmatched in loveliness. for remodeling one of the village churches he contributed more than three thousand dollars; and donated five hundred towards an iron bridge between tilton and northfield, which act results in two by the towns named. he expended a large sum in the purchase of land and improving it for a public park near by the village, and, including the gift of the fine town hall, january , , must have appropriated forty thousand dollars for the pleasure and benefit of his townsmen. during this period he has paid thousands of dollars for improvements on his own premises, giving employment to a large force of laborers and mechanics. mr. tilton's elegant and spacious residence is situated on an eminence commanding a magnificent prospect, and overlooks the village that bears his name. when built, a few years since, it was deemed one of the best in central new hampshire. in the last two years it has been materially improved, while large additions have been constructed, consisting of an extensive conservatory and aviary on the one side of the main building, and a spacious drawing-room on the other; it is unequaled in its appointments, perhaps, in new england. it is twenty-eight feet by thirty-eight feet in area, and twenty-two feet in height. seven thousand five hundred feet of mahogany were used to complete it. to the height of four feet the most elaborate work in wainscoting is produced, while pilasters in the same wood, ornate in their design, extend from the floor on either side and meet in the ceiling above. this arrangement in finish running at right angles leaves the walls and surface overhead checked into panels, either square or oblong, each of which is filled with an individual conception of the artist, but collectively form a general design. an exquisitely designed gablet holds the porcelain tiled fire front, its three sides partly filled with french plate mirrors, and a swiss styled hooding covers the apex which contains the clock. carpets and rugs, drapery and furniture, mirrors and chandeliers, were manufactured for the room. we know the owner is averse to anything that attracts attention to himself. the public on proper occasions have had the pleasure of seeing these premises; and what we have here recited has been gathered from sources that have been open to all. mr. tilton is cordial and pleasant in his intercourse with his neighbors and acquaintances, and in feelings and tastes one of the people. the steel portrait is an excellent one. he is in the prime of manhood and intellect. through life, so far, he seems to have been conscious that his capacity was for business and not politics. he has never sought or held public office, and says he never will. the frequent mention of his name in political circles and sometimes in the press, in such connection, is not inspired by him. he comes back to a common welcome after thirty years of incessant labor, from amidst surroundings, which, if detailed, would seem stranger than fiction. mr. tilton was married december , and sailed in the "gallia" from new york for liverpool, january , . we understand it is the intention of the happy pair, if providence permits, to stay abroad as long as pleasure or profit can be derived from their trip. [illustration: chas. e. balch] col. charles e. balch. charles edward balch was born in francestown in , and is the son of mason and hannah balch, his mother being a daughter of joshua holt, of greenfield. his boyhood was spent upon a farm, and his education was obtained in the common schools and francestown academy. when eighteen years of age he began life for himself as a book-keeper in the dry-goods store of barton & co., in manchester, and two years later had so established himself in the confidence of the managers of the manchester savings bank that he was called to a clerkship in that institution. in this position his industry, courtesy, and excellent judgment won good opinions from all with whom he came in contact, and when the manchester national bank was organized, in , he was chosen its cashier, and has filled this responsible position ever since. he has also been a trustee of the manchester savings bank since , is a member of its investing committee, treasurer of the manchester gas-light company, a director and member of the finance committee of the new hampshire fire insurance company, and a trustee of many large estates. in all these positions, mr. balch has proved himself a sagacious, careful, and safe financier. the banks to which he has given the most of his time and energies reflect in their strength and uniform success his honesty, reliability, and prudence; and those whose funds have been intrusted to his management have always found their confidence justified by steady and satisfactory returns. mr. balch is, moreover, a man whose private character is above suspicion, a citizen whose public duties are never left to others, a friend whose fealty is never doubted, and an acquaintance whose courtesy, candor, and affability command universal respect and good will. he has been too modest to ask, and too busy to accept, political honors; but his influence has been potent in advancing the party to which he belongs, and in shaping the policy of the city in which he resides. in affairs of state and city, as in business matters, he makes little noise; but his work tells, and his convictions of duty bring substantial results. he was commissioned a colonel of the state militia in , and served on gov. head's staff for two years. in july, , mr. balch married miss emeline r. brooks, daughter of rev. nahum brooks, then of bath, me., but now of manchester, who presides over and dispenses the hospitalities of his pleasant home. hon. john carroll moulton. by col. thomas j. whipple. the ancestors of hon. john c. moulton were among the fifty-six inhabitants from the county of norfolk, england, who first settled in the town of hampton, then winnicumet, in the year . the names of john molton and thomas molton appear in a partial list of these original settlers, which may be found in "belknap's history of new hampshire." vol. i. p. . general jonathan moulton was a descendant of this family, and the great-grandfather of john c. moulton. he was born in hampton, n. h., june , , and died at hampton, in the year , at the age of sixty-two. he was a large proprietor in lands, and several flourishing towns in the interior of this state owe their early settlement to his exertions and influence. this fact is mentioned in "farmer & moore's gazetteer," published in . when he was thirty-seven years old, the town of moultonborough was granted to him and sixty-one others, by the masonian proprietors, november , . he was already noted for the distinguished service which he had rendered in the indian wars, which ended with the ossipee tribe, along the northerly borders of moultonborough, in . many of his adventures during this bloody period have been preserved and transmitted to the present time; enough, indeed, to fill a large space in this brief sketch. it may be well to preserve one of these incidents in this record:-- an octogenarian in the vicinity of moultonborough relates that, during the indian wars, colonel, afterward general, jonathan moulton went out with a scouting party from dover. after numerous adventures, they met with and attacked a party of six indians, near a place now known as clark's landing, on the shore of lake winnipesaukee, all of whom fell in the skirmish which ensued, with one exception. the colonel had a large dog with him, which, after the affray was over, he placed upon the track of the escaped indian. the dog ran on the shore a short distance, and then struck off on to the ice. the party followed, and as they approached the entrance of what is now green bay they saw in the distance that the dog had the indian down upon the ice; and when they got to the spot the indian was dead,--killed by the dog. the active services of the general in these border wars had made him, at an early age, well and favorably known to the leading men of that day. his numerous raids and scouts, in the region occupied by the ossipee tribes, had made him well acquainted with the then wilderness, and with the adjacent country upon the western shores of the lake, and no doubt secured to him the land grant which he obtained, in common with many of his companions in arms. he was rightly placed at the head of the grantees, by the masonian proprietors, and the town of moultonborough, which was named after him, perpetuates the memory of his rugged virtues and of his enterprising character. his descendants have been inhabitants of moultonborough and of center harbor to the present time. after obtaining this grant, the general devoted much of the remainder of his life in promoting the settlement and the development of this new territory. among other things in this direction, he obtained from gov. wentworth the grant of land now known as the town of new hampton, which was formerly a part of moultonborough gore, and then called "moultonborough addition." the following amusing account of the way in which gen. moulton secured this last grant appears in "fogg's gazetteer," and is to be found in other histories of those early times:-- [illustration: john c. coulton.] "in , gen. jonathan moulton, of hampton, having an ox weighing one thousand four hundred pounds, fattened for the purpose, hoisted a flag upon his horns, and drove him to portsmouth as a present to gov. wentworth. the general refused any compensation for the ox, but said he would like a charter of a small gore of land he had discovered adjoining the town of moultonborough, of which he was one of the principal proprietors. the governor granted this simple request of general moulton, and he called it new hampton, in honor of his native town. this small gore of land contained nineteen thousand four hundred and twenty-two acres, a part of which now constitutes center harbor." thus it appears that general moulton, by his energy and enterprise, largely contributed to the formation of three towns,--one named new hampton, by him; another named moultonborough, for him; and the third, center harbor, was carved from a part of his grant called "moultonborough addition." * * * * * the following is the genealogical order:-- . gen. jonathan moulton, born in hampton, n. h., june , . jan. , , he married abigail smith. he died in . . benning moulton, son of jonathan moulton and abigail (smith) moulton, born may , . he married sally lovett, nov. , . he settled in center harbor in , and there died dec. , . . jonathan smith moulton, son of benning moulton and sally (lovett) moulton, born at center harbor, dec. , . he married deborah neal. he died nov. , . . john carroll moulton, son of jonathan smith moulton and deborah (neal) moulton, born in center harbor, dec. , . in addition to the ordinary opportunities of the district school, in his native town, he attended holmes academy at plymouth, n. h., where for several terms he pursued his studies under the instruction of the late samuel burns, who ranked among the foremost teachers of his time. to perfect himself in mathematical studies, for which he showed an early and natural aptitude, he placed himself under the tuition of master dudley leavitt, the noted "almanac-maker," who, for many years, opened an annual term of high school in meredith, where he taught all the advanced branches of mathematics to pupils, who in that day flocked from every part of the country to place themselves at the feet of this great mathematical gamaliel. these studies he ardently pursued far beyond the limits of the ordinary academical course, and they seem to have impressed upon him a permanent proficiency often called for and manifested in the various large business transactions with which he has been connected for so many years. during the intervals of schools he assisted his father--who was in trade and a large farmer--as clerk and general assistant in his extensive business. in , at about the age twenty, he opened a store and commenced trade at sandwich. n. h., where he remained about a year, when he returned, and resumed the same business at center harbor. july , , he married nellie b. senter. he then opened a hotel in what has since grown to be one of the famous boarding-houses at center harbor, and, with the aid of his brilliant and accomplished wife, united the duties of landlord and merchant, which employments he continued there for several years. in , lake village, n. h., began to attract attention as a place of large prospective business, and mr. moulton left center harbor, and opened a store at that place. he also engaged in manufacturing, and continued in these employments for several years. in he removed to laconia, then known the world over as meredith bridge, and took charge of the belknap hotel. this being the only stage house of that lively place, it was usually inundated with the stream of public travel peculiar to those times. he continued this business about two years, when he opened a bookstore and an apothecary-shop in a building which stood on the site now occupied by the post-office and the national bank. he was soon after appointed postmaster,--in the latter part of tyler's administration; was re-appointed by president polk, through whose term he held the office, which he continued to do a short time during the term of president taylor, when, being a life-long democrat, he was removed. he was re-appointed by president pierce, and also by president buchanan, during whose terms he held the office, which he continued to do a short time under president lincoln, when he was superseded by the appointment of a republican. thus he held the office of postmaster during part of the terms of three republican, and the full terms of three democratic administrations, making his term of office about sixteen years in all. the duties of his long term of service were performed in a manner universally acceptable and satisfactory to the public. in the boston, concord, & montreal railroad was built and completed from concord to plymouth. in anticipation of this event the firm of charles ranlet & co. built large and extensive car-works at laconia, which they designed particularly for the construction of freight-cars. the firm commenced and carried on the business until the decease of the senior partner, in , when the works were suspended. in , mr. moulton became a partner, and by his great energy and business capacity has developed a large business, which employs some two hundred men, most of whom are skilled workmen. the monthly pay-roll is about eight thousand dollars. the works have been repeatedly enlarged, and several extensive buildings erected, to accommodate the increase of business. for several years, passenger-cars of the finest style and finish, as well as freight-cars, have been built at their works, and their annual gross earnings are to be reckoned at several hundred thousand dollars. in february, , these car-shops, with most of their machinery and contents, were burned to the ground, only some of the out-buildings being saved. before the ruins were done smoking, lumber began to be hauled upon the ground, and in thirty days from the fire cars were being built in new shops which had been erected on the old foundations. mr. moulton was then over seventy years of age, and was well able to retire from business, with an ample competence, to the quiet repose which most men desire as the closing blessing of an active and arduous life. in and he was chosen senator from district number six, and performed his official duties with his accustomed promptness and fidelity, and to the satisfaction of his constituents. he was also elected councilor for district number two in . in he was one of the delegates to the democratic national convention held at st. louis, which nominated samuel j. tilden for the presidency, and in the ensuing presidential campaign was one of the candidates on the democratic ticket for elector. in , rapid growth of the manufacturing, commercial, and other business interests at laconia and lake village suggested to him the great need of added financial facilities. to meet these demands, it was necessary to procure a charter from the government to establish a national bank at laconia. almost insurmountable obstacles to success in this enterprise were encountered, and finally overcome. the charter was procured, and the bank established, largely by the active and persistent labor of the subject of this sketch. upon the organization of the laconia national bank, he was chosen its first president, and has continuously and acceptably held the position to the present time. it may well be said, that the impartiality with which the accommodations of this bank have been extended to promote all hopeful enterprises has done much to advance the growth and prosperity of the place. for several years, mr. moulton was a stockholder in the gilford hosiery corporation at laconia. in he became sole owner of the entire stock and property. he has steadily continued its successful operation, with an annual product of one hundred and twenty thousand dollars, until now. the factory employs about one hundred and fifty hands, mostly females, at the mill, and gives employment to many households in the surrounding country. mr. moulton and benjamin k. thurston are joint owners of the extensive flouring and grain mill of laconia. he is also a large owner of the stock in the laconia gas-light company, and has done much to place this important pioneer enterprise upon the solid basis it now holds among the public improvements of this growing town. mr. moulton is a member of the independent order of odd fellows. he is one of the charter members of winnipisseogee lodge no. , which was established at laconia in , and is now one of the uniformed patriarchs of the order. his domestic and family relations are as follows:-- july , , he married nellie b. senter, of center harbor, who was the daughter of samuel m. senter. her ancestor, col. joseph senter, and ebenezer chamberlain were the first settlers in that town in and . she died nov. , , at laconia. five children were born to them, of whom three survive. edwin carroll moulton was born may , , and died nov. , . he married augusta ranlet, of laconia, daughter of charles ranlet; and their only child, nelly augusta moulton, still survives. he was an active business man, full of promise, and many friends still cherish his memory. samuel moore senter moulton was born aug. , , and resides at laconia. may , , he enlisted, and served in the new hampshire volunteers. july , , he enlisted in the regular army of the united states, and served three years during the rebellion, with the mounted troops. since the war he is employed as book-keeper, clerk, and paymaster in the car factories above referred to. he was one of the selectmen of laconia for the years and ; and was representative of the town to the legislature for the years and . he married martha b. thurston, daughter of benjamin e. thurston, who is well known. he served as representative to the legislature from the town of moultonborough in carroll county, for the years and , after which he removed to, and now resides in, laconia, which town he represented in the legislature in . he was also high sheriff of belknap county in the years and . william hale moulton was born july , , died march , . horatio francis moulton was born jan. , . during the war he was three years in the united states navy. he was one of the naval cadets, and intended to pass his life in the united states service, but was prevented by pulmonary disease. he married ella s. melcher, of springfield, mass., daughter of william melcher, and has a family of three young children. he is superintendent of the gilford hosiery company, and has been so for many years. ida lettice moulton, was born june , . she married joshua b. holden, of boston, mass., and they have a young family of four children. mr. moulton married his second wife, sarah a. mcdougal, aug. , . her many virtues and useful charities have endeared her to a large circle of warm friends. the lives of men who are absorbed in the exacting duties of many diversified and burdensome pursuits are not crowded with incidents which interest remote posterity; but the successful and many-sided enterprises of such men exert a wide and beneficial influence in their day and generation. such a man is mr. moulton. he has always been an open-handed, public-spirited citizen. to him, and to two or three others, we owe the building of the finest church in laconia and the support of a liberal ministry. long after he has passed away, the town of his adoption will continue to exhibit many evidences of his liberal contributions to whatever tended to promote the growth of the town, the prosperity of its business, or the public welfare. [illustration: a. w. sulloway] hon. alvah w. sulloway. by h. h. metcalf. from an industrial, as well as a political standpoint, the town of franklin has long occupied a prominent position in the state. highly favored by nature with the facilities most conducive to the development of manufacturing industry, there has grown up within its limits, or been attracted thereto from other localities, a large class of citizens possessing the enterprise, energy, and sagacity requisite to the most advantageous use of those facilities. there are, indeed, few among our new england towns of corresponding size, which include among their inhabitants a larger number of active and successful business men, or whose progress has been signalized during the last quarter of a century by a more substantial industrial development. alvah w. sulloway is one of the best-known, most practical, energetic, and public-spirited among the enterprising business men of this prosperous and progressive town. while the state of massachusetts has drawn from our midst a large proportion of the men whose labors have brought the prosperity and distinction which that proud old commonwealth enjoys, she has given new hampshire in return some of her own sons, whose efforts have contributed in no small degree to advance the honor and welfare of the state of their adoption. among these is the subject of this sketch. born in framingham, mass., dec. , , mr. sulloway is now in his forty-fourth year. he is the only son and eldest child of israel w. and adeline (richardson) sulloway, to whom three daughters were also born, two of whom are living, one unmarried, and the other the wife of herbert bailey, esq., a prominent manufacturer of the town of claremont. israel w. sulloway is a native of boston, and sprang from revolutionary ancestry on both the paternal and the maternal side, his mother being a woodbury of salem, daughter of capt. israel woodbury, who served in the patriot army throughout the war for independence. he engaged in manufacturing service in youth, and was for some time an overseer in the saxonville woolen mill. when his son alvah was about ten years of age, he removed to the town of enfield in this state, where he engaged in the manufacture of yarn hosiery. here he introduced the process of manufacturing the celebrated shaker socks by machinery, being the first manufacturer to engage in the enterprise, where he established a prosperous business, which he carried on about sixteen years, when he sold out to his son-in-law, mr. bailey, and retired from active life, locating at waltham, mass., where he still resides. in his father's mill at enfield, alvah w. sulloway gained that practical knowledge of the business in which he has since been engaged, which constituted the sure foundation of the success he has attained therein. he secured a good academical education at canaan, barre, vt., and the green mountain liberal institute at south woodstock; but spent a considerable portion of his time between the age of ten and twenty-one years in active labor in the mill, thoroughly familiarizing himself with the various processes in hosiery manufacture, and the general conduct of business in that important line of industry. upon attaining his majority, with that ambitious and independent spirit which so generally characterizes the youth of new england, and to which the development and prosperity of all sections of our country are so largely due, mr. sulloway determined to go into business for himself. his purpose received the ready sanction and encouragement of his father, and after due deliberation he formed a partnership with walter aiken of franklin, in the manufacture of hosiery. the partnership continued for about four years, when it was dissolved by mutual consent, and another firm was organized, which put in operation a new mill. this firm consisted of mr. sulloway and frank h. daniell of franklin, who carried on business together until , when mr. daniell withdrew, and mr. sulloway has since been sole proprietor. the mill is situated upon the lower power of the winnipesaukee, opposite the mills of the winnipiseogee paper company, the power being used in common by the two establishments. the building is of brick, three stories high, with basement, contains four sets of woolen machinery, with about seventy-five knitting-machines, and furnishes employment for about ninety operatives, besides a large number of women in the vicinity, and surrounding towns, whose labor is required in finishing the work which the machines leave incomplete. the goods manufactured are the shaker socks, or half-hose, of which about three hundred dozen pairs are produced daily, giving an annual product of about one hundred and fifty thousand dollars. the monthly pay-roll averages about two thousand five hundred dollars, aside from the amount paid for outside labor. mr. sulloway is a business man in the true sense of the term, and as such he has been thus far eminently successful. but while devoting his energies and ability to the development of his own business interests, and thereby indirectly conferring large benefit upon the community in which he moves, he has never failed to contribute, by direct personal effort, to the advancement of all measures of public utility and material progress; and to his labor and encouragement, personally and pecuniarily, as much as to any other among its many enterprising and public-spirited citizens, the town of franklin is indebted for the advanced position which it holds, when regarded from a business, social, or educational standpoint. he was a prime mover in the organization of the franklin national bank, which went into operation in november, , and has been president of the institution from the start. he has also been a trustee of the franklin savings bank ever since its establishment, and for several years past a member of the committee of investment. in he was chosen a member of the board of directors of the northern railroad, which position he still holds. in politics, mr. sulloway is an ardent democrat, an earnest and enthusiastic worker in the party cause; and his labors in this direction have been largely instrumental in bringing his party into ascendency in franklin, which was for many years one of the hardest-contested political battle grounds in the state, numbering, as it does, among its citizens several of the most active leaders of the two great parties. in , although the town was then decidedly republican, he was chosen a member of the state legislature from franklin, and was re-elected the following year. in , and again in , he was elected to the same position. in the legislature, as everywhere else, he proved himself a thoroughly practical man, devoting himself actively to business, and leaving speech-making to those inclined to talk rather than work. in , he served on the committee on elections; in , upon railroads; in was chairman of the committee on manufactures, where his close acquaintance with manufacturing interests fitted him for most efficient service; and in was again a member of the elections committee. in , when the democratic party managers set to work systematically to win a victory in the state, mr. sulloway was nominated for railroad commissioner upon the ticket headed by james a. weston for governor. although there was no choice by the people in the election that year, the democracy won a substantial victory, in that they secured a majority in the legislature, and the election of their candidates for governor and railroad commissioner followed at the hands of that body. to this triumph of his party in the state, the energetic labor of mr. sulloway in the general conduct of the campaign contributed in no small degree. as a member of the board of railroad commissioners for the term of three years, the last year as chairman of the board, he rendered the state efficient service, carrying into his official labors, so far as they extended, the same practical sagacity and judgment exercised in his own private business. in january, , mr. sulloway was nominated by the democracy of the second district as their candidate for congress, against major james f. briggs of manchester, the republican nominee. the district was strongly republican, and that party had a popular candidate in the field; yet mr. sulloway, with no expectation of an election, made a vigorous canvass, and ran largely ahead of his ticket. he was also the candidate of his party in the district at the next election, and again in , making lively work for his successful opponent, major briggs, on each occasion. he has been an active member of the democratic state committee for more than ten years past, and for the greater portion of the time a member of the executive committee of that body, having direct charge of the campaign work. he was a member of the new hampshire delegation in the national convention at st. louis in , which nominated samuel j. tilden for the presidency, and was an enthusiastic supporter of the great new york reformer, not only in convention, but also in the subsequent campaign in which he was actively engaged as a member of the democratic national committee from this state. in he was again a delegate to the national convention of his party, at cincinnati, where gen. hancock was nominated, and was again elected as the new hampshire member of the national committee, holding the position until the present time. in religion, mr. sulloway is an adherent of the liberal faith. he was reared a universalist, and is now an active member of the unitarian society in franklin, a young but flourishing organization which is already taking active measures for the erection of a fine church edifice. in this organization, as in business and politics, mr. sulloway is an earnest worker, and his labor and encouragement have contributed materially to its success. he is a trustee of this society, and, with governor bell, a vice-president of the new hampshire unitarian association. he is also a member of the board of trustees of the unitarian educational society, under whose auspices the liberal educational institution known as proctor academy, at andover, is conducted. in , mr. sulloway was united in marriage with miss susan k. daniell, an accomplished daughter of the late j. f. daniell, a member of the noted paper-making firm of peabody & daniell, and a sister of the hon. warren f. and frank h. daniell. they have two children, a daughter and son,--the eldest, alice, born august , , and richard woodbury, born february , . their home is a fine modern residence, erected in , beautifully located in a bend of the winnipesaukee river, surrounded by handsome grounds, with all its appointments conducive to the comfort of the family and the host of friends who share their generous hospitality. mr. sulloway is a man of keen perceptive powers and ready judgement, so that he is enabled to form conclusions upon all practical questions presented with more than ordinary promptness and accuracy. his opinion in all matters of public interest and concern in the community in which he resides is as frequently sought and carries as great weight as that of any other man, to say the least, and the same also may be said of his advice in private business affairs. he is frank and outspoken at all times, and never hesitates to say just what he thinks when called upon to express himself in any direction. he has many warm friends, and enjoys a full measure of popularity in social as well as in public and business circles. he was a moving spirit in the organization of the "new hampshire club," an association formed by new hampshire men doing business in boston, for social entertainment, and has been a leading member of the same from the start. endowed with an active mind and healthy and vigorous bodily powers, he has great capacity for labor, and will, unquestionably, accomplish even more substantial results in the future than have already attended his efforts. [illustration: chester pike] chester pike. the subject of this sketch was born july , , in the town of cornish, n. h. mr. pike may be said to be possessed of prescriptive rights in the township of his nativity and residence, for, planted of others, it was by blood of his blood nurtured into permanence and prosperity. as the traits of the parent re-appear in the qualities of the child, so the annals of the stock from whence he sprang mingle inseparably with the chronicles of this many-hilled town by the connecticut. his great-grandfather and great-grandmother chase were the first white persons to settle in cornish, and in every mention of early citizens will be found the names of pike, bryant, and chase, whose blood blends with his. the friendship arising from nearness of residence and a common industry, which from the first had bound these families together, was soon strengthened and made permanent by the stronger tie of intermarriage. in , eben pike, who was the eldest son of ebenezer and mary marcy pike, of cornish, was united in marriage with the daughter of capt. sylvanus bryant and sarah chase bryant, of the same place. this lady, on her mother's side, was a cousin to the statesman, salmon p. chase, who for many years represented ohio in the senate of the united states, and at the time of his death, as chief-justice of the supreme court, wore with undiminished honor and dignity the mantle of the great marshall. the earliest fruit of this union was chester pike, whose life we are now tracing. a later son, john b. pike, a mail-route agent between boston and st. albans, an efficient officer and courteous gentleman, is now a resident of lebanon, in this state. the oldest son still resides in his native town and not far from the spot where his grandparents first settled, in the broad, picturesque valley of the connecticut, hard by the village of windsor, and under the shadows of ascutney. to one so located, the relics of the past are objects of enduring interest. the very hills and valleys must awaken memories of the olden time and kindle associations of the ancestral home, which will perpetuate the virtues and the aspirations of the dead. he can but experience something of the feeling of the descendants of the old families of england, who live upon their ancient estates, and saunter in the halls of old castles, or under the shadows of gnarled trees that were planted centuries ago by the founders of their line, whose ashes long since mingled with, and became a part of, their inalienable homesteads. the remembrance of the brave fathers and fair mothers who lived in the heroic past is their richest inheritance. in his earlier years, obedient to the custom of the fathers, mr. pike attended the district school. this institution, original to new england, discharges a function in the training of the young which, to our mind, some of the methods and more ambitious inventions of modern educators fail to fulfill. in the district school, if properly taught, are secured habits of faithfulness and diligence, and a permanent knowledge of elementary branches, which are of daily practical use in the life of the people. there, too, the silly conceits and factitious distinctions of society are broken down, as children see that success is achieved by brains, not money; by industry, not social standing. in this, sometimes rough but general intercourse of youth, democratic ways and independence of thought are acquired, and the seeds of a true manhood and womanhood are planted. our system of public schools is in harmony with the organism of the state, and in them our children imbibe a spirit of obedience to wholesome, legitimate authority, and so become conservative of public discipline and order. men learn to rule by learning to obey. it was here that mr. pike laid the foundations of character. later, he was for a time a scholar in the academy at hartland, vt. after a season of study there, he matriculated in that long-time famous and still existing center of pro-collegiate education, the kimball union academy at meriden, n. h. the principal, at that time, was the rev. cyrus richards, and under his guidance several terms were passed in the acquisition of the more abstruse learning of the books. but the months drift by, and at the age of fifteen mr. pike graduates from the schools and passes on to the sterner duties of manhood and of life. the winter months of the six ensuing years are filled up with the active work of the pedagogue, and the summer seasons in constant, laborious work upon the home farm. during this period he was ripening the lessons of his pupilage and maturing plans for the future. at the age of twenty-one, mr. pike, though he still spent his winters for some years in teaching, became a trader in cattle and a merchant in the products of the soil. by his enterprise in this, his chosen vocation, he reached the position of a foremost man of a notable class among the farmers of new england. familiar from youth with the harvest capabilities of the rich levels and the sun-warmed hills of sullivan county, and gifted with a quick sense to perceive the wants of modern markets, he has, by unusual energy and sagacity, fitted means to ends, and, with a midas-touch, turned his agrarian resources into gold. his success teaches the lesson that the new england farm has no less potential wealth at present than in times past, if skill but holds the handles of the plow. let the modern farmer cling to the old homestead and the paternal acres, and take counsel with the progressive science of soil-enrichment; let him employ the same skill in the cultivation of his farm and the management of his stock, let him use the same enterprise in utilizing markets, and the same economy in the disposition of his funds, which are necessary in other employments,--and his success is sure. we would here quote from a leading paper of the state a few lines pertinent to our narrative:-- "capt. chester pike, of cornish, has one of the largest, if not the largest, farm in the state. it contains about one thousand acres of land, divided into wood, mowing, tillage, and pasture land; forty acres in corn, and seventy acres in wheat, rye, oats, barley, and potatoes. last season he raised six thousand eight hundred baskets of corn. he has one hundred and thirty head of cattle, three hundred sheep, thirty-seven horses, and forty hogs, and raises hay enough to keep his stock through the season, or about three hundred tons. capt. pike's farm lies in the town of cornish, on the east bank of the connecticut river, immediately opposite the farm of the hon. william m. evarts, late secretary of state, situated in windsor. vt., which is of about equal dimensions, and, in fact, the largest farm in vermont. mr. evarts raises about the same amount of stock, hay, and produce as capt. pike. on both of these farms may be found all the modern appliances, such as mowing and reaping machines, seeders for sowing grain, two-horse cultivators for hoeing corn, most of the work being done by machinery, the same as upon the largest farms of the west." any man might be proud of such a record, but it is only a part of the truth. in single seasons, mr. pike often buys, for resale, from seventy-five to one hundred and twenty-five tons of poultry, and between two and three hundred thousand pounds of wool. besides the above, he has for many years purchased annually, for the boston market, in the interest of the firm of lamson, dudley, & pike, of which he is a member, great numbers of cattle and sheep. during the thirty years, mr. pike has found an outlet for that restless energy and enterprise which these pursuits and the occupation of farming and stock-growing cannot exhaust, in an extensive lumber business. all this, it should be borne in mind, is in addition to the extensive cultivation and stock-growing on his own farm. notwithstanding the variety and extent of his purely business transactions, mr. pike has also found leisure to fill with efficiency many stations in the public service. at one period of his career, during several successive years he was selectman of cornish. this led the way to other offices. he who had discharged with faithfulness and skill the responsibilities in the town, was deemed worthy to be honored with higher duties, and mr. pike found himself, in , , and , the incumbent of the office of county commissioner for sullivan county. at the end of his third term, his fellow-townsmen withdrew him from the commissionship, which he had ably filled, and made him their representative to the general court for , and again for . he made an intelligent and active legislator, and soon became familiar with the business of the house. the estimate which was put upon his services and standing in the house is seen in the fact that in his first year he served on the committee on manufactures, and, in his second year, was made chairman of the committee on banks, which at the time was one of the most difficult and responsible positions in the house. if mr. pike did not often attempt to influence legislation by debate, he had what wirt attributes to jefferson, "the out-of-door talent of chamber consultation," and used it with good effect. the years and were two of the most anxious and trying years of the civil war, and perplexing propositions were brought before the legislature for solution. there were sharp antagonisms and earnest debates among the strong men of those sessions; questions of jurisdiction and policy touching the national defense and the rights of states, new to legislation and embittered by party rancor, became the subjects of action; the frequent calls for men and money to meet the demand which the prolonged and sanguinary conflict made upon the state gave to the legislation of the period unprecedented interest and importance. through it all, no man was more active, more true, or more patriotic, than capt. pike. in , the subject of our sketch was appointed provost-marshal of the third new hampshire district, and during that and the two succeeding years, when the war-cloud hung heavy and dark on the southern horizon, he discharged the duties of this delicate and difficult office with unusual ability, and received from mr. frye, the provost-marshal-general, the highest possible commendation for the integrity and success with which he administered the affairs of his department of the public service. associated with him in this branch of the military organization, were some of the foremost men of the state: hon. francis a. faulkner, an able lawyer of keene, was commissioner, and dixi crosby, the distinguished head of the dartmouth medical college, was surgeon of the board of enrollment; senator h. w. blair, hon. ossian ray, and col. nelson converse of marlborough were the deputy-marshals, and judge w. h. h. allen of newport, c. c. kimball, esq., of charlestown, and henry c. henderson, esq., of keene, were clerks of the board. to have conducted the office in a way to secure the respect and co-operation of such a body of men is in itself a distinguished honor. in , mr. pike received the nomination for councilor of the fourth councilor district, but declined, and was subsequently appointed united states collector of internal revenue. his administration of the duties of this position was deservedly popular with the department at washington, and with the people at home, and he remained in it till the districts of the state were consolidated. in he was a delegate from cornish in the constitutional convention, receiving every vote cast by his fellow-townsmen. in addition to these public offices, mr. pike has been a director in the claremont national bank for fifteen years, and an active member and officer of the sullivan county, the connecticut river, the new hampshire state, and the new england agricultural societies. to have earned and to have enjoyed the popular favor in a republic and in so many and varied places of honorable trust, is to have passed the crucial test of fitness for public life. few men of positive character and recognized ability, if in exalted positions, are so fortunate, in this age, as to escape criticism; but it will be acknowledged that in all the state and national trusts held by the subject of our sketch, he has so borne himself as to win the approval of the authorities, the good will of the people, and the respect of his friends. in , mr. pike was united in marriage to amanda m. fay, the daughter of hon. levi chamberlain fay, of windsor, vt., a lady of attractive manners and varied accomplishments. mrs. pike has been a most loyal wife in all the relations of life, and the beloved mother of four children,--three sons and a daughter,--of whom but one survives, chester fay pike, a lad of twelve years. in the above narrative, we have done little more than to set down in order the events in the life of a quiet citizen of one of the country towns of our state; but, when we consider how much this gentleman has accomplished and that he is only now at the meridian of life, we realize that his is no ordinary career, and that new england does not furnish a long catalogue of men who have so well illustrated the genius of our institutions, and the possibilities of a sagacious mind that has a fixed purpose to succeed in the race of life. the man who does difficult work and wins the love of friends deserves to be honored of all. in all the relations of public and private life mr. pike,-- "by nature honest, by experience wise, healthy by temperance and exercise," has acted well his part, and so honored his state, and made a name which his descendants will cherish in the years to come. [illustration: thos. p. pierce] col. thomas p. pierce. by hon. john h. goodale. most of the success and thrift which during the past thirty years have attended the manufacturing interests of new hampshire are due to the untiring industry and intelligent foresight of that class of self-reliant, progressive business men who, starting in life with ordinary advantages, have had the nerve to seize and the capacity to improve the opportunities within their reach. prominent among this class of enterprising and valuable citizens of this state is the gentleman whose name stands at the head of this page,--hon. thomas p. pierce. col. pierce was born in chelsea, mass., on the th of august, . he came from revolutionary stock on both the father's and mother's side. after limited training in the public schools, he learned the trade of carriage and ornamental painting in boston. in , the subject of this sketch came to manchester, which was then springing into existence as a manufacturing village, under the auspices of the amoskeag land and water company. three years previous the first improvements were begun, and it was now a bustling town of six hundred families, gathered from every section of northern new england. with much of the rush and recklessness of a newly grown community, there were then germs of that energy which has since made manchester an eminently prosperous city. young pierce, not yet of age, worked as a journeyman at his trade, and by his unvarying courtesy and cheerful spirit was a favorite among his associates. he was an active member of the famous stark guards,--a military organization of which hon. george w. morrison and walter french, esq., were successively in command. there is no more exhaustive test of a young man's stamina than life in a rapidly growing manufacturing village. one literally goes in and out in the presence of the enemies' pickets, though they may not be intentional enemies. the temptation to excess is constant and persistent. often the most brilliant and sagacious fall victims. it is to the credit of thomas p. pierce that he passed the ordeal unscathed. in the summer of it was his good fortune to marry miss asenath r. mcpherson, the daughter of a farmer in the adjoining town of bedford. the war with mexico began in . when it was decided that an army under gen. scott should be raised to march to the city of mexico, it was ordered that a regiment of infantry should be raised in new england. mr. pierce at once volunteered as a private, and was soon after commissioned, by president polk, as second lieutenant of one of the companies of the new england regiment. the command of this regiment was first assigned to franklin pierce; but on his promotion to the command of a brigade it was given to truman b. ransom, a brave and accomplished officer from vermont. early in the summer the brigade under gen. pierce was ordered to proceed to the eastern coast of mexico, and to land in the vicinity of vera cruz, to be ready to co-operate with the main army under gen. scott in the march to the mexican capital. the troops disembarked on the th of june,--a most unfavorable season of the year. the heat was so intense on the lowlands that to march between nine o'clock in the morning and four in the afternoon was impossible. with the exception of a few of the officers, the entire force was made up of new recruits. it occupied two weeks to secure mules for army transportation. on the th of july the movement toward the city of mexico began, and, on reaching the foothills, every bridge and fortified pass was strongly guarded by hostile mexicans. there was constant skirmishing, and the enemy, from the cliffs and thickets, made annoying and sometimes dangerous attacks. the climate, the difficulties of marching, and hardships of a military life in a strange country bore heavily on the inexperienced soldiery. amid these perplexities, the tact, the genial spirit, and untiring attention to the wants of his comrades won for lieut. pierce a high regard and strong personal attachment. in the sharp conflicts which occurred on reaching the table-lands, lieut. pierce took an active part. at the battle of contreras, fought august , he was personally complimented by col. ransom for bravery,--himself soon after a martyr to his personal valor. reaching the higher lands, gen. scott found the flower of the mexican army entrenched among the cliffs of churubusco. to leave the enemy in the rear was to hazard everything; and in the dangerous task of dislodging and utterly routing them the new england regiment bore a conspicuous part. in his report of the battle, gen. scott placed the name of lieut. pierce on the list of those recommended for promotion on account of gallant and meritorious conduct. the storming of chepultepec soon followed, in which the new england regiment had literally to cross a succession of ridges and ravines, exposed to a deadly fire from the enemy among the crags. the assault was successful, and the surrender of the mexican capital immediately followed. in this action, and in the details of patrol service during the winter, while the city was occupied by the american army, lieut. pierce was officially commended for the vigilant discharge of his duties. the campaign in mexico, with its varied experiences, had, without doubt, a marked and favorable effect upon the subject of this sketch. the novelty of climate and productions, the grandeur of the scenery, and the immense natural resources of that region were not lost upon him. but of still greater value was the experience gained from association with men of large attainments, positive ideas, strong will, and comprehensive views. the majority of the army officers in that campaign were of this character; and the young soldier, at the close of the war, returned home in march, , with higher aims and a better and truer estimate of the duties and responsibilities of life. col. pierce again engaged in business at his trade, in manchester, which, in the meantime, had been incorporated a city. in he became a member of the city government; and in the same year was appointed a member of gov. dinsmoor's staff. upon the inauguration of gen. franklin pierce as president, in march, , he was appointed postmaster at manchester. this position, in the largest and most prosperous city of the state, was one of unusual labor and responsibility. col. pierce filled the office for eight years, and to the entire satisfaction of the citizens of all parties. on the breaking out of the rebellion, in , col. pierce was selected by gov. goodwin as commander of the second new hampshire regiment, of the three months' troops. having satisfactorily discharged his duties, he retired after the term of enlistment was changed to three years. the next year, september, , unexpected difficulties having arisen, gov. berry telegraphed to col. pierce to take command of the twelfth new hampshire regiment, then completing its organization at concord. how well he accomplished the duty assigned him was expressed in a statement, signed by the officers of the regiment, at the time of his withdrawal, in the following words:-- "your generous and patriotic course in assuming temporary command of the regiment during a period of great excitement and confusion, thereby saving it from dissolution and the state from disgrace, merits our admiration and sincere thanks." in , col. pierce removed to nashua, for the purpose of engaging in the manufacture of card-board and glazed paper. since then he has been an active member and one of the directors of the nashua card and glazed-paper company,--one of the most successful business enterprises in the state, and which, in the variety and excellence of its products, is not surpassed by any corporation of its kind in the country. col. pierce is also a director of the contoocook valley paper company in henniker, a director of the second national bank and president of the mechanics savings bank at nashua. in , col. pierce was elected a member of the new hampshire state senate, the only candidate of his party ever elected from that district; and in and he was sheriff of hillsborough county. while unwavering in his attachment to, and support of, the democratic party, he is not rabid in his policy or partisan in his associations. when president hayes visited nashua, in , he was selected by the city government as chairman of the committee of arrangements; and no citizen took a more efficient part in securing a proper observance of the obsequies of president garfield. he and his family are attendants of the universalist church. in his social and domestic relations, col. pierce has been fortunate. of his two children, the eldest, mrs. julia m., wife of william n. johnson, resides at west henniker, where her husband is a paper manufacturer; his son, mr. frank pierce, is associated with him in business. a few years since, having purchased the homestead of the late gen. j. g. foster, he built a spacious and elegant residence. situated on an acclivity on the north side of the nashua river, surrounded by ample grounds and stately trees, it is a home of rare attractions. col. pierce is still in the prime of active life, and his past record, as well as his present position, is a guarantee that he will ably and faithfully meet the responsibilities of the future. col. martin v. b. edgerly. by h. h. metcalf. in these days of varying fortune in business life, and in this country especially, where property is accumulated or lost more readily and frequently than in any other land, the beneficent nature of the institution of life assurance has come to be very generally appreciated. this institution, which, so far as its general establishment is concerned, is peculiarly an american one, is indeed a natural outgrowth of our social and business system, and is coming to be more fully recognized, from year to year, in one form or another, as the only medium through which men in general business, or most of the avocations of life, may make substantially sure provision for the support of their families or those depending upon them, in case of their own removal by death before acquiring a competency, or after the loss of the same through business reverses or adventitious circumstances. the man who stands before the public as a leading representative of an institution of such importance becomes properly a person of note in the business community; and when he is endowed with those powers and qualities of mind which naturally bring him into prominence in social and political circles and the general activities of life, he may well be classed among those who are esteemed representative men of the times in the state and section wherein he resides, and which is the field of his active labor. such a man is the subject of this sketch. martin van buren edgerly is a native of the town of barnstead,--a town, by the way, which has sent out its productions into the world in the form of able, energetic men,--men of strong minds in strong bodies, who have made their mark in the world, and stand at the front in the various fields of activity in which they have engaged. in the domain of law, of theology, of politics, and of general business, the sons of barnstead hold high rank, as is abundantly demonstrated by reference to the names of lewis w. clark, rev. alonzo h. quint, john g. sinclair, and john p. newell. mr. edgerly was the fifth of nine children--five sons and four daughters--of samuel j. and eliza (bickford) edgerly, born september , . samuel j. edgerly was a man of far more than ordinary intelligence and mental activity, who, but for the misfortune of disease, which impaired his physical powers in early life;, would have become unquestionably a leading spirit in public affairs. as it was, he was recognized by all with whom he came in contact in life as a man of strong mind and decided character. he was a descendant, upon the maternal side, and was named in honor of that col. samuel johnson who was one of the early settlers of the town of northwood, and of whom it is said, in sketching the history of that town, that upon the first night of his abode within its limits he slept upon the ground between two rocks, with a quilt or piece of canvas for covering. [illustration: m. v. b. edgerly] when a lad of twelve years, col. edgerly removed with his parents to manchester. he attended the public schools for a time, but at an early age entered the service of the amoskeag manufacturing company, being engaged at first in the mills and afterwards in the machine-shop; but, after several years, becoming dissatisfied with the dull routine of mechanical labor, and desirous of testing his powers in the field of business, in october, , at the age of twenty-three, he embarked in trade as a joint proprietor of a drug-store with mr. lewis h. parker. he was thus engaged but a short time, however, removing the following year to the town of pittsfield, where he soon established himself in the insurance business, taking the agency of various companies, fire and life. this, it may be truly said, was the actual starting point in his career. he found in this business a field of labor congenial to his tastes, and peculiarly adapted to the development and exercise of the distinctive powers of mind and body with which he is endowed; and he entered into his work with heart and soul. he was not long in discovering the special line of effort to which he was best adapted, and which gave the best promise of substantial success in response to such effort; nor were the managers of the business in question long in ascertaining, from the character of the work already accomplished, the direction in which their own advantage lay; and so it came about in a short time, that after a visit to the company's office in springfield, made upon the solicitation of the president, col. edgerly became exclusively the agent of the massachusetts mutual life insurance company, relinquishing all other agencies, and devoting his entire efforts to the interests of the company. so thorough and satisfactory was the work which he accomplished, that a year later he was given the general agency of the company for the state of new hampshire, with headquarters at manchester, to which city he removed with his family, when, in , he was given charge of the business for vermont and northern new york in addition to this state. under his efficient management and supervision the business of the company increased to a remarkable degree in the entire territory of which he had control, until the net annual receipts in premiums upon new policies, in new hampshire alone, had risen from substantially nothing in , when he first commenced work, to nearly seventy-five thousand dollars in , representing the proceeds from the issue of a thousand policies, covering an aggregate insurance of more than a million and a half of dollars. this remarkable success was due, not simply to the work of personal solicitation, in which line col. edgerly has no superiors, but more especially to the keen discernment and ready knowledge of men with which he is endowed, enabling him to select proper agents and judiciously supervise their work. in he accepted the position of superintendent of the company's agencies throughout the country. for two years he labored as none but a physically robust and mentally active man can, establishing agencies and working up the business of the company throughout the west, while retaining and directing his own special work in the east. this double labor was too arduous, even for a man of his powers, and in he resigned the position of superintendent, and confined his work to his former field in new hampshire, vermont, and northern new york. in september, , however, he was induced to accept charge of the company's agency in boston, in addition to his other duties, and since that date he has divided his time and labor between the two positions, efficiently directing the work of both, and largely increasing the business at the boston office. in january last he was made a member of the board of directors of the company which he has so long and faithfully served, and which owes its prosperity, in no small degree, to his intelligent efforts. col. edgerly has been a democrat from youth, and has ever manifested a lively interest in political affairs, although he has had neither the time nor inclination to enter, to any extent, upon the duties of public position, even had it been in the power of his party to confer the same. he has, however, in such time as he was able to command, done a great deal of party work in different campaigns; and in was elected a member of the board of aldermen, although his ward was strongly republican at the time, thus demonstrating his personal popularity and the esteem in which he is held in the community where he resides. he has frequently served as a member of the democratic state committee, and as treasurer of the same, and a member of the executive committee; also, as chairman of the democratic city committee in manchester. he was a delegate from new hampshire to the democratic national convention at baltimore, in , which nominated horace greeley for the presidency, and was the new hampshire member of the democratic national committee from to . again, in , he was chosen a delegate-at-large to the national convention of his party. in he was appointed, by gov. weston, chief of staff; and in and he held the position of commander of the amoskeag veterans, of which organization he has long been an active and popular member. in he was appointed, by president grant, an alternate commissioner to represent new hampshire at the centennial exposition and celebration in philadelphia. actively and closely as he has been engaged in his chosen line of business, col. edgerly has lent his aid and judgment to some extent to the encouragement and direction of other business enterprises. he has been many years a trustee of the merrimack river savings bank and a director of the suncook valley railroad, of which latter enterprise he was among the active promoters. he was also, for a time, a director of the city national bank. in his religious associations he is an episcopalian, and is an active member and officer of grace church in manchester. he is also a member of the odd fellows and masonic bodies in the city of his residence. march , , col. edgerly was united in marriage with miss alvina barney of danbury, by whom he has had three children, two of whom are now living, a son and daughter,--clinton johnson, born december , , and mabel clayton, born october , . col. edgerly is a man of fine personal appearance, genial manners, and a ready appreciation of the demands of friendship and society, as well as those of business. there are few men of greater personal popularity in his city or state, and none who command more fully the confidence of those with whom they are brought into relationship, whether in business or in social life. yet under fifty years of age, he has, it may naturally be assumed, many years of successful effort yet before him, and many more in which to enjoy the substantial reward of his labor. [illustration: ichabod goodwin. _governor of new hampshire - ._] hon. ichabod goodwin. by frank goodwin. mr. goodwin is the eldest son of samuel goodwin and nancy thompson gerrish, and was born in that part of berwick which is now north berwick, in the state of maine. he is descended, on both father's and mother's side, from families of very great colonial importance. the great-grandfather of mr. goodwin, capt. ichabod goodwin, is said, by the writer of the genealogy of the berwick goodwins, in the _historical magazine_, to have been the most remarkable man who ever lived in that town. he distinguished himself at the battle of ticonderoga, and we learn from the _london magazine_ that he was especially mentioned in maj.-gen. abercrombie's report to secretary pitt. on his father's side, his ancestors figured conspicuously in the wars before the revolution, and up to the period of the revolution were of the families upon whom devolved the magisterial work and honor of the times. on his mother's side he is likewise descended from families which for a century, and up to the time of the revolution, performed a large share of the duties of public office; and some of the most conspicuous names in the colonial history of maine and new hampshire are to be counted among his maternal ancestors. to mention the names of champernoun, waldron, and elliot, none more familiar to those informed upon colonial history, is but to recall the persons from whom, on the maternal side, he is lineally descended, or with whom his maternal ancestors were closely allied by ties of family connection. the ante-revolutionary importance of the people from whom he comes is well illustrated by the fact that the name of his maternal grandfather, joseph gerrish, stands first on the triennial catalogue of harvard college in the list of graduates of the year , a class which numbered a quincy among its graduating members. the significance of this fact, as bearing upon the status of his mother's family at that time, is, that the names of the members of the classes of that day are published in the triennial catalogue of harvard in the order of the social importance of the families to which the members respectively belonged. at the time of mr. goodwin's birth, which was just before the beginning of the present century, the state of things which the revolution had brought about had had ample time to crystallize. whether it was through the great changes that under the new order of things had taken place in the political, social, and commercial affairs of the country, or whether from those inherent causes under the operation of which families conspicuous and influential in one period drop out of notice and are lost to the eye of the historian, the annalist, and perhaps even of the town chronicler, mr. goodwin's family, at the time of his birth, were simply plain farming people, highly respected within the limits of the little country town in which they lived, but no longer among the noted, or influential, or wealthy people of maine. the country had, by the close of the last century, taken a considerable stride onward in prosperity as well as in numerical growth, and the bustle and hum of industry, pouring itself into new channels of prosperity, had passed by many of the families which in the earlier era had been the foremost in developing the resources of the country, in leading the yeomanry in war, in presiding over the tribunals, and sitting in council as civic magistrates. mr. goodwin's academic education consisted of several years of study at the academy at south berwick, an institution having at that time a good deal of local importance, and then, as now, the only school in the vicinity of his birthplace where a fitting for college could be obtained. shortly after leaving that academy he entered the counting-house of samuel lord, esq., then a very prominent merchant and ship-owner of portsmouth, n. h., and he became a member of mr. lord's family. he here displayed qualities which had been quite conspicuous in his earlier boyhood,--those of energy and assiduity and a very marked capacity for affairs. these qualities, which at the early age of twelve had made him quite a competent and satisfactory manager of the farm of his widowed step-grandmother, who was the grandmother of mr. lord, showed later in his conduct as a clerk in the commercial business of the then very thriving shipping port of portsmouth. mr. lord, finding that mr. goodwin's business abilities were more comprehensive than the mere duties of a clerk required, placed him as a supercargo in charge of the business of what was then the largest ship owned in the port, the "elizabeth wilson." in the present days of railroads, sea-going steamers, oceanic cables, and the commercial complement of these foreign correspondents or agents, it may seem a trivial sign of a young man's capacities to name the fact of his being made the business manager of a ship, especially as ships then went in regard to size; but it is the introduction of these very modern appliances for conducting business which has rendered the responsibility of the delegated management of this species of property comparatively easy. in the days of mr. goodwin's early voyaging, the whole discretion as to the conduct of the ship's affairs was vested in the supercargo, except in the brief period of her being in the home port, when the owner resumed his authority and control. in foreign places, among strangers, beyond the reach of opportunity for consultation with his owner, the young man must rely upon himself; must decide upon what voyage his ship shall go, and must be ready to account to his principal upon his return for the results of a prosperous enterprise or a disastrous adventure. it was not long before mr. goodwin had learned enough of seamanship to enable him to add to the duties of the supercargo the further business of navigating his ship, so that for several years he was both ship-master and business manager, offices then, as now, rarely combined in one person; for the ship-master is to-day chiefly the navigator and head seaman of his ship, while the business, involving the chartering and the rest, is attended to by a merchant in the port of destination, who is in ready communication with the owner, both by the fast-going mail of the steamship and the quicker method of the ocean cable. mr. goodwin's sea life lasted for about twelve years. during that time he had been so far successful as to become a part owner, and to be enabled to begin business at home. in the year he established himself as a merchant at portsmouth. portsmouth has been his home ever since that time; and there he for many years conducted an extensive mercantile business, his chief business interests lying in the direction of the foreign carrying-trade. upon leaving the sea he soon became foremost in matters that were of public concern. he was one of the early projectors of the railroad interests of new england; and, until within a few years, he has taken a large part in all the enterprises of public import in the vicinity of his home, including, besides railroads, the enterprises of manufacturing and banking; and he has been vested always with a large share of the local trusts, both public and private, which devolve upon the public-spirited and trusted citizen. he has of late years been inclined to withdraw from these responsibilities; but of those which he still retains, the presidency of the howard benevolent society, a position he has held for over thirty years, and the presidency of the portsmouth bridge company may be mentioned. he has, however, within the last two years, assumed the presidency of the first national bank of portsmouth, in which he is largely interested as a stockholder, and in which institution he had been a director from its incorporation as a state bank. he was for many years and at different periods a director in the eastern railroad company, and was the first president of the eastern railroad in new hampshire, which position he held for twenty-five years. he was also of the first board of direction of the portland, saco, & portsmouth railroad company, and was the president of that corporation from the year to the year . but it is unnecessary to mention all the public trusts of a corporate nature which have been confided to his care. his chief claim to public esteem, and that which will secure to him its most enduring recognition, is derived from his services as the first "war governor" of new hampshire. upon mr. goodwin's settling as a business man in portsmouth, he did not confine his energies to his private business and to corporate enterprises, but soon acquired a large interest and influence as a member of the whig party. he served in the legislature of new hampshire, as a member of that party, in the years , , , , , and . he was also a delegate-at-large from that state to the conventions at which clay, taylor, and scott were nominated by the whigs for the presidency, and was a vice-president at the first two named conventions; and he has twice served in the constitutional conventions of new hampshire. he was the candidate of the whigs for congress at several elections before the state was divided into congressional districts. new hampshire was in those days one of the most powerful strongholds of the democratic party in the country; and a whig nomination for any office, determined by the suffrages of the whole state, was merely a tribute of esteem by that party to one of its most honored members. upon the establishment of congressional districts, mr. goodwin received a unanimous nomination of the whig party for congress at the first convention held in his district. this nomination bid fair to be followed by an election, but the circumstances of his private business prevented his acceptance of the candidateship. in the great political convulsions which preceded the war of the rebellion, the power of the democratic party in new hampshire began to decline, while the ties which through years of almost steady defeat in the state at large had been sufficient to hold together the whig party, now came to be loosened, and out of the decadence of the former and the extinction of the latter party there was built up the republican party, which gained the supremacy in the state, and which has ever since, with a brief exception, maintained that supremacy. mr. goodwin, while in full sympathy with the cause of the union, which he believed the politicians of the south were striving to dismember, yet felt that perhaps the impending crisis could be arrested through the means of the old political organizations; and he remained steadfast to the organization of the whig party until he saw that its usefulness, both as a state and as a national party, was gone. he was the last candidate of the whigs for the office of governor of new hampshire, and received in the whole state the meager amount of about two thousand votes. this lesson did not require to be repeated. he immediately did all in his power to aid in the establishment of the republican party in this state; for, although the old-time issues between the democrats and whigs had gone by, and new questions had arisen involving the very integrity of the nation, he did not regard the democratic party as one capable of solving or disposed to solve those questions in a patriotic and statesmanlike way. he was chosen the governor of new hampshire, as the republican candidate, in the year , and was re-elected in the following year, his second term of office having expired on june , . the military spirit of the people of new hampshire had become dormant, and the militia system of the state had fallen pretty much to decay long before the election of mr. goodwin to the office of governor. a slight revival of that spirit, perhaps, is marked by the organization in his honor, in january, , of the "governor's horse-guards,"--a regiment of cavalry in brilliant uniform, designed to do escort duty to the governor,--as well as by a field muster of several voluntary organizations of troops which went into camp at nashua in the same year. but when the call of president lincoln for troops was made, in the spring of , the very foundation of a military system required to be formed. the legislature was not in session, and would not convene, except under a special call, until the following june. there were no funds in the treasury which could be devoted to the expense of the organization and equipment of troops, as all the available funds were needed to meet the ordinary state expenditures. the great confidence of the people of new hampshire in the wisdom and integrity of mr. goodwin found in this emergency full expression. without requiring time to convene the legislature so as to obtain the security of the state for the loan, the banking institutions and citizens of the state tendered him the sum of $ , , for the purpose of enabling him to raise and equip for the field new hampshire's quota of troops. this offer he gladly accepted; and averting delay in the proceedings by refraining from convening the legislature, he, upon his own responsibility, proceeded to organize and equip troops for the field; and in less than two months he had dispatched to the army, near washington, two well equipped and well officered regiments. of this sum of $ , , only about $ , was expended. on the assembling of the legislature, that body unanimously passed the "enabling act," under which all of his proceedings as governor were ratified, and the state made to assume the responsibility. during the period of this gubernatorial service, there was a reconstruction of the bench of the highest judicial tribunal of the state; and during that time nearly every position upon that court was filled by his appointment. it is sufficient to say that the exalted rank which that tribunal has ever held among the courts of last resort of the states of the nation, suffered no diminution from his appointments to its bench, such was the good sense and discernment of mr. goodwin in making the selections, although himself not versed in the law. "waite's history of new hampshire in the rebellion" says of him:-- "his administration of state affairs met with universal approval, and he left the office (that of governor) with the respect of all parties. as a member of the legislature and of the constitutional convention, he took a leading part on committees and in debate. his speeches were never made for show. he spoke only when there seemed to be occasion for it, and then always to the point, and was listened to with great respect and attention; for his conservatism and practical wisdom in all matters of public policy were well known. in all public positions he has discharged his duties with fidelity, industry, and marked ability. as a citizen and business man he is public-spirited, liberal, high-minded, and enjoys the unbounded confidence and respect of all." mr. goodwin has always been noted for his kindness to young men, aiding them without stint, both with his purse and his advice in their business difficulties; and he has ever been ready to extend to all his townsmen who needed aid the assistance of his influence, his counsel, and his pecuniary means. in , mr. goodwin married miss sarah parker rice, a daughter of mr. william rice, a wealthy and prosperous merchant of portsmouth. of seven children, one son and two daughters survive. [illustration: william cogswell] rev. william cogswell, d. d. by rev. e. o. jameson. william cogswell, the oldest of the four cogswell brothers whose distinguished lives are briefly sketched in this volume, was born june , , in atkinson, n. h. his ancestors were among the earliest settlers of massachusetts, and persons of quality, piety, and distinction. his descent is from john cogswell, who settled in ipswich, mass., in , and giles badger, who settled in newbury, mass., the same year. his parents were dr. william and judith (badger) cogswell, of atkinson. his grandparents were nathaniel and judith (badger) cogswell, of haverhill, mass., and gen. joseph and hannah (pearson) badger, of gilmanton. his grandfather, nathaniel cogswell, was the son of lieut. john and hannah (goodhue) cogswell, of chebacco parish, ipswich, mass. lieut. john cogswell was the son of william and susannah cogswell of the same place, and william cogswell was the son of[ ]john and elizabeth (thompson) cogswell, who emigrated from westbury, wilts county, england, in , and settled in ipswich, mass. his grandfather, gen. joseph badger, was the son of joseph and hannah (peaslee) badger, of haverhill, mass. joseph badger was the son of john, jr., and rebecca (browne) badger, of newbury, mass. john badger, jr., was the son of john and elizabeth badger of the same place; and john badger was the only son of giles and elizabeth (greenleaf) badger, immigrants to newbury, mass., in . it may be said of his ancestry, in general, that they were a religious, intelligent, liberty-loving, and an enterprising people. by reason of ability, integrity, piety, and attainments, many of them have been called to positions of municipal, military, political, and ecclesiastical duty and eminence, and have excelled in the learned professions, in the halls of legislature, on the field of battle, and in the christian pulpit. from such choice puritan stock, having in his veins the blood of the thompsons, the greenleafs, the brownes, the goodhues, the peaslees, and the pearsons, as well as of the cogswells and the badgers, it is not strange that he and his no less eminent brothers should be found among the distinguished men whose portraits adorn and whose biographies fill the pages of this volume. william cogswell was born only a few years after the victory of our great struggle for national existence and independence. his rural home was far up the side of one of new hampshire's grand old hills, sloping southward and crowned with a new england meeting-house. he was born where he could breathe to heart's content the pure air of heaven, look off upon scenery of landscape wide, varied, and grand. his early life was beneath the shadow of the best religious and educational institutions, which his father had been the prime mover in establishing. in full sight of his early boyhoood's home was the academy which said to country boys of those days. the door is open to you here to enter a college course and find your way into the learned professions. the lad heard the invitation, seized the opportunity, and eagerly pursued his preparatory studies at atkinson academy, then under the charge of john vose, esq. he entered the sophomore class of dartmouth college in , maintained a high rank of scholarship during his course, and was honorably graduated in the class of . before entering college, william cogswell received deep and abiding religious impressions which ripened into a personal religious experience, and during the vacation of his junior year, september , , he made a public confession of faith and united with the congregational church of his native town. after graduation from college he taught in the academy of his own town, in essex, mass., and was one year principal of the hampton academy. while teaching in essex, mass., he had, for a pupil in the classics, a lad some ten years of age, whose name was rufus choate. this rufus choate was heard of in later years. meanwhile, occupied with teaching, mr. cogswell pursued somewhat his theological studies, having his eye on the christian ministry. at the end of two years, he found that his labors in school and studies out of school had told seriously upon his health. acting upon the advice of his physician and of his minister, he procured a good saddle-horse and a license to preach the gospel in destitute parts, and galloped off toward the northern wilderness of his native state, in eager pursuit of health and men's souls. in both these objects he was successful. he regained his health, and under his earnest presentation of the gospel a large number of persons were hopefully converted to christ, and christian institutions planted in the then spiritual wastes, which have since blossomed as the rose and borne fruit to the glory of god. upon his return, mr. cogswell completed his professional studies under the instruction of rev. daniel dana, d. d., of newburyport, and rev. samuel worcester, d. d., of salem, mass. after preaching a few sabbaths, he received a unanimous call to become the pastor of the south church in dedham (now norwood), mass., which he accepted, and was ordained and installed over that church, april , . at this time, mr. cogswell was twenty-seven years of age, a man of fine personal bearing and manners; his warm christian spirit and deep religious experience spoke in the very lineaments and expression of his open, intelligent, and winning countenance. his qualities of mind were the best, his education thorough, his grasp of truth vigorous, his views scriptural and discriminating, and his faith in god and revelation implicit. his ministry in south dedham lasted fourteen years, and was of unmeasured benefit to that church, at once stimulating to its religious life, educating to its members in scriptural doctrine, and successful in bringing men to receive the lord jesus christ as their saviour. mr. cogswell was a preacher whose clear-cut statements, whose logical order, conclusiveness of argument, and persuasiveness of appeal made him a power in the christian pulpit. quite a number of his sermons were requested for publication by his congregation; and in those days when the printing of a sermon meant that it was something of rare merit. he had been settled in south dedham some three years, when he married, nov. , , miss joanna strong, the youngest daughter of the then late rev. jonathan strong, d. d., of randolph, mass. in , being urgently called to important services in connection with the american education society, to the regret of his people and with personal reluctance, he resigned his pastorate to enter upon these new duties; and, accordingly, was dismissed december , , and removed to boston, where he resided for some years. so important were his labors and so successful in this new field of effort, that january , , he was chosen, with great enthusiasm, to succeed dr. cornelius to the secretaryship of the society, which office he filled with fidelity and acceptance until he resigned in to accept a professorship in dartmouth college. in , mr. cogswell received from williams college the degree of doctor of divinity, and in was chosen one of the trustees of andover theological seminary. he removed to hanover, n. h., and entered upon his duties as professor of national education and history in dartmouth college. this position he resigned in to accept the presidency and professorship of christian theology in the gilmanton theological seminary. rev. dr. cogswell for many years had been engaged in editorial work, and was much interested in historical and genealogical researches. in he retired from his connection with the seminary, about to be discontinued, and gave himself exclusively to literary pursuits, except that he usually preached on the sabbath. in the few remaining years of his life he performed a vast amount of literary labor, and became known very widely, and was honored with a membership in nearly all the historical societies in this country and in europe. rev. dr. cogswell published several works, viz.: a catechism on the doctrines and duties of religion; a manual of theology and devotions; the theological class book; the christian philanthropist; and letters to young men preparing for the christian ministry. all these works passed through several editions. his published editorial works were: four vols. of the american quarterly register, - ; new hampshire repository, vols.; the new england historical and genealogical register, vol. i.; new hampshire historical collections, vol. vi. he published, also, various miscellaneous writings. rev. dr. william and joanna (strong) cogswell had four children. the eldest, a daughter, died in infancy. william strong cogswell was born in south dedham, april , , and died april , , at the age of twenty years. he was a young man of rare ability and brilliant promise. at the time of his death he was a member of the senior class in dartmouth college. mary joanna cogswell was born june , , in boston, mass. she graduated at gilmanton academy in ; married, september , , rev. e. o. jameson, who is now ( ) pastor of the first church of christ, in medway, mass. caroline strong cogswell, the youngest child of rev. dr. cogswell, was born june , , in boston, mass. she was educated at gilmanton academy and holyoke female seminary, and has been a successful teacher in the public schools. rev. dr. cogswell, at length, under the taxing pressure of a busy editorial service, and crushed by the great loss of his only and very promising son, found his health giving way, his usual vigor forsaking him, and it became only too evident that the end of his earthly life was approaching. he continued, however to accomplish more or less literary work, even up to the last few days before his death, which occurred april , . the funeral service was on the following sabbath, conducted by rev. daniel lancaster, who preached a memorial discourse which was subsequently published. rev. dr. cogswell's life was eminently busy, laborious, self-sacrificing, and honored. his earthly work was faithfully and nobly done; his death triumphant, and heavenly reward sure. footnotes: [ ] for full account of john cogswell, whom tradition calls "a prosperous london merchant," see "cogswells in america," soon to be published. jeremiah w. white, esq. by hon. john h. goodale. on the head-waters of suncook river, in the central region of new hampshire, is the town of pittsfield. it is limited in extent, undulating in surface, rich in the quality of its soil. its earliest settlers were sturdy farmers, men and women who from infancy had been accustomed to the hardships and privations of pioneer life. among these settlers was josiah white, who, with his wife of scottish origin, in the spring of took up his abode in the outskirts of an unbroken forest. years of hard labor followed, which at length brought to him and his family the comforts of a rural home. of his sons, jeremiah white, the father of the subject of this sketch, succeeded to the homestead. he was born march , , and, passing his life amid the scenes of his earlier days, died december , . he is still remembered by the older residents of pittsfield as a citizen who was useful, influential, and respected. of great personal activity and tact in business, genial and generous, an enterprising farmer of the old school, a safe and sagacious adviser, his departure left a place difficult to fill in the business affairs of the vicinity. jeremiah wilson white was born in pittsfield, september , . the active habits and pure atmosphere of his early rural life laid the foundation of a sound physical constitution. his opportunities for education during childhood were limited to a few months at a distant district school. at the age of fifteen he entered the pittsfield academy, under the instruction of james f. joy, a graduate of dartmouth, and in later years well known as president of the michigan central railroad. pittsfield village had a thrifty and vigorous population, and among her ambitious and talented young men were several who have since been conspicuous in public life. one became united states senator; three, judges of the supreme court in their respective states; and one, founder of the system of public instruction now in successful operation on the pacific coast. remaining at the academy two and a half years, mr. white, then in his seventeenth year, decided to prepare himself for mercantile and active business life. adopting the plan which appeared most feasible, he went to boston, and entered upon an apprenticeship in a drug-store. forty years ago a mercantile apprenticeship in that city was not a sinecure position. but the young man was not averse to toil, and by assiduous and systematic attention to his duties was preparing the way for future success. added to his other duties he began the study of medicine in all its branches, and continued it for several years after, until he was qualified for, and, if occasion had required, could have entered upon, professional service. finishing his engagement at boston, he engaged as clerk to luther angier, postmaster and druggist at medford, mass., with the agreement that with proper notice he could leave to engage in business for himself. early in the summer of , mr. white believed that that time had arrived. he had never visited nashua, but had heard of its reputation as a growing manufacturing town. a few hours' inspection settled the question, and before leaving he hired the store which he afterwards occupied for nearly thirty years. [illustration: yours truly j. m. white] mr. white, in engaging in trade for himself in nashua, was aware that a young man and a stranger must encounter severe difficulties in entering upon mercantile life. many before him had succumbed to the obstacles which he was now to encounter. he did not hesitate. laying out his plan of business, he examined into the most minute details of its management. he was never idle. no man was more thorough and painstaking in the discharge of obligations to his customers. his labors often extended far into the night. in fact, he lived in labor, and thought no plan complete till its execution was secured. with these habits added to sound business judgment and foresight and a rare knowledge of men, the record of the business life of mr. white has been an uninterrupted success; and it is in this department of consistent and persistent effort that his example is worthy of imitation. in many of the business enterprises of nashua, mr. white has taken an active, and in some of them a prominent, part. engaging in the transportation and sale of coal on his arrival, he has always been the leading dealer in the trade. after the close of the war he originated the project of, and gave his attention to, the construction of the large block of stores on main street, known as the "merchants' exchange," retaining for himself and son the corner store, which he still occupies. early in he conceived the idea of establishing a new national bank, and in the april following obtained a charter. the people of nashua and vicinity believing in his financial ability immediately subscribed for the stock and elected him president, a position he continues to hold to the satisfaction of the stockholders, and the advantage of the institution. in addition to the presidency of the second national bank. mr. white is now recognized by the public as a sagacious and influential railroad manager. since he has been prominently connected with the affairs of the nashua & lowell railroad as a director and large stockholder. for many years this road had been connected with and used by the boston & lowell railroad corporation, and, as mr. white clearly saw, on terms greatly disadvantageous to the stockholders of the nashua & lowell company. the stock had gradually declined much below par. to resist so great and powerful a corporation required pluck and energy. to be successful against such odds demanded a leader daring, prompt, aggressive. mr. white was the man for the emergency. how well his measures succeeded is realized not only by every stockholder, but in all railroad circles throughout new england. in the transaction of business, mr. white is not only methodical but positive. he reaches his conclusions quickly and acts upon them with the utmost directness. having decided upon a measure he engages in it with all his might, bending all his efforts to make sure of the desired end. selecting his agents, he accomplishes the whole work while many would be halting to determine whether the project was feasible. a man of so pronounced opinions and prompt action naturally makes some enemies; but he has no opponents who do not accord to him the credit of an open and honorable warfare. in a word, he is essentially a business man in the full sense of that term. not only in occupation, but in taste and aptitude, he is a representative of that class of american citizens who have won a world-wide reputation for practical sagacity, enterprise, and thrift. mr. white is in no sense of the word a party politician. of whig antecedents, his first vote was cast for henry clay, in , for president. before leaving his native town his liberal tendencies had been quickened by witnessing the unwarranted arrest, in the pulpit, of rev. george storrs, who was about to deliver the first anti-slavery lecture in pittsfield. the event justly occasioned an unusual excitement, and was the beginning of that agitation which reached every town and hamlet in the union. since the organization of the republican party, mr. white has supported it in all national issues; but is one of the independent thinkers who does not hesitate to exercise "the divine right of bolting" when unfit men are put in nomination. in the winter of , mr. white and his family left on a southern trip, and reached charleston, s. c., the last of february, not long after the united states troops under maj. anderson were shut up in fort sumter by the rebel forces. mr. white had letters of introduction to several citizens of the city high in authority, who received him kindly, and, learning that he was a business man and not a politician, were anxious to learn from him the state of feeling among the business men and the middle class of citizens at the north. while the statements of mr. white were far from gratifying, they continued their friendly relations. previously he had written to his friend, capt. john g. foster, second in command at fort sumter, of his intended tarry at charleston. he was now desirous of an interview with him. applying to the confederate authorities for a pass to fort sumter, it was granted him,--a privilege not allowed to any other civilian during the siege. on the following day, march , he went on the steamer clinch to fort johnson, to which point maj. anderson was allowed to send his boat under a flag of truce for the daily mail. here a new obstacle was encountered, for the boat was forbidden by maj. anderson to bring any person to the fort. but, with the restriction that he should remain outside with the boat till captain foster could be notified, he was permitted to go. the interview was a great surprise as well as gratification. reaching washington before the bombardment of fort sumter and the beginning of actual hostilities, mr. white was taken to the war department and interviewed by gen. scott as to the determination and strength of the confederate force at charleston. mr. white thought it would require a force of ten thousand men to relieve fort sumter, and said so. gen. scott laughed heartily, and told him that two thousand men would be ample for the purpose. in common with the most of the leading men at the capital, gen. scott underestimated the pluck and strength of the rebels. soon after, when jay cooke was appointed government agent to negotiate the war loans, mr. white received the appointment of agent for nashua and vicinity. in , the year after coming to nashua, mr. white was united in marriage with miss caroline g. merrill, oldest daughter of caleb merrill, esq., of his native town. the marriage was a fortunate and happy one. the young wife was endowed with scholarly and refined attainments, qualifying her for the enjoyment of social and domestic life. added to this, she possessed a sound and discriminating judgment on which her husband could safely rely. no transaction of any magnitude was entered upon without securing her approval. many of his best and most sagacious moves in business were made at her suggestion. of their two children, the eldest, caroline wilson, died in infancy. the son, james wilson white, born june , , fell a victim to the prevailing disease of this climate, and died in florida, january , . mrs. white, having survived her children, died suddenly of apoplexy in . her memory is cherished by many who knew her worth. in april, , mr. white was married the second time to mrs. ann m. prichard, of bradford, vt., an educated and accomplished lady and the sister of his first wife. his residence, at the corner of pearl and cottage streets, combines the elements of modesty, taste, and comfort, and is the abode of a happy home circle. [illustration: e. a. rollins] hon. edward ashton rollins. by prof. e. d. sanborn. the early settlers of new hampshire were of pure english origin. they possessed that "large, roundabout common sense" which john locke ascribes to the english people. a few leading families planted the first colonies, founded the state, and ruled it for more than a century. the rollins family held a prominent place among the settlers of southern new hampshire. james rollins, the ancestor of most of the men who have borne that name in the state, came to this country as early as , and finally settled in dover. the name rollins, or rawlings, is very ancient and honorable in england. its origin is variously explained by antiquarians, but it can very naturally be traced to rollo, who conquered normandy and made it a kingdom, a. d. . william the conqueror was the seventh in descent from the brave hero of scandinavia. the descendants of rollo followed in the train of the conqueror, and were afterwards found in all parts of the united kingdom. all the different families had nearly the same coat of arms, each indicative of their martial origin. the escutcheon is a shield with three swords in the center, and above it a human arm holding a fourth. the history of the race reveals their heroism, energy, and perseverance. the name we have chosen to illustrate represents a genuine scion of the old tree which for nine hundred years has drawn its vitality from the scandinavian stock. having said enough to show that rollins is composed of the northman name "rollo," and the saxon "ing," meaning child or descendant, we will speak briefly of the early life of the subject of this sketch. edward ashton rollins was born in wakefield, december , . at the age of seven, his father, hon. daniel g. rollins, removed to great falls, a village of somersworth, and during much of his life was in public office. he was repeatedly elected to the legislature of new hampshire, was for many years judge of probate for strafford county, till he reached the age of seventy years, which, by law, terminated that office; he was also, for many years, president of the great falls & conway railroad company. in all his official relations he acquitted himself with unsullied integrity. his son, edward ashton, was, therefore, trained to know the relations and duties of a business man. his father's example was his pole star. with his eye fixed on that, and with the inherited virtues of industry, energy, and prudence, he could scarcely go astray. he studied both books and men. the common school promoted his native love of learning, and occupied his youthful days. for a higher class of studies, he attended the academies of rochester and gilmanton. in , at the age of nineteen, he entered dartmouth college. he immediately received the place for which he was fitted by nature and culture. his character for sobriety, earnestness, and devotion to duty was already formed, and, as the poet hath it, "character is destiny." the best men in the class sought him as a companion. his teachers saw and aided his love of learning. none made greater progress; none were more highly esteemed; none ranked above him. those kindred virtues, industry, economy, integrity, and devotion, always attract watchful eyes and win loving hearts. the path of duty and honor often lies hid even to the wise and prudent. cromwell said, in the height of his fame, "no man often advanceth higher than he who knoweth not whither he goeth." the threads that run through the web of our life are carried by shuttles driven by an invisible but unerring hand. a little incident in the college life of mr. rollins illustrates this assertion. walking one day with some college friends, he was met by president lord, who, beckoning him to him, desired him to call at his study at a particular hour. this was the good doctor's usual method in summoning delinquents for discipline. the companions of mr. rollins rallied him upon his approaching interview; but hear the result. with no little anxiety, he met the president at the hour named, who said to him: "i have received a request from a distinguished gentleman in baltimore, desiring me to send to him a young gentleman of the first rank in scholarship and character to be the private tutor of his sons. i have concluded to offer the place to you." after consultation with father and mother, at home, he decided to go. he found a delightful home, and formed friendships which have lasted till this day, and essentially modified his whole public life and determined his occupations. in his friendships, he follows shakespeare's advice:-- "the friends thou hast, and their adoption tried, grapple them to thy soul with hooks of steel." classmates, teachers, preachers, and neighbors are remembered and reverenced according to their worth. they not only enjoy his hospitality, but, if overtaken by want or misfortune, share his purse. old and faithful servants, too, are not forgotten. mr. rollins enjoys society; and in every social circle he gives more than he takes. he is the life of company; conversation never flags when he is present. his humor plays like sunshine over the surface of society. if any one fails to make his contribution to the wants of the occasion, he is roused to duty by a merry sally of humor from mr. rollins; and he is more likely to make himself than his neighbors the subject of his wit or satire. like charles lamb, he holds the wires while others draw the sparks, which always move but never shock their feelings. nobody is wounded, but all are animated. he can deliver an appropriate speech at any meeting in church or state, after dinner or after a session. the young and the old seek his company. some of his warmest friends have been very aged men. the venerable horace binney lived to be ninety-six years of age, and he corresponded with mr. rollins till the last days of his long and useful life. some of his letters deserve to be written in letters of gold, to be read and enjoyed by all lovers of truth, virtue, and religion. rev. dr. barnes, also, kept up a neighborly intercourse with mr. rollins, by calls and letters, as long as he lived. mr. rollins's religious life was nourished by the notes and discourses of albert barnes, whom he loved as a spiritual father. every christmas was sure to bring to the good doctor a reminder of this relation. to perpetuate home affections and keep alive a love of new england institutions, in the winter of , mr. rollins, with a few friends, formed a new england society in philadelphia. their first meeting was a distinguished success. the proceedings were published in pamphlet form and were widely read. the speeches were wise and witty; that of mr. rollins, the first president, was full of pertinent allusions and patriotic sentiments. it was received with enthusiastic applause. his remarks, in the introduction of other orators, were beautifully adapted to the men and the occasion. the extent and variety of mr. rollins's business relations make it impossible to characterize them with brevity. integrity and fair dealing have marked his whole career as lawyer, commissioner, banker, and railroad manager. his motto is, "live and let live." the pecuniary interests of friend, neighbor, client, trader, relative, or stranger are never prejudiced by partisan opinions. an opponent and friend stand, in business relations, on the same foundations. his large experience in money matters creates the impression that he is a safe adviser in the purchase of stocks; he is, therefore, often importuned to decide for others questions of investment. where men are known to be honest and faithful in handling money, even strangers ask no other security for their property. such is the law of association that binds together honest and honorable business men. large pecuniary enterprises prosper in their hands, because they fear god and love justice and truth. of every such man it is said, "whatsoever he doeth shall prosper." so god ordains. this title, "_in office_," covers nearly the whole professional life of mr. rollins. after six years of successful practice of the law, he was elected to the legislature of new hampshire from somersworth. he held this relation for three years; during the last two, and , he was chosen speaker of the house. it was a period of great excitement, the very outbreak of the civil war. though young and inexperienced, he acquitted himself with the highest credit to himself and honor to the state. at the close of this responsible and difficult work, he was appointed, by president lincoln, cashier of the bureau of internal revenue; and the next year, deputy commissioner of the same department. in he was made commissioner of internal revenue, one of the most responsible positions that any citizen of our country has ever been called to fill. the office was new, important, and burdensome. no finite mind could comprehend and control at once its multitudinous relations. its net-work covered the whole territory of the united states. the property of the entire country was subject to its inspection and taxation. more than a million of dollars, every day, were received into the treasury from six thousand agents, for whose official integrity the head of the department was responsible. in new cases, the commissioner was often obliged to act as law-maker, judge, and executive. the cases admitted of no delay. the safety of the state required prompt decisions. these sprung up as intuitions. in his official report, made to congress in november, , the commissioner says: "when it is recollected that the present generation only know by tradition or obsolete statutes that taxes have ever been imposed in this country on articles of their own manufacture, and the objects of internal traffic, or upon the various crafts and professions in which they were employed; and when, too, it is considered that the revenue collected for a single year ending june , , amounts to a sum nearly or quite equal to all the receipts of this government, from whatever sources, from its organization to the year ; and when it is further considered that this amount was contributed at a time when the commercial marine of the country had been nearly destroyed and more than a million of men had been withdrawn from the productive pursuits of life,--we may not only be justly proud that the material strength of the country has been fully equal to the burden, but that it has been borne so quietly and so willingly." this office was administered wisely and well, by mr. rollins, till march , , when president grant assumed the reins of government. failing health then admonished him to retire from the distracting cares of the office of commissioner. at the time of its resignation, as many of his subordinate officials as could come together adopted resolutions of respect and confidence in honor of their head. the first resolution expresses the opinions of the whole country, including cabinet officers and senators, as well as their own. it is thus written:-- "_resolved_, that the integrity, fidelity, ability, and untiring devotion to the duties of his office which mr. rollins has exhibited, have inspired in us feelings of profound respect for his sterling qualities as a man and an officer; and that we especially admire the genial disposition which he has uniformly manifested toward us, amid all the cares and perplexities of a difficult and a burdensome office, held, much of the time, under peculiarly trying circumstances." the remaining resolutions are cumulative of these expressions of confidence and esteem. no testimony could be more honorable to a well spent official life. the religious life of mr. rollins, from boyhood to age, has been as strongly marked as his official career. he believes in doing, not in seeming; in practice, not in profession. he can speak as well as work for the truth. when the pastor needs help, he addresses the people. when the poor of the church or congregation need aid, he heads and carries the subscription paper. he has never lived in a place where he has not taught a bible class; and worthy young men who have learned in his classes have often received promotion in business through his influence. he is always present at the stated meetings of the church. "punctuality," says the old maxim, "is the essence of virtue." mr. rollins believed in the importance of punctuality; therefore he was never missed from the place of duty. in college he was never absent or unprepared; in office, in the bank, in public assemblies, the hours of business are promptly observed. in church, too, the times and places of worship are conscientiously observed, and if a delinquent neighbor, who has failed to be present when church affairs, temporal or spiritual, were discussed, meets him on a subsequent day, he is carefully questioned with regard to his health! the family is the unit of the state. good families make good communities, good cities, and good nations. a single good family is a light shining in a dark place. the history of the world is the united histories of illustrious families. the history of the church is the history of holy men. the scriptures record the deeds and words of the best men our earth has known. eliminate from the bible the actions and opinions of kings, prophets, and apostles, and the records of our race become unintelligible. when we find a faultless and worthy christian household, we do well to present it to the public for contemplation and imitation. one such household we venture to describe. mr. rollins's house is beautiful of situation, at the corner of spruce and fortieth streets, in west philadelphia. its liberal grounds, numerous trees, shrubs, and flowers make it very attractive to the eye of the stranger. when once introduced to the interior, every guest who has any music in his soul would be delighted to sing "home, sweet home" from early morn to dewy eve. every room invites you to repose; every picture that looks upon you from the walls bids you welcome. it is impossible for one who has enjoyed the hospitality of the house to describe it fully without encroaching upon the sacred privacy of domestic life. this house was long the home of the now sainted mother, who only a few months ago was bidden to go up higher, and left the husband and children desolate. the house seems like the shrine of a departed divinity. the furniture was of her selection, the walls and mantels were adorned by her handiwork; and when changes or additions are now made to the internal conveniences of the home, the first question asked is, "what would mother choose if she could speak to us?" her spirit seems still to hover over them. sidney smith said, "there can be no handsomer furniture than books." every room, every nook and corner of the house, is furnished with new books. the room specially devoted to library uses has a selection of books in every department of reading, sufficient for the instruction and pleasure of any man of refined taste and culture. amid the thousands of volumes gathered, the most precious of them all to the family and their friends are two volumes written by mrs. rollins not long before her decease, entitled "new england bygones" and "old-time child life." to one born in new england seventy years ago, the pictures of new england scenes are inimitable; they stir the blood of age like a trumpet. these books are the creations of true genius, and will live when all the contemporaries of this gifted woman are dead. enough has been said to reveal the attractions of this delightful home. every word has been dictated by a life-long friendship. the sterling qualities of the subject of this sketch constrained me to portray them, and the half has not been said. when the elders of the jews were sent to jesus by the roman centurion to intercede for his sick servant, the highest commendation they could name was this: "for he loveth our nation, and hath built us a synagogue." he was patriotic and religious; he feared god and loved his neighbor. no higher test of moral worth can be named. let all public men be judged by this standard; and among them our good friend whom we have sketched, we doubt not, will hold a high rank. and if at any time the president of the united states should be seeking for a man for financial secretary who is honest, capable, and experienced, a multitude of voters would cry out,--edward ashton rollins is the man! virgil c. gilman. virgil chase gilman was born in unity, sullivan county, new hampshire, may , , and was the third of a family of eight children born to emerson and delia (way) gilman. emerson gilman was the oldest son and the first of twelve children born to stephen and dorothy (clough) gilman, who were married september , . this was his second marriage, he having married anna huntoon, by whom he had nine children, some of whom died in infancy. stephen gilman was a native of kingston, and served as a cavalry officer in the war of the revolution. he was a descendant of moses gilman, who was one of three brothers,--edward, john, and moses,--who emigrated from hingham, england, early in the sixteenth century. in , it was said:[ ] "edward gilman's descendants are as numerous as the sands on the seashore. there is hardly a state in the union where they may not be found. the family have been in civil office from the time our colony became a royal province to the present time. john gilman was one of the first counselors named in president cutts's commission, and died in . col. peter gilman was one of the royal counselors in . hon. nicholas gilman was counselor in and . hon. john gilman, in ; while the present venerable john taylor gilman was fourteen years, eleven in succession, our highly respected chief magistrate. his brother, nicholas gilman, was a member of the house of representatives in congress eight years, and in the national senate nine years. our ecclesiastical annals have, also, rev. nicholas gilman, harvard college, ; and rev. tristram gilman, harvard college, , both respected clergymen and useful men." these words are quoted in substance from mr. lincoln's work. "if he had written forty years later" says the author of "the gilman family in england and america,"[ ] "he would have found the family still more numerous and many additions would have been made to his list of prominent men bearing the gilman name. the family of gilmans is not one furnishing a few brilliant exceptions in a long list of commonplace names. its members appear generally to have been remarkable for the quiet home virtues, and rather to have desired to be good citizens than men of great name. to an eminent degree they appear to have obtained the esteem and respect of those nearest to them, for sound judgment and sterling traits of character." emerson gilman followed the trade of clothier until the introduction of machinery supplanted the hand process, when he, after pursuing the business of farmer for a few years, removed to lowell, mass., in , relying, upon his strong and willing hands to find support for his large family and give his children the advantages of education which that city signally afforded. [illustration: virgil c. gilman] the subject of this sketch was then ten years old, and made fair progress through the several grades to the high school, with which his school-days ended. he removed to nashua in , but it was not until that he entered business on his own behalf, at which time he became associated with messrs. gage and murray for the manufacture of printers' cards of all the various kinds, also fancy-colored, embossed, and marble papers, a new business in this country at that time, which business he followed successfully for twenty-one years, and until his close and unremitting application made it necessary for him to relinquish it for a more active out-door employment. following a natural love for rural affairs, he was not long in possessing himself of a hundred-acres farm in the south part of the city, upon the lowell road, which he greatly improved, and indulged to some extent in the usually expensive luxury of breeding jersey cattle, trotting-horses, and plymouth rock fowls. he claims to have bred the finest and fastest gaited horse ever raised in new hampshire. meantime, having realized the object sought, greatly improved health, and the office of treasurer of the nashua savings bank becoming vacant by the resignation of dr. e. spalding, in , he was elected to fill the vacancy, and still continues in this responsible position, with nearly two and a half millions of deposits committed to his watchful care and secure investment. never coveting office, still he has rarely refused to perform his full share of duty in the various departments of labor and responsibility incident to city affairs, from ward clerk to the mayor's chair, serving also as assessor, member of the board of education, and is now trustee of the public library, also its secretary and treasurer. to him dartmouth college is indebted for the gilman scholarship; and the board of trustees of the orphans' home at franklin finds in him an interested member. he is identified with the mechanical industries of the city, having a large interest in the nashua iron and steel company, and its local director; also an owner and director in the underhill edge tool company, and amoskeag axe company; also a director in the indian head national bank. in military affairs actively he is unknown, his service having commenced and ended with the "governor's horse-guards," enlisting as private in co. b, and ending as major of the battalion. his interest, however, is kept alive by honorary membership of "city guards" and "foster rifles," of his adopted city. his strong love for agricultural affairs led him to take an interest in our new hampshire agricultural society, of whose board of trustees he was formerly a member, also one of the trustees of the new england agricultural society. he was a member of the legislature of , serving as chairman of committee on banks and taking a deep interest in the work of that session, and especially zealous in opposition to the taxation of church property. at the present time he is the republican senator of the nashua district, and honored by the chairmanship of the leading committee of the senate, the judiciary, no member of the legal profession holding a seat in that body at this time. how well he discharged the duties of this responsible position those can testify who had business with the committee, or those who witnessed his unremitting application and conscientious decisions. denominationally he is a congregationalist, and a communicant with the first church, that was organized in . an interest in its prosperity has induced him to serve as director of the society connected therewith many years, and of which he is now president, and treasurer of the sabbath-school connected. it will thus be seen that the subject of this sketch fills many positions of responsibility and usefulness which bring no pecuniary reward, without ostentation, and no foul breath tarnishes his fair record. our state has among its many honored sons few whose energy, integrity, and discretion have won success in so many directions, and none who command more universal respect among all classes. in business, politics, and social and religious circles he has been and is a leader, whose triumphs shed their blessings far and wide. few have done so much for nashua. no one deserves better of the state. in he married sarah louisa, daughter of gideon newcomb, esq., of roxbury, by whom he had two children,--harriet louise, who married charles w. hoitt, an attorney-at-law in nashua, and alfred emerson, who did not attain his second birthday. [illustration: w. amory] william amory. william amory was born in boston, mass., june , , and is the son of thomas c. and hannah r. (linzee) amory. he was one of a family of four sons and four daughters, of whom three only--two sons and one daughter--survive. his father, a merchant of boston, died in ; and seven years later his son, then but fifteen years of age, entered harvard university. he spent four years there, and soon after went to europe to complete his education. he pursued in germany the study of law and of general literature for a year and a half at the university in gottingen, and for nine months at the university in berlin. he occupied the subsequent two years and a half in travel, and returned to boston in july, , after an absence of five years. there he pursued his legal studies with franklin dexter and w. h. gardiner, and in was admitted to the bar of suffolk county, without, however, any intention of entering upon legal practice. in that year he was chosen treasurer of the jackson manufacturing company, at nashua, n. h., and began business as a manufacturer. without experience, and yet with a mind which study had disciplined and knowledge of the world had made keen, with remarkable energy and enterprise, he was eminently successful, and the jackson company paid large and sure dividends for the eleven years he continued its treasurer. in he became the treasurer of the amoskeag manufacturing company, an office which included at that time, when the plan of creating a city upon the merrimack was just to be carried out, the responsibility and wisdom of a general manager of the company's interests, as well as the usual financial duties of a treasurer. he held that office from then till october, ; was treasurer of the stark mills, with the exception of four years and a half, from its organization, in , to ; was a director of the manchester mills, and its successor, the manchester print-works, from the start, in , till ; and has been a director of the langdon mills from its beginning, in , and its president from to . when mr. amory tendered his resignation as treasurer of the amoskeag company, the following complimentary resolutions were unanimously adopted by the stockholders:-- "_resolved_, that the stockholders of this corporation have heard with regret of the resignation of their treasurer, william amory, esq. "that a continuous service of thirty-nine years demands from them an expression of their appreciation of his eminent success, not only in building up an unequaled and remunerative manufacturing establishment, but in founding the largest and one of the finest cities in the state. "for both these results they tender to him their hearty thanks, and desire to place this testimonial upon the records of the company." in seconding the motion to adopt the above resolutions, t. jefferson coolidge, esq., spoke as follows:-- "the best witness to the services of mr. amory as treasurer is the splendid condition of the amoskeag company. he took it in its infancy, when it was poor. there was then but one mill of about eight thousand spindles. he leaves it, after forty years of success, with one hundred and thirty-seven thousand spindles, and more than two millions of quick capital. you have received in dividends, for forty-two years, an average of eleven per cent a year; and, if to that is added the increase of the quick capital, the company has earned fifteen per cent per annum, without taking into consideration the money spent on the plant. to put it in another light: a stockholder of one share, costing one thousand dollars, if he allowed compound interest at the rate he received on his dividends, would find that his share had been worth to him eighty thousand dollars. "the mills themselves are equal, if not superior, to any in new england, and contain more than twenty acres of machinery floor; and, although there are many mills in england and some here that are running more spindles, yet i believe the amoskeag is the largest cotton-manufacturing establishment in either country producing its goods from the cotton in the bale, and turning them out actually finished for the market. "i have said enough to show that no one can be more deserving of a vote of thanks than the retiring treasurer. let us hope that he may be preserved for many years to aid in the counsels of the company, and to assist his successor in the arduous task that must fall to any man who takes a place which he has filled so long, so ably, and so successfully." mr. amory married, in january, , miss anna p. g. sears, daughter of david sears, an eminent merchant of boston, by whom he has had six children, of whom four survive. mr. amory is a man with whom, more than with almost any one else, manchester is closely identified, and to whose accurate foresight and comprehensive views a very large proportion of its beauty and success is due. to him, as the manager of the company which gave it its first impulses in life and has ever since assisted its growth, it owes in large measure its wide streets, its pleasant squares, and its beautiful cemetery. he has pursued a liberal policy, and deserves the city's gratitude. as the treasurer of the company, he has met with eminent success. a man of perfect honor and integrity, cautious and prudent, he has looked upon the funds in his possession as his only in trust, to be managed with the utmost care. herein is to be found the secret of his success. few men stand better than he in the business world of his native city, or elsewhere. a gentleman of culture, of the utmost polish, with a very pleasing appearance, he enjoys the affection and respect of many personal friends. footnotes: [ ] history of hingham, mass., by solomon lincoln, jr. farmer & brown, . [ ] arthur gilman, a. m. joel munsell, albany, . [illustration: john mcduffee] john mcduffee. by rev. alonzo h. quint, d. d. to men of their own energetic stock, who, refusing all political preferment, have given comprehensive abilities, sterling integrity, and sagacious industry to the development of business, many new hampshire towns owe an imperishable debt. john mcduffee's record is in the prosperity of rochester. the name itself suggests that strong scotch-irish blood which endured the siege of londonderry, in which were mr. mcduffee's ancestors, john mcduffee and his wife, martha, honored in tradition. john and martha mcduffee had four sons, viz., mansfield, archibald, john, and daniel. mansfield went to london, england; the other three came, with their parents, to america in the emigration which gave new hampshire the powerful stock of derry and londonderry. john, the father of these sons, settled in rochester in , on land on the east side of the cochecho river, adjoining gonic lower falls,--the farm of eighty-five acres remaining without break in the family, and now owned by the subject of this article. the rochester settler was, as just stated, the father of daniel mcduffee, and also of col. john mcduffee,--a gallant officer in the old french and revolutionary wars, lieutenant-colonel in col. poor's regiment,--who, never marrying, adopted his brother daniel's son john, and eventually made him his heir. john, the colonel's heir, was a farmer in good circumstances, married abigail, daughter of simon and sarah (ham) torr, and was father of john mcduffee, the subject of this sketch, who was born on the farm once the colonel's, about a mile and a half from rochester village, on the dover road, december , . of course, while working on the farm more or less, he had, for five or more years, the advantage of a good school, kept at the village by "master" henry h. orne (d. c. ), of severe discipline and good scholarship, who supplemented the public school with a private one each autumn. mr. orne was a very successful teacher, and among the associates of john mcduffee in this school were thomas c. upham, nathaniel g. upham, john p. hale, and noah tibbetts. in , at the age of fifteen, the boy entered franklin academy in dover, the first day of its existence, thomas e. sawyer and richard kimball being among his associates, and rev. mr. thayer being its principal. here he fitted to enter college as sophomore, but returned home, and, at the age of eighteen, he went into the store of his uncle, john greenfield, at rochester. it was a large country store, where everything was sold. after two years' experience, being only twenty years of age, he began the same business for himself on the same square; was successful, and, after two years, took into partnership his uncle, jonathan h. torr. during this period he was commissioned postmaster of rochester, being not of age when appointed, and he held this office until removed on jackson's accession to the presidency. in the spring of the year he went to dover, and began the same business on a broader scale, first in the perkins block, and, in the autumn, as the first tenant of the northern store in the new watson block, on the landing, ira christie his next southern neighbor. this locality, now at an end for such purposes, was then the place of business and offices. steady success continued to reward his energy and industry; but in february, , selling to andrew pierce, jr., he returned to rochester to settle the large estate of his wife's father, joseph hanson, who, dying in december previous, had made him executor. mr. hanson, whose daughter joanna (by his marriage with charity dame) mr. mcduffee had married june , , was one of the three old and wealthy merchants of rochester, nathaniel upham and jonas c. march being the other two. the settlement of this extended estate and business was completed, and the accounts settled, by mr. mcduffee's energy, in seven months; and it caused his entire abandonment of trade, although he had been eminently successful. there was no bank in rochester. old traders had some connection with the strafford bank in dover, and the rockingham bank in portsmouth. they loaned money, instead of getting discounts. mr. hanson's safe, where he kept all his securities, was a small brick building back of his store, with a sheet-iron door fastened by a padlock. he kept some deposits, however, in strafford bank, and was a stockholder in that and in the rockingham bank. the three principal traders used to go to boston twice a year, on horseback, to buy goods. mr. mcduffee saw that a bank was needed. he prepared the plans, secured signatures, obtained a charter from the legislature in , and the rochester bank was organized with ninety stockholders and a capital of one hundred thousand dollars, later increased to one hundred and twenty thousand dollars, with one hundred and thirty stockholders. of the original ninety, only two besides mr. mcduffee now survive. on the organization he became cashier, his brother-in-law, dr. james farrington (member of the twenty-fifth congress), being president. this bank was the frontier bank, no other existing between rochester and canada, and it was the first bank which the counterfeits from canada naturally but uselessly struck. it was a favorite of the people, and was so managed that its dividends were eight or nine per cent. it is well known that the business was really left to the probity and skill of its cashier. cashier for twenty years, on the then renewal of its charter, mr. mcduffee resigned the cashiership in favor of his son franklin, and became president. the bank did not become a national bank until , and in the six years previous he and his son formed the house of "john mcduffee & co., private bankers," took up the old bank's business, and successfully carried it on. in they merged it in a national bank, the one being president and the other cashier, as before, and the two taking two-fifths of its stock. it is an interesting fact that no bill has ever been issued by either rochester bank without the well known signature of john mcduffee, either as president or cashier; and he still actively administers the interests of the bank he originated in another form forty-eight years ago. in addition to this rochester interest, mr. mcduffee was one of the original grantees of the dover national bank, and for a short time was a director; but his interest became more in the strafford bank, at dover, of which (new charter) he was the second heaviest stockholder, daniel m. christie being the first. he became a director in the strafford national bank in , and still actively holds that position. the stock of this bank (par, one hundred dollars) has this year sold at one hundred and sixty dollars. the norway plains savings bank, at rochester, was chartered in , and mr. mcduffee became its treasurer, being succeeded by his son franklin in , and himself becoming president,--an office in which he still remains. it is worth, recalling, that, although this bank was ordered, in the panic, to pay out only five-sixths of any deposit, it subsequently petitioned for leave to pay, and did credit to every person affected, the remaining sixth. mr. mcduffee early saw the advantages of manufacturing to a community. by his own means and a liberal allowance of banking facilities he has greatly aided their development, the first such enterprise in rochester, the mechanics' manufacturing company, being decided to locate there by the new banking facilities. mr. mcduffee was a director. it was a manufacture of blankets, and its successor is the norway plains manufacturing company. the original company mr. mcduffee carried safely through the crisis of . the mill-property at the gonic mr. mcduffee bought in , to lease to n. v. whitehouse, that business might not be given up. he held his purchase for about ten years. the effort was successful, and the property was eventually taken by a joint stock company. stephen shorey, owning some facilities for manufacturing at east rochester, came to mr. mcduffee to see if the bank would advance means to build. mr. mcduffee at once pledged the means, and the mills were built. a stock company afterwards purchased mills and machinery, and the thriving village of east rochester owes its prosperity to mr. mcduffee's liberal policy. thus have been developed the three principal water-powers of rochester. mr. mcduffee's personal interests in manufacturing were also in the great falls manufacturing company, in whose great business he was a director for four years; capital, one million five hundred thousand dollars. in he bought large interests in the cocheco manufacturing company, and has there remained. since he has been a director of that corporation. as such, he advocated the erection of the great mill, now no. , and the replacing of all the old buildings by new and magnificent mills, unsurpassed in the united states,--a work now rapidly progressing. the remarkable success of this company certifies alike to the sagacious boldness and the considerate policy of its directors. the need of railroad facilities at rochester was early apparent to mr. mcduffee. in he entered into two enterprises,--the cochecho road, from dover to alton bay, and the conway road, from great falls to conway. each was to and did pass through rochester. in each road mr. mcduffee was the largest individual stockholder, and of each was the first treasurer. when the conway road reached rochester, mr. mcduffee resigned its treasurership. the other road, after various difficulties, became the dover & winnipesaukee, by the incorporation of the bondholders, and mr. mcduffee continued to be a director. with "friend" william hill, he visited boston more than thirty times to treat for the lease of this road to the boston & maine. the effort was finally successful, and the road, by itself weak, became a fine piece of property. rochester was thus doubly accommodated; but another avenue was needed, and mr. mcduffee took part in the portland & rochester, which secured a route eastward, of which road he was a director; and he invested liberally in the rochester & nashua, which opened a line to the west. the result has been that rochester is a "billing-point," and its various manufacturing interests have felt its impetus. the beauty of "mcduffee block" in rochester, built by him in , exhibits the owner's public spirit. it is an elegant brick building of four stories, containing six stores, twelve offices in the second story, a public hall in the third, and a masonic hall, one of the finest in the state, in the fourth. in the use of the public hall the liberality of its owner to benevolent objects is well known. as a mason, he joined humane lodge on the very day he became "of lawful age." of other real estate, mr. mcduffee has, besides various pieces in rochester, including such as the gonic farm, the new durham "powder-mill" estate of nine hundred acres of land and eleven hundred acres of water; and in barrington, two hundred acres on isinglass river, held with a view to future manufacturing needs. in religion, mr. mcduffee was brought up under good old parson joseph haven, and has remained a liberal supporter of the congregational society. in politics, he was an earnest whig. his first vote was for the electors who chose john quincy adams president, and his postmastership was ended by andrew jackson. he has always been a decided republican. mr. mcduffee's great amount of labor has been possible only by the vigorous constitution which he inherited. the boy, who, before he left home, "carried the forward swath" in the hay-field, made the man who now accomplishes an amount of work which would surprise many younger men. monday is always given to the strafford bank, at dover; tuesday, he presides at the rochester bank meeting; wednesday, at the savings bank; and no day is idle. of mr. mcduffee's happy domestic relations nothing need be said. of his eight children,--naming them in the order of birth,--( ) joseph, who followed the sea, died (single) on the ocean at the age of thirty-five. ( ) franklin, who graduated at dartmouth college in , died, after a successful financial career, november , , greatly lamented; he married mary fannie, daughter of john hayes, of farmington, and left two sons, john edgar (now in the chandler scientific department of dartmouth college), and willis. ( ) john randolph, graduated at the chandler scientific department in ; was a civil engineer in rochester, and died single, aged twenty-five. ( ) anna m., is the wife of frank s. brown, of hartford, conn., of the firm of brown, thompson & co. she has one son and two daughters. ( ) mary abbie, is the wife of charles k. chase, a merchant in rochester, and has two daughters. ( ) sarah died single. ( ) george, the only surviving son, is engaged in extensive grain, mill, and lumber business in rochester; he married, first, lizzie hanson, who died leaving a son; afterwards he married, second, nellie, daughter of dr. james farrington, of rochester, her father being nephew of dr. james farrington, m. c. ( ) oliver, died in infancy. judged by the success of his work as the banker, as developing by a liberal and wise help every worthy manufacturing enterprise, and as foremost in the building of the various railways centering in rochester, it is clear that mr. mcduffee nobly comes into the list of those spoken of in our first paragraph, whose record is in the prosperity of his native town, where ability, sagacity, integrity, and kindliness have united to make that record, as well as his own personal success. [illustration: very truly yours-- john c. french] john c. french. prior to , new hampshire had no reliable fire insurance company. that she now has one that is "sound, solid, and successful," firmly established in the confidence of the country, and steadily growing in strength and stability, is mainly due to john c. french, who, in spite of much prejudice and distrust, laid the foundations of the new hampshire fire insurance company, and has since been its leading spirit and manager. mr. french came of sturdy stock. his grandfather, abram french, was a native of stratham, where he spent his boyhood and learned the trade of a carpenter and builder, in which he soon became known as a skillful and thorough workman. in this capacity he went to pittsfield to complete the interior of the first meeting-house in that town; and, when this was finished, erected the buildings upon the parsonage lot for rev. christopher paige, step-father of the "beautiful grace fletcher," the first wife of daniel webster. some years later, mr. paige removed from town, and the young mechanic bought the place, and in married hannah lane, of stratham, and established the french homestead, in which he reared to maturity twelve children, and dispensed for many years the hospitality which his prosperity enabled him to provide for a wide circle of relatives and friends. his numerous children and grandchildren ranked among the reliable and thrifty people of that town. enoch, the oldest son of abram french, who married, in , eliza cate, of epsom,--a most estimable woman,--and settled on an adjoining farm, was the father of five children. the only survivor of this family is the subject of this sketch, john c. french, who was born march , , and spent his boyhood upon one of the rocky farms in pittsfield. his opportunities for obtaining an education were very limited, but his ardent desire to learn impelled him to supplement his common-school privileges by reading at home, and afterwards to obtain, by working on a farm summers and teaching winters, the money to pay his expenses for several terms at the academies at pittsfield, gilmanton, and pembroke. what he learned at these institutions only fed his ambition to know more; and, as there was little opportunity for him to gratify his tastes and aspirations at home, when he became of age he made an arrangement with j. h. colton & co. to solicit orders for their mounted maps. the tact and activity which he showed in this work led his employers, a year later, to give him the boston agency for "colton's atlas of the world," then in course of preparation; and in this he won another success, selling over twelve hundred copies of this large and expensive work. in he was appointed general agent for the house for new england, and subsequently gave considerable time to the introduction of colton's series of geographies into the public schools; and was afterwards employed by brown, taggart, & chase, and charles scribner & co., in bringing out their school publications. while thus engaged he was able to gratify his fondness for travel, observation, and reading; gained an acquaintance with the leading authors, teachers, publishers, and other prominent educators, and a knowledge of the local history, industries, and resources of all the principal towns in new england. he also learned thoroughly the art of advertising, and of putting books upon the market in a way to command popular favor. during the eight years he was thus employed, he made frequent journeys to pittsfield, and spent a portion of each season there with his parents, to whom he was devotedly attached; but in may, , having been appointed state agent of the connecticut mutual life insurance company, he established his residence in manchester, which has since been his home, though he still retains possession of the beautiful homestead farm upon which he was born. three years later, having become interested in and familiar with the insurance interests of the state, he conceived the idea of establishing a stock fire insurance company, and by untiring persistency and zeal overcame the almost universal prejudice against such an organization, enlisted in its support some of our most prominent citizens, secured a charter and the capital stock, and began the business which under his energetic and prudent directions has since grown to great proportions. to this company he still gives his undivided time and efforts, refusing to accept political office, declining all inducements to go elsewhere, resting entirely content with the success he commands in and from the company's office. his wide and varied experience has given him a great insight into business affairs and productive industries, and also an extensive and invaluable knowledge of men, and these acquirements and all his native abilities he is bringing to the service of the company in the enlarged and enlarging sphere of his official duties. that he does not labor in vain is shown by the fact that the new hampshire company, so recently established, has increased its capital stock from one hundred thousand to five hundred thousand dollars, and its cash assets to nearly a million, that it commands the countenance and assistance of many of our most prominent men, and enjoys a national reputation for prudent management and financial success. mr. french has always taken a lively interest in his native town, and, when the project for building a railroad which would promote its growth and prosperity took shape, he gave himself heartily to the support of the enterprise, and it was largely through his efforts that the three hundred and fifty thousand dollars necessary to build the suncook valley road was secured, by subscriptions to the capital stock and gratuities from the towns along the line. as one method of helping this work to a successful completion, he established the _suncook valley times_--a weekly paper--at pittsfield and for two years contributed regularly to its columns a series of historical and biographical articles, which attracted much attention in the locality, and were widely copied and read elsewhere. he also at one time published and edited at manchester a journal devoted to insurance interests; and in these publications, as well as in those of the new hampshire company, has established a reputation as a vigorous, versatile, and popular writer. the zeal, fidelity, and success with which he has managed the various interests intrusted to him have been highly appreciated, and numerous testimonials have borne witness to the satisfaction of his employers. the records of the new hampshire company contain a resolution passed unanimously by the stockholders, in , in which the unparalleled success of the company is ascribed mainly to his zeal and efficiency; and a similar resolution is inscribed upon the books of the suncook valley railroad. mr. french, while not a politician, takes a deep interest in public affairs, and his help can always be depended on for whatever promises to promote the public good and the well-being of the community in which he lives. he is a genial companion, a stanch friend, and a man who wins and holds the good opinions of a very large circle of acquaintances. he is a member of trinity commandry, knights templar, and a director of the merchants national bank. mr. french married, in , annie m., daughter of l. b philbrick, esq., of deerfield, and has three children,--lizzie a., susie p., and george abram,--who reside with their parents. hon. thomas cogswell. the town of gilmanton has always been distinguished for its strong and able men, who have exercised a powerful influence in the affairs of their town and state. it has furnished men to fill nearly every position of trust and honor within the gift of the people of our state, and it has ever been proud of her illustrious sons. among the very strong men of this old town stood hon. thomas cogswell, who in the year , at the age of twenty-one, moved hither from atkinson, n. h., where he was born december , . he was one of a family of nine children of william and judith (badger) cogswell, eight of whom lived to years of maturity. he settled on the farm formerly occupied by his grandfather, the hon. joseph badger, and with strong hands and indomitable courage commenced gaining a livelihood for himself and young wife, mary noyes, whom he married just prior to moving here. he soon attracted the attention of the older settlers, and in a short time became one of the leading men in the town; and ever afterwards took an active part in all its local affairs, and for the whole period of his life was honored and respected by his neighbors and townsmen, and received at their hands every office within their gift. there is no position that more truly shows the strength and power of a man than that of moderator of a new hampshire town-meeting; but for many successive years he was chosen to preside over the deliberations of the annual and other meetings in this, then, large town, and always did so with great dignity, and to the perfect satisfaction of all. he was also chosen one of the board of selectmen, and represented the town in the legislature, and while a member of that body introduced and supported a bill to repeal the law authorizing imprisonment for debt. for ten years he was a deputy-sheriff for the county of strafford, before its division, and during all this time was actively engaged in the duties of the office. he was also treasurer of the county for three years. in he was appointed one of the judges of the court of common pleas for the new county of belknap, and held that position until the year , when the judiciary system of the state was changed. in he was elected a member of the governor's council from district number three. he was a justice of the peace and quorum for over forty years. he was an officer in the new hampshire militia, and attained the rank of captain. he was of revolutionary stock, his father and seven uncles having served in that war, and performed, in the aggregate, thirty-eight years of service. for seven years in succession he taught the winter term of school in his district, at the same time performing all the work incident to his farm, and during his whole life was interested in and a promoter of education. gilmanton academy, an institution established by the efforts of his grandfather, gen. joseph badger, and his uncle, the hon. thomas cogswell, with the assistance of many other strong and good men, early received his aid and co-operation, and he was one of its board of trustees up to within a few years of his death. in early life he became a member of the congregational church at gilmanton iron-works, and was deacon of the same for many years; and always gave freely of his means for the advancement of the cause of the christian religion. [illustration: thomas cogswell] notwithstanding the many and various duties imposed on mr. cogswell by his almost continuous service in some public position, he was a large and successful farmer, and by his own exertions added year by year to his original farm, so that at his death he owned in one tract nearly one thousand acres of valuable land. he was a great lover of the soil and was always interested in the cause of agriculture, and was in every respect a well informed and successful farmer. he possessed, to an uncommon degree, strong natural powers of mind, and was capable of grasping difficult questions and giving a good legal opinion. his mind was essentially judicial, and, had he devoted himself to the study and practice of law, would undoubtedly have been a leading mind in that profession. for many years he was consulted by his neighbors and townsmen upon the troubles that frequently arose between them, and to his credit, by his clear and practical judgment, saved, frequently, long and expensive litigation. he was true to every trust committed to him, and was scrupulously honest and exact in all his dealings. in politics, thomas cogswell was a democrat to the end of his life. during the war of the rebellion, he was a strong supporter of the government, and a friend and well-wisher of every soldier in the field. he saw clearly and plain that his duty as an american citizen was to render all the aid in his power to help carry on and bring to a successful close the terrible struggle then going on. he was a lover of his country and delighted in its free institutions; and, although strong in his political faith, was not a partisan. mr. cogswell was noted for his energy and force of character; and, when he had once made up his mind as to a certain course to pursue, he never changed it until he was thoroughly satisfied that he was wrong. he was a natural leader among men, and possessed the characteristics of a great general. he was a ready and fluent public speaker, and few men could better entertain an audience. he excelled in strong common sense, and could state exactly his position on any subject that interested him. he was always well informed, particularly on the history of his country and its many political changes. he was of commanding appearance, and was a noticeable person in any assembly. he was of an affectionate disposition, and sympathized with the afflictions of others. he died august , , and was buried in the old historic burying-ground in gilmanton near the dust of his illustrious ancestors; and in his death the town lost a wise counselor, the poor a generous friend, and the community at large an honest and upright man. there are four children now living,--mary c. burgess, wife of the late dr. burgess, now living in boston, mass.; martha b. batchelder, wife of the late dr. batchelder, also residing in boston; james w. cogswell, sheriff of belknap county; and thomas cogswell, a lawyer, residing on the old homestead at gilmanton. hon. person c. cheney. by col. daniel hall. person colby cheney was born in that part of holderness, n. h., which is now ashland, february , . he was the sixth child in a family of five sons and six daughters,--children of moses and abigail (morrison) cheney,--nine of whom still survive. of his sisters, sarah b. is the wife of rev. s. g. abbott, of needham, mass.; abby m. is the widow of george washburn, late of goffstown, n. h.; ruth e. is the wife of joseph w. lord, of wollaston, mass.; marcia a. is the wife of j. p. f. smith, of meredith, n. h.; hattie o. is the wife of dr. c. f. bonney, of manchester, n. h. of his brothers, rev. o. b. cheney, d. d., is the president of bates college, lewiston, me., and has mainly laid the foundations of the success and popularity of that excellent institution of learning; e. h. cheney is the editor and proprietor of the _granite state free press_, lebanon, n. h.; and moses cheney, a manufacturer of paper at henniker, n. h., is retired from business. the square, old-fashioned new england house, where the family resided, is still to be seen. it stands in the picturesque village of ashland, overlooking the valley below, and commanding a view of lofty hills and beautiful scenery. the childhood of the subject of this sketch was passed in this venerable mansion, but his boyhood and early manhood were passed at peterborough, n. h., where his father was engaged in the manufacture of paper. this gave him an early and intimate acquaintance with the paper business, enabled him to gain a knowledge of all its details, and gave him those habits of industry and self-reliance, which, upon the basis of a strong natural sagacity and force of character, have distinguished his business life. he acquired a fair education in the ordinary branches of knowledge, in the academies at peterborough and hancock, n. h., and parsonsfield, me. his father removed to holderness in , having sold his interest to a. p. morrison; and person c. cheney assumed the management of the paper-mill at peterborough. in a firm of which mr. cheney was a member built another paper-mill at peterborough; but he soon bought out the interest of his associates, and continued business in peterborough till . mr. cheney took an early interest in politics, and represented the town of peterborough in the legislature in and . he entered ardently into the memorable events of and , and zealously aided and promoted the preparation of his state for the great struggle to maintain the union. in due time he offered his personal services, and in august, , was appointed quartermaster of the th regiment, n. h. vols., and proceeded with the regiment to the seat of war. joining the army of the potomac, he rendered faithful service to the regiment and the country until exposure and overwork in the campaign before fredericksburg brought on a long and dangerous sickness. barely escaping with his life, he was compelled to resign and return home. he received an honorable discharge in august, . from that time till the close of the war the union cause at home had no more earnest or efficient friend and champion. in he was chosen railroad commissioner of new hampshire, and served three years. [illustration: p. i. cheney] in , mr. cheney removed to manchester, and formed a partnership with thomas l. thorpe, as a dealer in paper stock and manufacturer of paper at goffstown. in the firm of e. m. tubbs & co., of which mr. cheney had been a member three years, bought out the interest of mr. thorpe, and the business was continued under the name of p. c. cheney & co. in the mill at goffstown was destroyed by fire, but was replaced by a new mill, and the business enlarged by rebuilding the old mill at amoskeag village. mr. cheney, upon becoming a resident of manchester, became at once thoroughly and prominently identified with the development and prosperity of that rapidly growing city; and very soon his business capacity and integrity, his liberal spirit and engaging manners, attracted attention to him as a man not only highly fitted for public honors, but as pre-eminently capable of commanding them at the hands of the people. he was brought forward as a candidate for mayor of manchester in , and elected by a larger majority than any candidate had received since . he performed the duties intelligently and to general acceptance, but declined a re-election. in , at its organization, he was chosen president of the people's savings bank, and still retains the office. in , under peculiar circumstances, mr. cheney became the republican candidate for governor. in the republicans had lost the state for causes which it would not be useful to recite; and the democrats, having control of every branch of legislation, had used their power to fortify themselves in the possession of the state government, by making new ward divisions in the city of manchester, and redistricting for councilors and senators, in such a manner as to put their adversaries at great disadvantage, and render it almost impossible to recover the state. under such circumstances it became absolutely necessary for them to place at the head of the ticket a name of the greatest personal popularity. such were the prestige of mr. cheney, gained by his successful administration in manchester, his personal magnetism among those who knew him, and his well known energy as a canvasser, that, unexpectedly to himself, he was selected as the standard-bearer of his party, and the result proved how wisely. the hottest campaign ever known in a state proverbial for the violence of its political contests ensued, and there was no choice of governor by the people; but mr. cheney had a plurality of the votes cast, although judge roberts, his competitor, received the heaviest vote his party had ever polled in new hampshire. the republicans secured a majority in the legislature, which elected mr. cheney governor. in , gov. cheney was again a candidate, and after a canvass which exceeded in intensity even that of , he was re-elected by a flattering majority of the popular vote, which was heavier than had ever before been cast in new hampshire. mr. cheney brought to the office of governor a patriotic love for the state and solicitude for her good name, a clear insight, great executive ability, thorough business habits, and personal dignity, urbanity, and tact of a high order. these qualities, combined with his undoubted integrity and earnestness of purpose, enabled him to give the state a most prudent and successful administration of its affairs. the retrenchment of expenses, so much needed in a period of financial depression following years of sharp distress, was kept steadily in view, and a thorough business system inaugurated in all branches of the government; the affairs of the adjutant-general's office were redeemed from years of neglect and confusion; the state debt was materially reduced; at his suggestion a law was passed requiring vouchers to be filed for all disbursements from the governor's contingent fund; and the finances of the state were left in all respects upon a sound and stable basis. the prominent part of new hampshire in the centennial exposition was due largely to his foresight, his faith in its benefits, and his untiring efforts in its behalf. none who participated in them will ever forget the brilliant success of "new hampshire day" at philadelphia, or the reception of governor and mrs. cheney, during his term of office, to the members of the legislature and the citizens of concord, at white's opera house, which was a memorable social event. gov. cheney retired from office with the universal respect and esteem of men of all parties, and has since devoted himself closely to business. on the death of his partner, dr. tubbs, in , gov. cheney purchased his quarter interest, and thus became sole proprietor of the business. the following year he converted the property of the old "peterborough company" at peterborough, into a pulp-mill, and obtained an amendment of the charter, by act of the legislature, changing its name to the "p. c. cheney company." this charter is among the oldest in the state, having been granted in , and bears the names of charles h. atherton, samuel appleton, samuel may, isaac parker, nathan appleton, and others, as grantees. the original charter authorizes the company to extend its operations to any town in the state. in the company commenced operations for increasing its production by building both a pulp and paper mill in connection with the old one at manchester. this enterprise has been carried to completion, and thereby doubled in amount an already extensive business. consequently the corporation, the stock of which is held by gov. cheney solely, now owns and carries on wood-pulp mills at goffstown and peterborough, and also one in connection with its paper-mill and waste-works at manchester. its paper-warehouse is at no. elm street. the product of these various establishments, and their monthly disbursements for labor and services, are very large; and it is doubtful if a more important business has been built up in our state by the courage, foresight, and skill of one man. gov. cheney is an indefatigable worker, and keeps all the details of his extensive and complicated business within easy command. he is identified with the first unitarian church of manchester, and has been a director and president of the society. he is a royal arch mason, and member of the altemont lodge; also a member of peterborough lodge, i. o. o. f. in he was married to miss s. anna moore, who died january , , leaving no children. he married, june , , mrs. sarah white keith, daughter of jonathan white, formerly of lowell, mass., one of the earliest of lowell's manufacturers, by whom he has one daughter, agnes annie cheney, born october , . his domestic life is singularly happy and charming. his residence, no. lowell street, is a home of modest elegance, of courtly hospitality, and the center of a refined circle. it is not too much to say that to the affectionate sympathy, the grace, and fine social tact of his accomplished wife, gov. cheney owes not only the enjoyments of a delightful home, but much of the success and popularity of his career. the bare outlines of gov. cheney's life, as above given, convey but a faint impression of the essential quality of the man, and his importance as a factor in the social, business, and political life of his day and generation. it remains to be said that in manchester his name is the synonym for liberality, public spirit, a generous and helpful charity, and a philanthropy, which, though unobtrusive, loses no opportunity to exert itself for the relief of distress and the elevation of society at large. of a sympathetic nature, he cares more for others than himself, and no deserving person or worthy object ever solicits his aid in vain. he is prominent in every movement for the public good, and never spares himself, nor grudges the means which his business sagacity, energy and enterprise have gained for him, when work is to be done for a good cause, or help is needed for anybody in poverty or distress. mr. cheney is still in the prime of life, and his useful service, his honorable and upright character, his high and unselfish aims, have made him a power in the state. a brave, true, and honest man, a sincere and warm-hearted friend, of positive convictions, of unflinching devotion to principle, and fitted for any station, he is obviously in the line of succession to still higher honors than have been accorded him. it goes without saying that such a man has hosts of friends; and certain it is that he is second to no man in new hampshire in those elements of popular strength and confidence which commend men to public service. an earlier biographer, from whose sketch most of this is derived, appropriately closes his delineation of him with the remark, that "mr. cheney may yet be drawn from the seclusion of private life, and the unremitting toil of active business, to lend his aid to the councils of a nation." hon. phinehas adams. by arthur p. dodge. phinehas adams was born in medway, mass., the twentieth day of june, , and comes from the very best revolutionary stock of new england. his grandfather and great-grandfather participated in the battle of bunker hill, and served through that memorable war. he had three brothers and seven sisters, of whom the former all died previous to . three sisters are now living: sarah ann, born in , the wife of e. b. hammond, m. d., of nashua; eliza p., born in , widow of the late ira stone, formerly an overseer in the stark mills; and mary jane, born in , widow of the late james buncher, a former designer for the merrimack print-works at lowell, mass. mrs. buncher is the present popular and very efficient librarian of the manchester public library. his father, phinehas adams, senior, married sarah w. barber, a native of holliston, mass., in . her father was an englishman, who came to america from warrenton, england, during the revolutionary war, and married in this country a scottish lady who came from edinburgh. phinehas adams, the senior, was both a farmer and a mechanic, and became quite an extensive manufacturer. at a very early date he constructed hand-looms, which he employed girls to operate; and, subsequently, started the first power-loom that was ever established in this country, at waltham, mass., in the year . in this year and in the same town he became a mill overseer, and afterwards gave his whole attention to manufacturing. he resided, when phinehas was a child, at different times in waltham and cambridge, mass., and in nashua, to which latter place he removed later in life, and became proprietor of a hotel, the central house. this business was more agreeable to him, since he had broken several of his ribs and received other injuries from an unfortunate fall. hon. william p. newell, of manchester, who was agent of the amoskeag company from to , was once a bobbin-boy for the elder adams. this was ten years before the son, who was attending a private school in west newton, mass., until , began to work in the mills. in the last-named year, his father became agent of the neponset manufacturing company's mills--which were owned by himself, dr. oliver dean, and others--at walpole, in the same state; and to this place he removed his residence. [illustration: phins. adams] when quite young, the son disliked close confinement in school, the task of poring over books being to him rather dry and irksome; but his father said to him that he must either study or go to work in the mill. at the latter place he was soon found engaged in a work well calculated to dispel boyish romance in a summary manner. he almost repented making this choice, but pluckily "stuck to the work" with the indomitable perseverance so often displayed in after life, and was employed as a bobbin-boy for a year by the company. he then entered wrentham academy, where he remained, making progress in his studies, for a year and a half, when his father was compelled to inform him that he had met with serious losses by reason of the failure of the company, and that he, phinehas, would now leave the academy and go to work. the father very much regretted feeling obliged to take this course, having cherished the hope of being able to give his son a thorough education. the latter readily accepted the situation, replied to his father that he was ready and willing to work, but, that if he must go to work in a mill, he preferred that it should be in a large one, and not in a "one-horse concern;" for he desired a wide field and the best possible opportunities to gain a knowledge of the business in its many details. one of the greatest events in the commercial history of our country was the founding of the "city of spindles," in . very naturally, the junior adams was led to go there to gain his desired knowledge. on the th of november, , he proceeded to lowell, and at the age of fifteen became employed as bobbin-boy in the mills of the merrimack company. at that time, the company had only about thirty thousand spindles in its mills. in these early days of manufacturing, the system was adhered to in lowell of keeping fierce bull-dogs--one, at least--in each mill. they were liberally fed with fresh meat, _not_ for the purpose of making them _less_ savage, and chained near the entrance to the mill, making effectual sentinels while the watch-_men_ were making their rounds. this custom was followed until about . mr. adams was early possessed of an ambition to become an overseer; and to this end he labored hard and faithfully, never thinking or dreaming, however, that he would become agent of a large mill. this was his real beginning, the wedding to his long and uninterrupted manufacturing life, the "golden wedding" anniversary of which event occurred in november, . soon after his commencement at lowell, he was promoted to the position of second overseer in the weaving department, a post he retained until , when he passed to a similar position in the methuen company's mill, of which his uncle was agent. in he made another change, going to hooksett, where he became overseer in the hooksett manufacturing company's mills, of which his father was then the agent. not long afterwards he assumed a similar position in the pittsfield manufacturing company's mill, at pittsfield, then under the administration of ithamar a. beard. mr. adams remained in pittsfield from december, , until mr. beard resigned. on the th of march, , mr. adams, who had previously decided to return to lowell, left pittsfield; embarked in the mail stage, and found himself about noon of the next day at nashua, where his parents then resided. in those days there was no city of manchester, neither was there a splendid railroad service running through the fertile merrimack valley. but the waters of the merrimack, though scarcely at all utilized at that time to propel water-wheels, carried upon its bosom heavily laden vessels from boston, _via_ the old middlesex canal, which ran as far north as concord. locks were in use at garvin's falls, hooksett, manchester, goffe's falls, nashua, and at other points. a passenger steamer plied in those days between lowell and nashua upon the river. mr. adams remained at home only until monday. he was industriously inclined, and proceeded immediately to the merrimack mills in lowell, the scene of his earlier labors, where he accepted the office of overseer. he remained with this company until he came to manchester, in . in december, , john clark, the agent of the merrimack mills at lowell, proposed that mr. adams should enter the office as a clerk. this idea was very distasteful to mr. adams, but he yielded to the wishes and advice of mr. clark, to get acquainted with book-keeping and the general business of the mills, to prepare for a higher position. for five years he held this position. in the year , mr. adams left lowell to assume the agency (succeeding the hon. william p. newell) of the "old amoskeag mills," then located on the west side of the merrimack river at amoskeag falls,--now a part of the city of manchester,--on the present site of ex-governor p. c. cheney's paper-mill. the building of the amoskeag mills was the beginning of manchester's wonderful career of prosperity, which has developed to such great proportions. her many mills, now running more than three hundred thousand spindles, many looms, and many cloth-printing machines, and the many other signs of industry, are abundantly attesting to the truth of the statement. with the amoskeag company mr. adams remained until the th of november, , when he became agent of the stark mills. of the great manufactories of manchester, that of the stark mills company ranks third in magnitude and second in age. this company was organized september , , and began active operations during the following year. during its forty years and more of busy existence, up to april , , when mr. adams resigned on account of ill health, it had but two resident agents: john a. burnham held the position from the inception of the corporation until the th of november, , the date marking the commencement of the long term of service of the subject of this sketch. at that time the capital of the stark mills company was the same as now,--one million two hundred and fifty thousand dollars. the shares, the par value of which was one thousand dollars, were worth six or seven hundred dollars when colonel adams was chosen agent; but they had risen to fourteen or fifteen hundred dollars when he resigned. in the early days of new england manufacturing, more labor was performed by hand than is to-day; and, though substantially the same machinery was employed, yet it had by no means attained its present capacity and wonderful completeness. in december, , mr. adams was commissioned by the directors of the stark mills to go to europe for the purpose of securing machinery, and information relating to the manufacture of linen goods. at that time, owing to the war, cotton goods were very scarce and expensive. for unmanufactured cotton itself the stark company paid as high as one dollar and eighty-six cents per pound, and a higher price than even that was paid by other companies. a bale of cotton brought nine hundred and thirty dollars. mr. adams traveled extensively through england, scotland, and ireland, and visited the city of paris. he ordered considerable machinery of the english manufacturers, who were very busy with american orders at the time. so great, in fact, was the demand upon them, that the stark machinery did not arrive until the september following, nearly a year after being ordered. from choice, colonel adams has been quite clear of politics, having only served as ward clerk when a young man in lowell, and, later, as a presidential elector for general grant. he was governor straw's chief-of-staff, which, by the way, it is believed never "turned out in a body" as such. he was also four years a director in the concord railroad, just after the decease of governor gilmore. about the year he was chosen one of the assistant engineers of the manchester fire department, in which capacity he served with peculiar fidelity for twelve years. mr. adams and the other engineers resigned their positions after two steamers had been obtained, thus giving the captains of the old companies chances of promotion. never being "up for office," as were many of his friends, he could act with positive independence; and he invariably did act, as he thought, for the best interests of the city. col. adams has for a long time been closely identified with the moneyed institutions of manchester, having served as a director in the merrimack river bank from to , the same in the manchester national bank from to the present time; and as a trustee in the manchester savings bank nearly all the time since it obtained its charter. since the decease of hon. herman foster, mr. adams has been one of the committee on loans for the latter institution. he is one of the directors of the gas-light company, and was for many years a trustee of the public library. he was elected, in , one of the original directors of the new england cotton manufacturers' association. for many years, mr. adams has been engaged, as opportunity occurred, in procuring rare coins and medals. of the former, he now possesses very complete collections of the various denominations in gold, silver, nickel, and copper; and he has a great number of valuable medals. many of these antiquities command a very high price in the market, their numbers being absolutely limited, and the demand for them steadily increasing. during the administration of colonel adams, which covered a long series of eventful years, a great many changes occurred. in what may be called, more particularly, the manufacturing world is this especially true. he is the oldest agent and the longest in such position in the city,--nay, more, in the entire merrimack valley; and most of those holding similar positions thirty-two years ago are now passed from this life. that fine old estate on hanover street, for a long time known as the "harris estate," was formerly owned by the stark company, who built the commodious mansion now converted into a charitable institution,--the "orphans' home,"--for the use of their agents. john a. burnham was its first occupant; and next, mr. adams, who resided there nine years, beginning with . when baldwin & co.'s steam mill on manchester street, where d. b. varney's brass foundry is located, was, with other structures, burned on the th of july, , that house, then occupied by mr. adams, was set on fire by the flying sparks; but the fire was speedily extinguished. mr. adams was at the time attending to his duties as engineer where the fire raged the fiercest. thus mrs. adams and those of her household were without protection of the sterner sex in the early part of their peril. soon, however, aid was proffered by several men, of whom mrs. adams admitted mr. walter adriance and three others, friends of the family, whereupon she securely barricaded the doors. the work of passing water to the roof was very lively for a while. in , mr. adams moved into the house no. water street, where he lived about nine years, when he purchased his present fine residence, no. brook street. on the th of september, , mr. adams was united in marriage with miss elizabeth p. simpson, daughter of the late deacon samuel simpson, of deerfield, a veteran in the war of . mrs. adams's paternal grandfather, major john simpson, participated in the battle of bunker hill, and, it is said upon good authority, fired the first shot, on the american side, of that famous engagement. it occurred in this wise: the men in his line were instructed by their commander, colonel stark, not to fire a gun until the british had arrived at a certain point, forty paces distant from the american works. when the red-coated invaders had advanced to within that distance, the major (who was then a private), an excellent marksman, being unable to withstand so good an opportunity, fired before the order was given, and dropped his man. the fire was then opened along the whole line. on being reproved for disobeying orders, mr. simpson replied, "i never could help firing when game which i was after came within gun-shot." he died october , . from this happy union of mr. adams with miss simpson two children have sprung: elizabeth, born june , , and phinehas adams, jr., born december , ,--both being born in the same house in the city of lowell. the former is the wife of daniel c. gould, paymaster of the stark mills, and the popular tenor singer at the franklin-street church, to whom she was married the th of september, . mr. gould is the son of deacon daniel gould, who was the first railroad-station agent in manchester, a position he held until succeeded by the late henry hurlburt. mr. phinehas adams, jr., married miss anna p. morrison, of belfast, maine. about a year after being married, phinehas adams joined the first congregational church in lowell. mrs. adams was a member of the same church. on removing to manchester, both had their relation transferred to the franklin-street congregational church. at a business meeting of the stark corporation directors, in , on the suggestion of edmund dwight, it was voted to present colonel adams with a suitable token, bearing testimony of the high respect in which he is held by them. therefore, on the th of november, , that being the date completing his thirty-two years of service as agent of that corporation, they presented him with one of the most valuable gold watches made by the waltham company, together with a massive gold chain and an elegant seal. inside the watch-case is engraved the following: "the stark mills to phinehas adams, november , - . william amory. edmund dwight, treasurer." accompanying these superb gifts was the following letter, expressive of sentiments that any honorable man would be justly proud to merit:-- "boston, november , . "_my dear sir_,--i send you a watch and chain by request of the directors of the stark mills. it will reach you on the anniversary of the day on which you entered their service, thirty-two years ago. will you receive it as an expression of their great respect for your character, and their high appreciation of the service you have rendered the corporation during the third part of a century? "it is their sincere hope that the connection which has lasted so long may long continue. "with great regard, yours sincerely, "edmund dwight, _treasurer_." "phinehas adams, esq." this testimonial was eminently deserved, as no one is held in greater or more universal respect than is the upright, courteous, and genial recipient. right here it may be as well to put on record the fact that mr. adams has never used tobacco or intoxicating liquors during his life. the life of mr. adams proves that tireless persistence and devotion to duty accomplish much. the influence exerted by his life is far greater than is commonly supposed or realized. it can hardly fail to stimulate young men to honorable exertions, and to teach them that extensive notoriety is not necessarily indicative of true greatness, and also that too eager grasping after mere political distinction or after temporal riches is far less desirable than linking their lives to immortal principles. no sermon could be more potent than such a life as this, illustrating the fact that exalted character is the choicest of all possessions, bearing ever large interest in this life, and likewise in the life hereafter. genealogy. _the "phinehas adams" branch of the adams family, copied from the original chart prepared by elijah adams, and dated medfield, may , ._ henry adams, devonshire. | --------+-----+--------- | peter, joseph, henry, ----, edward, samuel, jonathan. | ----------------------------+------------------ | jonathan, henry, james, john, elisha, edward, elishab. | ------------------------+----+--------------------------------- | obadiah, john, thomas, jeremiah, eleazer, abraham, daniel, phinehas, edward. | ----------+-----+--------- | benjamin, john, eleazer, seth. | --------------------+------+---------------------------- | john, jude, joel, phinehas, james, elias, hezekiah, eleazer. | --------------+-----+------------------ | asahel, barzillai, phinehas, william, lowell. | ----------------+-+---------- | asahel, asahel, phinehas, asahel. | ---+---+ | phinehas. nathaniel white. the ancestors of nathaniel white were among the hardy pioneers who settled new england two hundred and fifty years ago, william white, the founder of the family in this country, having come from england and landed at ipswich, mass., in . the descendants of william were among the earliest settlers of northern new hampshire. nathaniel white, the subject of this sketch, the oldest child of samuel and sarah (freeman) white, was born in lancaster, february , . his childhood was passed under a tender mother's care; and to her strict religious training he was indebted for the noble character which led him untainted amid the temptations of youth, and unspotted through a long career of usefulness. at home were those principles of integrity, honesty, temperance, philanthropy, and generosity inculcated which led to a long life rounded by christian virtues, adorned by humanitarian graces, and free from vices. at the age of fourteen he went into the employ of a merchant of lunenburg, vt., with whom he remained about one year, when he accepted employment with gen. john wilson, of lancaster, who was just entering upon his duties as landlord of the columbian hotel in concord. his parents more readily consented to his taking this step on account of the many noble qualities of mrs. wilson. to her care he was intrusted by his solicitous mother. in the employ of gen. wilson, nathaniel white commenced life in concord at the foot of the ladder. he arrived in concord, august , , with one shilling in his pocket. for five years, or until he came of age, he continued at the columbian, rendering a strict account of his wages to his father, and saving the dimes and quarters which came as perquisites, until by his twenty-first birthday he had a fund of two hundred and fifty dollars. in he made his first business venture, negotiating the first and last business loan of his life, and purchased a part interest in the stage route between concord and hanover, and occupying the "box" himself for a few years. in one year he was free from debt. soon after, he bought into the stage route between concord and lowell. in , in company with capt. william walker, he initiated the express business, making three trips weekly to boston, and personally attending to the delivery of packages, goods, or money, and other business intrusted to him. he was ever punctual; he never forgot. in , upon the opening of the concord railroad, he was one of the original partners of the express company which was then organized to deliver goods throughout new hampshire and canada. the company, under various names, has continued in successful operation to the present day; and to nathaniel white's business capacity has it been greatly indebted for its remarkable financial success. in , mr. white purchased his farm, and has cultivated it since that date. it lies in the southwestern section of the city, two miles from the state-house, and embraces over four hundred acres of land. for his adopted home he ever felt and evinced a strong attachment, and to him concord owes much of her material prosperity and outward adornment. beautiful structures have been raised through his instrumentality, which render the capitol and the state-house park such attractive features of the city. [illustration: nath white] in he made his first step in political life, being chosen by the whigs and free-soilers to represent concord in the state legislature. he was an abolitionist from the start; a member of the anti-slavery society from its inception. his hospitable home was the refuge of many a hunted slave,--a veritable station on the under-ground railroad, where welcome, care, food, and money were freely bestowed, and the refugees were sent on their way rejoicing. the attic of his house and the hay-mows of his stable were the havens of rest for the persecuted black men. in all works of charity and philanthropy, mr. white was foremost or prominent. he was deeply interested in the establishment of the new hampshire asylum for the insane and the state reform school; in the orphans' home, at franklin, which he liberally endowed; and the home for the aged, in concord, which was his special care. the reform club of concord, though not an eleemosynary institution, received substantial benefits from his generosity; and to him, in a great measure, it owed its very existence during the reaction which followed the first enthusiasm. besides his extensive interest in the express company, his farm,--which is one of the most highly cultivated in the state,--his charming summer retreat on the borders of lake sunapee, and his real estate in concord, he was interested in real estate in chicago, in hotel property in the mountain districts, in railroad corporations, in banks, in manufacturing establishments, and in shipping. he was a director in the manchester & lawrence, the franconia & profile house, and the mount washington railroads, and in the national state capital bank; a trustee of the loan and trust savings bank of concord; also of the reform school, home for the aged, and orphans' home, and other private and public trusts. in , nathaniel white was candidate for governor, of the prohibition party; and he had a vast number of friends in the republican party, with which he was most closely identified, who wished to secure his nomination for the highest honor within the gift of a state, by the republican party. in he was sent as a delegate to the cincinnati convention, which nominated mr. hayes for president. during the summer of , he was placed by his party at the head of the list of candidates for presidential electors. with all these honors thrust upon him, nathaniel white was not a politician, although firm in his own political convictions. the office sought the man, and not the man the office. nathaniel white was blessed in his marriage relations. his history is incomplete without a narration of the perfect union, complete confidence, and mutual trust and assistance between him and his wife, during a married life of nearly half a century. november , , he was married, by rev. hubert bartlett, of laconia, to armenia s., daughter of john aldrich, of boscawen, who survives him. mrs. armenia s. white is of good old quaker stock, descending, in the sixth generation, from moses aldrich, a quaker preacher who emigrated to this country in the seventeenth century and settled in rhode island: and on the maternal side, from edward dotey, a pilgrim who landed in the mayflower. she was born november , , in mendon, mass., her parents removing from rhode island at the time of their marriage. in , she went with her parents to boscawen, where she lived until her marriage. mrs. white has been her husband's companion and helper in every good work. their children are john a. white, armenia e. white, wife of horatio hobbs, lizzie h. white, nathaniel white, jr., and benjamin c. white, who survive. they lost two children,--annie frances and seldon f.; and adopted one,--hattie s., wife of dr. d. p. dearborn, of brattleborough, vt. in early life mr. white joined the independent order of odd fellows. he belonged to no other secret society. anti-slavery societies, temperance societies, charitable and benevolent societies, woman suffrage and equal rights societies, and the universalist society,--in all of these both husband and wife were deeply and equally interested. during the first four years of their married life, on account of mr. white's occupation, they boarded; for eight years they lived on warren street; since , until the death of mr. white, in their residence on school street. here they have meted out generous and refined hospitality to the humble slave, the unfortunate, and to the most illustrious guests who have honored concord by their visits. nathaniel white died saturday, october , , having nearly completed the allotted span of three score years and ten. he was stricken down suddenly, although, with his usual business foresight, he seems to have been prepared for the change. among the tributes to his worth which were called out by his death was a letter by hon. h. p. rolfe, which presents a just and fair estimate of his character, as follows:-- "i remember mr. white even before you became acquainted with him. i can see him now, as in the early morn, in the dim light before the dawn of day, he drove up over the frozen hills of boscawen, through the drifting snows, buffeting the bleak winds, and standing erect upon the footboard of his sleigh, with his six frost-covered steeds well in hand. i remember him as in the late afternoon or early evening he went dashing down those fearfully steep hills, called "choate and gerrish hills," with his concord "coach and six," loaded down with sixteen and eighteen passengers, and no break to resist the fearful pressure upon a single pair of wheel-horses. he then had the same quiet, reserved manners that marked the man all through his long, busy, and useful life. there was no noise, no brag, no bluster, no profanity, no tobacco, no rum! he was mild in speech, pleasant in address, gentle in conduct, quiet in action, diligent in business, constant in season and out, and faithful to all his trusts; and every thing he did came fully up to the measure of his responsibility. 'his life was gentle; and the elements so mixed in him, that nature might stand up and say to all the world, "this was a man."' "the wealth he possessed, and which he distributed with such a generous hand, came from no ancestral estates. he made his wealth, and he made himself, and he was emphatically 'the architect of his own fortune.' he honored his father and his mother, and his days were lengthened in the land; and if he had lived till the th day of february, , he would have filled up the number of days which the psalmist has assigned to manly life. his example in youth, in manhood, and in mature age is a valuable legacy to the young man who shall try to imitate it. "to his wife and children he has left a memory as fragrant as devotion, tenderness, and love could make; and in the hearts of his other kindred he has planted a grateful remembrance, which will find a habitation there as long as their lives shall last. the beauty, gentleness and sweetness of his domestic life were only appreciated by those who saw him at home, in the bosom of his family, and partook of his genial hospitality. 'wife, children, and neighbor may mourn at his knell; he was lover and friend of his country as well.' "it will not be out of place to insert here the language of a learned and gifted gentleman who knew mr. white, having formed an acquaintance with him before the days of railroads, while he was driving on his route between concord and hanover. i refer to prof. edwin d. sanborn, of dartmouth college, who used frequently to ride on the outside of the coach with mr. white. the following sketch was published in the lebanon _free press_ in , and was part of an article entitled, 'good habits the best capital of the young':-- 'i know a gentleman, now residing at the capital of new hampshire, who, at the early age of fourteen, left the paternal roof to become a clerk in a store. thirty years ago every store was a grog-shop. from that business he entered a hotel in a large town, where liquor was also sold. the inference would be, with most persons, that such positions were very unfavorable to temperate habits. ruin is almost inevitable to a young man thus exposed and tempted. in the case alluded to, the lad served his apprenticeship, and saved both his money and character. he never, in a single instance, tasted liquor, or used tobacco, or handled cards or dice. he passed from the hotel to the stageman's box. he drove a coach from concord to hanover ten years, i think. before the building of railroads this was one of the most exposed routes in the state. the day's journey was long, the roads were bad, and the cold was often intense. it was the common practice of stagemen to fortify themselves against the cold by large and frequent potations. they soon lost health and character. they were a short-lived race because of their intemperance. but the subject of my story was true to his principles. in cold and heat he abstained. he resisted all solicitations, and offended nobody. he was trusted by all, suspected by none. he was universally popular, always intelligent. he was both a good companion and an honest agent. he never forgot a commission, never violated a trust. he saved his wages, and supported his parents, who needed his aid. multitudes who had occasion to travel that weary road, still remember with gratitude the pleasant speech, agreeable deportment, and excellent habits of this accomplished stageman. when the railroad took the place of the old mail-coaches, the trusted and confidential agent and owner of "the old line" was employed upon the new mode of locomotion. he soon entered into the express business, which has been constantly increasing in extent of space and in quantity of packages from the first journey of the iron horse till this hour. the honest stageman became the confidential agent of thousands who had messages or property to be conveyed over the road. with the increase of business came increase of wealth. he was no lover of lucre. though born in humble circumstances, and trained to habits of rigid economy, he had an eye for improvements, and a heart for practical beneficence. he acquired property easily, and he gave liberally. aged parents and needy relatives shared his liberality. he cared for the friends who were bound to him by the ties of blood first, and then for such acquaintances as needed his ready aid. from the penniless boy, without education, he has become a thrifty man of business, bestowing thousands of his hard-earned treasures upon objects of charity of his own choice. how valuable is a character thus formed and matured! through all his varied life he has never tasted ardent spirits, or used tobacco in any form. he ascribes all his success in life to his early determination to be both temperate and honest. such an example deserves commendation and imitation.' "these lines were written in ; and more than a score of years of usefulness, of duties, of benevolence, of affection, and of honor have since filled up and rounded off a life into the completeness of manhood. when he was removed from earth, death claimed a dutiful son, a tender and loving husband, an affectionate father, a devoted brother, and a constant friend. "since i came to this city, death has been constantly busy in our midst. none of us who have lived here these thirty years but have witnessed its ravages, snatching from many of us our dearest treasures. he has gathered to himself many of the gifted and the good, whose memories are still fragrant; but the sincere tributes to the memory of nathaniel white have never been equaled, i fear never will be. no person in new hampshire has ever had the happy combination of means and disposition to bestow such noble charities as he. i feel myself privileged, after forty years of constant friendship, to unite my tears of sorrow and sympathy with those of his bereaved family and afflicted friends, and to lay a laurel upon the freshly made grave which covers one of earth's true noblemen. "how well he filled up all the days of his years with love for and duty to his family, his kindred, and his friends; to the poor, to the downtrodden, to the slave, and to all the unfortunate of earth! he claimed no right or privilege for himself, in the wide domain of nature, that he did not want others to enjoy. hence he insisted always that the nation should immediately strike the shackles from the slave, and let the oppressed go free. never himself under the thraldom of rum and tobacco, he wished everybody else to be free from it. he exercised the largest liberty himself, and enjoyed perfect freedom of thought and action in religious, political, and other matters; and he desired every man and woman to do the same. hence, when he arranged his worldly matters, he gave the ownership and sole control of his business affairs into the hands of his wife, with whom he had walked life's journey, thereby giving signal proof of his sincerity that the wife is the equal of the husband in the sight of god, and should be in the love, esteem, and regard of man. he often said that the wife, in the event of the husband's death, should maintain the same rights and the same relation to the family that the husband would if the wife were taken away. in his will he made her responsible to no court or other tribunal. she was only required to make proof of his will, in order that the ownership of all his property should vest in her. in all this he recognized the rights of womanhood as well as the rights of manhood. in this way he gave proof of his belief that the twain, man and wife, are one flesh. "the centennial home for the aged was the apple of his eye; and yet he made no large bequests to it himself, having perfect assurance that the wife, who had borne life's burdens with him, and shared his devotion to this noble benevolence, would be equally the author of her own charities and the almoner of his. as a business man and a citizen, his reputation ripened by integrity. it was beautified by sincere sympathy for the poor and the downtrodden; it was embellished by his generous charities; and it was endeared by his gentle and winning manners. when his final summons came, he had filled out a life of rare usefulness and of singular success. "mr. white was fifty-four years a resident of concord. in every thing that made for her welfare he was always the foremost citizen. many others did nobly, but he exceeded them all. in a single matter that vitally affected the city of concord,[ ] in which the writer was engaged, and in which liberal expenditures were needed, he contributed more than all the others combined; and i make mention of this because the people of concord should know of his liberality, about which he rarely ever spoke and never boasted. "in all his aspirations to make himself an honorable name, and to do good to his kindred, his friends, his country, and his race, mr. white was most fortunate and happy in that he had the early suggestion, the prompt encouragement, the ready co-operation, and the ardent sympathy of her who for nearly half a century kept his home constantly blooming with the sweet-scented flowers of affection. "farewell, noble spirit! 'thou 'rt buried in light: god speed unto heaven, lost star of our night!' we dismiss thee, not to the tomb of forgetfulness and death, but to a blessed memory, an unclouded fame, and to a limitless life." footnotes: [ ] the retention of the state-house. [illustration: francis cogswell.] francis cogswell. francis cogswell was born in atkinson, december , . he died at his home in andover, mass., february , . his death closed a long, honorable, and useful career. he was a gentleman of the old school, strong, steadfast, and true. god gave him talents of a high order, and he improved them all. he was honest, not from policy, but because it was his nature to be. his ambitions never clouded his convictions of duty, nor swerved him from the path which his high sense of probity and honor pointed out; and, after more than fifty years of business activity, and association with thousands of people in almost every relation in life, he could say, as he did: "i die contented. i have no ill will towards any one, and i know of no reason why any one should have any ill will against me." he loved his family with a love that never wearied and never forgot; which dared all things, suffered all things, did all things, that could make for their comfort and happiness. he loved his books. he was a stanch friend, a kind neighbor, and a generous citizen, who never left to others the duties he could discharge. in business, he was sagacious without being a schemer, patient and industrious without being a slave. he had judgment, foresight, and reliability; and he worked his way to success openly, steadily, and surely. he died universally respected and widely and sincerely mourned. mr. cogswell was the son of dr. william cogswell, the son of nathaniel cogswell of atkinson, who was born july , , and was married to judith badger, july , , the daughter of the hon. joseph badger, senior, of gilmanton, n. h., born may , , whose children were as follows: william, born june , ; julia, born february , ; hannah pearson, born july , ; joseph badger, born august , ; nathaniel, born march , ; thomas, born december , ; francis, born december , ; george, born february , ; john, born february , , and died august , . julia cogswell was married to greenleaf clarke, of atkinson, march , . they were the parents of william cogswell clarke and john badger clarke, who are sketched elsewhere in this book. hannah pearson cogswell married william badger, of gilmanton, who was afterwards governor of new hampshire. their children are col. joseph and capt. william, of the u. s. army. joseph badger cogswell was married to judith peaslee, october, . they had six children, three sons and three daughters: william is a successful physician in bradford, mass.; francis has been a very popular teacher, and is now superintendent of schools in cambridge, mass.; and thomas is a dentist in boston. rev. nathanial cogswell married susan doane, october, . he was a settled clergyman at yarmouth, mass., a man of great influence, and his son john b. d. cogswell has been speaker of the massachusetts house of representatives. william, thomas, and george cogswell are sketched in this book. francis cogswell received his early education in the public schools and at atkinson academy, from which he entered dartmouth college, where he graduated with honor in the class of . selecting the law for his profession, he prepared himself for admission to the bar at exeter, was admitted in , and commenced practice in tuftonborough, n. h., the same year. he removed, in , to ossipee. in he removed to dover, and was appointed clerk of the court in strafford county. nine years later he located at andover, mass., and became treasurer of the ballardvale woolen company. may , , he was chosen cashier of the andover bank, to which institution he devoted himself with great fidelity until he was called to the presidency of the boston & maine railroad, in . in this position, his systematic methods, untiring industry, ability to manage men, careful regard for the public and respect for its opinions, and stern integrity asserted themselves, to the great advantage of the corporation and the approval of its patrons; and his resignation, which he tendered in , caused wide-spread regrets, which grew more and more pronounced until , when he yielded to the general demand and accepted a re-election. his second term lasted until , when he felt compelled to lay down the heavy burdens inseparable from the office, and retire from active life. in addition to these, mr. cogswell held many other public and private trusts of great responsibility, in all of which his sterling qualities were quietly but effectively asserted. he was a director of the andover bank for twenty years; treasurer of the marland manufacturing company for twenty-two years; a trustee of gilmanton and atkinson academies, and of the punchard free school at andover; an overseer of harvard college; and senior warden of the episcopal church at andover, where he was a constant worshiper for many years. many private properties were also committed to his care; and his advice was constantly in demand by his neighbors and acquaintances. mr. cogswell was a man of pronounced political views, but would never accept political honors. prior to the war he was a democrat; but the attempt of the southern slaveholders to destroy the union made him an earnest republican, and one of the strongest supporters of the loyal cause. he was chairman of andover's war committee, and gave liberally of his means to her soldiers and their families. mr. cogswell was married, june , , to mary s. marland, daughter of abraham marland, of andover, by whom he had eight children. three of these--john f. cogswell, of andover, at the head of the well known and very successful express company of cogswell & co., lawrence, mass., thomas m. cogswell, of lawrence, engaged in the same business as his brother, and mary m., wife of william hobbs, esq., of brookline, mass.,--are living. [illustration: joseph b. clark] hon. joseph bond clark. joseph bond clark, son of samuel and betsey (clement) clark, was born at gilford, n. h., june , . he had four brothers and four sisters, of whom two survive,--samuel c., a lawyer at lake village, and hannah b., widow of the late william g. hoyt, of moultonborough. at the age of seventeen he began a preparatory course of study at new hampton literary institution, and, after three years, entered brown university at providence, r. i., in , and graduated in . he then spent six years teaching in massachusetts and new hampshire, meanwhile qualifying himself for the profession of law, some time with the hon. asa fowler, of concord, n. h., and with stephen c. lyford, of laconia, from whose office he was admitted to the belknap-county bar in . he however continued for two years longer principal of the wolfeborough academy, and then removed to manchester, n. h. mr. clark was soon recognized as a moving force among men, was made city solicitor in - , representative in the legislature from ward one in - , and was appointed solicitor for hillsborough county in and again in , holding the office ten years in all. in the midst of his varied activities the war broke out; he was commissioned as a lieutenant in the eleventh regiment, col. walter harriman, and went to the front to assist in putting down the rebellion. in march of the succeeding year he was promoted to the rank of captain, and was wounded in the battle of the wilderness, may , . he remained with his regiment until the close of the war, and was mustered out of service in june, . in he was mayor of the city of manchester. he has been a director in the merrimack river bank (now first national) and trustee of the merrimack river savings bank, since their organization, and is a director of the nashua, acton, & boston railroad and of the manchester horse-railroad. he was for several years a director of the first baptist society of manchester, and chairman of the building committee, which erected probably the finest church of that denomination in the state. in - he represented ward three in the legislature, and was chairman of the finance committee; and was a member and clerk of the committee for the erection of the soldiers' monument in manchester, in . he married, september , , mrs. mary jane (peabody) smith, daughter of james h. and roxana peabody, of manchester. she died august , , leaving two children,--mary p. and joseph m. this record, so brief and yet so full, will suggest better than any words the general estimation of mr. clark among those who know him. undemonstrative and quiet in his manner, cautious and prudent in action, simple and temperate in habit, he is, above all, a thoughtful and patriotic citizen, whose vote is given for the best measures, and whose example lends force to his words. conservative by nature, he is yet not slow to place himself on the side of equal justice and truth. hon. george w. nesmith. [from history of antrim, by rev. w. r. cochrane.] james nesmith, one of the signers of the memorial to gov. shute, march , , and one of the proprietors of londonderry, was also one of the original sixteen that first struck for settlement on the soil of that ancient town. april , . he was a strong man, worthy of respect, and honored by his associates. was appointed elder of the west parish presbyterian church, at its formation in . the date of his death was , and his age seventy-five. he married, in ireland, in , elisabeth, daughter of james mckeen and janet cochran. this elisabeth mckeen was sister of janet mckeen, dea. isaac cochran's mother. she died in , aged sixty-seven. the nesmiths lived in the valley of the bann in ireland, and emigrated to that place from scotland in . dea. james nesmith had two children in ireland, and seems to have buried the eldest child there. seven children were born to them in america. the names of all were: arthur, buried in infancy in ireland; james, born in ireland in ; arthur, born in londonderry april , ; jean, born march , ; mary, born jan. , ; john, born feb. , ; elisabeth, born jan. , ; thomas, born march , ; benjamin, born sept. , . james nesmith, jr., the son born in ireland, was born early in , just before embarking for america, and was brought over in his mother's arms. he married mary dinsmore and settled in the northern part of londonderry. though an old man when the revolutionary war broke out, he went with all his heart into the struggle against the british; marched among the minute-men at the first call, and was a participant in the battle of bunker hill. he had children, james, jonathan, robert, elisabeth, mary, and sarah; and died where he settled, july , . of these six children, we will only say as follows: james, the oldest, was born in ; married mary mcclure (parker's history is wrong in saying martha); was elder in the west parish church; left children,--william m., robert, isaac, james, martha, jane w., and margaret,--of whom william m., the first named, married harriet willis, and was father of hon. james w. nesmith, long u. s. senator from oregon. senator nesmith was born in , married pauline goffe in , and now lives in wealth and honor at dixie, ore. the second child of james, jr., was jonathan of antrim; robert, the third child, married jane anderson; elisabeth, the fourth child, married james cochran of windham; mary, the fifth child, married james mcclure of acworth; and sarah, the sixth, married daniel anderson of londonderry. [illustration: geo. w. nesmith.] returning now to arthur, the third child of dea. james the emigrant, we have to say that he was born april , . he married margaret hopkins, and settled in the south part of londonderry; but in later life he moved to the state of maine. he had two sons in the revolutionary army, one of whom, john, was a captain noted for valor and strength, but died near the close of the war from effects of excessive exposure and hardship. of jean and mary, daughters of the first dea. james, i know nothing. but john, the sixth child of the emigrant, married elisabeth, sister of gen. george reed of londonderry, settled on the first nesmith homestead with his father, and died there in , aged eighty-seven. his children were: james of antrim; arthur of antrim; john, jr., who married, first, susan hildreth, and, second, lydia sargent, and died on the homestead in londonderry in ; ebenezer, who married jane trotter; thomas; elisabeth, who married dea. james pinkerton; mary, who married john miltimore, moving to reading, penn.; and jane, who married hugh anderson. of elisabeth, the emigrant's seventh child, i have no data. thomas, the eighth child, was born march , ; married annis wilson, and settled in londonderry (now the north part of windham), and had three children: john, elisabeth, and thomas, jr. of benjamin, the ninth child of the first dea. james, i have no information of importance in the present undertaking. jonathan nesmith, second child of james and mary (dinsmore) nesmith, and grandson of the proprietor dea. james, was born in londonderry, in august, . he came here in may, , and began to clear the farm that remained in possession of the family until . he made successive clearings each year, and with vigorous hand put up his log cabin,--though only a boy of sixteen years when he began. he permanently moved here in . he subsequently had to pay for the most of his land a second time. was one of the leading spirits of the town. was eleven years selectman, and was four times chosen representative of the town. was always on important committees, and was known and confided in by all. he was chosen one of the elders of the presbyterian church at its formation in , though only twenty-nine years of age. for fifty years he only failed of officiating at one communion. dea. nesmith was a man of great sociality,--up to jokes,--genial, jolly, and good-natured; was very hospitable and benevolent; anxious for the public welfare; stoutly in earnest to maintain the faith of his fathers; a man of strong ability, good judgment, and irreproachable character. he was an honor to the town he helped to establish. his death occurred oct. , , aged eighty-six. his first wife was elenor dickey, whom he married in . she was the daughter of adam and jane (strahan) dickey of londonderry, and grand-daughter of john and margaret dickey, of londonderry, ireland. she was born jan. , , and died sept. , . he married, second, mrs. sarah (wetherbee) hamblin, of concord, mass. she was twelve years of age when she witnessed the battle of lexington and concord from her father's door. she saw those brave men fall, remembered everything, and was always fond of telling of those first blows for liberty. she died jan. , , aged eighty-nine. dea. nesmith's cabin was burned one day when the family were absent; and he used to remark, in after years, that he never felt so poor as then. yet, undismayed, he went about building another, being generously aided by neighbors he had himself always been forward to help. after several years he put up a substantial framed house, which was burned march , , from a spark catching on the roof. in his old age dea. nesmith resigned his office in the church; and it is spoken of as a remarkable scene, when he stood in the public assembly and offered his resignation, and then, with trembling voice and with uplifted and palsied hand, invoked god's blessing on his successors in coming time. his children were:-- . james, b. oct. , ; m. polly taylor april , ; cleared and settled west of the pond and west of the steele place, on land now george brown's,--often called the boyd place; went thence to solon, n. y., in , with six children. there his wife d. in . in he m. d, mrs. susan clark; moved to waukon, io., and d. there in . he had children:-- _mary_, (b. in ; d. in infancy.) _mary e._, (b. in ; m. john stillman of cortlandville, n. y., in ; went to waukon, io., in , where they now live.) _rev. john t. g._, (b. in ; studied at cazenovia seminary; m. harriet n. taylor; entered the methodist ministry; was a faithful and able man; d. while pastor, at the age of .) _hannah e._, (b. in ; m. john reed; moved to waukon, io., in , and d. there in .) _abigail s._, (b. in ; became second wife of isaac barker in ; went to waukon, io., in .) _mark w._, (b. in ; d. unm., at solon, n. y., in .) _james a._, (b. in ; carried to solon, n. y., when an infant; went thence to illinois in ; m. laura post.) _george w._, (b. in solon, n. y., in ; m. mary c. farrar of fairfield, vt.; resides at waukon, io.) _dr. milton w._, (b. in ; m. margaret donoughue in ; is now physician and druggist at waukon, io.) _woodbury t._, (by second wife; b. in ; remains at solon, n. y.) . jean, now called "jane," or "jenny;" b. may , ; m. john dunlap, june , , and d. march , . . thomas d., b. march , ; m. martha weeks, march , ; succeeded his father on the homestead. his first wife d. in , aged , and he m. d, nancy gregg, feb. , . he d. sept. , , aged . the second wife d. feb. , , aged . he was known in town as "capt. nesmith;" was captain of the "antrim grenadiers," and was often marshal of the day on special occasions. he was a useful man, and d. in his prime. his children were:-- _robert w._, (b. may , ; m. olive dunlap of bedford, june , ; settled in jefferson, tex., and d. at sulphur springs in that state, nov. , . he left two daughters: oriette, now in the metropolitan railroad office, boston; and sally y., who m. com. decatur morris, and lives in little rock, ark.) _jonathan_, (b. jan. , ; m. marietta f. morrill of franklin, nov. , ; inherited the homestead of his father and grandfather, sold the same in , and two or three years later moved to hancock, where he now resides. he was the last of the name in town. at one time there were three dea. nesmiths in town, known as "dea. james," "dea. arthur," and "dea. jonathan," and they each had nine children,--making, with sisters and friends, nearly forty by that name in this place. jonathan's children are: jennie m., who was b. sept. , ,--an excellent teacher; thomas s., who was b. may , , and d. at the age of three years; fannie h., who was b. dec. , , and m. frank h. baldwin, june , , residing in keene; annie m. t., who was b. sept. , ; abbie isabel, who was b. nov. , , and d. ; miles g., who was b. sept. , ; addie m., who was b. jan. , ; and john s., who was b. may , .) _sarah e._, (b. dec. , , m. john w. buttrick, and lives in lawrence, mass.) _miles_, (b. feb. , ; went to california in , and was driver for the california stage company; the horses became unmanageable, and the whole team was thrown down a fearful precipice near virginia city, nev., by which the driver, all the horses, and most of the passengers were instantly killed. this sad event occurred in december, .) _harriet f._, (b. feb. , , m. walker flanders, and lives in lawrence, mass.) _martha j._, (b. june , ; m. isaac p. cochran of windham, nov. , .) _melvin_, (b. dec. , ; d. in sacramento, cal., dec. , .) _hiram g._, (b. feb. , ; d. in jefferson, tex., in .) _nancy r._, (b. jan. , , m. josiah melville, and lives in nelson.) . adam, b. march , ; m. rebecca dale; settled in beverly, mass., and d. jan. , . . mary d., "molly dinsmore" on town record, b. april , ; called "long mary," being tall in form; a talented, respected, and christian woman; d. unm. april , . . margaret, b. may , ; d. unm. in . . isabel, b. march , ; d. unm. march , . . hon. george w., b. oct. , ; was graduated at dartmouth college in ; m. mary m. brooks; settled in the practice of law at franklin; was long judge of the new hampshire supreme court, remaining on the bench until relieved by the constitutional limitation of years. is now president of the n. h. orphans' home, and trustee of dartmouth college; is a man of noble principles and honored life, enjoying in his old age the highest confidence and esteem of men. the degree of ll. d. was conferred upon him by dartmouth college. he stands among the best and noblest of the sons of new hampshire, and is an honor to his native town. charles marsh. yankee courage, integrity, and judgment have won no more substantial or more splendid triumphs in the business world than are reflected from the dry-goods palace of jordan, marsh, & co., a house whose grand successes have made it famous throughout the mercantile world. the foundations of this magnificent establishment were laid in and , by three young men, two of whom were natives of new hampshire. the head of the firm, eben d. jordan, when fourteen years old had gone up to boston from his home in maine, and began his business career as an errand boy, and in a short time had been promoted to a clerkship, in which position he made himself master of the dry-goods business, and while doing it became acquainted with two other young men, benjamin l. and charles marsh, who had left their father's house in chesterfield, n. h., and sought in boston an opening in which pluck, push, and perseverance, unaided by influential friends or unearned capital, could carry them on to success. in , messrs. jordan and benjamin l. marsh established the firm of jordan, marsh, & co., and the next year charles marsh, then a clerk in the store of pearl, smith, & co., was admitted as a partner. the house began in a small way; it had behind it little but the splendid courage and the remarkable abilities of the three young partners; but these were sufficient to win a fair share of business, and a reputation which was better than money, and in a short time it was firmly established in the confidence of the mercantile world and the good will of the public. in eight years the business had grown to two million dollars per annum, and since that time it has steadily and rapidly increased, until the firm controls the dry-goods market of new england, and, in many lines, of the entire country. the elder marsh died in , leaving his partners to carry on and complete the grand enterprises he had helped project and begin. his brother still remains to share with mr. jordan the triumphs of the firm. in the early days of the business, charles marsh was an active salesman, and was accounted one of the best ever known in boston. afterwards, he took charge of the wholesale department, which has since been and still is under his personal supervision. in commercial circles and in the store he has a clearly defined and high rank as a manager, with rare combination of talents. his coolness, his thorough knowledge of the business, his level-headed judgment, and organizing and executive capacity are abundantly attested in the great and rapid growth of the wholesale business. he is a balanced man; and how necessary this quality is to success in an enterprise of this magnitude, only those who have seen houses go to wreck for lack of it can tell. the elements of personal popularity in his character, and his extensive acquaintance throughout the country, help to explain his success. for nearly thirty years his steady hand has been felt at the helm, and yet he seems to-day only in the prime of his powers. [illustration: chas. marsh.] [illustration: g. byron chandler] hon. george byron chandler. the subject of this sketch is a member of a family that has long occupied a prominent and honorable place in new hampshire history. his parents, adam and sally (mcallister) chandler, were worthy representatives of the strong-minded, able-bodied, industrious, and successful citizens who in the early part of the century tilled the farms and shaped affairs in our farming towns. they resided upon a fertile farm in bedford, which was the birthplace of their four children. of these, the three sons--henry, john m., and george byron--are all citizens of manchester, and are now engaged in the banking business. the only daughter is dead. the boys spent their boyhood upon the farm, doing their share of the work; but their parents were solicitous that they should be fitted for some more profitable calling, and gave them all the school privileges of the neighborhood, which were afterwards supplemented by academical instruction at several state academies. his home work, his studies at piscataquog, gilmanton, hopkinton, and reed's ferry academies, and his duties as a teacher at amoskeag, bedford, and nashua, occupied the boyhood of george byron chandler until the age of twenty-one, after which he spent one year as a civil engineer in the employ of the boston, concord, & montreal railroad. in the spring of he decided to devote himself to a business instead of a professional career, and, coming to manchester, entered the grocery house of kidder & duncklee as a book-keeper. the next year he was offered a similar position in the amoskeag bank, which he accepted, and filled so acceptably that eighteen months later he was promoted to the teller's counter, and remained there until the organization of the amoskeag national bank, in , when he was elected its cashier and entered upon the discharge of the duties of this responsible position, which he still holds. that he has won in it the continuing confidence of its managers, who are among the most sagacious of financiers, and the hearty approval of its numerous owners and patrons, is the best testimony to his fidelity and efficiency. his success in this capacity led the trustees of people's savings bank, when it was organized, to select him as its treasurer, and the success of this institution is another reflection of his patient and skillful work. these two banks, of which he is the chief executive, are among the strongest in the country; and it is much for him to be proud of that they have grown so great in resources and public confidence during his administration. mr. chandler has also been prominently, honorably, and profitably identified with many other financial enterprises which have been conspicuous for their success. he has been the treasurer of the new hampshire fire insurance company since its organization in ; he was for five years a director of the manchester & lawrence railroad, and has been for several years its treasurer; he was a director of the blodget edge tool company and of the amoskeag axe company, during their existence; and he has been for years constantly intrusted with numerous private trusts involving the management of most extensive and important interests. mr. chandler has an ample fortune, and a large income which he scatters with a free hand. he gives liberally and buys freely. the representatives of a worthy object who appeal to him for aid seldom go away empty. his residence and grounds, which occupy an entire square, are among the most costly and attractive in the city, and are noted as the home of good taste, elegance, and hearty hospitality. he is a leader in social life and active in city affairs. for several years he has been an officer of the amoskeag veterans, and is now president of the new hampshire club, composed of the leading business men of new hampshire, which he was largely instrumental in organizing. he has read much, and traveled extensively in this country, and has a wide acquaintance with its distinguished men, and a valuable knowledge of the resources, customs, and characteristics of its several sections, which he has often been called upon to utilize for the benefit of others in lectures before schools and also in addresses before public assemblies. from his early days mr. chandler has been an active member of the unitarian society in manchester, and has served for years as one of its directors and president. like other organizations with which he has been identified, this has been frequently indebted to him for liberal donations in money and a zealous support in many ways. in , the democratic party of the manchester district elected him to the state senate, where he served with credit to himself and the city. he declined a renomination. in , mr. chandler married miss flora a., daughter of hon. darwin j. daniels, an ex-mayor of manchester, who died in may, , leaving an infant daughter, who did not long survive her mother. his second wife, who now presides over his mansion, is the only daughter of col. b. f. martin, of manchester, to whom he was married in . three children--benjamin martin, alexander rice, and byron--are the fruit of this union. of these, the oldest and youngest are living. [illustration: n. b. bryant.] hon. napoleon b. bryant. by hon. j. m. shirley. the subject of this sketch was born at east andover, n. h., on february , . his mother was of revolutionary stock, and from one of the oldest families in town; and was one of those sunny-souled "mothers in israel," who, half a century ago, were alike the glory and honor of our new england homes. his father was a man of high character and fine natural endowments; but was in straitened circumstances. as there was no lawyer in that part of the town where he lived, nor within several miles, he acted as a magistrate, trial and otherwise, for many years; and his services were sought in making deeds, wills, and contracts, formulating notices and the like, organizing voluntary corporations, settling the estates of deceased persons, and in this class of business usually intrusted to lawyers. his son grew up in this atmosphere, the influence of which, with his father's strong desires, determined the choice of his profession. the world lavishes its praise upon, and often loads with honors, the self-made man, for that implies a successful one. it too often forgets the rugged path which leads thereto, and the hard discipline--the heroic treatment that so often kills--which enables him to attain that position. as a rule, it crowns with honors the victors as they sweep the summit-heights, but furnishes no headstone for the dead that mark the ascent and block the pathway. young bryant had the hard lot so common "among the hills;" but he had health, hope, courage, ambition, and the glow-fire of a fervid imagination, which enabled him to succeed when others "by the wayside fell and perished, weary with the march of life." until ten years of age, he had the limited educational advantages afforded by the district school, gaining one term at a private school when about seven, by walking two miles and a half each way, daily, to attend it. at ten he entered the high school at franklin, taught by master tyler of andover, an author of some note and a teacher of high repute in those days, and remained for half a term,--all that the limited means of the family would permit. a similar privilege was accorded at eleven and again at twelve. at the age of fourteen he borrowed money enough of a relative to defray the expense of an entire term at boscawen academy, then under the charge of mr. ballard, of concord, a graduate of dartmouth, giving his note therefor, which he repaid with interest at the end of three years. here he studied trigonometry and surveying, and for several years afterwards earned considerable sums to aid him in prosecuting his studies by surveying in his own and adjoining towns. when fourteen he "cast off the lines" and assumed the entire burden of his support and education. to aid in this work he commenced teaching when fifteen, and taught every winter until he left college. thus lacking means, he drifted about, a term at a time, among the various academies in the state, at concord, claremont, gilmanton, and new london, until he entered new hampton, joining a class which was to fit for college in one year from that time. here, through the kindness of the faculty, he took the studies of the freshman year, entered the sophomore class at waterville at the same time his fellow-classmates entered as freshmen. at the academies and in college he developed an intense passion for debate, and took a leading part in all the lyceums at home and the societies connected with the various institutions of learning he attended, to which he undoubtedly owes much of the freedom and ease that have since characterized his efforts on the hustings and at the bar. when he was about twelve, his father gathered at his house the _debris_ of what had been an excellent town library. the son reveled in this feast of good things, reading everything from goldsmith's "animated nature," to paley's philosophy. with boyish enthusiasm he devoured the pages of rollin, without the slightest idea, that, except when the old jansenist relied upon others, he was reading romance instead of history. this gave a new impetus to his desire for what was then termed a "liberal education." at twenty-two he entered the office of an eminent law firm---nesmith & pike--at franklin, and after something less than two years' hard study went to harvard law school, from which he graduated in ; was admitted to the bar of grafton county at the november term of the same year, and, having opened an office at bristol in that county in november, , upon his admission, entered upon the active practice of his profession. at twenty-five he was elected one of the commissioners of the county of grafton and held the office for three years, being chairman of the board two years. at twenty-nine he was appointed prosecuting attorney (solicitor) for that county, and discharged its duties with marked efficiency. in he removed from bristol to plymouth; and from that time was engaged on one side or the other of nearly every important cause there tried by the jury. the county of grafton was created in . it was a large county and had for its shire towns haverhill on the connecticut and plymouth on the pemigewasset. it had at the outset, as it now has, a bar of exceptional character and ability. some of the greatest forensic and legal battles of the century--like the celebrated dartmouth college case of national reputation--were lost and won here. over the highest court, smith, richardson, and parker, a triad of illustrious chief-justices presided, followed by gilchrist, woods, and perley, but little less distinguished. here, in the olden time, jeremiah mason, the foremost jurist of his day, daniel and ezekiel webster, the sullivans, and their compeers, "rode the circuit" after the custom in the mother country. these great advocates, after exhaustive preparation; spoke to crowded court-rooms, the people flocking to these entertainments like men to a feast. then oratory was in demand at the bar; but now, in its place, is required a dry summary, as terse and pointed as an auditor's statement of accounts. when mr. bryant became actively engaged in jury trials, the bar was not what it once was, for livermore, olcott,--the father-in-law of choate,--woodward, and others were in their graves; woods and wilcox were on the bench; ira perley had removed to concord; and joe bell had left the state. but there were goodall, with his varied experience and eventful life; felton, active, precise and mathematical; duncan, whose earlier efforts were regarded by competent critics as at least equal to those of his famous brother-in-law, choate; harry hibbard, scholar, lawyer and statesman; that dark haired "giant of the mountains," bingham; bellows and sargent, since chief-justices,--headed by their acknowledged leader, josiah quincy, one of the most practical, sagacious, and clear-headed men in the state. here, too, occasionally came perley, with combative blood, incisive speech, and immense law learning, to enter the lists with that child of genius and prince of cross-examiners and advocates, franklin pierce. it was no child's play for a young man to withstand the "cut and thrust" of such, and contest for supremacy with them before twelve men. lawyers know that those who are almost invincible before a referee, auditor, chancellor, or the full bench, are often failures before a jury. nothing tests or taxes a lawyer's nerve, knowledge of men, tact, readiness, fertility in resource, and the power of reconstruction or combination, like a jury trial, and he only who has been through it--unless it be the woman who is so unfortunate as to be his wife--can fully appreciate the strain of the minute and laborious preparation which precedes, the anxious days without food and nights without sleep which attend the progress of the trial, and the collapse after the verdict, especially if it be an adverse one, when a young practitioner is pitted against one of the leaders. it is a hard experience; but it schools him in his work, and enures him to the hardships of campaigning. mr. bryant tried his first cause before a jury, against mr. quincy, and won. the veteran congratulated his youthful opponent and predicted his success at the bar. at the next term he was pitted against his old instructor, mr. pike, and one of the judges wrote his father a note highly complimenting the efforts of the son in that important and exciting trial. in , mr. bryant removed to concord and entered into partnership with lyman t. flint, esq., who had assisted him at new hampton in fitting for the sophomore year. his practice soon extended to belknap and hillsborough, while he retained his hold in merrimack and upon his old clients in grafton, where he attended the courts as before. mr. bryant had hitherto acted with the democratic party, in whose faith he had been reared, but in , in common with thousands more, in the whirlwind which swept the north after the passage of the nebraska bill, and the troubles which had arisen in kansas, he supported by voice and vote the nomination of john c. fremont, speaking in all the large towns and in nearly every county in the state. from that time until he left the state in , he probably made more stump-speeches than any other man in it. in he was elected representative from ward six in concord, was re-elected in and , and was speaker the last two years. he originated and carried through, against a violent opposition, the act making parties witnesses. at this day the act seems eminently proper; but then it was regarded by many as portentous of evil, subversive of social order, and revolutionary in the extreme. its constitutionality as applied to pending suits was affirmed in rich _vs._ flanders ( n. h., ), against the dissent of two of the six judges, chief-justice bell and judge bellows, who, as a member, had strenuously opposed its passage. when the know-nothing party, so called, carried the state in , one of their first acts was to overthrow the entire judicial system of the state, by repealing the acts creating it, and to erect a siamese-double-headed-partisan one upon its ruins. the system proved expensive and became odious, not only to the entire democratic party, but to the bar and influential class, irrespective of party relations, and to potential forces in the then republican party. in , mr. bryant devised the system, which, with a brief exception, has been in force to the present time. it was carried after an intensely bitter contest. he made up the committee on the judiciary, to whom the bill was referred. it consisted of ten members, four of whom were democrats headed by the veteran quincy, five radicals, and one conservative republican. two of the six were for the bill and one was on the fence. the moss-backs, politicians, and lobbyists swarmed, and great efforts were made to defeat it. the four democrats on the committee at first voted for their own bill, and then notified the friends of the new one that on the test vote they should give them a solid support, which would enable them to bring an affirmative report into the house. caucuses were held almost every night of actual session to hold the timid ones in line, and prevent their yielding to the great pressure to which they were subjected. an incident occurred during his speakership in , which illustrates mr. bryant's readiness, courage, and political forecast. the theory that it was the right of every state and everybody in it to nullify the laws of congress whose constitutionality had been affirmed by the federal supreme court was much more popular in the north then than it became after the election of mr. lincoln. lengthy petitions headed by a. t. foss, a. folsom, and stephen thayer, "praying for the enactment of a law that no person held as a slave shall be delivered up within this state," were presented. they were referred, as a matter of course, to the committee on the judiciary. parker pillsbury, elder foss, dr. hawks, and others appeared for the petitioners at the hearing, and made eloquent speeches in support of their petition. they had the candor, courage, and directness which characterized the old-time abolitionists. they did not attempt to deceive the committee or any one else, but avowed that their purpose was by the bill proposed to array the state against the general government. the hearing closed. the four democrats voted against the bill, and the chairman with flushed face demurred at such legislation; but five out of the six republicans voted for the bill, and without a word of warning it was reported to the house by a party vote. it was read the first time without objection, and upon a division was ordered to a second reading by a vote of one hundred and thirty-four to one hundred and one. mr. bryant called mr. parker of lempster--since a member of congress--to the chair, took the floor, and in an eloquent speech denounced the bill as nullification pure and simple, and moved its indefinite postponement. a sharp debate followed. three lawyers who had voted for the bill in the committee defended the principle of it mainly upon the ground that everybody had the right to judge of the constitutionality of the bill at which the proposed law was aimed, and that the opinion of the supreme court was of no more account or binding force than the opinion of a like number of other persons. mr. bryant replied, and the result was that two members of the majority of the committee voted to sustain their nullification report, four, including the one who reported the bill to the house, voted against their own report, and the bill was defeated by a vote of two hundred and seventy-nine to nineteen. he had a natural gift for the position, and left the speaker's chair with the respect of all for his ability, his fairness, and his unvarying courtesy as a presiding officer. in , mr. bryant was at the chicago convention as a substitute delegate, working strenuously and effectively for the nomination of mr. lincoln. he stumped the state for him, and after his election removed to boston. since he has resided in massachusetts, he has refused to hold any political office whatever, and has only interested himself in politics in speeches during the state and national campaigns. since his residence there he has devoted his time almost entirely to an active, extensive, and constantly increasing general practice in several counties in eastern massachusetts, in both the state and federal courts, and not infrequently has been called to his old circuit in new hampshire, when he could spare the time. the importance of the cases in which he has been engaged, and the character of those opposed to him, are sufficient evidence, if any were needed, that he is a trained lawyer, a skillful, eloquent, and able advocate. he delivered the centennial oration in his native town in , and, for some reason unknown to the writer, rendered the same service for the town of brandon, vt. he has also occasionally delivered lectures before lyceums and the like. when twenty-four, he married miss susan m. brown, of northfield, n. h., a woman of high personal character and accomplishments, and who proved all that any man could wish as a wife and mother. three children still survive. in private as in professional life, mr. bryant is noted as a genial and courteous gentleman. [illustration: oliver pillsbury] hon. oliver pillsbury. by hon. j. w. patterson. william pillsbury, from whom most and probably all of the pillsburys of this country have descended, emigrated from dorchester, england, and settled in old newbury, now newburyport, mass., about the year . oliver pillsbury, the subject of this sketch, sprung from this line. he was born in henniker, n. h., february , . his parents, deacon oliver pillsbury and anna smith pillsbury, were both persons of unusual physical and mental strength. the writer recalls distinctly, after a lapse of more than thirty years, the amiable expression and serene dignity of mrs. pillsbury, and the masculine thought and deep, solemn voice of the deacon as he led the devotions of the religious assemblies of the people. he was one of the strong men of the town and a pillar in the church. others might veer and drift, but we all knew that the deacon was anchored within the veil, and was as sure to outride the storm as the hill upon which he had fixed his home. he was a man of strong powers, a stern will, and constant devotion to the great ends of life as he saw them. the qualities of both parents were transmitted in large measure to their children. our state has produced but few men who were the peers in intellectual strength and moral courage to their first born, parker pillsbury. not many men in our country, indeed, in the years that preceded the civil war, struck heavier blows for, or clung with a more courageous, self-sacrificing devotion to, liberty than he. those of us who knew him could hear the deep undertone of the deacon's voice in his, and knew he would conquer or die. in the roll-call of the imperishables in the great struggle for liberty, his name will be heard among the first. of such stock is oliver, the fifth son of dea. oliver pillsbury. during the first seventeen years of his life he experienced the usual fortune of the sons of new england farmers,--a maximum of hard work and a minimum of schooling; but at that time, having been overtaken by a lameness which threatened to be permanent, he was sent to the academy, that he might prepare for duties suited to his prospective infirmity. he entirely recovered, but this circumstance gave a new drift to his life. for nearly five years he pursued his studies with unabated interest and industry, giving thoroughness and a practical character to his acquisitions by teaching during the winter months. mr. pillsbury had few equals and no superiors among those who taught at that time in our public schools. he was master both of his school and his studies, and had the faculty of inspiring his pupils with his own spirit. many who have since done good work in life look back with gratitude to those years of pupilage. in , mr. pillsbury left new england and went to new jersey, where he opened a tuition school, there being no free schools in the state at that time. there, though an entire stranger, he gained the confidence of the whole community at once, and held it during eight years of successful work. during the last six years of this time he taught the academy at bound brook, somerset county. while there he married matilda nevius, who died in , leaving a young daughter, an only child. the position which mr. pillsbury acquired among the educators of new jersey may be learned from the fact that he was prominent among the few gentlemen who held the first school convention at the capital, over which he presided, and which was followed by similar conventions in other cities. the movement thus begun resulted in the establishment of public instruction in that state. to have been a leading spirit in the accomplishment of so beneficent a work, in a sojourn of only eight years, should be a perpetual honor to the life of any man. at the end of this time, mr. pillsbury's health having become impaired, he returned to his native place, where he purchased the paternal homestead and entered again upon the work of his boyhood. for seventeen years he followed the life of a farmer, but did not move in its old empirical ruts. he applied the knowledge and improved methods which modern investigation has given to agriculture, and in a little time doubled the productive power of his farm. the successful factor in every industry is brains, and in this case even new hampshire farming proved no exception to the rule. in , mr. pillsbury contracted a second marriage with miss sarah wilkins, of henniker, his present esteemed and accomplished wife. though assiduous in the pursuits of agriculture, his benevolent instincts led him to take an active interest in the causes of temperance, anti-slavery, and whatever else the public welfare seemed to demand. his efforts in this direction, in co-operation with those of others, produced a change in the politics of the town, which resulted in his introduction to public life. he was elected moderator of town-meeting fourteen times, selectman six times, and to the legislature three times. in all these trusts he showed himself wise, able, and efficient. as a legislator, he did not seem anxious merely to shine, but to be useful, and to advance the interests of the state. such qualities and service commended him to public favor, and in he was elected a councilor for the last year of gov. berry's administration, and re-elected to the council of gov. gilmore. this, it will be remembered, was while the hardships and horrors of the civil war were upon us, and when questions that could not be settled by precedent, and that tested the authority and resources of the state, were brought daily before the governor and his council for decision. the exigencies of the government would not suffer delay. not only great permanent interests, but the very life of the nation was in peril, and large and frequent demands were made upon the states for supplies of men and money, when every resource seemed exhausted. in such times means must be invented and resources created. criticism becomes silent, and waits for the return of peace to awaken into unreasoning activity. under the pressure of such events, weak men are likely to be paralyzed, avaricious men corrupt, and bold men to abuse power. the qualities which mr. pillsbury developed in these trying circumstances ought to make his name historic. the writer has received communications from two gentlemen who were associated with him in the council, and whose services to the state are universally acknowledged, and, as they express more forcibly than any words of mine can do the part which the subject of this sketch took in that eventful period, i take the responsibility to publish such portions of their respective letters as bear specially upon the subject of this paper. the known character of the writers will give additional weight to their strong language of encomium. hon. john w. sanborn, of wakefield, writes, as follows:-- "learning that you are to prepare a biographical sketch of hon. oliver pillsbury, i take pleasure in saying that i formed acquaintance with him in , being then associated with him in gov. gilmore's council. his great executive ability, patriotism, honesty, and integrity won the respect and admiration of all his associates. at that time the country was engaged in that terrible war for the support of the government and its own salvation, and grave questions came before us relative to the prosecution of the same. although an ardent republican, he never let partisan feelings warp his judgment in his official acts. he had strong convictions of right, but was always ready to discuss all questions with that frankness and fairness which characterize men of noble minds, and he fully appreciated the opinions of his opponents. i had the honor to serve with him on the military committee of the council, which had important matters to consider,--questions involving the rights and interests of the soldiers, their families, and the state. the duties of this committee were arduous and often difficult, but i can attest to the fidelity and untiring energy with which he performed his part. he took great interest in the welfare of the soldiers, particularly the sick and wounded, and was ever ready to minister to their wants. in a word, he was a model councilor for the time in which he served, and the future historian will class him among our ablest and most efficient men." hon. john w. noyes, of chester, who was also in official association with mr. pillsbury, says:-- "i was with him a very considerable portion of the time for two years, while we were members of gov. gilmore's council, during the war. he was the most important member of the council, on account of his past experience and familiarity with the duties of the situation; in fact, his information and judgment were exceedingly valuable to the governor, and all the other members of the council. "i regard mr. pillsbury as one of the best-informed and most competent business men in this state. i hardly think that there is another man in the state that could fill his present position as well as he does. i told gov. stearns before he made the appointment, that, if he knew mr. pillsbury as well as i did, he would not need recommendations, but would urge his acceptance of the place." it would be idle to add anything to such commendations. in , mr. pillsbury was appointed insurance commissioner, by gov. stearns, for a period of three years, and has been re-appointed from time to time to the office, which he still holds. soon after his appointment he drafted and secured the enactment of the present law of the state relative to insurance companies of other states and other countries. this law established the department of insurance, and has given to the people a degree of protection against the frauds and impositions of unreliable companies never before enjoyed is this state, and has brought into its treasury, by tax on insurance premiums, over hundred and twelve thousand dollars, in addition to the compensation of the commissioner. during the whole term of his office, mr. pillsbury has worked quietly but assiduously to eliminate unreliable companies from our borders, and has carefully avoided the admission of all such as are not regarded as perfectly trustworthy. it is universally affirmed by men familiar with the insurance business, that the commissioner of this state has administered his office with unusual skill and success, and his reports are much sought for and often quoted and referred to as authority in other states. the state may well congratulate itself on having had the continued services, for thirteen years, of one so able and experienced in an office so intimately connected with the material interest of the people. in , mr. pillsbury moved to concord, and the estimation in which he is held in the community is attested by the fact, that, during the eleven years of his residence at the capital, he has twice been elected to represent one of its wards in the legislature, and has been a member of its board of education for seven years, and was president of the board at the time he tendered his resignation. when a member of the legislature, mr. pillsbury was eminently practical, and whenever he spoke was listened to with marked attention; for he only addressed the house on subjects that he had thoroughly considered, and it was understood that his remarks were likely to aid the members in reaching a wise and just conclusion. as one of the supervisors of the educational interests of concord, mr. pillsbury was exceptionally intelligent, conscientious, and painstaking. his views on the general subject were comprehensive, and he kept himself informed as to all real improvements in methods of instruction. he discountenanced shams, and labored faithfully to make the schools sources of knowledge, of discipline, and of virtue. to the other public trusts so honorably held by the subject of this sketch, we may add that of trustee of the state industrial school. he has had a deep and abiding interest in this institution since its founding, and has given to it an active and efficient support. we can only realize how pure and unselfish his labors of this character have been, when we reflect that mr. pillsbury has no children of his own to kindle and feed his sympathies, but that they spring from a general benevolence toward all children of whatever condition in life. his only child was a daughter of rare mental activity and attainments, and of unusual sweetness of temper. she married mr. j. s. eveleth, of beverly, mass., where, after a residence of nearly two years, she died of consumption, in the flower and promise of early womanhood, leaving two homes stricken and desolate. in this brief sketch we have unconsciously drawn a model citizen,--a man in all the relations of life faithful to the claims of duty; in the family, society, and the state, blameless; benevolent without ostentation, patriotic without the claim of reward, and true to every trust. "while we such precedents can boast at home, keep thy fabricius and thy cato, rome." [illustration: c. v. dearborn.] cornelius van ness dearborn. early as , and only nineteen years after the landing of the pilgrims, john wheelwright, a dissenting minister from england, gathering a company of friends removed from massachusetts bay to exeter in the province of new hampshire. among the thirty-five persons who signed the compact to form a stable and orderly colony is found the name of godfrey dearborn, the patriarch of the entire dearborn family in this country. forty years before, he was born in exeter, england, and in landed at massachusetts bay. he lived at exeter ten years, and in moved to hampton, built a framed house which is still standing, became a large land-holder and town official, and died february , . few men of the early settlers have left a family name so widely represented as godfrey dearborn. his descendants are numerous in every county of new hampshire, and are to be found in every part of new england. it is worthy of note, that among the descendants of godfrey dearborn the practice of medicine has been a favorite occupation. benjamin dearborn, of the fifth generation, graduated at harvard in , and, entering upon a successful practice at portsmouth, died in his thirtieth year. levi dearborn had for forty years an extensive practice at north hampton, and died in . edward dearborn, born in , was for half a century the medical adviser of the people of seabrook, and acquired a handsome estate. gen. henry dearborn, who gained a national reputation by his brilliant services in the revolutionary war, and as the senior major-general of the united states army in the war of , was a practicing physician in nottingham when summoned to join the first new hampshire regiment raised in . to-day several of the ablest physicians of the state bear the name. toward the middle of the last century the dearborn family had been quite generally distributed through rockingham county. peter dearborn, the great-grandfather of the subject of this sketch, was born in chester in . of his children, josiah, born in , married susannah emerson, the daughter of samuel emerson, esq., a substantial chester farmer. he learned the trade of a shoemaker, but, on the breaking out of the revolutionary war, entered the army as a private, and was stationed at portsmouth under col. joseph cilley. afterwards he did honorable service, first as a private, and then as lieutenant in northern new york, and finally closed his enlistment by an expedition to newport, r. i., in . returning from the war, he and his family found a new home thirty miles westward in weare. it was not an unfitting location. with its sixty square miles still mostly covered with a dense forest of oak, maple, and beech, with its uneven surface nowhere rising into high hills, it had a strong soil, which, when cultivated, yielded large crops of hay and grain. it was already a growing township, and thirty years later became one of the four leading farming towns of the state. here josiah dearborn passed his life, raising a family of eleven children, nine of whom were sons. samuel, the fifth son, and father of the subject of this sketch, was born in . the district-school system was not organized in new hampshire until , and the children of that time had scanty opportunities for instruction. young dearborn and his brothers were reaching manhood, when farming in the eastern states was depressed by the recent war with england and the occurrence of several cold summers. migration westward had commenced, and the dearborns for a time debated the expediency of a removal to the western reserve. they at length decided to locate in vermont, and in five of the brothers and a sister removed to corinth, a town in the eastern part of orange county. here samuel dearborn settled upon a farm, soon after married miss fanny brown, of vershire, whose parents were natives of chester, n. h., and here he passed a long and useful life. he died december , , in the eightieth year of his age. his wife had died in . of scholarly tastes, he was for many years a teacher of winter schools. an active member of the freewill baptist denomination, his religion was a life rather than a creed. cornelius van ness dearborn, the son of samuel and fanny dearborn, was born in corinth, vt., may , . his name was in compliment to the then ablest statesman of the state, who had filled the offices of governor and minister to spain. cornelius was the youngest but one of seven children. his childhood was passed in a strictly agricultural community. corinth, lying among the foothills of the green mountains, is one of the best farming towns in eastern vermont. without railway facilities, with scanty water power, its inhabitants depend for a livelihood upon the products of the soil, from which by industry they gain a substantial income. few in corinth have ever accumulated more than what is now regarded as a fair competency, and very few have encountered extreme poverty. a more industrious, law-abiding, practically sensible people would be difficult to find. when four years old, young dearborn met with the saddest loss of childhood--a mother whose intelligence, forethought, and womanly virtues had been the life and light of the household. he early joined his older brothers in the labors of the farm, attending the district school for a few weeks in summer, and ten or twelve weeks each winter. when fifteen years old, he attended the spring term of the corinth academy, and continued at intervals for several terms later. in the winter of - , his seventeenth year not yet completed, he taught the school of a neighboring district. his success warranted his continuance as teacher in the vicinity for the five following winters. continuing his farm labors in summer, he in the meantime developed a mechanical capacity in the making of farm implements and the designing of buildings,--a natural aptitude which has been of great service in maturer years. soon after attaining the age of eighteen, mr. dearborn determined to enter upon a course of study preparatory to a professional life. before leaving corinth he commenced the reading of law with rodney lund, a young man who had commenced practice in the vicinity. in march, , at the suggestion of his maternal uncle, dr. w. w. brown, he came to manchester, and renewed his law studies in the office of hon. isaac w. smith, with whom he remained till his admission to the bar in the fall of . in december, , he opened an office at francestown. the town afforded a safe opening for a young practitioner, but not one for large profits. there was a time, after the close of the war of , when the trade of francestown village exceeded that of any other locality in hillsborough county. but the opening of the railroad to nashua, and soon after to manchester, entirely changed the centers of trade and business, and left francestown to become a respectable and very quiet village. hitherto, mr. dearborn, while entertaining positive views, had not actively participated in political discussion. but the year witnessed the consolidation of the anti-slavery sentiment of the country. it had already so far concentrated its strength in new hampshire as to have secured the state government and a unanimous representation in congress. the nomination of john c. fremont for president, in the summer of that year, hastened the organization of the anti-slavery elements of the entire north under the name of the republican party. in common with a majority of the intelligent young men of the state, mr. dearborn entered into this contest with all the zeal, vigor, and enthusiasm of one whose action is untrammeled by personal or partisan ends. the campaign which followed was the most brilliant and far-reaching in its results of any in the political history of the nation. no idea ever agitated the american mind to which calculating selfishness was more foreign. even the great uprising which brought about the war of independence was less free from selfish motives. and, though the general result in the presidential election of that year was adverse, yet in new hampshire, as in every state north of pennsylvania, the returns clearly showed that the cause of freedom had acquired an over-ruling strength. in june, , mr. dearborn was united in marriage with miss louie frances eaton, daughter of moses w. eaton, of francestown, and grand-daughter of dr. thomas eaton, a physician of long and extensive practice, and one of the most enterprising farmers of his time. in he was elected county treasurer, and re-elected in . it was the first public position he had held, and its duties were satisfactorily discharged. in he removed to peterborough, occupying the office of e. s. cutter, esq., who had recently been appointed clerk of the courts for hillsborough county. he resided in peterborough till . during this time he was in partnership with charles g. cheney, and afterwards with albert s. scott, both of whom have since died. he represented the town in the legislature in the years and , being a member of the judiciary committee. in the summer of he removed to nashua, for the purpose of continuing the practice of his profession. an accidental purchase led to a change of occupation. the _nashua telegraph_ had for many years been edited by albin beard, a genial, witty, and, withal, accomplished writer. under him, the _telegraph_ had acquired a marked local popularity. he died in september, . its present publishers were inexperienced writers, and illy qualified to satisfy the admirers of its former editor. the _telegraph_ was rapidly deteriorating in value and influence. the senior proprietor inquired of mr. dearborn what he would give for his half of the establishment. a somewhat nominal price was offered, and much to the surprise of mr. dearborn was accepted. he at once entered upon the duties of editor and financial manager. under his direction the _telegraph_ was rapidly recovering its patronage and influence, but at the end of two years his health failed, and a change of occupation became a necessity. he disposed of his interest to the present editor, hon. o. c. moore, and resumed the practice of law. since his residence at nashua. mr. dearborn has contributed largely to the improvement of real estate, to the erection, of improved school-buildings, and in his capacity as member of the board of education to the reconstruction and greater efficiency of the public schools. he was appointed register of probate for hillsborough county in , and held the office till . for several years he was treasurer of the nashua & lowell railroad, and is still one of the directors. in his official action he aided largely in sustaining the measures which have placed that corporation in front rank of profitable railways. nearly twenty years ago, while a resident of peterborough, he was appointed, by the governor, one of the bank commissioners of new hampshire. in that capacity he became acquainted with the extent and peculiarities of the financial institutions of the state. in and , he actively superintended, in his official capacity, the converting of the state banks of discount into the national banks of the present system. in march, , he was appointed examiner of the national banks for the state of new hampshire, a position which he still holds. he is the only person who has filled this position since the organization of the national banking system. in the discharge of the duties of bank examiner, official fidelity requires that the investigation shall be thorough and exhaustive. that during the past sixteen years but a single instance of defalcation has occurred resulting in loss among the forty-nine national banks in the state, is pretty conclusive evidence of a diligent and careful supervision. from the length of time he has held the position, he has become familiar with the indications of laxity, lenity, negligence, not to mention recklessness, which mark the first steps of danger to a banking institution; and his suggestions and warnings to bank officials have not infrequently been of advantage to the public generally as well as to stockholders, where no publicity has been gained through the press or otherwise. personally, mr. dearborn is not an ostentatious, obtrusive, aggressive man. he has no fondness for newspaper notoriety, no solicitude lest he shall be overlooked by the public. in politics and religion he is liberal and tolerant, conceding to others the utmost freedom of opinion. attending to his own duties, it is not his habit to interfere with the personal affairs of others. but when attacked without reason or provocation, no matter what his pretensions, his assailant will speedily find that he has need for a prudent husbandry of all his resources. mr. dearborn is a member of the congregational church. his two children are sons. the older, john eaton, born november, , is acquiring a business education. the younger, george van ness, born august, , is attending the public schools. his house is pleasantly situated on main street, and is one of the desirable residences in the city. still in the prime of life, his many friends have no reason to doubt that in the future, as in the past, he will be adequate to any responsibility which may devolve upon him. [illustration: john bracewell] col. john bracewell, a. m. by rev. geo. b. spalding, d. d. the subject of this sketch was born june , , in clitheroe, england. clitheroe is a busy cotton-manufacturing town on the ribble, and in the greatest cotton-manufacturing district of the world, lancashire. the father, miles bracewell, from his early boyhood had been engaged in printing calico, having served his apprenticeship with james thompson & sons, who owned and managed the primrose print-works. james thompson was a famous manufacturer, his enterprise and liberality being known throughout europe. for many years miles bracewell had charge of the "color department" in the primrose print-works. he afterwards went into business for himself, and at the time of his death was the senior partner and principal owner of two print-works,--one at oakenshaw and another at kersal vale. it was while the father was in the service of james thompson, that john bracewell, then a very small boy, was regularly apprenticed to this distinguished manufacturer. the institution of apprenticeship, in anything like its english thoroughness, is little practiced in this country. for a long period in england the term _apprentice_ was applied equally to such as were being taught a trade or a learned profession. the term of seven years was regarded as much a necessity for the learner in any craft, as for the scholar seeking to attain the degree of doctor, or master in the liberal arts. although the laws which formerly made the apprenticeship compulsory have been abolished in england, yet the principle is universally recognized there in the form of a voluntary contract. of its immense advantages in the way of securing the most thorough knowledge, and highest skill in the learner, no one can doubt. mr. john bracewell, who probably to-day holds the foremost place among those engaged in his business in this country, is a living argument for the excellence of the apprentice system. he began his tutelage as a lad. he began at the lowest round in the ladder of his advancement, and was long and rigidly held at each last until he could safely mount the higher one. there was a very superior french chemist employed in the primrose works, and no little of the boy's studies were under him. when eighteen years of age, mr. bracewell had established such a reputation for proficiency in the mysteries of color that he was offered a fine position in a great carpet manufactory in france, but his father advised him to decline this flattering offer, feeling that the responsibility was too great for one so young. that subtle but irresistible influence which for so many years has been drawing such tides of population from europe to america was already settling the question as to the country where this young man was to work out his great success. only a month after he had declined to go to france, he received and accepted the offer of a position as assistant manager in the merrimack print-works, lowell, mass. there he remained five years and a half, winning for himself a distinguished reputation by the energy and skill of his management. certainly it argues some unusual qualities in his work while there, some extraordinary gifts and capacities in his nature, that could have led the cocheco manufacturing company to call this young man of twenty-three years of age to its most responsible position, that of superintendent of its print-works. there were no less than thirteen applicants for this office. the directors, with entire unanimity, made choice of this youngest of them all, and gave to him the unlimited charge of the most important department of their great industry. soon after entering upon his new duties, mr. bracewell took advantage of the suspension of work in the manufactory, made necessary at that period of the civil war, to enlarge his scientific knowledge by attending lectures on analytic chemistry at harvard college. he studied with great thoroughness this science during a five months' course, and at the same time directed the many repairs and changes which were being made in the print-works at dover. with the beginning of the year , mr. bracewell took up his residence in dover. the remarkable enterprise and judgment of the new manager made themselves at once felt. for just twenty years he continued in his position. these years witnessed a series of brilliant successes. he showed himself to be a genius in his profession. to his originating, creative mind he joins an unusual power of adapting to his own uses suggestions coming from whatever source. by his sheer abilities, his indomitable energy, his quickness of insight, his tireless perseverance, and his perfect command of the minute details of every branch of his work, mr. bracewell soon lifted the cocheco goods to the very head of their class, and held them there to the last day of his service. the production of the print-works very nearly quadrupled during this period. in , mr. bracewell was married to mary harriet hope, of lowell, mass., whose noble character death has made the more precious to many friends. there were born to them three daughters and one son, all of whom are living. during mr. bracewell's residence in dover he endeared himself to all classes of people by his large-hearted liberality, his great geniality, and his keen personal interest in whatever affected the welfare of the city or the condition of every individual in it. he was an ardent supporter of his church, which he greatly loved, and every good cause in the community. he was quick to suggest, and ready to lead any movement which was helpful to the material and moral advancement of dover. with a view of benefiting the city, and also as a sound investment for his own advantage, mr. bracewell built, in , a substantial and attractive block, consisting of nine stores, which spans the cochecho river. it bids long to stand, a fitting monument of his public spirit and wise foresight. though born and educated an englishman, he became an ardent, patriotic american citizen from the very day that he touched american soil. his pride and hopes for america are as intense as any native son's. his love for dover is as tender and steadfast as though its air was the first he breathed. the church with which he first united, he still regards as his home. he long served her as a most efficient superintendent of its sunday-school, and when he was about to remove his residence from dover, out of a great desire to see the church freed from the burden of a debt of thirteen thousand dollars, mr. bracewell, by his payment of a tenth of the sum, led on others to such generous donations that the debt was speedily extinguished. mr. bracewell may still be regarded as a new hampshire son, and a citizen of dover. his nature will not allow him to lose elsewhere the very great interest which twenty years' sojourn here has created in him. it may well be expected that he will some time return to permanently abide among friendships whose preciousness he and his host of friends so fully appreciate. in january, , mr. bracewell received an offer to go into business at north adams, mass., and as the physicians thought his wife's health would be better there than in dover, he decided to make the change. the directors of the cocheco manufacturing company, by offer of an increase of salary of from ten thousand to fifteen thousand dollars a year, and other inducements, sought to retain mr. bracewell in their employment; mr. bracewell, however, removed to north adams, purchasing a third interest in the freeman manufacturing company of that place, and the same success which was acquired in dover has followed his abilities into the great business which he represents at north adams. the windsor calicoes, and other products of the freeman manufacturing company, already stand in the market among the foremost of their class. in , mr. bracewell received the degree of master of arts from dartmouth college,--a distinction well earned and worthily bestowed. during gov. prescott's term of office. mr. bracewell served as a member of his staff, with rank of colonel. mr. bracewell's remarkable activity has not been shut into his business. the intensity of his nature comes out to an undiminished degree in his politics, his friendships, his public spirit, and his religious faith. his sympathies are quick and universal; his enthusiasms are communicative and inspiring; his affections are tender and loyal. albert h. hayes. too many of the old homesteads of new hampshire have gone to decay. deserted and dilapidated buildings, decrepit fences, and unharvested crops of briers and weeds, where but a generation ago there were the homes of comfort, industry, and thrift, tell a sad story of what our state has done to supply the brain and brawn which have developed the resources of others. but now and then there is a farm which has not only been preserved, and made to retain its old-time attractions, but improved, beautified, and adorned, by liberal outlays dictated by good judgment and cultured taste, until it has become the envy of all who admire elegant buildings, fertile fields, and fine flocks and herds. many of these are the property of men who grew up rugged, strong, and self-reliant among our hills, went out in early manhood in quest of greater opportunities than could be found or created at home, and, having won fortunes abroad, have loyally brought them back to the town of their nativity to rescue old firesides from irreverent ownership, to erect upon old sites modern mansions, to coax from an unwilling soil great crops, to furnish people with employment and courage, and to return in a hundred ways substantial thanks for the privilege of having been born in new hampshire. of this class is the hayes farm in alton, now owned by dr. albert h. hayes, who has brought back, from the golden sands of the pacific, the ample means which enable him to add to the natural attractions of his lakeside birthplace all that money can command in the creation and embellishment of a country home. david hayes, who was a sturdy farmer of scotch descent and a native of strafford, purchased and settled upon a farm in alton about the year . he had three sons and three daughters, and in time the oldest son, joseph, succeeded him as the holder of the title to the farm. this son married betsey brewster, a daughter of george brewster, of wolfeborough, by whom he had eight children, of whom six still survive. the seventh was born september , , and named albert hamilton. his parents were well to do and appreciated the value of an education, so that, as he grew up, while he did his share of the work on the farm, he had the advantage of the winter schools, and was afterwards sent to the academies at new hampton and northfield. at the age of twenty-one he had completed his studies at these institutions, and concluded that it was easier to buy farm produce than to raise it, and that a place containing more people and more money would suit him better than alton, and, going to boston, commenced the study of medicine with dr. abner ham, of that city. subsequently, he attended lectures at columbia college in the district of columbia, and graduated at a pennsylvania university. meantime he had served as a hospital surgeon in the army for two years, and in , having acquired the necessary funds, made a prolonged european tour. [illustration: a. h. hayes] on returning to america, dr. hayes extended his travels through this country, and in , with an eye to business and pleasure, went to california. here he soon became acquainted with john w. mackey, the bonanza king, and other prominent financiers on the coast, and as a result formed a partnership with j. m. walker, a former partner of mackey, under the firm name of hayes & walker. as a member of this firm, and as an associate with mackey, mr. hayes, during the next three years, did an extensive banking and brokerage business, handling a vast amount of money, and reaping handsome profits, which enabled him, a little later, to buy largely of the stock of the bonanza mines, which were then pouring a steady stream of wealth into the laps of their owners. becoming convinced that this would not continue, and that other mining properties were more desirable, he sold out his interest, and after a long investigation bought outright the red-hill gravel mines, in trinity county, california. this purchase, which includes eleven hundred acres of land, in which are located seven mines, and extensive water rights, upon which in that country the value of a gold mine largely depends, makes mr. hayes the sole owner of by far the largest and most valuable mining property held by a single individual in the state of california, and establishes his place among the few who have been able to seize and hold the glittering prize for which so many have striven since the western slope began to yield its treasures. while thus seeking his fortune elsewhere, mr. hayes has retained his residence in alton and his lively interest in all that concerns the town and state. the homestead upon which he was born is his, and he makes it his home during the summer. he has expended a large amount in improving it, a barn costing fifteen thousand dollars being among the latest additions. when the house, which he has planned to match it, is erected, the establishment will be one of the finest in the state. in , , and , dr. hayes represented alton in the legislature. he married, in , jessie b. benjamin, daughter of e. m. benjamin, esq., of san francisco, a relative of judah p. benjamin, of louisiana, and a lady of rare literary attainments and social accomplishments. their only child--lloyd benjamin hayes--was born may , . with so much success behind him, mr. hayes is still a young man, as cheery and active and energetic as when he first left new hampshire. he has an extensive knowledge of the world, a wide circle of acquaintances among those who shape the politics and business of the country, and hosts of friends who have been won by his unfailing good nature, liberality, and courtesy. he is pledged, when he has done making money, to come back to new hampshire and spend it. hon. george cogswell, a. m., m. d. by john crowell, m. d. george cogswell was born in the town of atkinson, n. h., february , . he came from that sturdy stock of ancestors whose history is so closely interwoven with the early life and enterprise of new england. in , john cogswell, a prosperous englishman of good estate and standing, established a settlement in the town of ipswich, now essex, mass., on a grant of three hundred acres of land, which have remained in the cogswell name, in regular line, to the present time. his maternal ancestor was giles badger, who settled in newbury, mass., the same year. these families have been closely allied by marriage, and their descendants have been prominent in church and state, in medicine and in letters. the father of the subject of this sketch, dr. william cogswell, was a medical practitioner of wide reputation, noted for his executive and judicial abilities. he was appointed chief surgeon of the military hospital at west point during the revolutionary war, closing his service in , when he settled in atkinson, n. h., practicing his profession until the close of his life, january , . his mother was judith badger, daughter of gen. joseph badger, sen., of gilmanton, n. h. she was a woman of great force of character, of devout piety and strong faith. when in her ninety-fourth year, after her earthly vision had become dim, the name of jesus would light her face with a radiant glow of loving recognition. this devout woman united with the church in atkinson in , on which interesting occasion her husband and their three oldest children joined her in the act of consecration; and on the same day their six younger children were baptized by the pastor, rev. stephen peabody. the youngest of these nine children died in infancy. all of the remaining eight became professors of religion, and lived to a good old age, in the enjoyment of the honors and dignities of the high official trusts committed to them. of this large family, the subject of this sketch alone survives ( ), vigorous in his threescore years and ten, and actively engaged in the discharge of the duties of his several official trusts. dr. george cogswell received his preliminary education at atkinson academy, where his love for scientific investigation soon became manifest. he commenced the study of medicine with his father, whose wise instruction and safe counsel did much to shape the future career of the aspiring student. in his desire for a wider culture in the line of his chosen profession, he became a private student to reuben d. mussey. m. d., l.l. d., and for two years enjoyed the instruction of this distinguished lecturer on anatomy and surgery. early in , he became a pupil of john d. fisher, m. d., of boston, who, at that time, was the most noted auscultator in new england. dr. fisher showed his confidence in his ambitious student by giving him the main practical charge of the house of industry, at that time located in south boston. the grateful pupil held the most intimate relations with his distinguished teachers during their lives. [illustration: geo. cogswell.] in he was graduated doctor of medicine from dartmouth college, with the honors of his class, and the same college conferred upon him the honorary degree of master of arts in . dr. cogswell at once commenced the practice of his profession in bradford, mass., in august, , and soon entered into a large and successful business. he brought to his work the discipline of hard and intelligent study, and his great desire was to advance the standard of medical practice in essex county. he was the first physician in "essex north" who made intelligent use of auscultation and percussion in the diagnosis of disease. in his desire for a wider knowledge in the range of his profession, especially in the line of surgery, he visited europe in the fall of , spending the succeeding winter in visiting the hospitals of paris, and in attending the lectures of the distinguished men who at that time had attained a position in medical science surpassing, in point of investigation and practical analysis, that of any other city. in the following spring he visited the principal cities of italy, and for a while studied in the hospitals of london. on his return to bradford he at once resumed the practice of his profession. he boldly and successfully attempted capital operations in surgery, and became the leading surgical operator and consulting physician for a large circuit. he fitted up a well appointed dissecting-room, and the advantages of his instruction were sought by many students, who can attest to the thoroughness of his teaching, especially in the department of surgical anatomy. his knowledge of technical anatomy was quite remarkable, and sometimes his students would contrive a plot to "stump" the "old doctor" by an intricate quizzing upon some obscure nerve or vessel. the attempt always proved futile; but the cunning students did not enjoy the fire of questions that followed from their teacher, who all too easily perceived the "soft impeachment." the term "old doctor" was applied by the students before their preceptor was thirty years old. in , dr. cogswell was offered a professorship in the medical department of one of the leading colleges of new england, which he declined. he early manifested his interest in the elevation of the standard of medical practice, by suggesting to his professional brethren the importance of a local organization, and through his efforts the essex north medical association was formed, composed of the leading physicians in the northern portion of the county. this society has had a vigorous growth, and is now merged into the massachusetts medical society, under the title of the "essex north district medical society." although retired from active practice, he retains his membership in this society, and regularly attends the quarterly meetings, participating in the scientific and practical discussions, and manifesting a lively interest in the success of the younger members. dr. cogswell has been called upon to fill many positions of responsibility and trust; and since he retired from the active duties of professional life his whole time has been absorbed in the transaction of business of a public and private nature. he was elected president of the union bank in haverhill, mass., at its organization, in , and was elected to the same office when that institution became the first national bank, in , which position he still retains. for many years he has been vice-president of the haverhill savings bank, and was for a time a successful railroad president. he was an active member of the chapman-hall meeting in boston, which organized the republican party in massachusetts, with which party he has ever been in full accord. in he was a member of the electoral college of massachusetts, which gave the vote of the state for gen. winfield scott; and also a member of the college of , which gave the vote of the state for gen. ulysses s. grant. he was a delegate from the sixth district of massachusetts to the chicago convention which nominated abraham lincoln for president in . in and , he was a member of the executive council of massachusetts, with nathaniel p. banks as governor. in he was appointed, by president lincoln, collector of internal revenue for the sixth district of massachusetts. after holding this office for four years, he was removed by president johnson, without cause; but was again appointed to the same office by president grant, in , which position he held until , when this district was consolidated with two other districts. this was one of the largest and most important paying districts in the country, and under the administration of dr. cogswell its affairs were conducted with marked efficiency, and with absolute correctness. dr. cogswell has always taken a deep interest in educational matters, and he has given some of his best service to the management of important schools. he has been, for a long time, a trustee of atkinson academy, and is also a trustee of the peabody academy of science, in salem, mass. but the crowning work of his life in the department of education has been in connection with bradford academy. for nearly fifty years he has been a trustee of this famous school, and during most of this time has had the entire management of its financial affairs. his efficiency in this work is best illustrated by the success of the school in all its departments. the splendid appointments of this academy for the higher education of young ladies, the ample grounds, the perfection of the school edifice, the excellence of the teachers, and the scope of its curriculum, give it a prominence and a power not excelled by any similar institution in the land. it may be safely estimated that dr. cogswell, by his long connection with this, the oldest school for young ladies in the country, has had a wider personal experience in matters of internal management, in consultation with teachers, and in advising with reference to pupils, than any man connected with an institution of this character; and he has the pleasure, with his associate trustees, of seeing this school, by the generosity and interest of its many friends, placed upon an enduring foundation. he was elected, in , a member of the american association for the advancement of science, and is also a member of the new england historic-genealogical society. in the great reforms that have occurred during the last half-century, dr. cogswell has given his influence by judicious advice and consistent example. he commenced active life with the temperance movement, and by precept and example has ever advanced the cause. he was also an ardent supporter of the anti-slavery movement from the beginning of that great controversy. dr. cogswell is evangelical in his religious convictions, and has never departed from the traditions of his ancestors. in he became, by profession, a member of the first parish congregational church in bradford, and has always been identified with its growth and prosperity. in he assisted in forming the "haverhill monday evening club," a private organization limited to twenty-five members. this club is composed of gentlemen of literary tastes, residing in haverhill and bradford, and the meetings afford delightful recreation in the discussion of literary, scientific, and social topics. this is one of the oldest and most successful clubs in massachusetts, and its unique character has suggested similar organizations in many neighboring cities. in he married abigail parker, daughter of peter parker, esq., of east bradford, now groveland. her ancestors were noted for intellectual ability and force of character. she was born september , , and died july , . the children of this marriage are as follows:-- abby parker, born september , ; graduated at bradford academy; married hon. george f. choate, judge of probate and insolvency of the county of essex, mass., october , . george badger, born september , ; fitted for college under the tuition of benjamin greenleaf, and at gilmanton academy; entered dartmouth college in ; followed the sea before the mast from to , sailing up the mediterranean, and around the world. in the winter of - he attended harvard medical school, and graduated as m. d. from dartmouth college in ; from to , was resident physician in charge of the state almshouse at bridgewater, mass. he settled in north easton in , where he now resides, enjoying a large and successful practice; was surgeon of the twenty-ninth massachusetts regiment during the war; was on the staff of gen. wilcox as acting medical inspector of the ninth army corps, and for two months was incarcerated in libby prison; medical director of massachusetts department, g. a. r., in and . he received the honorary degree of a. m. from dartmouth college in . he married catherine babson brown, of bradford, february , . william wilberforce, born january , ; died august , . william, born august , . he fitted for college at phillips (andover) and kimball union academies; entered dartmouth college in ; made a voyage around the world, before the mast, in and , doubling cape horn and cape of good hope; graduated at harvard law school in , and admitted to the practice of law the same year; entered the united states military service in , as captain of volunteers; promoted to lieutenant-colonel in , to colonel in , and brevet brigadier-general in ; discharged from service july , ; commander of the post at atlanta during its occupation by gen. sherman's army; was under banks in shenandoah valley, pope in virginia, mcclellan at antietam, hooker at chancellorsville, sherman at chattanooga, atlanta, savannah, raleigh, and at the final surrender; commander massachusetts department, g. a. r., ; senior vice-commander united states military order, loyal legion, of massachusetts, ; was four times wounded, once severely. he now resides in salem, mass., and was mayor of that city from to , and from to , inclusive; member of the house of representatives in and , and in and . he married, june , , emma thorndike proctor, who died april , . he was again married december , , to eva m. davis, of salem. dartmouth college conferred on him the honorary degree of a. m. in . sarah parker, born march , ; graduated at bradford academy. in she made an extended tour in europe, in company with her brother-in-law, judge choate. in , dr. cogswell married elisabeth doane, youngest daughter of hon. elisha doane, of yarmouth. judge doane was a man distinguished for wisdom and exactness, belonging to one of the most respected and cultivated families on cape cod. the following are the children of this marriage:-- elisha doane and susan doane, born september , . susan died november , ; elisha died april , . doane, born april , ; graduated at phillips academy, andover, and at dartmouth college in the class, of ; studied medicine two years at harvard medical school; is now extensively engaged in agriculture, on one of the largest farms in essex county. caroline doane, born august , ; graduated at bradford academy; and in visited the most interesting portions of england, scotland, and the continent of europe. in . dr. cogswell made his second visit to europe, and was at the world's fair, in paris, during that year. he included in his travels the mountains and lakes of switzerland, and portions of germany, belgium, and holland. he also visited the rural districts of england, scotland, and ireland, giving much attention to the agricultural capabilities and resources of the countries through which he passed, and manifesting, at the age of seventy, the same enthusiasm in all objects of interest that characterized his former visit, thirty-six years before. amid his multiplied cares and duties, dr. cogswell has found time to devote no little attention to agriculture; and his broad acres, on the sunny slope of "riverside," give evidence of successful labor. there, amid the rural retirement of his country home, he passes the summer months of his green old age, with his delightful family, receiving his friends with the easy, cordial grace of old-time hospitality. his interest in all that relates to the welfare of the people among whom he has lived for half a century remains unabated. the public schools, the intellectual and social life of the town, improvements in agriculture, and the dignity and proprieties of local management,--all claim his attention and enlist his co-operation; and to him belongs the noble prestige of the honored and beloved fellow-citizen. "his prosperous labor fills the lips of men with honest praise; and, sun by sun, the happy days descend below the golden hills." [illustration: charles a. peabody] hon. charles a. peabody. hon. charles. a. peabody, of new york city, was born in sandwich, in strafford (now carroll) county, n. h., on the th day of july, a. d. , and was the son of samuel and abigail peabody, who were natives of boxford, essex county, mass. his paternal grandfather was richard peabody, of boxford, an officer in the war of the revolution, who had a command at ticonderoga and elsewhere. his mother, whose maiden name was wood, was the daughter of jonathan wood, also of boxford. his maternal grandmother's name was hale. her family claimed to be descended from a branch of the family of sir matthew hale. on his father's side he is descended from welsh ancestry. the name of peabody (as tradition of heraldry has it) is composed of two words,--_pea_, meaning mountain, and _boadie_, meaning man,--and signifies mountain man, or man of the mountains. it was first borne by a chieftain of a clan in the mountains of wales. after the battle between nero and boadicea, about the year , the queen's forces, although routed, refused to surrender, and such of them as escaped the sword of the romans fled to the mountains, and there maintained a wild independence under a chieftain, who, from that fact, acquired the name of peabody, or man of the mountains. the father of our subject, who was a lawyer of fine talents, and much respected as a gentleman of high moral and social qualities and much general culture, was graduated from dartmouth college in the class of . he was a college-mate of daniel webster and ezekiel the cherished brother, whose name daniel desired always to have associated with his own. an intimacy between himself and ezekiel, contracted in college, continued throughout their lives. he lived and practiced law in sandwich, epsom, and tamworth, n. h., at different periods of his life; and, after retiring from business, moved to andover, mass., in his native county, for the better education of his younger children, about , where he died in . his wife survived him, and died at andover in . the subject of this sketch--the oldest of ten children--was educated partly by private tuition at his father's house, partly in massachusetts, and partly in the classical schools (academies) in the northern part of new hampshire,--at wolfeborough, gilford, sanbornton (now tilton), and gilmanton. he fitted for college with the intention of entering dartmouth, the _alma mater_ of his father. failure of health at the critical time defeated that purpose, however, and had almost unlimited control over his movements and destiny for a time much longer than the term of a college course. in the years and he lived most of the time in beverly, mass., where he taught and studied as health and circumstances permitted. in he went to baltimore, attracted by advantages of climate over northern new hampshire, and the greater facilities afforded there for his temporary occupation of teaching, by which to support himself and render needed pecuniary aid in the education of younger members of the family. there he pursued the study of law in the office of nathaniel williams, at that time attorney of the united states for the district of maryland. he remained in maryland a little more than two years, when he returned to new england and entered the law school of harvard university. he remained there until , when he went, in november of , to the city of new york, where he has since resided. there he entered an office as a student, introduced by the late rufus choate, of boston. but he soon commenced business as a practitioner at the bar. in he married julia caroline livingston, daughter of james duane livingston, of the city of new york. mr. peabody continued the practice of law in the city of new york, taking no active part in politics, but always observing with interest the course of events in the general government, and especially those connected with slavery and the slave power. he was an unconditional whig, and his residence at the south in early life had given him such knowledge of slavery, in its effect on the slave, the owner, the free population, white and colored, and on general prosperity, that he early formed very positive opinions concerning it and its very great evils. on this, as on all other subjects, he was conservative and temperate in his opinions and feelings, taking no part in extravagant denunciations of those engaged in it, but always deprecating such courses as being, to his mind, not only inexpedient and unwise, but also unjust. with the strongest possible convictions against slavery on all grounds, moral and economic, he counseled moderation in the treatment of it. he was ever opposed to intemperate agitation, as tending to no good, but liable to lead to great evil. he was for years prior to the formation of the republican party an active member of the union safety committee in new york, a body of conservative gentlemen of the highest character, organized to repress acrimonious treatment of the subject, as tending to alienate the different sections of the country, and to imperil the peace and possibly the integrity of the nation. when the republican party was organized, adopting as its principles on the subject of slavery that it might remain undisturbed where it then existed, but should on no condition be extended into territory where it did not then exist, he accepted those views as the best terms for freedom to be obtained peaceably, and perhaps the best the lovers of freedom were warranted under the constitution in demanding. in he was a member of the convention which organized the republican party of the state of new york. in the same year he was the candidate of the republican party for election as justice of the supreme court of the state, to succeed robert h. morris, but his party was in the minority. in the same year ( ) he was appointed, by the governor of the state, justice of the supreme court, as the successor of henry p. edwards, deceased. in he was appointed justice of the supreme court of the state to fill a vacancy created by the resignation of james r. whiting. in he was again the candidate of the republican party for justice of the supreme court, but the party was not sufficiently strong to elect him. he served on the bench of the supreme court the terms for which he was appointed, and received more than the votes of his party at the times he was nominated for election. while serving as justice of the supreme court, and when his term in that court was about to expire, he was offered, by the governor, the appointment of city judge. this would have made him judge of the court of general sessions, the principal criminal court of the city, having jurisdiction of cases of the highest class. this appointment he did not accept. in he was appointed, by the governor of new york, commissioner of quarantine, to succeed ex-gov. horatio seymour, with authority to abolish the then present station and erect a new one elsewhere, as the commission might decide. his associates in this commission were men of the highest character, and the commission was one of importance at the time,--just after the quarantine buildings had been destroyed by a terror-stricken mob, and the wildest fears that contagious diseases might be transmitted from such a station had taken possession of many minds. in he was appointed, by abraham lincoln, president of the united states, judge of the united states provisional court for the state of louisiana. this court was called into existence by the necessities of the federal government in respect to its foreign relations, after the conquest of new orleans and other parts of louisiana by the army of the united states, during the late war of the rebellion, and while that territory was held in military occupation. a large part of the population of new orleans and louisiana was persons of foreign birth and allegiance, having claims on their respective governments for the protection of their rights. those governments, when appealed to, made demands through their ministers, resident at washington, on the government of the united states, and the number and importance of these claims had become so great that the state department was much embarrassed by them. mr. seward, secretary of state, had been more than half his time since the conquest occupied by them, and they had, in some instances, assumed such proportions as to threaten seriously the relations of the government with foreign powers. in this condition of things it was resolved to constitute a tribunal which should be empowered to decide all these questions, and keep them from the department. accordingly, the government resolved to establish a court at new orleans, which should have power to hear and determine every question which could possibly arise out of human transactions, and to make the decisions of that court conclusive of the rights of all parties. to effect that purpose, the following order was made by the president of the united states:-- executive order, establishing a provisional court in louisiana. executive mansion, } washington, october , . } the insurrection which has for some time prevailed in several of the states of this union, including louisiana, having temporarily subverted and swept away the civil institutions of that state, including the judiciary and the judicial authorities of the union, so that it has become necessary to hold the state in military occupation; and it being indispensably necessary that there shall be some judicial tribunal existing there capable of administering justice, i have, therefore, thought it proper to appoint, and i do hereby constitute, a provisional court, which shall be a court of record for the state of louisiana, and i do hereby appoint charles a. peabody, of new york, to be a provisional judge to hold said court, with authority to hear, try, and determine all causes, civil and criminal, including causes in law, equity, revenue, and admiralty, * * * his judgment to be final and conclusive. and i do hereby authorize and empower the said judge to make and establish such rules and regulations as may be necessary for the exercise of his jurisdiction, and to appoint a prosecuting attorney, marshal, and clerk of the said court, who shall perform the functions of attorney, marshal, and clerk, according to such rules and regulations as may be made and established by said judge. * * * a copy of this order, certified by the secretary of war, and delivered to such judge, shall be deemed and held to be a sufficient commission. let the seal of the united states be hereunto affixed. abraham lincoln. by the president: william h. seward, _secretary of state_. the powers conferred by this order, it will be seen, are as great as can be conferred by sovereignty itself,--"to hear, try, and determine all causes, civil and criminal, including causes in law, equity, revenue, and admiralty, * * * his judgment to be final and conclusive." under this commission, judge peabody proceeded to organize his court by appointing his prosecuting attorney, marshal, and clerk. thus organized in new york, the court proceeded, by government transport, to new orleans, and commenced business. it was immediately filled with causes of the first magnitude, and continued throughout its existence to attract almost all of that class of business. the court held that it had jurisdiction not only of cases originating in it, but that it had power to review on appeal cases originating in other courts. it also ordered causes pending and undecided in other courts transferred to itself, and there decided and ended them. a cause pending in the circuit court of the united states, on appeal from the district court of the united states, was transferred by order of this court and decided. (the grapeshot. wallace ). mr. seward, as he and chief-justice chase were dining with judge peabody, speaking of the supreme court of the united states, said for the ear of the chief-justice: "his court has some power in time of peace, no doubt, but none in time of war. it is limited to a small class of cases, and in those usually to appellate jurisdiction, and in all cases it is bound by law prescribed for its guidance; in none of which respects was peabody's court under any limitation;" and (turning to judge peabody) he added: "why, peabody, all the power of his court is not a circumstance to what you had in louisiana." the executive department of this court was no less remarkable than its jurisdiction. the marshal had at his command, by order of the departments of war and navy, all needed aid from the army and navy. a personal escort of soldiers as large as needed on land, and transports and gunboats on water, were always at his disposal, and nothing was needed beyond the exhibition of the process of the court to command their services. escorts of a thousand and more cavalry were in the service of the marshal at times, and similar facilities were afforded by the gunboats and transports on the rivers, bayous, and lakes of that aqueous state. even private commercial vessels plying on the mississippi river and other waters of the state were, by order of the war department, compelled to stop and take on board any deputy of the marshal, at any place where he should demand it by showing his signal, and to stop and land him wherever he demanded it. this they were required to do at all places, however exposed, and where vessels were not otherwise allowed to land for business purposes, on account of exposure to the enemy. the relief to the department of state was complete; for from the time the court commenced business nothing was heard there of controversies which had burdened and alarmed the department previously, and the success of the court in other respects was equally complete, commanding the respect and confidence of the community,--the disloyal as well as the loyal. this office he resigned in , and the court was terminated in july, , on his recommendation, by an act of congress. in , to meet an emergency, and to avoid having the business of that court interrupted by business of a different character, he was appointed judge of a criminal court in new orleans, in which for several months he dispensed all the criminal justice administered in the city of new orleans and the part of louisiana held by the federal army, excepting only capital cases, which were always tried in the more dignified court held by him. in , while holding the united states provisional court, he was appointed chief-justice of the supreme court of louisiana,--the appellate court of last resort. in he was appointed, by the president of the united states and confirmed by the senate, attorney for the united states for the eastern district of louisiana. that office he declined to accept, and he returned to the practice of his profession in new york as soon as he felt at liberty to retire from the united states provisional court. in he was nominated by the republican party for surrogate of the county of new york, on which occasion he was not elected; but he ran many thousands of votes ahead of his ticket, and lacked less than thirteen thousand of an election, while the majority against the ticket generally, which was headed by gen. john a. dix for mayor, himself an honored son of new hampshire, was more than fifty-four thousand. he is now, and has been since its organization many years ago, a member of the "association for the reform and codification of the law of nations," an association, as its name imports, devoted to the advancement of the law governing nations in their intercourse with each other, composed of publicists and advanced students of the science of government from nearly every nation of europe, and from some of the most enlightened nations of asia, as well as america. in the proceedings of that body he has taken an active part, attending its meetings, which occur annually, and are held in the different cities of europe, as ghent, geneva, the hague, bremen, antwerp, london, berne, frankfort-on-the-maine, cologne, liverpool. he has always been a member of the executive committee, and is now vice-president of the association for the united states, in which office he succeeds charles francis adams and the late reverdy johnson. he has traveled extensively in europe, having visited it frequently in the summer vacations of business, and last year ( ), after attending the congress of the association for the reform of the law of nations, at cologne, he attended an international geographical congress at venice, as a delegate from the american geographical society. he is now pursuing his profession in new york, as he has always done since he commenced there, except for the times he has been acting as judge. in his religious preferences he is episcopalian. while living in new orleans, in , , and , he was a member of the vestry of christ church there, and he has been for many years, and now is, senior warden of christ church, north conway, in the white mountains of new hampshire. judge peabody has married twice. the first time, as before stated, to julia caroline livingston, daughter of james duane livingston, of the city of new york, the mother of his children. his second marriage was to maria e. hamilton, with whom he is now living. this lady, daughter of john c. hamilton, is a grand-daughter of alexander hamilton, the favorite aid and trusted counselor of general washington in the revolutionary war, the first secretary of the treasury of the united states, the organizer of that department, and in large measure of the government of the united states. by his first marriage he had five children, who are now living,--four sons and one daughter. his sons are all graduates of college and professional schools. three of them are lawyers, one is a physician, and all reside in the city of new york. one of them bears the name of glendower (philip glendower), after the welsh chieftain, owen glendower, in recognition of the welsh origin of the family. as has been said, judge peabody was the oldest of ten children, having had five brothers and four sisters, all natives of new hampshire. of his brothers, only one survives with him, dr. william f. peabody, of san francisco, a doctor of medicine, a biographical sketch of whom should form a part of this volume. dr. peabody was for a time professor of languages in mount hope college, baltimore, following thither his older brother while the latter was teaching and studying his profession there. the doctor studied his profession in baltimore, and practiced there for a time; but in the very early days of california emigration removed thither, where he still resides, commanding much respect as a gentleman of high moral and social character and much literary taste, as well as an able physician. two of his brothers, george b. peabody and enoch w. peabody, after the subject of this sketch, the pioneer of the family, had located in new york, became shipmasters of distinction in the "old" or "black ball" line of liverpool packets sailing from new york, in the days when those ships were the pride of the nation, and the command of one was equivalent to a certificate of the highest character for efficiency and reliable qualities. of the sisters, three survive and live in andover, mass., the last place of residence of their parents. note.--judge peabody's judicial life has been sufficiently varied and uncommon to attract remark. he has been twice justice of the supreme court of the state of new york, by appointment of the governor, and was offered a place on the bench of another court, which he did not accept; he has been appointed judge of three different courts by the federal government of the united states; he has been three times the nominee and candidate of his party for other judicial places,--twice for the bench of the supreme court of the state of new york, and once for surrogate of the city and county of new york. [illustration: g. cheney] gilman cheney. the postal, passenger, and express cars, representing respectively government, corporate, and private enterprise, constitute a trinity which has annihilated space and made possible the business progress of the last fifty years. the third is the creature of a few men, among whom the cheney brothers of new hampshire are most conspicuous. their grandfather, deacon tristram cheney, was one of the early settlers of antrim, he having come from dedham, mass., in , and located near the hillsborough line. his son jesse, who married, first, miss blanchard, of west deering, and, afterwards, deborah winchester, of hillsborough, located his homestead near cork ridge, on what is known as the dimond dodge place, where there were born to him nine children, of whom benjamin p., james s., and gilman are the three who have made "cheney's express" a familiar phrase in every city and village in new england and canada. gilman was the fifth child. he was born january , , and until he was eighteen years of age worked at farming in the vicinity of his native town. at that age he had a little knowledge of books, a strong constitution, and an abundant stock of courage and ambition, with which he left home to make a place for himself in the business world. for the next ten years he was slowly gathering capital, experience, and knowledge of men and things in the cotton-mills of nashua, newburyport, and manchester; and, while filling his place to the satisfaction of his employers, he could not find there the opportunity he wished, and, in search of a wider and more promising field for action, went to california. here he crowded three years very full of adventure and business success, and then returned to assist his brothers in extending the express system, which was then in its infancy. he was assigned to the canadian division, and, establishing his headquarters at montreal, he gave himself heartily to the work, and has since been thoroughly identified with the enterprise. his position is that of superintendent of the canadian express company, which covers the territory and controls the express business between detroit, mich., and the seaboard at portland, halifax, and st. john's, and also an ocean route by the allan line of steamships to europe. he is also largely interested in the american and wells & fargo express companies. the home of mr. cheney is in montreal, where he extends a warm and princely welcome to hosts of friends, and especially to those who were fortunate enough to have known him in his boyhood days in new hampshire. he married mary ann lincoln riddle, daughter of james riddle, esq., of merrimack. his only child, william g. cheney, was born october , . mr. cheney has been a very successful man. the enterprise with which his name is identified has grown great and strong. it has made its owner rich, it has given employment to thousands of men at remunerative wages, and it has made it easier and more profitable for others to do their business. he deserves all the good things he has received, for he is a true man. in every relation of life, in boyhood and manhood, in business and pleasure, he has challenged only the affection and admiration of those interested in him. his integrity is inborn, his good-nature never fails, and his energy never tires. he never disappoints his friends; and he has no enemies. [illustration: h rollins] hon. edward h. rollins. compiled from various sources, with some additions, by hon. daniel hall. the rollins family is one of the oldest and most numerous in the state. in southeastern new hampshire, from the seaboard to lake winnipesaukee, the rollins name is prominent in the history of almost every town. most, if not all, the representatives of the name in this region, and among them the subject of this sketch, are the descendants of james rollins (or _rawlins_, as the name was then and for a long time after spelled, and is now by some branches of the family), who came to america in , with the first settlers of ipswich, mass., and who, ten or twelve years afterwards, located in that portion of old dover known as "bloody point," now embraced in the town of newington, where he died about . the representatives of the family suffered their full share in the privations and sacrifices incident to the firm establishment of the colony, and performed generous public service in the early indian and french wars, and the great revolutionary contest. ichabod, the eldest son of james rawlins, and of whom edward h. is a lineal descendant, was waylaid and killed by a party of indians, while on the way from dover to oyster river (now durham), with one john bunker, may , . thomas, the second son of james, who subsequently became a resident of exeter, was a member of the famous "dissolved assembly" of , who took up arms under edward gove and endeavored to incite an insurrection against the tyrannical royal governor, cranfield. for this attempt, gove and others, including thomas rawlins, were presented for high treason. gove was tried, convicted, and sentenced to death, but was subsequently pardoned. we do not learn, however that any of the others were tried. others of the family fell victims to the murderous malignity of the indians. there were from twenty-five to thirty descendants of james rawlins, of the fourth and fifth generations, engaged in active service, and several of them in distinguished capacities, in the patriot cause during the revolutionary war. among the first settlers of that portion of dover which afterwards became somersworth, was jeremiah rollins, the only son of ichabod, heretofore mentioned as slain by the indians. he was one of the petitioners for the incorporation of somersworth as a separate parish. he died a few years previous to the revolution, leaving several daughters, but only one son, ichabod rollins, who became an active champion of the revolutionary cause, was a member of the conventions at exeter in , and served as a member of the committee appointed to prepare a plan of providing ways and means for furnishing troops, and also as a member of the committee of supplies, the principal labor upon which was performed by himself and timothy walker of concord. he was a member of the convention which resolved itself into an independent state government. january , , and served in the legislature in october following. he was the first judge of probate under the new government, holding the office from to . he was subsequently a member of the executive council, and died in . from this eminent citizen, the town of rollinsford, formed from the portion of somersworth in which he resided, received its name. he stands midway in the direct line of descent from james rawlins to edward h.,--the great-grandson of james, and great-grandfather of edward h. he had four sons, of whom john, the oldest, was the grandfather of hon. daniel g. rollins, who was judge of probate for the county of strafford, from to , and whose son, edward ashton rollins, was speaker of the new hampshire house of representatives in and , commissioner of internal revenue under president johnson, and is now president of the centennial bank at philadelphia; and another son, daniel g. rollins, was recently district attorney, and is now surrogate of the city and county of new york. james rollins, the third son of ichabod, and grandfather of edward h., settled upon the farm in rollinsford which has since remained the family homestead. he was the father of thirteen children, seven sons and six daughters. of these, daniel rollins, the eighth child, born may , , and who married mary, eldest daughter of ebenezer plumer, of rollinsford, was the father of edward h. he succeeded to the homestead, but sold out and went to maine with a view to making his home there. he soon returned, and repurchased that part of the homestead lying east of the highway, and erected a dwelling opposite the old family mansion, where he lived a life of sturdy industry, rearing a family of six children, four sons and two daughters, and died january , . edward henry rollins, the oldest of the children, was born october , . he lived at home, laboring upon the farm in the summer season, attending the district school in winter, and getting an occasional term's attendance at the south berwick academy, and franklin academy in dover, until seventeen years of age, when he went to concord and engaged as druggist's clerk in the well known apothecary store of john mcdaniel. he retained his situation some three or four years, industriously applying himself to the details of the business. he then went to boston, where he was engaged in similar service until , when, having thoroughly mastered the business, he returned to concord and went into trade on his own account, soon building up a large and successful business. having bought and improved the land on main street, just north of the eagle hotel, the great fire of destroyed the building which he had but recently finished. he rebuilt the stores known as "rollins's block," one of which was occupied by his own business for so many years. this property he sold a short time since to the new hampshire savings bank. in politics, mr. rollins was originally a webster whig, but voted for franklin pierce in , and for nathaniel b. baker, the democratic candidate for governor, at the next march election. the aggressions of slavery, however, culminating in the passage of the kansas-nebraska bill and the repeal of the missouri compromise, dissolved his brief connection with the democratic party. strongly opposed to the extension of slavery, or any measures rendering its extension possible, though he had previously taken no active part in politics, he enlisted in the american or know-nothing movement, in the winter of - , with the hope that it might, as it did, prove instrumental in the defeat of the democracy. from this time mr. rollins was an active politician. he labored effectively in perfecting the new party organization, taking therein the liveliest interest. at the march election, , he was chosen to the legislature from concord, and served efficiently in that body as a member of the judiciary committee. the next year witnessed the merging of the american party in the new republican party, which object mr. rollins was largely instrumental in securing. re-elected to the legislature in march, , mr. rollins was chosen speaker of the house, ably discharging the duties of the office, and was re-elected the following year. the talent which he had already developed as a political organizer made his services eminently desirable as a campaign manager, and he was made chairman of the first state central committee of the republican party, a position which he held continuously until his election to congress in , and in which he exhibited a capacity for thorough organization,--a mastery of campaign work, in general and in detail,--seldom equaled and certainly never surpassed. he was chairman of the new hampshire delegation in the republican national convention at chicago, in , having been chosen a delegate at large by the state convention, with but a single vote in opposition. in the close contest between the friends of lincoln and seward in that convention, the new hampshire delegation, under his lead, supported lincoln from the first, and was strongly instrumental in securing his nomination. in , mr. rollins was elected to congress from the second district, over the democratic candidate, the late chief-justice samuel d. bell. he was re-elected in , over col. john h. george, and in over hon. lewis w. clark, now associate justice of the supreme court. mr. rollins's congressional career covered the exciting period of the late civil war, and subsequent reconstruction, and he was throughout a zealous supporter of the most advanced republican measures, such as the abolition of slavery in the district of columbia, and the thirteenth and fourteenth amendments to the constitution, abolishing slavery throughout the union, conferring citizenship and civil rights upon colored men, fixing the basis of representation in congress upon all citizens, without regard to color or previous condition, imposing political disabilities upon such civil and military officers of the government as had violated their oaths by engaging in the rebellion, declaring the inviolability of the public debt, and prohibiting forever the payment of that incurred in aid of insurrection or rebellion against the united states. to this entire policy mr. rollins gave a most earnest support, and took part zealously and efficiently in all the important legislation of those days. he was an industrious member of the committees to which he was assigned, serving on the committee on the district of columbia, as chairman of the committee on accounts, and a member of the committee on public expenditures, by which latter committee, during his service, a vast amount of labor was performed, especially in the investigation of the management of the new york and boston custom-houses, involving the operations of the "blockade runners" during the war. he was also, on account of his well known parliamentary knowledge and skill, frequently called to the chair to preside over the house on turbulent occasions. in view of mr. rollins's subsequent intimate connection with the union pacific railroad company, it is proper to remark that in congress he was a firm opponent of, and voted against, the measure adopted in july, , doubling the land grant of this company, and making the government security a second instead of a first mortgage upon the road. in he was chosen secretary and assistant treasurer of the union pacific railroad, having for some time previous, after the expiration of his congressional service, acted as agent of the company at washington in the transaction of business with the government, especially in receiving the subsidy bonds. in he was elected secretary and treasurer, and officiated as such in the office of the company at boston until march, , though retaining his residence at concord, and devoting considerable attention to new hampshire politics. he had, after retiring from congress, been again called to the chairmanship of the state committee, and served from to , inclusive, with his usual ability and success. as chairman of the committee, and _ex officio_ commander-in-chief of the republican forces in new hampshire for ten years, he was a tireless worker,--the very incarnation of energy and persistent industry. he had a genius for political organization and warfare. his vigor and magnetism surmounted all obstacles and swept away all opposition. his enthusiasm was contagious. undaunted by suggestions of danger or defeat, he inspired all around him with his own indomitable courage and spirit. this was the secret of his extraordinary power, as it ever is in the world's affairs, and made him master of every field where he contended. mr. rollins's name was presented by his friends for united states senator in , when hon. james w. patterson was nominated and elected; in , when senator cragin was re-elected; and again, in , when the choice fell upon hon. bainbridge wadleigh. at the expiration of senator cragin's second term, in , mr. rollins was nominated by the republican caucus, and elected as his successor for the full term of six years, commencing in march, . he took his seat in the senate at the extra session, in the spring of , and was assigned to the committees on the district of columbia, contingent expenses, and manufactures, being for a time chairman of the latter. he is now a member of the committee on naval affairs, on the district of columbia, on retrenchment and reform in the civil service, on enrolled bills, and is chairman of the committee on public buildings and grounds. as a senator, he has exhibited constantly his peculiar traits of industry, energy, and fidelity to duty. engaging in debate less than some other senators, and never parading before the country for effect, he yet speaks on all proper occasions, and always to the business in hand, and with characteristic force, point, and effectiveness. he is seldom absent from his seat, responds to every roll-call, and but few questions have arisen since his service began on which his vote is not recorded. it is a noteworthy fact, that during more than five years' service in the senate he has been absent but two days when both branches of congress were in session, and then was sick in bed with malarial fever. no senator has a clearer or cleaner record in this respect. his devotion to his state and constituents is very marked. every letter is answered, every call responded to, and every new hampshire man dwelling in or visiting washington is treated by him with courtesy, and his business with the government carefully attended to and furthered by his active assistance. among the measures of special interest to the people of new hampshire, in which he has taken a leading part, are those for the relief of savings banks from national taxation, and appropriations for the improvement of cochecho, exeter, and lamprey rivers. no senator in the chamber gives more assiduous attention to the work of the committees, where measures are matured, or has a more useful influence upon general legislation; and his friends feel a just pride in the fact that in a somewhat venal and very suspicious age his name is untainted by any schemes of corruption or jobbery, or scandals touching the use of public money. such are the outlines of mr. rollins's conspicuous public career. his influence may be truly summarized by saying that during the last twenty-five years no man in new hampshire has been more prominently known in the politics of the state, and well informed men in all parties concede that the republican party owes more, for its almost unbroken successes in the closely contested elections from to the present time, to his labors, in the committee, in congress, and before the people, than to those of any other man. mr. rollins was active in the organization of the first national bank at concord, a large stockholder, and a member of the first board of directors, but withdrew and disposed of his stock some time since. he sold his drug business at concord to his brother, john f. rollins, many years ago, when his congressional and other duties required his entire attention. the latter, also, has since disposed of the business, and now resides upon fort george island, at the mouth of st. john's river, on the coast of florida, of which senator rollins is the proprietor. this island is a most romantic locality, and is the subject of a very interesting illustrated sketch in _scribner's magazine_, by julia b. dodge. it embraces twelve hundred acres of land, and is admirably adapted to orange-raising, and is under cultivation for that purpose. the climate is delightful, far superior to that of the main land, and mr. john f. rollins, by a long residence there, finds his health much improved. mr. rollins was united in marriage, february , , with miss ellen e. west, daughter of john west, of concord. her mother, mrs. west, was the daughter of gen. john montgomery, a prominent citizen of haverhill, well known in public affairs. to this union there have been born five children: edward w., born november , ; mary helen, september , ; charles montgomery, february , ; frank west, february , ; montgomery, august , . the second son, charles montgomery, died at the age of five years. the other children survive. the eldest son, edward w., is a graduate of the institute of technology at boston, and was for five years the engineer and cashier of the colorado central railroad. he is married, and now engaged in business as a banker in denver, col. mary helen, the only daughter, is married to henry robinson, a lawyer, and prominent member of the present legislature, and resides in concord. frank w., the second surviving son, after prosecuting a three years' course at the institute of technology, attended the harvard law school, and is now about completing his legal studies in the office of hon. john y. mugridge, at concord. montgomery, the youngest son, is fitting for college. it will thus be seen that mr. rollins believes in practical education for his sons. retaining his home in concord, where he has always lived the greater portion of the year, mr. rollins has for several years past had his summer home at the old place in rollinsford, where he was reared, and which came into his possession after the death of his father in . here he has made many improvements, and brought the land into a superior state of cultivation. he thoroughly repaired and remodeled the house some six years ago, and made it a very attractive summer residence. in the spring of , however, while he was absent in washington, the house and all the buildings on the farm, with most of their contents, were completely destroyed by fire. without delay, mr. rollins proceeded to rebuild, and has erected a very large and finely appointed barn and stable, with carriage-house, ice-house, and other buildings; and a fine house, on the old site, is very near completion. the house is in the queen anne style, most conveniently arranged, and finished principally in hard native woods, with ornamental fire-places, elaborately carved fire-frames, and frescoed ceilings. it is heated by steam and lighted by gas, has hot and cold water conveniences, spacious halls, and is fitted up with every modern improvement. in a few weeks it will be ready for occupation, and will be one of the most beautiful dwellings in this region, combining all the substantial conveniences of a farm-house, and an elegant home for summer and winter, also. the place is located but little more than a mile from the city of dover, where mr. rollins goes for post-office and other business accommodations, so that in the summer time he is regarded as a dover citizen. telephonic communication has been established between his house and the telegraph office in dover. mr. rollins's mother is still living, at an advanced age, at her old home, and her youngest daughter, miss elizabeth w. rollins, resides with her. in religious faith, mr. rollins was reared a congregationalist, and when in rollinsford he attends worship at the old first parish church in dover, where rev. dr. spalding officiates. mrs. rollins is an episcopalian, and in concord the family attend upon the services of the st. paul's episcopal church. he has long been a member of the masonic fraternity, of the blazing star lodge, trinity chapter, and mt. horeb commandry, at concord, of which he has been eminent commander. mr. rollins is very fond of agricultural pursuits, and works on his farm in the haying and harvesting seasons, with great benefit to himself physically. though constitutionally not very strong, and of a highly nervous temperament, his excellent personal habits, his rural tastes and simplicity of life, have enabled him to do a prodigious amount of work without suffering anything beyond an occasional derangement of health, always restored by relaxation from official duties, and physical labor on the farm, where he was wont to take similar exercise in boyhood. he is now in the full vigor and strength of his powers, and may reasonably look forward to many years more of active usefulness to the state and nation. [illustration: natt head] gov. natt head. natt head is of welsh and scotch ancestry. john and nathaniel head, brothers, emigrated from wales and settled in bradford, mass. subsequently they removed to pembroke. although of welsh birth, they were thoroughly english in their views and general characteristics, as tradition and other testimony amply prove. nathaniel, the great-grandfather of the subject of this sketch, became an influential and patriotic citizen of his adopted town. early in the period of trouble with the mother country he was selected by the members of the committee of safety in pembroke to go through that town and hunt up and make a list of the tories. hostilities having been inaugurated, he enlisted in the military service, and served with fidelity and bravery throughout the war. after the return of peace he became actively identified with the state militia, and rose to the command of the third brigade. he represented the town of pembroke in the legislature. gen. head had three sons, of whom nathaniel, born in bradford, mass., march , , was the grandfather of gov. natt head. when a young man the son paid his addresses to miss anna knox, daughter of timothy knox, of pembroke. she was of scotch-irish blood, and one day, as the father and son were plowing, the former remarked, "nathaniel, do you intend to marry that irish girl?" the son respectfully but emphatically answered in the affirmative; whereupon the father added, "then, understand, you can never share in my property." young nathaniel's answer was: "very well; i will take care of myself." and, in accordance with his declaration, he dropped the goad-stick, and in a few hours left the paternal roof to take up a farm in the wilderness and build a home. the father made good his threat, and at his death nathaniel received one dollar and his brothers the remainder of the property. nathaniel located in that portion of chester now hooksett, and, building a log house, carried to it anna knox, his wife. the site of the primitive cabin was the identical spot where gov. head's beautiful residence now stands. as would be expected, the young man, who with no fortune but strong arms and a stout heart had the bravery and determination to establish his forest home, soon rose to position and influence. the report of the battle of lexington made him a soldier at once, and the record shows him to have been a second lieutenant in the ninth company of volunteers from new hampshire at winter hill, in the cold season of - ; ensign in capt. sias's company, col. nichols's regiment, in the expedition to rhode island in ; and captain in col. reynold's regiment in . returning to his home, he added to the pursuit of agriculture the establishment and operation of a lumber-mill. he was early commissioned a justice of the peace, and held frequent courts, at the same time performing a large amount of probate business, including the settling of many estates, while his acknowledged sense of justice and marked integrity often caused him to be chosen arbiter in important questions of dispute in the neighborhood. with the close of the war, his martial ardor was not extinguished, and he became prominently connected with the state troops,--the old roster showing him to have been a brigade inspector, and also colonel of the eleventh regiment. col. nathaniel head, jr., had nine children, the seventh, john, born may , , being the father of the subject of this sketch. he remained at the old homestead, and after arriving at manhood was associated with his father in the work of the farm and the mill, and after his death succeeded to the estate by purchasing the interests of the other heirs. the military spirit again appears in john head, who rose to the rank of lieutenant-colonel of the seventeenth regiment. col. head married miss anna brown, whose home was near his. before her union with him she was a school-teacher, and a woman of great energy and executive ability. she was a member of the pembroke congregational church, and took a deep interest in the religious and educational affairs of her neighborhood. she was a grand-daughter of william brown, one of the three brothers who came from scotland and settled in the upper part of chester, near what is now suncook. her father, william brown, was a sea captain, who made numerous voyages around the world. captain brown's sister married ezekiel straw, grandfather of gov. ezekiel a. straw, of manchester, making the latter a second cousin of gov. head. the three brown brothers already mentioned were men of ability, and had high family connections across the atlantic. their english coat of arms was the "hawk and the bird" the design showing the former diving towards, and in the act of catching, the latter. on the maternal side, gov. head's great-aunt, betsey brown, daughter of rev. joseph brown, m. d., of the church of england, married the distinguished hon. samuel livermore, of holderness, who was chief-justice of the superior court of judicature. mrs. john head had four brothers, one of whom, hon. hiram brown, was the first mayor of manchester, and now resides at falls church, va. by the death of col. head, august , , the widow was left in the management of a large and valuable property, to which was added the care of her family. all those responsible duties she discharged with great fidelity and conscientiousness until her death, which occurred april , . she left five children, of whom four are now living. they are mrs. hannah a., widow of the late col. josiah stevens, jr., of manchester; natt, born may , . john a., of boone county, io., and william f.,--the latter the business partner of gov. head. the picturesquely located home farm of three hundred acres is owned by natt and william f. head. it extends from the house to the merrimack river, and follows the same for the distance of half a mile, embracing many acres of the fertile intervale lands of that stream. the farm is particularly adapted to grass, and yields about two hundred and fifty tons of hay annually. there are kept on it one hundred head of neat stock and thirty horses. in addition to the homestead, the brothers own large tracts of outlying wood and pasture lands. the lumber operations which were begun by col. nathaniel head have assumed large proportions in the hands of his descendants. under the firm name of head & dowst, in manchester, the brothers do a heavy lumber and building business. on the home farm are the famous head clay banks, where some eight million or more of brick are produced each year. the firm employs, in hooksett, from seventy-five to one hundred men. gov. head had the advantages of the common school and of the pembroke academy. his room-mate at the latter was mark bailey, now a professor at yale college, and between whom a close friendship has since existed. being only seven years of age when his father died, he soon learned to assist his mother in managing the work of the farm and the mill; and to such an experience, joined with her kindly influence, may be attributed the formation of those principles of character which led to the eminent success that he achieved in later years in business and in political life. after the death of his mother, he settled the estate, and with his brother william bought out the other heirs and formed a joint partnership, under the firm name of natt & w. f. head, that has continued to the present time,--there never having been any division of their income, or of the large amount of property that they own. on the score of integrity and promptness in meeting every business obligation, it will not be invidious to say that no firm in the state has a higher standing. from boyhood allied to agriculture, gov. head's interest in it has never diminished, notwithstanding the many military and civil honors that came to him in later life. for five years he was a director, and for eleven years the president, of the new hampshire state agricultural society, an officer of the merrimack county association, a trustee of the new england society since its organization, and an ex-trustee of the new hampshire college of agriculture and the mechanic arts at hanover. for many years he has been a popular speaker at agricultural fairs and farmers' meetings. while president of the state society he inaugurated the first farmers' convention ever held in new england, and which called out many of the ablest agricultural speakers in the country. inheriting military taste and enthusiasm from three generations, we find him following in the footsteps of patriotic and distinguished ancestors. he was one of the active spirits in the formation, and was one of the first member, of the famous hooksett light infantry, which was a crack company in the old state forces. september , , he was commissioned drum-major of the eleventh regiment, third brigade, first division, of the state militia, and served four years. he was an original member of the famous governor's horse-guards, and drum-major and chief bugler during the existence of the corps. he was a charter member and four years commander of the amoskeag veterans, of manchester; is an honorary member of the boston lancers, and is a member, an ex-sergeant, of the ancient and honorable artillery, of boston. he was chief on the staff of gov. joseph a. gilmore, and is an honorary member of several other military organizations. the head guards, of manchester, one of the oldest companies under the present militia system, was named in his honor. in this connection it may be stated that when the soldiers' asylum near augusta, me., was burned, gov. head was appointed to the charge of that institution during the illness of the deputy-governor, and subsequently rebuilt the establishment. he had previously, as a contractor, built several miles of the concord & portsmouth railroad between suncook and candia, and also the road-bed and bridges from suncook to hooksett, and the branch line from suncook to pittsfield. in early life he was elected to various town offices; was commissioned a deputy-sheriff, and was a representative in the legislature from hooksett in and . the appointment which brought him most conspicuously before the public was that of adjutant, inspector, and quartermaster general of the state, which he received from gov. gilmore, march , . he was called to that office at a period when the republic was in one of the most serious crises of the great civil war, and when the loyal people of new hampshire were putting forth every effort to enlist the men called for under the president's proclamation of the preceding month. on entering the office he found every department lamentably incomplete, but little matter having been collated in relation to the equipping of the troops or their achievements in the field, although the state had, up to that time, furnished twenty-six thousand soldiers. in truth, not a full set of muster-in rolls of any regiment was found in the office. notwithstanding these obstacles, and with no appropriation to draw upon, gen. head promptly entered upon the duties of his position, procuring the necessary outfit for the office, and upon his own responsibility employing clerks. he did this trusting in the legislature for re-imbursement, which it not only cheerfully made, but made all additional appropriations that were called for. the faithful manner in which all the clerical work was performed, the method and persistency shown in hunting up and placing on file the records of our soldiers, and the system exhibited in preserving and filing the valuable and extensive correspondence,--were all worthy of the greatest praise. the reports issued during gen. head's administration not only give the name and history of every officer and soldier who went into the service from our state, but they embrace biographical sketches of all the field officers who fell in battle or who died of disease during the war, together with a brief history of all the organizations, giving their principal movements from their departure to their return home. these books also include the military history of new hampshire from to , the data for which were gathered with great perseverance and under many discouragements from various sources in this and other states and from the rolls in the war department at washington, thus making the united reports a work of inestimable value to the present and coming generations, and, at the same time, constituting an invaluable contribution to the martial history of the nation. he was the first adjutant-general in our country who conceived the idea of having handsomely engraved on steel, with attractive and appropriate symbols and of a size adapted to framing, a memorial certificate to be presented to all surviving officers and soldiers from our state, and to the widows or nearest relatives of those who gave their lives in the great struggle for the preservation of the republic. this testimonial was filled up with the name and rank, and also the regiment and company with which the men were connected, and the nature and length of their services. it will not be invidious to say that no other state had during the war an abler or more efficient and patriotic adjutant-general than new hampshire, or one who was more devoted to the men on their way to the field, while there, or on their return after peace was declared. many a veteran will remember with gratitude his fatherly care of them after their discharge, and his good counsel and assistance in saving them from the hands of sharpers who were always in waiting to take advantage of the necessities of soldiers. from his own private means gen. head extended aid to all soldiers needing it; and to the credit of new hampshire "boys in blue" it should be recorded that he never lost a dollar by such confidence and generosity. it seems almost unnecessary to add that his constant and unwearied devotion to them secured for him not only their highest respect and warmest esteem, but won for him the enduring title of "the soldier's friend." in the celebrated controversy occurred in the old second senatorial district over the spelling of his name on the ballots, upon which technicality his votes, he having a plurality, were thrown out. his constituents, however, were determined that justice should be done him, and they gave him a handsome election the succeeding year, and re-elected him in , when he was made president of the senate, discharging its responsible duties with rare efficiency and acceptability. for some years gen. head had been mentioned in connection with the republican nomination for governor, receiving votes in successive conventions. in that which nominated gov. benjamin f. prescott, in , gen. head's vote was a flattering one, and ranked second only to that of the successful nominee. at the convention in september, , which was the first to select candidates for a biennial term, gen. head was nominated upon the first ballot by a decided majority. by reason of the third-party or "greenback" movement, it was not expected by his most sanguine supporters that he would be elected on the popular vote, yet the result was that he was chosen over all by a majority of four hundred and eighty-eight. his election to the executive chair being for two years, he was, according to the custom of the party regarding the tenure of this office, not a candidate for renomination. in the brief review which the limits of this sketch allow of his gubernatorial administration, we find that it was throughout eminently successful; creditable alike to his own ability and fidelity, and to the fair fame of our state which he so honorably served. during his term of office there arose many important measures and questions whose consideration demanded practical good sense, wisdom, and impartial judgment. the well known buzzell murder case, which finally became one of the most celebrated in the criminal records of the world, had been twice tried when gov. head entered the executive chair. buzzell was then awaiting execution, and thousands had petitioned for a commutation of his sentence. his excellency and his official advisers gave a long and patient hearing to counsel for the state and for the defense, and to all others who desired to be heard, and then, after mature deliberation, refused the prayer on the ground that no new evidence had been presented that would warrant the changing of the decision of the court. buzzell suffered the extreme penalty of the law, and the conclusion in his case was sustained by legal and public opinion. the project of a new state-prison which had been successfully inaugurated under his predecessor, was carried forward to its completion. the commissioners selected to superintend the work consulted with the governor at every step, and without even a whisper of extravagance or jobbery the building was finished, dedicated, and opened for use, and stands to-day, in thoroughness of structure and excellence of arrangement, second to no other penitentiary in the country. there came before gov. head many judicial and other appointments, all of which were made with the single aim of serving the highest interest of the state. during his term he made many official trips, and wherever he traveled he received those assiduous attentions which he personally and as chief executive of the state merited. he attended the inauguration of president garfield, the two hundred and fiftieth anniversary exercises at boston, the newtown, n. y., centennial celebration, and military encampments in various states. it was also his pleasure to receive governors talbot and long, of massachusetts, governor van zandt, of rhode island, and many other distinguished dignitaries. his administration took its rank in history as one of the purest, wisest, and best that new hampshire has ever had. in the financial world, gov. head has been chosen to many responsible positions. he is a director of the suncook valley railroad, in which enterprise he was one of the most active workers; is a director of the first national bank of manchester, and of the new hampshire fire insurance company; president of the china savings bank at suncook, and a trustee of the merrimack river savings bank, of manchester. in masonic and kindred organizations he is one of the most conspicuous and influential members in new hampshire, and, in fact, in the country. he is on the rolls of jewell lodge, of suncook, of which he is a charter member, and is a member of mount horeb royal arch chapter, adoniram council, and trinity commandry, of manchester. he is a member of the supreme council, having taken all the degrees of the ancient and accepted scottish rite, including the thirty-third, and all in the rite of memphis to the ninety-fourth; is an honorary member of the boston consistory, the largest masonic body in the world, and ex-illustrious-grand-chancellor of the sublime consistory of new hampshire. he was a charter member of howard lodge of odd fellows, and also belongs to the hildreth encampment, both of suncook, and is now a charter member of friendship lodge, of hooksett, and is a member of the oriental lodge of the knights of pythias of suncook. he has been for a long time a member of the new hampshire historical society, and is now its vice-president. although his own opportunity for mental improvement was somewhat limited, yet he has always been a stanch advocate of our public-school and higher educational systems. he is not a member of any church, but from youth he has been a regular attendant upon religious services, and has always given freely of his time, and contributed generously from his means, to the building up and advancement of christian work. gov. head was married, november , , to miss abbie m. sanford, of lowell, mass. they have had three children, of whom lewis fisher and alice perley are dead, while annie sanford, who is now at school in bradford, mass., is nearly fifteen. the old log cabin to which reference has been made gave way a long time since to a framed structure, which, in turn, a few years ago was supplanted by an elegant brick mansion with french roof and attractive architecture, and whose interior has all modern appointments, with rich furniture and works of art. the house is surmounted with a tower, from which is obtained a delightful view of the merrimack valley, and of distant mountains. it was built under gov. head's personal supervision, and in making so great an outlay he had in view the hope that after the period of business activity he might be permitted to spend there in happiness the closing years of his life. gov. head is of commanding personal appearance, while in his bearing he is exceedingly courteous and agreeable. in him english and scotch blood have united to form a character distinguished by strong and sound practical sense, diligence, determination, perseverance, and, above all, a high standard of honor and unswerving integrity. in the proud record of the eminent public men of our state, the name of gov. head has high and creditable rank. [illustration: daniel hall] hon. daniel hall. by rev. alonzo hall quint, d. d. of those towns in the state whose scenery is somewhat quiet, one of the most beautiful is barrington. a small tract on its western border is level and not fertile, but most of its surface is gently rolling, two decided heights, however, affording beautiful views. the map shows it to be traversed by streams in every part, one important river being the outflow of bow lake; and the map shows no less than fourteen ponds, some of them nearly two miles in length, and whose shores, often abrupt, are full of beauty. magnificent pine forests of the first growth have been carefully preserved to the present generation, and fertile farms are numerous. daniel hall was born in this town, february , , and, with slight exceptions, was the descendant of generations of farmers. his first known american ancestor was john hall, who appears to have come to dover, n. h., in the year , with his brother ralph, from charlestown, mass. of this blood was the mother of gov. john langdon, tobias lear (washington's private secretary), and others of like energy. the emigrant, john hall, was the first recorded deacon of the dover first church, was town clerk, commissioner to try small cases, and a farmer, but mainly surveyor of lands. his spring of beautiful water is still "hall's spring," on dover neck. his son ralph was of dover, a farmer; whose son ralph, also a farmer, was one of the early settlers of barrington; whose son solomon, also a farmer, was of the same town; whose son daniel, also a farmer, was father of gilman hall (his ninth child), who, by his wife eliza tuttle, was father of nine children, daniel being the first born. the picturesque old house in which he was born, built by one hunking, is still standing near winkley's pond, an interesting and venerable landmark, but unoccupied and in a ruinous condition. gilman hall was early a trader in dover, but for twenty-five subsequent years was farmer and trader in barrington, his native town, on the stage road known as the "waldron's hill" road. he was representative, and for many years selectman. daniel's mother was a descendant of john tuttle, who was judge of the superior court for many years prior to the year , residing in dover. daniel hall's life as a boy was on the farm. he went to the district school a long distance, through snows and heats, and by and by helped in the store. when older, from fourteen years onward, he drove a team to dover, with wood and lumber, and sold his loads, standing on central square. but he had a passion for books, and a burning desire for an education. he learned all he could get in the district school, and when about sixteen years of age he secured two terms, about six months in all, in strafford academy,--one term under ira f. folsom (d. c. ), and one under rev. porter s. burbank. in he was one term at the new hampshire conference seminary, in northfield, rev. richard s. rust, principal. then, for satisfactory reasons, he gave up all academies, returned home, set himself down alone to his greek, latin, and mathematics, and with indomitable perseverance prepared for college. he entered dartmouth in , probably the poorest fitted in his class; but he had the fitting of a determined will, unconquerable industry, a keen intellect, and the fiber of six generations of open-air ancestors, and in he graduated at the very head of his class, and was valedictorian. it is needless to say, perhaps, that the eldest of nine children had to practice economy, and teach district schools five winters in his native town; and that what small advances he had from his father were repaid, to the last dollar, from his first earnings. in the fall of he was appointed a clerk in the new york custom-house, and held the place for some years. he had taken an early interest in politics, being by education a democrat. but he had always been positively anti-slavery in sentiment. he was dissatisfied with the kansas-nebraska bill; and alone of all the clerks in the custom-house, and fearless of the probable result to himself, he openly denounced the lecompton-constitution policy of buchanan, and supported douglas. in consequence he was removed from office in march, . returning to dover, he continued the study of law--which he had commenced in new york--in the office of the eminent lawyer, daniel m. christie, and on that gentleman's motion was admitted to the bar at the may term, . he afterwards well repaid mr. christie's kindness by a eulogy, upon his decease, delivered before the court, and subsequently printed. it was regarded as an eloquent and appreciative tribute to mr. christie's remarkable qualities of manhood, and extraordinary powers as a lawyer. mr. hall, upon his admission to the bar, opened an office in dover, and commenced practice. in the spring of , just before the state election, in view of the great crisis coming upon the country, at an immense meeting in dover, he (as did also judge charles doe) withdrew from the democratic party and cast in his allegiance with the republicans. with them, where his conscience and political principles alike placed him, has his lot been cast ever since; and it is not improbable that that one addition, in later and critical years, turned the scale in new hampshire's political destinies. it was an episode in his life that in he was appointed, by the governor and council, school commissioner for strafford county, and re-appointed in . his early training in the country district school, his work as master in the winters, and his hard-earned higher education qualified him eminently for the practical duties of this office. in the autumn of , mr. hall was appointed secretary of the united states senate committee to investigate the surrender of the norfolk navy-yard. this committee consisted of john p. hale, andrew johnson, and james w. grimes. soon after, he was appointed clerk of the senate committee on naval affairs, at washington, of which mr. hale was chairman. he served in this capacity until march, ; but he wished for more immediate participation in the great struggle then in progress. the conflict, which had its symptoms in the lecompton strife, had become war, and the young man who had then sacrificed office for principle was ready for a still greater sacrifice. in march, , he was commissioned aid-de-camp and captain in the regular army of the united states. he was assigned to duty with gen. john c. fremont; but before he had time to join that officer, gen. fremont had retired from command, and capt. hall was transferred to the staff of gen. a. w. whipple, then in command at arlington heights, of the troops and works in front of washington, on the south side of the potomac. in september, , a few days after the battle of antietam, gen. whipple joined the army of the potomac, and eventually marched with it to the front of fredericksburg. on the th of december, , he was in the battle of fredericksburg, crossing the river with the third corps, and taking part in the sanguinary assault upon the works which covered marye's heights. at the battle of chancellorsville he was in the column sent out to cut jackson's line as he moved in front of the army, and in the gallant action of the third division of the third corps, under gen. whipple, of whose staff he was a member, and was with that lamented officer when he fell mortally wounded. capt. hall was then assigned to the staff of gen. oliver o. howard, commander of the eleventh corps, and with him went to gettysburg. his position in that action was important. when gen. reynolds, commanding the first corps, had advanced through the town and encountered the enemy, gen. howard, then moving up and about five miles to the rear, hearing the heavy firing, ordered capt. hall to ride forward as rapidly as possible, find gen. reynolds, ascertain the condition of affairs, and obtain his orders. capt. hall's fleet horse soon covered the distance, and he found gen. reynolds himself in an advanced and exposed position from the enemy's fire. he did his errand; gen. reynolds said he had met the enemy in force, and sent the order to gen. howard to bring up his corps with all possible dispatch. scarcely had capt. hall got back through the town, when he was overtaken by the intelligence that gen. reynolds was mortally wounded, and near the cemetery he met gen. howard impatiently coming up in advance of his corps. passing cemetery ridge, gen. howard said, "that is the place to fight this battle," and directed capt. hall to take a battery from the leading division, and place it in position on the crest of the hill. this was done, and that battery, the first planted on cemetery hill, remained on that spot through the three days of the conflict. when gen. howard took his own place there, capt. hall was of course with him, and on the second day of the engagement was slightly wounded by a shell. these details are given, simply to place on record, in this permanent form, his testimony to the justice of the claim made by the friends of gen. howard, that he was fully entitled to the thanks voted him by congress for selecting cemetery hill and holding it as the battleground of the great and glorious battle of gettysburg. in the latter part of his health suffered, and he was forced to leave the service in december, . but in june, , he was appointed provost-marshal of the first new hampshire district, being stationed at portsmouth, and here he remained until the close of the war. the affairs of the office were in some confusion, but his methodical habits soon reduced it to order. during his term of service, he enlisted or drafted, and forwarded, over four thousand men to the army. this service ceased in october, . "he was one of the men," said a substitute broker to the writer of this sketch, "that no man dared approach with a crooked proposition, no matter how much was in it." mr. hall resumed the practice of law in dover, but in was appointed clerk of the supreme court for strafford county, and in , judge of the police court of the city of dover. the duties of these offices were performed with his usual sense of justice, but in , the democratic party, being in power, "addressed" him out of both offices. in the mean time he had been judge-advocate, with the rank of major, in the military of new hampshire, under gov. smyth, and held a position on the staff of gov. harriman, which gave him his usual title of colonel. col. hall had long taken a deep interest in political affairs. to him they represented principles. in he was president of the republican state convention at concord. he had been for some years a member of the republican state committee, when, in december, , his abilities as a leader and executive were recognized in his selection as chairman of that committee. he so remained until , and conducted the campaigns, state and national, of , , and . these were critical years for the republican party. the nearly even balance of parties in new hampshire, the vigor and intensity with which the battles are always fought, and the skill necessary in every department, demand abilities and energies of the highest order. the years mentioned surpassed ordinary years in political danger to the republicans. it is sufficient to say that col. hall conducted the last three campaigns to a triumphant issue. so decisive were the successive victories that the tide was turned, and from that time the state has not swerved from republican allegiance. in , col. hall was chairman of the new hampshire delegation to the republican national convention at cincinnati, being chosen at large, unpledged, and with scarce a dissenting vote. seven delegates voted from first to last for james g. blaine; but col. hall, with ex-gov. straw and hon. charles h. burns, voted six times for mr. bristow, and on the decisive ballot for rutherford b. hayes. in and , mr. hall was, by appointment of gov. cheney, reporter of the decisions of the supreme court of new hampshire, and in that honorable position published vols. and , new hampshire reports. in he succeeded gov. harriman as naval officer at the port of boston. this office is co-ordinate with that of collector, upon which it is a check. mr. hall's business habits, his keen insight, his perfect accuracy, and the ruling principle of his life to do everything well and thoroughly, there came into operation. he quietly mastered the details as well as the general work of the department. regularly at his post, his office became a model in its management, and was commended in the highest terms by the proper officers. when, therefore, his term expired, he was re-appointed for another four years, by president arthur, with no serious opposition. mr. hall married, january , , sophia, daughter of jonathan t. and sarah (hanson) dodge, of rochester, and has one son, arthur wellesley hall, born august , . the beautiful house erected and occupied by him in dover, and adorned with cultivated taste, has not its least charm in the steadily increasing library of carefully selected literature, to whose study he devotes the hours not required by official duties. he attends the first church of dover, the congregational church, where his emigrant ancestor held office two centuries and a quarter ago. he is a radical teetotaler, and deeply interested in the cause of temperance. it is his personal request to have his great love for the horse, and, indeed, for all animals, spoken of in this sketch. mr. hall's gentle, courteous, and unassuming manners do not meet the common idea of the bold and sagacious politician. his modest conversation will suggest scholarly instincts, but requires time to show the breadth of his culture. public addresses have, as occasions demanded, exhibited the thoughtful political student, a patriotic love of country, and the ripeness of the accomplished scholar. fidelity to every engagement, good faith to every principle espoused, firmness in determination, and usefulness in every work undertaken, have insured him success. but in a life still so young, it is fair to assume that recognitions of public respect will be greater than any trusts yet given, or reputation achieved, in his profession, the field of long past battles, or the offices of public honor. [illustration: d. h. goodell] hon. david h. goodell. olive atwood wright was one of a large family of children. her parents, who lived in sullivan, were very poor and found it difficult to provide for the many who were dependent upon them, and when olive was fifteen years of age she left home and started for boston in search of an opportunity to earn her own living. on arriving in that city she had just fifty cents, and finding no employment there she proceeded to waltham, where the first cotton-factory in the country had just commenced operations. here she found some old acquaintances; but they refused to recognize her on account of her poverty. she, however, obtained the privilege of working in the factory, and at the end of a year visited her parents with eighty times as much money in her pocket as she had when the stage left her in boston. eight years later she had saved from her earnings five hundred dollars, and having married a young farmer, jesse r. goodell, went to live with him upon the homestead which had belonged to his ancestors, in hillsborough. this couple were the parents of david h. goodell, who was an only child, and was born may , . the family remained upon the hillsborough farm until , when it was sold and they removed to another in the adjoining town of antrim. the parents, who had had but very limited school privileges, felt keenly the importance of an education, and were desirous of having their son obtain one. they accordingly, when he had mastered the studies of the common school, sent him to hancock academy several terms, and then to new hampton, and he graduated at francestown in the summer of , and in the fall entered brown university. here he took high rank as a scholar, winning a prize in mathematics, and marking within one degree of perfect in latin; but his health failed him during the sophomore year, and he was compelled to return to his home. the next year and a half he spent upon his father's farm, and, having recovered his health, resumed work as a teacher, in which he was engaged two terms at hubbardston, mass., one at new london literary and scientific institution, and one at leominster, mass. a sedentary life did not agree with mr. goodell, however, and he again went to antrim with the intention of making farming his permanent business. soon after, the antrim shovel company was organised, and he was called from the farm to act as its treasurer and book-keeper. a year later, in , he was appointed general agent of the company, and served in this capacity six years, the three last as the agent of treadwell & co., of boston, who had purchased the business of the original company. in , oakes ames bought the business, including the patents covering the now famous antrim shovel, and moved it to north easton, mass., and mr. goodell in company with george r. carter, one of the firm of treadwell & co., began in a small way the manufacture of apple-parers. he invented what is known as the "lightning apple-parer," and put it upon the market through a new york house, which sold the first two years a few hundred dozen. this they considered a good business; but mr. goodell was not satisfied, and the next year took the road himself, and in three weeks' time he sold two thousand dozen, and made the invention known throughout the country. in the factory was burned, and, as the firm carried no insurance, it lost everything; but in six weeks it had a new shop in operation, and was able to supply the demand for the next year, which rose to five thousand dozen. in another calamity overtook the enterprise. the firm of goodell & co. owed at that time seven hundred and sixty-one dollars, but it had indorsed, to accommodate one of the partners, the notes of treadwell & co. to the amount of fifty thousand dollars, and the failure of this firm sent both into bankruptcy. the result of this trouble was that mr. goodell bought the property himself, borrowed money and paid its debts, paid for it out of his first year's profits, and has since been able to greatly enlarge the business without signing a note for himself or anybody else, or accepting any of the pecuniary help which has been freely offered him. up to he directed his energies mainly to the manufacture and sale of parers; but in that year he helped organize the wood cutlery company at bennington, and in united it with his private business and transferred the whole to the goodell company, of which he owns a large share of the stock and is the manager and controlling spirit. the business of this company has steadily increased until it employs one hundred and fifty hands, and pays for labor more than fifty thousand dollars annually. it manufactures all kinds of table cutlery, cahoon seed-sowers, apple and potato-parers, and cherry-stoners. while giving his closest attention to these manufacturing enterprises, mr. goodell has taken a warm interest in agriculture, and for many years has managed the large farm that formerly belonged to his father, which came into his possession some time since, and upon which he resides. here he demonstrates the principles of progressive and profitable husbandry and stock-raising, extends a hearty welcome to his friends, and enjoys the peace and plenty which are reserved for the gentleman farmer. he has been one of the trustees of the new england agricultural society for several years, and organized and was for a time president of the oak park association, and is an active member of the new hampshire board of agriculture. mr. goodell has always been an ardent, wide-awake, and working republican, and when the party, under his leadership, wrested the town from the opposition in , he became its representative in the legislature, to which position he was re-elected in - . in the house he established and maintained a reputation as one of the most judicious counselors and most effective speakers in the state, and commanded the confidence of his colleagues to such an extent that no measure which he advocated was defeated, and none that he opposed was successful. among the important bills which were carried through largely by his judicious and earnest support was that for the erection of a new state-prison. mr. goodell's wife was hannah jane plumer, a daughter of jesse t. plumer, of goffstown. he has two children,--dura dana goodell, born september , , and richard c. goodell, born august , . the family are members of the baptist church of antrim, as were the father and mother of mr. goodell. these facts justify the claim of a wide circle of friends and acquaintances, who look upon him as one of the strongest men of the state, and one for whom high honors are in reserve. though still in his prime, he has won a position of which any man should be proud. his large manufacturing business, which has given the town new life and prosperity, is of his own creation; his farm is a model which invites healthy progress; his private character is without a blemish; his business credit above suspicion; his reputation as a citizen, neighbor, and friend is of the best; and his ability to fill any public position creditably and well is universally acknowledged. [illustration: j. g. graves m.d.] josiah g. graves, m. d. by b. b. whittemore. the subject of this sketch, josiah griswold graves, was born july , , in walpole, n. h., one of the loveliest villages in the valley of the connecticut. his father was a well-to-do farmer, and his mother a woman of the olden time, who looked well to the ways of her household,--a woman of superior mind and excellent judgment. not having a fancy for farming--and thus acting contrary to the wishes of his father--he left home at the age of eighteen, with his mother's blessing and one dollar in money, determined upon securing an education and fitting himself for the medical profession. he defrayed the expenses of his education by his own individual efforts and native energy of will and industry, by teaching both day and evening, and was remarkably successful in his labors. being a natural penman, he also gave instruction in the art of penmanship. he commenced the study of his profession in . he was a student in medicine in the office of drs. adams and twitchell, of keene, and subsequently attended medical lectures at pittsfield, mass., and graduated at williamstown medical college in . afterwards he spent six months in the office of drs. huntington and graves in lowell. dr. graves commenced the practice of medicine in nashua, n. h., september , . at this time nashua was a comparatively young town, the compact part of the present city having then had but ten years' growth. he went up the merrimack river on the old steamboat then plying on the merrimack, landing a little below what was then the taylor's falls bridge. his first patient was a pauper, who was badly injured accidentally. after adequate treatment the man was placed on his feet again, a well man. such a patient was not very remunerative, and did not tend to fill an empty pocket. this was evidenced by the fact that a carpenter who was applied to for the purpose of procuring a wood-box declined the job and refused to trust the young doctor. necessity being the mother of invention, the doctor was obliged to construct that useful article himself. it was but a brief period, however, before energy, determination, and superior medical and surgical skill carved out for him an extensive practice. for forty years he followed his profession in nashua and the adjoining region with untiring assiduity, and with a success that has but few parallels. he loved his profession and gave to it his best powers. he was gifted in a remarkable degree with a keen insight into the nature of disease, and of course his success was in proportion to his fitness for his calling. he did not need to be told symptoms; he knew, by intuition where the break in the constitution was, and how to rebuild and give new life. he was made for his profession, and not his profession for him, which is too often the case. after several years' practice, desirous of further improvement, he took a degree at jefferson medical college, philadelphia. at the time of the rebellion the governor and council of new hampshire appointed him a member of the medical board of examiners. for the past few years dr. graves has been much interested in railroads, east and west; has been a director in the nashua & lowell railroad and other roads, and is now president of the texas trunk railroad. he is a director in the faneuil hall insurance company, and in the metropolitan steamship line; and is also connected with many other financial interests of a comprehensive character. a few years ago dr. graves made an extensive land purchase at scituate, mass., containing two hundred acres or more, which he calls his "mound farm." it lies on an elevation, bordering on the ocean, and is considered by those familiar with the "south shore" as the most eligible location, and as commanding the finest prospect oceanwards, of any in that popular and beautiful summer resort. here the doctor has erected a few dwelling-houses, and has sold lots to others who have erected summer residences. these houses are elegantly and conveniently constructed, and so located as to enable their owners to enjoy an unobstructed ocean view, as well as the ocean breezes. in one word, it is, in and of itself, a villa of extensive proportions, and is destined to become still more extensive in the future. the doctor has recently made large purchases of adjoining lands, and is already engaged in farming on a large scale, and introducing improved modes of cultivation. here, with his family, he spends his summers, residing in nashua or at the south during the winter. at the age of seventy, dr. graves is still active and remarkably well preserved, and much more active than many younger men. he has a business office in boston, and manages his large estate with as much foresight and sagacity as when in the prime of life and engaged in accumulating his fortune. dr. graves was married to mary w. boardman, daughter of the late col. william boardman, of nashua, in . as a man, dr. graves is distinguished for his firmness. his opinions he maintains with resoluteness until good reasons induce him to change them. he means _yes_ when he says "yes," and _no_ when he says "no." he is a man of a positive character. it is needless to say, that, while such a man always has enemies, (as what man of ability and energetic character has not?) he has firm and lasting friends,--friends from the fact that they always know where to find him. among the many self-made men whom new hampshire has produced, he takes rank among the first; and by his indomitable energy, industry, and enterprise has not only made his mark in the world, but has achieved a reputation in his profession and business on which himself and friends may reflect with just pride. [illustration: warren daniell] hon. warren f. daniell. in almost every instance, those who, during the first half of the present century, laid about the waterfalls of new hampshire the foundations of our manufacturing villages, builded better than they knew. they were generally men of limited means, moderate ambitions, and democratic instincts; and they established their shops and factories without expectation that they were changing worthless plains and forests into cities, or plain mechanics into millionaires. they aimed only to create productive industries in which they and their few employes, meeting on equal terms, could work together and win a fair reward for their labor. but they were skillful workmen, good managers, courageous, persistent, and equal to all their opportunities, and under their inspiration and direction their enterprises have grown into great proportions, which have made the fortunes of their owners, and called into being communities that are models of the best that skill, intelligence, and thrift can produce. to this class of men belonged kendall o. and james l. peabody and jeremiah f. daniell, who, fifty years ago, built a paper-mill in the forest that then grew about the falls upon the winnipesaukee, where the wealthy, wide-awake, and beautiful village of franklin falls now stands. the peabodys, who were bakers by trade, built a small mill at this point about the year . in disposing of their production as bakers they accumulated large quantities of cotton rags, and, as there was little demand for these, they built a miniature paper-mill to convert them into a more salable commodity. their knowledge of the paper business was very limited, their machinery of the most primitive kind, and their experiment was not at first a success; but they were men not easily turned from their purposes, and, feeling that what they lacked was a practical paper-maker, one of them went to massachusetts in search of one. he found there jeremiah f. daniell, who at the age of thirty-five had seen twenty-one years of service in a paper-mill, and knew the business thoroughly. this young man had been trained in a hard school, and was by education as well as by natural abilities well qualified to prove an efficient helper to men, who, like the peabodys, were trying to establish a new enterprise in the face of many discouragements. he began his apprenticeship when a boy of fourteen, and from that time until he reached his majority most of his scanty earnings went to support a widowed mother and orphaned brothers and sisters. when he became of age, his entire property consisted of a suit of clothes, and a five-dollar bill which proved to be counterfeit. with these he started, carrying his shoes in his hand (as a matter of economy), to obtain employment at his trade, which he found at pepperell. here he remained several years, and during the time married sarah reed, of harvard, mass., by whom he had two children, warren f., the subject of this sketch, who was born june , , and mary, who died in infancy. subsequently he manufactured paper for himself in dorchester and methuen, mass., and in went west. not finding a promising opening, he returned to massachusetts and was met by mr. peabody, who arranged for him to go to franklin and take charge of the mill there, in which he was given an interest. this he did, and, when a few months later his family joined him, the daniell homestead was permanently established at the head of the merrimack. the first efforts of the young manager were directed to supplying the mill with improved machinery, a difficult task, as the owners had little money to spare, and the nearest machine-shop in which an order for that class of machinery could be filled was at south windham, conn., but, finally, two eight-horse teams closed a three weeks' journey by landing in franklin a newly invented paper-machine, and the mill was ready to run in a few months. meantime, mr. daniell had purchased the interest of j. l. peabody, in the firm which thus became peabody & daniell. the machinery was scarcely in position when a fire destroyed the factory and its contents, leaving the owners, in the midst of the hard times of , bankrupt in nearly everything but courage, reputation, and a determination to succeed, which enabled them, after many struggles, to rebuild and proceed in a small way with their business. the erection of the cotton-mills at manchester soon after gave them an opportunity to purchase large amounts of paper stock at low prices, and from that time they were moderately prosperous. the next year after the removal of mr. daniell from massachusetts his wife died, and a year later he married annette eastman, of concord. his son warren was at that time a wide-awake boy, ten years old. he had picked up a little book knowledge in the massachusetts schools, and in order that he might be further educated without much expense he was sent to concord, where he worked upon a farm for his board and clothes and privilege of attending school a short time each winter, until he was fourteen, when he was called home and entered the paper-mill as an apprentice, to learn the business with which his name is now so prominently identified. it was his purpose at a later period to attend the academy at tilton; but on the day on which the term began his father was severely burned by an accident, and he was obliged to take his place in the mill. no other time appeared when he could well be spared, and he continued working there until he was twenty-five years of age, and was a master of the trade in all its branches. as a journeyman, his wages were one dollar and twenty-five cents per day, a sum which he found sufficient to provide, in those days of frugality, for all the needs of himself and his young wife and child. he was, however, ambitious at some future time to have a mill of his own, and with this object in view left franklin and contracted with parties at waterville, me., to erect and run for them a paper-mill at that place. this occupied him for one year, when he took charge of another mill at pepperell, mass., where he remained until . in that year his father bought out mr. peabody, and offered to sell him half the establishment if he would return to franklin, which he did. the firm was then j. f. daniell & son, and for the next ten years the business prospered under that name. in warren bought his father's interest, and was sole proprietor until , when the mill property, which had grown from modest beginnings to be one of the largest and best known private manufacturing establishments in the state, was sold to a company of massachusetts capitalists who had organized as the winnipiseogee paper company. mr. daniell then become connected with a large paper-house in boston and removed to that city. he soon tired of life in that crowded metropolis, and, returning to his old home, he purchased a large interest in the company that had succeeded him there, and became its resident agent and manager, which position he still occupies. this company owns and operates at franklin large paper-mills supplied with the best machinery, employs three hundred men and women, and produces nearly twenty tons of paper daily, and reflects, in its abounding success, the sagacity, energy, and enterprise of the man who plans and directs its operations, who, without the help of a liberal education or wealthy friends, has won his way by hard and patient work to a first place among the business men of new hampshire. few men in our state have been so uniformly successful, and none in compassing their own success have contributed more to that of others. in climbing up, warren f. daniell has pulled no one down. the village of three thousand busy, prosperous, and happy people is largely the creation of the paper-mill, in which he has made his money, and its most creditable characteristics are in no small degree the results of his counsel and liberality. the business world acknowledges him as a man of undoubted integrity, thoroughly responsible, and eminently successful. his townsmen and fellow-citizens of new hampshire know him as a genial, unassuming man, whose good fellowship never tires, whose generosity is inexhaustible, and as one who is never too busy with his own affairs to lend a helping hand to any cause or person that deserves it; as a citizen and friend and neighbor who has shown them how to get money rapidly, and how to spend it freely, intelligently, and helpfully. mr. daniell's first wife was elizabeth d. rundlett, of stratham, n. h. the marriage occurred in , and mrs. daniell died while he was at pepperell, in . he married abbie a. sanger, of concord, in october, , who presides over his elegant home, which is located near the confluence of the winnipesaukee and pemigewasset rivers, and surrounded by a broad intervale which liberal outlays have made one of the most fertile and beautiful spots in the merrimack valley. he has five boys: harry w., by his first wife; and eugene s., otis, warren f., and jerie r., the fruit of his second marriage. he is an enthusiastic farmer, and owns across the river from his home a large and productive farm. he has long been the owner of the best herd of jersey cattle in the state; his stables always contain some of the finest and fleetest horses; he admires a good dog, and is a skillful breeder of swine and poultry. he has contributed much to the introduction of improved stock, crops, and farm machinery in his neighborhood; has been active and liberal in sustaining the state and local agricultural societies, and in otherwise promoting the farming interest. in politics, mr. daniell is a democrat; and such has been his popularity among those who have known him best, that even when franklin gave a republican majority of seventy-five he was several times elected to represent it in the house, and subsequently was chosen a state senator two years in succession in a district which no other democrat could have carried. he represented his party in the national convention of , and has always been one of its trusted counselors and most efficient workers. that he would have been its candidate for governor and congress but for his refusal to accept the position is generally known. during the war he gave himself unreservedly to the cause of the union as represented by the "boys in blue," voting steadily to raise and equip all the men who were needed, giving liberally of his means to provide for them and their families, and supporting, by word and deed on all occasions and in all places, the cause for which they fought. jonathan sawyer. by rev. geo. b. spalding, d. d. . john sawyer, a farmer in lincolnshire, england, had three sons, william, edward, and thomas, who emigrated to this country in , being passengers in a ship commanded by capt. parker. they probably settled in rowley, mass. . thomas sawyer went to lancaster, mass., as early as , when he was twenty-four years of age. this section of the nashaway valley, comprising eighty square miles in extent, had been purchased in by thomas king, of watertown, mass., of scholan, sachem of the nashaway indians. thomas sawyer was one of the first six settlers. his name appears in the petition made to the general court in for the incorporation of the town of lancaster. in , the year of his arrival, he married mary prescott. she was the daughter of john prescott, to whom belongs the honor of being the first permanent inhabitant of lancaster. the eminent historian, william h. prescott, traces his ancestral line to this john prescott. there were born to thomas sawyer and mary prescott eleven children. this family figures largely in that most tragic page of the history of lancaster which tells of the massacres and captivities of its inhabitants, and the entire destruction of the town itself by the indians. on the land of thomas sawyer stood the sawyer garrison, into which were gathered the survivors of that most murderous attack made upon the town in the winter of - . at this time his second son, ephraim, who was at the prescott garrison, was killed by the indians. thirty-two years later, , the oldest son, thomas, and his son elias were captured by the indians and taken to canada. when the party reached montreal, the father offered to put up a mill on the river chambly, on condition that the french governor would obtain the release of all the captives. thus the first mill in canada was built by thomas sawyer. he was liberated, but his son elias was detained for a time to teach the canadians "the art of sawing and keeping the mill in order, and then was dismissed with rich presents." . caleb sawyer, the sixth child of thomas, was born in , in lancaster, mass. he married sarah houghton, thus effecting an alliance between two of the most prominent families who organized the town of lancaster. caleb sawyer died in , leaving two sons and two daughters. . seth sawyer, the oldest son of caleb, was born in ; married miss hepsabeth whitney; died in . . caleb sawyer, the second son of seth, was born in , at harvard, mass., a part of lancaster which in had been incorporated as a town by itself. he married miss sarah patch in . they had two sons, phineas and jonathan. jonathan remained on the home farm at harvard, which is still occupied by his descendants. [illustration: p. sawyer] . phineas sawyer was born at harvard, mass., in . he went to marlborough, mass., now hudson, in . he bought a mill property there, consisting of a saw, grist, and wire-drawing mill. in he built a cotton-mill, and operated it until the close of the war in . it required in those days immense enterprise and energy to project and carry on such a work as a cotton-factory. the machinery was procured from rhode island. the ginning-machine had not yet come into general use. the cotton, when received, was distributed among the farmers, to have the seeds picked out one by one by their families. it was carded and spun by water power, at the mill. it was then sent out again among the farmers to be woven into cloth. phineas sawyer was a man of great independence of character, self-reliant, and full of courage. these qualities, so conspicuous in his business affairs, shone out with undiminished power in his religious life. he lived at a time in massachusetts when methodism was regarded with special disfavor. but mr. sawyer, believing that the methodists were right, believed so with all his heart, and the petty persecutions to which his faith was subjected only intensified his zeal and loyalty. his house was the home for all traveling methodists, and the place where they gathered for religious worship. he was well versed in the best methodist literature of his times. he stands forth in the annals of his church as one of the foremost men, for sagacity, boldness, and piety, in the needham circuit. he had for his wife a worthy helpmeet, hannah whitney, of harvard. she was as ardently attached to methodism as was her husband, and bore her full share of service and sacrifice for it in its days of weakness and persecution. the sudden death of her husband, which took place in , left mrs. sawyer to provide for the support of twelve children, the youngest, jonathan, being then two years old. this truly noble woman, with but little means, faced the difficulties before her with an unflinching spirit of faith and hopefulness. it required superlative fortitude, finest sagacity, and sternest self-sacrifice to have enabled this mother to successfully rear these twelve children, give to them a good education, and establish all of them in respectable positions in the world. she continued to live in marlborough some nine years, leasing the mill property. in she went to lowell, where she lived twenty years, dying there in , greatly respected by all who knew her, and held in honor and affection by her many children. . jonathan sawyer, the subject of this sketch, was the youngest child of phineas. he was born at marlborough, mass., in . he went with his mother and other members of the family when he was twelve years old, to lowell, where for the next few years he attended school. he was a member of the first class that entered the high school of that city, having among his mates hon. benjamin f. butler, gov. e. a. straw, and g. v. fox, assistant secretary of the navy during the civil war. bishop thomas m. clark was the principal of this school. on account of a severe sickness, young sawyer at sixteen years of age left school, and while recruiting his health made a visit to his brother, alfred ira sawyer, who, after some experience as a dyer at amesbury and great falls, had come in to dover, n. h., where he was operating a grist-mill, a custom carding and cloth-dressing mill, converting this last into a flannel-mill. jonathan remained in dover two years, going to school and working for his brother. in the fall of he returned to lowell. his mother, for the purpose of conferring upon her son a more complete education, sent him to the great methodist school at wilbraham, which at that time was a most flourishing preparatory school for the wesleyan university at middletown, conn. here he remained two terms, when, at nineteen years of age, returning to lowell, he went into a woolen establishment as a dyer. afterwards he went into this business on his own account, and continued in it until . during the latter part of this time he was not so engrossed in his business but that he found time to make frequent visits to new ipswich, where miss martha perkins, of barnard, vt., was attending school. in they were married, and went to watertown, n.y., where mr. sawyer became the superintendent of the hamilton woolen company. after two and a half years, mr. sawyer went into business for the manufacture of satinets. in , his brother alfred having died at dover, n. h., the year before, and the children being too young to carry on the business, mr. jonathan sawyer assumed its control in connection with his brother zenas. two years later zenas retired, and francis a. sawyer, who had been a prominent builder in boston, became a partner with jonathan, the object being to continue the manufacture of woolen flannels. in the property below known as the "moses mill," another flannel manufactory, was purchased. this mill was enlarged in to four sets of machinery, again in to eight, and in and to sixteen sets. the old machinery is now completely replaced by new. the old mill, started in , was in replaced by the present substantial structure, which contains fourteen sets of machinery, with preparing and finishing machinery for thirty sets in both mills. since the attention of these noted manufacturers has been entirely devoted to the manufacture of fine fancy cassimere cloths and suitings. already they have established for these goods a foremost place in their class. at the centennial exhibition, at philadelphia, a medal and diploma were awarded the sawyer goods, for their "high intrinsic merit." the business has, since , been carried on as a corporation, having a capital of six hundred thousand dollars. the corporation consists of the old firm of f. a.[ ] and j. sawyer, and charles h. sawyer, the present agent of the establishment. in this company made a bold innovation on the method that was so long in vogue among manufacturers, of consigning their goods to commission houses. the undertaking upon which this company entered, of selling their own goods, was met with great opposition; but their boldness and foresight have already been justified by the success which they have made, and the adoption of their methods by other manufacturers. this establishment can now look back upon a half-century of remarkable history. the unmarred reputation for strictest integrity which these managers have won, their far-reaching enterprise, and the unsurpassed excellences of their fabrics, have enabled them to prosperously pass through all the financial depressions and panics which so many times have swept over the country during this long period. mr. jonathan sawyer, with his vigor of mind and body still unimpaired, lives in his elegant mansion, which looks out upon a magnificent picture of wood and vale and mountain range, and down upon the busy scene of his many years of tireless industry. he loves his home, in the adornment of which his fine taste finds full play. when free from business he is always there. he loves his books, and his conversation shows an unusual breadth of reading in science, history, and politics. he is possessed of a strong, clear intellect, a calm, dispassionate judgment, and sympathies which always bring him to the side of the wronged and the suffering. at a time when anti-slavery sentiments were unpopular, mr. sawyer was free in their utterance, and was among the first to form the free-soil party. since the organization of the republican party, mr. sawyer has been among its strongest supporters. he has persistently declined the many offices of honor and profit which those acquainted with his large intelligence and sagacity and stainless honesty have sought to confer upon him. he is abundantly content to exercise his business powers in developing still more the great manufactory, and his affections upon his large household and his chosen friends, and his public spirit in helping every worthy cause and person in the community. the children of mr. sawyer, all of whom have grown up to maturity, are charles henry, mary elizabeth, francis asbury, roswell douglas, martha frances, alice may, frederic jonathan. footnotes: [ ] francis a. sawyer died june , . [illustration: asa crosby md and sons] dr. asa crosby and sons. by s. p. hadley. in giving a notice of judge crosby of lowell, mass., as originally contemplated, at his request and with the consent of the publisher, i am desired to give it in the character of a family notice, or rather of the father and sons, now all deceased except the judge. dr. asa crosby, the father, was born in amherst (now milford), n. h., july , , and died at hanover, n. h., april , . he married betsey hoit, daughter of judge nathan hoit, an officer in the revolutionary war, and judge of the court of common pleas. he was in the sixth generation from simon of cambridge, mass., who arrived in the "susan and ellyn" in , the direct line being simon, simon, josiah, josiah, and josiah his father, born in billerica, mass., november , . sarah fitch, his mother, was born in bedford, mass., march , . the crosby families mostly inhabited billerica, mass., where many of the descendants still reside, although some lived in the ancient town of braintree, mass., and others on cape cod. his father settled in amherst, n. h., where he died october , . his mother lived until september , . the following notice of dr. crosby, written by prof. r. d. mussey of dartmouth college, is taken from the _boston medical and surgical journal_, vol. xiv.:-- "dr. asa crosby was an uncommon man. at the age of twenty-one he commenced practice in strafford county, n. h., and continued in full practice forty-six years. he was a distinguished member of the profession, both in physic and surgery; and in the latter branch he performed some very important and difficult operations. indeed, for many years he was the principal operator for an extensive district of country. he was one of those self-taught men, whose force of intellect breaks through the most appalling obstacles, and rises unaided to skill and reputation. although deprived of a systematic course of professional instruction, having commenced practice before medical schools were established in new england, he provided himself with a good library, and spent his leisure hours, and even moments, among his books. he drew around him young men as pupils, between twenty and thirty of whom may be reckoned as educated by him; and, what is much to his credit, many of them are now distinguished men. "dr. crosby was for many years a member of the church of christ, and died in the full hope of a better life. "the medical profession in new hampshire is not a little indebted to dr. crosby, inasmuch as he was one of the few who interested themselves in procuring the charter of the state medical society, of which he was an active and zealous member for thirty years. the honorary degree of doctor of medicine was conferred on him by dartmouth college in ." josiah crosby, m. d. dr. josiah crosby, third son of dr. asa crosby, was born in sandwich, n. h., february , , and died in manchester, n. h., january , . he married olive light avery, daughter of daniel avery, a merchant and manufacturer of gilford, n. h., february , . he studied his profession with his father, and the distinguished prof. nathan smith of dartmouth college. his early practice was in concord, n. h., and lowell, mass., but his professional life-work was in manchester, n. h., from to his death. the following extracts are taken from an obituary notice of him read before the new hampshire medical society by dr. w. w. wilkins, of manchester:-- "here (manchester, n. h.,) for thirty years he was the unrivaled head of the profession. here he originated the method of making extensions of fractured limbs by the use of adhesive strips, which gave him a high reputation with surgeons in europe as well as at home; and, later, he invented the 'invalid bed' which has so tenderly held the patient, without a strain or jar, while the bed-clothes could be changed or wounds cared for, or, by dropping a belt or two, prevent local pressure and irritation. the skillful physician, the christian gentleman, and sympathizing friend were combinations of character in him rarely excelled. "those who have known dr. josiah crosby, who have had the privilege of his acquaintance, been honored by his confidence, and felt the influence of his pure example, will feel more deeply than any words of mine express, the loss we have met in his death. few men love their life-work as he did. the practice of medicine to him was no mere trade, no secondary means of obtaining something else that outranked it, but the chosen calling of his life, to which in his young manhood he gave not only his rare mental endowments, but the rich treasures of his heart; and with the weight of eighty years resting upon him, it was his greatest comfort that he could still labor in his chosen profession. "his habits of study, that had been early formed, followed him into old age. new theories and discoveries in medical science were carefully criticised; the medical journals, to which he was a liberal subscriber, were read; and he was better posted in regard to the medical literature of the day than a majority of the young men in the profession. "he exerted a strong influence on the profession itself. the quiet dignity of his character was felt by all who came in contact with him. no unguarded words passed his lips in regard to members of the profession that were absent that would not have been as freely expressed in their presence. "the same elements of character made him a superior surgeon. his operations were complete. he had abundant resources, and, if the ordinary methods of treatment failed, was ever ready to supply their place by extraordinary methods. his contributions to medical science were of a character that reflected the highest honor upon him as a physician and skillful surgeon, and placed him in no mean rank as a benefactor of his race. "he never indulged in sports, or frequented watering-places. his church, his home, and his professional duties filled to the full his days and years, and too many sleepless nights. his sympathies for the sick, his great benevolence, his love of neighbor as of himself, formed the mainspring of his life labors. "we have known him in his strength, and we shall always recollect him as the strong, self-reliant, active physician. we are more than grateful for his record. life is the sum total of so many days and years, to which may be added the little real good one has been permitted to accomplish in a lifetime. looking back over these fifty years, can we compute the worth of such a life?" his widow still lives, as also his son, dr. george a. crosby, of manchester, an eminent physician and surgeon. judge nathan crosby. nathan crosby, fourth son of dr. asa crosby, was born in sandwich, n. h., february , ; was graduated at dartmouth college in : read law with stephen moody, esq., of gilmanton, and asa freeman, of dover, n. h., and was admitted to the bar in strafford county in . he practiced law a dozen years, mostly in gilmanton, n. h., and amesbury and newburyport, mass., until , when he removed to boston, at the call of the massachusetts temperance union, to conduct two important features of the temperance cause,--the acceptance of the teetotal pledge for the ardent-spirits pledge, and prohibition for license, and to organize societies based upon those principles throughout the commonwealth. he was also editor of the _massachusetts temperance journal_, the _cold water army_ and _temperance almanac_, and various other publications. subsequently, in , he removed to lowell, and was employed by the manufacturing companies of that city to purchase the large lakes in new hampshire whose waters supply the merrimack river, and secured for the companies one hundred thousand acres of water. before this service was fully accomplished, he received the appointment of standing justice of the police court of lowell, upon the resignation of the late hon. joseph locke, who had held the office thirteen years. judge crosby was qualified may , . this position he still holds. he has rarely failed of holding the civil terms of the court during his entire period of service. in the discharge of the duties of a local magistrate,--a position peculiarly trying, placed, as those duties are, so near the people in all their differences, controversies, temptations, follies, and depravities,--he has been at all times humane, conscientious, incorruptible, and just, aiming to do right. in all works of philanthropy and reform, no one has a kinder heart, or a more willing or generous hand. his frequent appeals to the public, through the press, upon the temperance issues of the day have been characterized by great power, earnestness, and practical wisdom, and have been widely read and approved. he has never held political office, but has been in the ranks of the federal, whig, and republican parties. he was the first man in the country to give one hundred dollars for the sanitary relief of union soldiers in the late rebellion, and to form a soldiers' relief association, of which he was president during the war. he was the first college graduate from the town of his birth, and the last of four of his class who received the degree of doctor of laws. his literary productions consist of "obituary notices for and ," in two volumes, "first half century of dartmouth college," eulogies upon judge wilde and hon. tappan wentworth, "notices of distinguished men of essex county, mass.," the last being especially illustrative of choate, cushing, and rantoul, and letters and appeals to the citizens of lowell upon the temperance issues of and . he has a nervous, but animated and entertaining style. his "first half century of dartmouth college" is a model in its way, while his "crosby family," a genealogical work, is not the dry and uninteresting reading such literature usually is, but is entertaining, even to the general reader, for its reminiscences of individuals, and its pleasant pictures of old times in new hampshire. he has always cherished a deep interest in dartmouth college, and to no slight extent has, by personal effort, brought about events which have been of substantial benefit to that ancient seat of learning. judge crosby has been twice married. his first wife, rebecca marquand moody, was a daughter of stephen moody, esq., of gilmanton, by whom he had nine children, of which number five are now living, namely, frances coffin, wife of dr. henry a. martin, of boston; hon. stephen moody crosby, of boston; maria stocker, wife of the late maj. alexander mcd. lyon, of erie, penn.; ellen grant, wife of n. g. norcross, esq., of lowell, and susan coffin, wife of charles francis, son of james b. francis, of lowell, the distinguished engineer. his daughter, rebecca marquand, widow of the late z. b. caverly, united states _charge d'affaires_ at peru, a highly accomplished and widely esteemed lady, was, with her daughter, lost on the "schiller," a german steamer, off the english coast, in the spring of ,--a disaster which, at the time, created profound sorrow throughout the country. he married, may , , matilda, daughter of james pickens, of boston, and widow of dr. j. w. fearing, of providence, r. i., who still lives. personally, the judge is a fine exemplification of the good results of temperance, self-care, and habitual good humor; and one meeting him for the first time, and noting his firm step and erect carriage, would hardly think him older than a man of sixty. dixi crosby, m. d. dr. dixi crosby, fifth son of dr. asa crosby, was born in sandwich, february , , and died at hanover, september , . he married mary jane moody, daughter of stephen moody, of gilmanton, a distinguished lawyer, july , . his academical preparation for his profession was quite limited; but being quick to learn, and with uncommon powers of memory, he made rapid progress in the study and practice of his profession and early became a prominent surgeon and physician, practicing in gilmanton and laconia till called to fill the chair of surgery in the dartmouth medical college, as successor of professor r. d. muzzey. he was placed at the head of the medical college, in , and held the place with great ability and distinction until nearly the time of his death. his son, prof. alpheus b. crosby, a young man of remarkable distinction, who died august , , succeeded him. another and older son is an eminent physician in concord, n. h. "dr. crosby, though a surgeon by nature and by preference, was in no modern sense a _specialist_. his professional labors covered the whole range of medicine. his professorship included obstetrics as well as surgery, and his practice in this department was exceptionally large. his surgical diocese extended from lake champlain to boston. of the special operations of dr. crosby we do not propose here to speak in detail. it is sufficient to mention that, in , he devised a new and ingenious mode of reducing metacarpo-phalangeal dislocation. in he removed the arm, scapula, and three-quarters of the clavicle, at a single operation, for the first time in the history of surgery. he was the first to open abscess of the hip-joint. he performed his operations without ever having seen them performed, almost without exception. dr. crosby was not what may be called a _rapid_ operator. "an operation, gentlemen," he often said to his clinical students, "is _soon_ enough done when it is _well_ enough done." and with him it was never done otherwise than _well_. at the outbreak of the rebellion, dr. crosby served in the provost-marshal's office at a great sacrifice for many months, attending to his practice chiefly at night. as years and honors accumulated, dr. crosby still continued his work, though his constitutional vigor was impaired by the severity of the new hampshire winters and by his unremitting labor. at length, having reached man's limit of threescore years and ten, he withdrew from active practice, and in resigned his chair in the college. dr. crosby furnishes a beautiful and rare instance of a completed life. he early fixed his aim,--he reached it; he did all he attempted, and he did it well. '_nihil tetigit, quod non ornavit._' to those of us who had been most intimately associated with our departed friend, who had enjoyed his teachings, his counsels, and his generous kindness, the news of his death came as a heavy shock. but he still lives in the remembrance of his distinguished services, in the unfading affection and gratitude of his pupils, and in the many hearts whose burdens he has lifted. verily, '_extinctus amabitur idem!_'"--_obituary notice of dr. j. w. barstow._ prof. alpheus crosby. prof. alpheus crosby, ninth son of dr. asa crosby, was born in sandwich, october , , died in salem, mass., april , . he married for his first wife, abigail grant jones cutler, daughter of joseph and abi c. grant (jones) cutler, of newburyport, mass., august , , who died in paris, france, march , . he married, for his second wife, martha kingman, daughter of joseph kingman, esq., of west bridgewater, mass., a teacher in the normal school, salem, mass. he was childless. professor hagar says: "when in his tenth year he was taken to hanover, the seat of dartmouth college, and was placed temporarily under professor adams in algebra and euclid, under professor james marsh in latin, and under tutor rufus choate in greek; and these gentlemen pronounced him fitted for college. he was subsequently put to the study of hebrew, under the rev. john l. parkhurst, and was sent to exeter academy; but in he entered college, passed through the four years' course of study without a rival and far beyond rivalry. his power of acquisition and retention was marvelous. "after his graduation, he spent four years at hanover; the first, as the preceptor of moor's indian charity school, and the following three as tutor in the college. he subsequently spent nearly two years at the theological seminary in andover, mass. he was appointed to a professorship of latin and greek in . in he was released from the latin and became professor of greek only, which office he held until , when he resigned; but he remained professor _emeritus_ until his death." professor crosby was one of the earnest greek scholars of eminence that new england can boast, being precocious in his scholarship, and so a little in advance of professor felton, of cambridge, who was a year or two older. both graduated in , felton at harvard, and crosby at dartmouth; and this, as it happens, was the year in which the first greek lexicon, with definitions in english, came into the hands of pupils in any part of the world. it was the work of john pickering, a salem man, who for many years stood almost alone as a great greek scholar in america, having preceded crosby and felton by more than thirty years. the young men took up the work where pickering laid it down, and began not long after they became greek professors in their respective colleges (felton in , and crosby in ,) the task of preparing grammars, readers, and editions of authors, for the studious youth of the land. crosby's greek grammar and his edition of xenophon's anabasis soon came into common use, and have been of great service in promoting the elementary instruction of thousands of greek scholars since; as also have felton's reader and his editions of aristophanes, etc. the learning of hadley, goodwin, and other recent professors has gone beyond that of these pioneers in extent and accuracy, but it is doubtful whether they have done so much for rudimentary scholarship. professor crosby belonged not to us alone, but to all new england,--to the whole land. our country is poorer by the loss of an eminent scholar, one of that small band of classical scholars in america who are known and honored at foreign seats of learning. in the latest, freshest, and most original greek grammar of professor clyde, of edinburgh, the author acknowledges his obligations to four distinguished scholars, three europeans and one american; and the american is professor crosby. professor crosby published "a greek and general grammar"; "greek tables"; "greek lessons"; an edition of xenophon's anabasis; "eclogæ latinæ"; "first lessons in geometry"; also many religious and political tracts, and elementary school-books, which have been widely useful among the freedmen and indians. prof. thomas r. crosby, m. d. prof. thomas russell crosby, m. d., youngest son of dr. asa crosby, was born in gilmanton, n. h., october , , and died at hanover, march , . he married louisa partridge burton, daughter of col. oliver burton, u. s. a. he graduated d. c. , taking also, at the same time, his degree of doctor of medicine. he practiced in meriden and manchester, was chief surgeon in columbian college hospital, in washington, d. c., during the war, became professor in the medical college in that city, and afterwards professor in dartmouth college. during much of his professional life he was an invalid, but was indefatigable in habits of study, steadily advancing to posts of honor and reward, both as practitioner and teacher. * * * * * the faculty of dartmouth college say: "we would record with deep sorrow the decease of dr. thomas r. crosby, professor of animal and vegetable physiology in the agricultural department of the college, and instructor in natural history in the academical and scientific departments; and that we have a profound sense of the loss sustained by the college and the community in the departure of one who, to all the virtues that adorned his character, added such fullness, variety, and accuracy of scientific and professional attainment as fitted him for signal usefulness in the several positions he occupied." his brother josiah bears this testimony of him in a letter, after he had passed away: "i have always considered him equal to any of the brothers as a general scholar, and, decidedly, as the best medical scholar of us doctors; and, although he had not an opportunity of performing so much surgery outside the hospital as others of the family, yet what he did shows conclusively that he was competent to any emergency. he had all the requisite qualifications for a good operator,--a correct knowledge of anatomy and great self-possession." [illustration: c h sawyer] col. charles h. sawyer. by rev. geo. b. spalding, d. d. charles henry is the eldest son of jonathan sawyer, the sketch of whose life precedes this. he was born march , , at watertown. n. y. at ten years of age, on the removal of his father to dover, n. h., charles, who had already become quite advanced in his studies, was sent to the district school in that place. the district school, although it has been supplanted by what is regarded as an improved system of education, had its own distinctive merits. the six years' training in it, under competent teachers, was sufficient to give young sawyer a thoroughly practical education in those branches which are found to be essential to success in business life. books can do little more than this. experience must complete the training process. at sixteen years of age, it being determined that charles was to enter into the business of his father, he was placed as an apprentice in the sawyers' woolen-mills. the business to which a young man is to devote his life affords the very best means for his education in it. it proved to be so in this instance. the young apprentice, as he progressed from one stage to another, had the finest of opportunities for acquiring a full knowledge of all the diversified interests and sciences which belong to such a great industry. there is scarcely a branch in natural philosophy, physics, or the mechanical arts that is not intimately connected with the manufacture of woolens. but the manufacturing processes embrace only a part of the activities and requirements of such a business as the sawyers. they are their own buyers and sellers in all the great markets of our own and other lands. superadded to mechanical knowledge and skill, there must be the large intelligence, the clear foresight, the quick, unerring judgment, which belong to the accomplished financier. in this manufactory, based upon so varied knowledge, and calling into activity so many of the strong mental powers, charles found a grand school, and such proficiency did he make in it, that when he came to his manhood he was abundantly qualified to take upon himself the duties and responsibilities of superintendent. he was appointed to this position in . no small share of the distinguished success which has come to this establishment may be fairly attributable to the fidelity and perseverance in service, the keen sagacity and the great enterprise, which charles h. sawyer has brought to its every interest. in , when the company became incorporated, he was admitted to the firm, and, at the same time, was appointed its agent and one of the directors. since then he has been elected its president. mr. sawyer has served in both branches of the dover city government; was a member of the new hampshire legislature in and , and again in and , serving on the committee on railroads, incorporations, judiciary, national affairs, and as chairman of the committee on manufactures. in he was appointed, by governor bell, a member of his military staff with rank of colonel. mr. sawyer is now acting as director of the strafford national bank and the portsmouth & dover railroad, and trustee of the strafford savings bank. he is a member of the masonic order, taking a personal interest in all that concerns its prosperity. in he became a member of the strafford lodge, and was master in and . he is a member of the st. paul commandry of knights templar, of which he has just been elected eminent commander for the fourth time. mr. sawyer, in , was married to susan ellen cowan, daughter of dr. james w. and elizabeth cowan. mr. sawyer is not only a man of affairs, taking a deep personal interest in the various movements of politics, finance, and industrial life, but he is a man of large reading and is well acquainted with the best books and thoughts of the times. his judgments of men and measures are singularly free from partiality and prejudice. his conclusions are deliberately formed, and based upon a broad comprehension of all the related facts. his sense of justice is strong; his intellectual qualities are admirably balanced. he never is otherwise than perfectly poised. with all this he has the warmest heart, the quickest sympathies, great kindness of manner, and utmost geniality of spirit. in the reserve of his nature he withholds himself from all impetuous demonstrations; but, when the occasion demands, his influence, his advice, his friendship are put forth with commanding effect. nature made him on a large scale, and books and experience and increasing converse with the best phases of social life are developing him into rare strength and symmetry of character. [illustration: anthony colby] gov. anthony colby. anthony colby is known in his native state as a typical "new hampshire man." born and bred among the granite hills, he seemed assimilated to them, and to illustrate in his noble, cheerful life the effects of their companionship. his great heart, sparkling wit, fine physical vigor, and merry laugh made his presence a joy at all times, and welcome everywhere. his ancestry, on his father's side, was of english, and on his mother's, of scotch-irish, origin. the first member of his father's family that removed to this country settled in the town of salisbury, mass., in . he bore the name of anthony colby, and was a member of the so-called "test association." joseph colby, the father of anthony, was born in hopkinton, n. h., near beech hill, in . he died in . of his brothers, two, james and nathaniel, settled in that town, and another, david, in manchester, near the sea, in massachusetts. during the last century, joseph bought a portion of land under the "masonian grant" from mr. minot. then the restriction of ownership in the state was that "all the white-pine trees be reserved for masting the ships of his majesty's royal navy." each town was required to set apart a portion of land for a meeting-house, and the support of the gospel ministry; for a school-house and the support of a school, as well as a military-parade ground. in the organization and settlement of the town named new london, and in the needs of the settlers, both civil and religious, joseph took an active part. he began clearing land in that part of the town now called pleasant street, at the north end of pleasant pond. he early established trade for himself with newburyport and salem. the state legislature then held its sessions in portsmouth. of this, he was for fourteen consecutive years a member. he was a political leader, and an uncompromising federalist. for fifty years he was a stanch member of the baptist church, of which rev. job seamans was the first pastor, and he was for some time president of the baptist state convention. he married anne heath, a direct descendant of the richard kelley family, of which judge kelley, of exeter, was a member. her immediate relatives took part in the revolutionary war. members of the family live in newbury, mass. the family of joseph colby consisted of two sons and two daughters. the eldest daughter, sarah, married jonathan herrick; the second, judith, married perley burpee. both of these daughters were settled beside him. mrs. burpee still survives. the two sons of joseph colby never left their father's household. joseph, the eldest, spent the most of his life in the gratification of his literary tastes, and a species of journalism. anthony, born in , was of a lively disposition. a pleasant vein of humor ran through his character, making him enjoy a joke, while a native prescience led him to project himself into every kind of progress. a keen insight into the character of men gave him an almost unlimited influence over them. he never passed through college, but his faculties were broadly developed by the condition into which his genial and vivid nature led him. his father's home was so guarded and in every way provided for, that ample opportunity was afforded him to follow the pursuits and activities that were congenial to him. he married, at an early age, mary everett, whose modest and refined christian character greatly influenced him. a more favored home could hardly be imagined than that in which his three children were born, and which is still held sacred by them. the steady support of a grandfather's established character, the stimulus of a popular father, joined to the affection of a devoted grandmother and the delicate influence of a lovely mother, created an atmosphere, of solid content and peace as blissful as is to be found this side of heaven. his eldest son, daniel e. colby, graduated from dartmouth college in . he married martha greenwood, and now lives in the paternal home. his daughter married, in , james b. colgate, and lives in new york, as does her brother robert, who married mary colgate. robert also graduated from dartmouth college, and studied law with judge perley, at concord, n. h. the prominent characteristics of anthony colby were manly self-reliance and intrepidity, joined with quick sympathy and faithfulness in friendship, which made men trust and love him. his father's identity with the state gave him a wide knowledge of its resources, industries, and inhabitants. he was interested in the affairs of the entire state, and was always ready to sacrifice the interests of his private business for those of his townsmen. there was no neighborhood or personal difficulty in which he did not willingly take the responsibility of bringing help or reconciliation. his tender sympathy, benevolence, and personal authority were sufficient to adjust the differences and rights of all who sought his assistance. he was strictly and absolutely a temperance man, never tasting spirituous liquors, and always using his influence to save young men from the use of them. his nature was many-sided enough to find some points of agreement with men whose habits differed from his own. he established a line of stages through his native town before any system of railroads had been extended through the state. he afterwards became president of the concord & claremont railroad. he possessed, in an unusual degree, an ability to create in his own brain and carry into practice business activities. he saw and felt how labor could be well applied, and, while a young man, built himself, in a part of the town then almost a forest, a grist-mill, carding and fulling mill. in he was instrumental in establishing a scythe-factory which was carried on by the use of the same water that had been used for the mills. in this enterprise he was associated with joseph phillips and richard messer, both of whom had learned the trade of scythe-making. in the vicinity there grew up directly a flourishing village. in politics, mr. colby was always conservative. he was first elected a member of the new hampshire legislature, in , and afterwards held nearly every higher office of trust in the state. daniel webster was his personal friend. their fathers, who lived in the same county, only about twenty miles apart, were many years associated in the legislature, of which they were members, from salisbury and new london. the friendship between himself, judge nesmith, of franklin, and gen. james wilson, of keene, was _more_ than simple friendship,--they were delightful companions; of essentially different characteristics, the combination was perfect. daniel webster was their political chief, and his vacation sometimes found these men together at the franklin "farm-house," and at the chowder parties up at the "pond." the phenix hotel, under the charge of col. abel and maj. ephraim hutchins, was the central rendezvous, where a great deal of projected statesmanship, a great deal of story telling and fruitless caucusing were indulged in, down to the revolution of , when the democrats lost their supremacy by the admission of texas as a slave state, when john p. hale went into the senate. anthony colby was then elected governor. mr. webster wrote him earliest congratulations. with the usual backsets of a radical change, the whig party held the front until mr. webster made his seventh-of-march speech in , on the fugitive-slave bill. following up that speech by another on the revere-house steps, favoring the enforcement of that law, and addressed to new england men, in which he said, "massachusetts takes no steps backward," he placed his friends in a most trying predicament. mr. webster and his boston body-guard made an effort to hold the whig party solid to his position. it could not be done. the abolitionists stood forth in full panoply, indiscriminately and precipitately aggressive, thanking god for the fugitive-slave law, and that daniel webster was its promoter and defender. he wrote to gov. colby, urging him to stand firmly by him and help bring the public mind to this new standard. the governor was perplexed. privately he expressed himself after this fashion: "new hampshire men vote for the fugitive-slave law! this whole business is like crowding a hot potato down a man's throat, and then asking him to sing 'old hundred.'" he wrote mr. webster that he would do all that he could for him as a friend, although the law was odious to him. there was held, that summer, a baptist state convention. it was a full convention, for the churches were in a ferment, and many of them disintegrating upon the slavery issue. he was sent as a delegate from the church of which he was a member. a set of resolutions was reported, of a very violent and denunciatory character, directed against the fugitive-slave law, mr. webster, and both political parties, threatening expulsion and disfellowship to those members of churches who did not come out with an open and square protest upon this subject. the discussion was all one side until the advocates of the resolution had aired their opinions to their own satisfaction. then, the governor, seeing his opportunity, quietly arose and moved an amendment to the resolution inveighing against mr. webster personally. he felt the fight to be a single-handed one, and would go through it alone if necessary. presently, a candid brother seconded his amendment with a few suggestions. other brethren applauded. then the storm set in from the other side, and the convention became disorderly. it was as if the better elements of new england life were in one grand convocation. this was the first public discussion of the situation. the contest was as brilliant a one, on a modified scale, as any intellectual and emotional contest that we read of. the governor's only hope of reconciliation was by settling down on his own popularity with the members of the convention, and, avoiding the principles involved, appealing to their generosity as a personal favor. with tears in his eyes and in faltering, grieving tones, he besought them most solemnly to spare his life-long friend the denunciation contained in that one resolution, and accept his amendment. the convention agreed to it. he sent a report of the proceedings, with an explanatory letter, to mr. webster: but he was not satisfied. there the matter dropped. these true-hearted friends saw, silently, the scepter of leadership declining in mr. webster's hand, and sadly lamented, what they could not prevent. no whig had held the office of governor, until the election of anthony colby, since the election of gov. bell, an interim of seventeen years. gov. colby being rallied upon his one-term office, said he considered his administration the most remarkable the state ever had. "why so?" was asked; when with assumed gravity he answered: "because _i have satisfied the people in one year_, and no other governor ever did that." his spirit attached him to military life. he was early promoted to the rank of major-general. this experience turned to his account, when, during the trying years of our late war, in he was appointed adjutant-general, and subsequently provost-marshal, of new hampshire. at this time his son daniel e. colby was appointed adjutant-general. the governor always alluded to this service as the saddest of his life,--to encourage and send forth to almost certain death the young men of the state whom he loved as a father. this was his last prominent office in state affairs; and so faithful was he in it, that, although nearly seventy years of age, he went often to the front to acquaint himself with the condition of the soldiers and share their hardships with them. in he received from dartmouth college the degree of a. m., and the same year was chosen one of the trustees of the college. he was interested in the best possible educational advantages of the young, and in every way promoted them. through his energy, in a great degree, the academy in new london has arisen to its present flourishing condition. his son-in-law, james b. colgate, of new york, has generously endowed it, and aided in placing it upon a solid basis. the trustees have conferred upon it the name of colby academy. gov. colby's second wife, eliza messenger richardson, of boston, by her accomplishments and true christian character embellished and enlivened his declining years, while the devotion of his children cheered the seclusion of his last days. said an illiterate woman, to strangers discussing his character in the cars, "governor colby carries the very _demon_ of honesty in his face." it was his unfailing sense of duty and trust in god that won for him the vast respect of the public, and esteem of a large circle of private friends. sunday evening, july , , he died, peacefully, in the home of his father, at the age of eighty years, and was buried in the cemetery of his native town, by the side of his parents. [illustration: very truly wm e. chandler april ] secretary william e. chandler. by hon. jacob h. ela. william e. chandler, the second son of nathan s. and mary a. chandler, was born in concord, n. h., december , , and educated in the public schools of that city and the academies of thetford, vt., and pembroke, n. h. he began the study of the law in the office of george & webster and george & foster in ; graduated from the harvard law school as ll. b. in ; and in , before coming of age, began practicing in concord with francis b. peabody, esq., now of chicago. mr. chandler has, from early childhood, fulfilled all the expectations of his friends. at the harvard law school he was librarian, and graduated with prize honors for an essay on "the introduction of the principles of equity jurisprudence into the administration of the common law." he developed an early taste for policies, and a desire to aid in philanthropic movements. he delivered an address, in , before the concord female benevolent association, in the unitarian church, which at once proved him a clear and vigorous writer and thinker. the writer's first recollection of him as a lawyer was in the management of an election case before the state legislature, for the republicans of moultonborough, when it seemed imprudent to employ one almost a boy to manage a case such as was generally committed to lawyers of large experience; but the result justified the selection. in june, , he was appointed, by gov. ichabod goodwin, law reporter of the new hampshire supreme court, and published five volumes of the reports. he entered the service of the republican party with great earnestness at its beginning, in , and gave much of his time in the office of the state committee, to assist the movement during its early campaigns, becoming secretary first, and afterwards chairman in and . the election of took place during the darkest period of the war, following the battle of fredericksburg, when gloom and almost despair overshadowed every town in the state. it was evident to all that a draft was impending, and it seemed as though the ability of the towns and the state had been exhausted, and no more money could be raised or volunteers be found to enlist. all those opposed to the war were united and active in the democratic party, and were aided by those republicans who were alarmed by the burden of debt, and by those who would compromise the safety of the union sooner than expose themselves to be drafted to save it. it was the most important political campaign ever conducted in the state, and brought the executive ability of mr. chandler prominently into view, and led to his future advancement. it was the first campaign in which a woman took a leading part. miss anna dickinson was employed as one of the speakers in the canvass, and there commenced her career on the platform. she had before often spoken in anti-slavery meetings. president lincoln watched this campaign more closely, probably, than any other outside his own state. it was the opening election of the year following a depressing defeat, and he felt that to lose it at such a critical time would be as disastrous in its effects upon the army and the country as the loss of a great battle. it was his interest in this election which first brought mr. chandler to his attention, and there is no doubt that he noted when, in the new hampshire republican state convention, in , mr. chandler offered the following resolution, which was unanimously and by acclamation adopted:-- "_resolved_, that abraham lincoln, by the exercise, during the severest and most dangerous crisis in the nation's history, of unequaled sagacity and statesmanship, and that moderation and prudence which experience has shown to be the highest wisdom; by his spotless integrity of personal character, above reproach and above suspicion; and by his slowly formed yet unalterable determination that the triumph of the constitution and the union over secession and rebellion shall be the final triumph of liberty throughout the nation,--has received and merited the abiding confidence of the people to an extent never awarded any other public man since washington; that the best interests of the country demand that the complete destruction of the rebellion and the restoration of peace, prosperity, and the union, should be achieved under his administration of the government; and that we therefore declare abraham lincoln to be the people's choice for re-election to the presidency in ." the adoption of the resolution, and the conduct of the canvass in the spring of on the basis of mr. lincoln's renomination, resulted in a very large republican majority; and mr. chandler, who had been a member of the legislature of , and, at the age of twenty-seven, had been elected speaker of the house of representatives, in , was again chosen speaker; and in august, , presided over the legislature in which occurred the eventful conflict and riotous disturbances over the veto by governor gilmore of the bill allowing soldiers in the field the right to vote. mr. chandler gained his earliest reputation for persistency, coolness, and moral courage in this celebrated conflict, so well remembered by the republicans of the state. in november, , he was employed by the navy department as special counsel to prosecute the philadelphia navy-yard frauds, and on march , , was appointed, by president lincoln, the first solicitor and judge-advocate-general of that department. on june , , he was appointed first assistant secretary of the treasury, with secretary hugh mcculloch, and held the office over two years, resigning november , . after his resignation, he practiced law in new hampshire and in washington, and was solicitor of the national life insurance company, and counsel and one of the proprietors of the washington-market company, and engaged in some mining and railroad enterprises. it has been at various times falsely charged that mr. chandler received large fees for prosecuting cotton claims before the department in which he had been an officer. this charge is entirely false. he has never prosecuted, before any forum, any such claims, and the following letter to him, written at a time when hon. george g. fogg made such charges against him, proves the correctness of his conduct:-- washington, d. c., january , . hon. hugh mcculloch, _secretary of the treasury_,-- my dear sir:--it has been stated in public prints and otherwise, in a form designed to injure me, that since leaving the treasury department i have taken employment against the government as agent or attorney for cotton claims. as you know that such statements are false, i desire that you will be kind enough to inform me in writing of the understanding that exists as to my relation to such cases. very truly yours, wm. e. chandler. treasury department, january , . dear sir:--your favor of the th instant is received. it was arranged between us, before you resigned your office of assistant secretary, that you were not to act as counsel or otherwise against the government in relation to cotton claims, either at this department or before the court of claims. the arrangement was entirely voluntary on your part, and was considered prudent and judicious in view of your connection with this class of claims in the department. i regarded it as a very honorable one as far as you were concerned, as it was unaccompanied by any retainer or employment of yourself as counsel for the government in such cases, and was without any assurance on my part, or, as i supposed, any expectation on yours, that you should be so employed. the understanding has not been, so far as i am advised, directly or indirectly violated by you. very truly yours, hugh mcculloch, _secretary_. hon. wm. e. chandler, washington, d. c. mr. chandler did not keep out of politics, but was elected as a delegate-at-large from new hampshire to the national convention of , and subsequently was chosen secretary of the national committee. he held this position during president grant's administrations, and devoted himself to the successful conduct of the campaigns of and . in he declined to occupy the position longer, but still contributed much of his time to assist in the conduct of the canvass. he had, during this time, become the owner of the largest interest in the _new hampshire statesman_ and the _monitor_, the leading weekly and daily republican papers in the state, at concord, and he was elected, in november, a member from concord to the constitutional convention which amended the constitution of the state. after voting in concord at the presidential election in , mr. chandler left for washington, reaching the fifth-avenue hotel, new york, in the early hours of the morning. the other managers of the national campaign had retired for the night, believing they were defeated; but, coincident with mr. chandler's arrival, news reached the committee-rooms that oregon had been carried by the republicans, which would elect hayes and wheeler by one vote. mr. chandler at once comprehended the situation and the points of danger, and, without waiting for consultation, sent dispatches warning against defeat by fraud, to oregon, florida, south carolina, and louisiana. at the urgent solicitation of prominent members of the party, he was prevailed upon to start immediately for florida, to protect the interests of the republican party. he there became counsel for the hayes electors before the canvassing board of the state, and it is universally admitted, by republicans and democrats alike, that to him more than to any other man is due the preservation to the republicans of the fruits of their victory in that state. when the contest was transferred from the states to congress, and, finally, before the electoral commission chosen to arbitrate and decide who had been elected president, mr. chandler acted as counsel, and assisted in preparing the case as presented to the commission. in the report of the special committee sent by the senate to investigate the election in florida, made january , , by senator sargent, of california, is contained a full statement of what the committee considered to be the law with reference to the conclusiveness of the declaration by a state canvassing board of the vote of the state for presidential electors, which was the earliest formal exposition of the principles of law which were finally adopted by the commission. the authorship of this statement is freely attributed by mr. sargent to mr. chandler, and the points, briefly stated, are as follows:-- i. the canvassing board was created by competent legislative authority, with jurisdiction to ascertain, declare, and certify, in due form, the result of the election, and in this case it did certify that the hayes electors had been chosen by nine hundred and thirty majority. this declaration, having been made by a tribunal having unquestioned jurisdiction over the subject-matter, is conclusive, and it has not been and cannot be reviewed, revised, or reversed, by any power anywhere existing. ii. it cannot be reversed by any authority proceeding from the state of florida. it cannot be reversed by a recanvass of the votes. iii. as the decision of the canvassing board, that the hayes electors were chosen, cannot be reversed by a recanvass, neither can the title of the electors be impaired upon proceedings of _quo warranto_. iv. if the declaration of the result of the election of presidential electors in florida, made by the state tribunal authorized by the legislature to make such declaration, cannot be reversed by any authority proceeding from the state of florida, neither can it be reversed by congress. the constitutional provision, section , article , is, "that each state shall appoint, in such manner as the legislature thereof shall direct, a number of electors equal," etc. it is not pretended by anyone that the president of the senate, or congress, in counting the electoral vote, can do more than merely ascertain whether or not the electors have been appointed within each state in the manner prescribed by the legislature thereof; and in the present case, if congress shall find that the result of the late election was ascertained and declared by the proper tribunal, created for that purpose and authorized by the legislature to make the declaration, that declaration and decision by such tribunal having jurisdiction over the subject-matter is final and conclusive upon congress, and cannot be reviewed, revised, or reversed. it does appear that the canvassing board of the state of florida, duly authorized by the legislature, canvassed the result of the election, and declared and certified that the hayes electors were chosen, which result appearing to the governor of the state, he issued certificates to the electors so declared chosen, and they proceeded to perform their functions. beyond this authorized decision and declaration of the proper state tribunal, it is respectfully submitted that neither the president of the senate nor congress can go. v. in stating this doctrine, that neither the president of the senate nor congress has the right, in counting the electoral vote from any state, to go beyond the decision of that tribunal authorized by the state legislature to ascertain and declare the result of the vote of the people of the state for electors, it is not meant to assert that the president of the senate, or congress, cannot go behind the mere ministerial certificate of the governor. it is the duty of the executive to give a certificate to the electors chosen in the manner the legislature may have appointed, and declared to be so chosen by the tribunal authorized by the legislature to make such declaration. but if the governor is, by the state statute, not a member of such tribunal, his certificate is as purely ministerial as that of the clerk of a court certifying a copy of a judgment. it is a valid certificate if it is in accordance with the facts appearing upon the record. it is utterly invalid and worthless if contrary to those facts. therefore the president of the senate, or congress, in canvassing the electoral votes, even ministerially, and with no authority to go beyond the declaration of the election made by the state tribunal authorized to decide the result of the election, may look beyond the mere ministerial certificate of the executive, who has been authorized to decide nothing, and whose certificate is of no value or binding force unless correctly and truthfully issued in accordance with the legally declared election. this distinction, which enables the president of the senate, or congress, to go behind the mere ministerial certificate of the governor of the state, but yet prohibits them from going behind the declaration as to the result of the election duly made by the proper state tribunal authorized to make such declaration, although technical, is as clear and distinct, and founded upon principles of law as sound and wise, as those which allow any tribunal to go behind a clerk's merely ministerial certificate purporting to verify the result of a verdict or judgment in court, without allowing it to go beyond the true record of the verdict or judgment itself. after mr. hayes had been by the commission declared elected president, when his administration surrendered the state governments of south carolina and louisiana into the hands of the democratic claimants, mr. chandler vigorously opposed it, and criticised the surrender and the men connected with it in most scathing terms, in letters published in the winter of - . his fidelity to his convictions of duty was conspicuous; and his courage and boldness in attacking the hayes administration gave him a lasting hold upon the confidence of the country. in he was elected at the head of the ticket of blaine delegates from new hampshire to the chicago convention, and was especially active in the contests in the national committee prior to the convention, and as a member of the committee on credentials, of which senator conger was chairman, and which made the successful report in favor of district representation. the following is an extract from the report of the committee on credentials:-- this long current of precedents, and this universal custom of the past, most conclusively establish the right of congressional district representation. it is a question of substance and not of form. whether the delegates have come certified from separate district conventions, or whether they have come from a state convention where the district members thereof have selected their district representatives, and formally reported them to the state convention, and their election has been certified, for brevity and convenience, only by the officers of the state convention, district representation in fact has always been allowed. the right of the congressional district to two members residing within it and representing its sentiments, has been treated as sacred, and your committee do not believe that it should be now for the first time invaded with the approval of a national convention. not only does the call for the convention, and the practice and precedents of the party in one unbroken line, indicate and secure the right of single district representation, but every consideration of the reason of the practice tends to confirm its wisdom. the purpose to be secured in nominating a president is the selection of a candidate the most likely to be accepted by the people; and the nearer we get to the popular feeling, in the manner of selecting delegates, the wiser and safer will be our nominations. if a state convention called to choose delegates to a national convention can, by a bare majority, over-rule the choices of the congressional districts and select delegates residing within the districts who do not represent its sentiments, they might as well he allowed to select all the delegates from one congressional district. residence within a district, coupled with misrepresentation of its sentiments, is a mockery. the delegates thus selected by a state convention will not fairly represent the masses of the republicans of the state, but frequently will misrepresent them. nominations made by conventions of such delegates will not be so likely to be ratified at the polls; and, in the opinion of the committee, it is the duty of the convention emphatically to disapprove these attempts to over-ride time-honored customs of the party, and to vindicate the right of every congressional district to be represented in a national convention by two delegates of its own selection, and expressing its own sentiments. when his favorite candidate was withdrawn in the convention, he supported general garfield, and during the campaign which resulted in his election was a member of the national committee and served on the executive committee. on march , , he was nominated, by president garfield, as solicitor-general in the department of justice; but his confirmation was opposed by attorney-general macveagh, and also by all the democratic senators, on account of his extreme radicalism on the southern question. the republicans, with vice-president arthur's vote, would have had one majority; but the whole democratic vote, the absence of the new york senators, the abstention of senator mitchell, and the adverse vote of senator cameron of pennsylvania, caused his rejection, on may , by five majority. mr. chandler had been, in november, , elected a member from concord in the state legislature, which assembled in june, , and he took a leading position. he favored stringent legislation against bribery at elections, and against the issuing of free passes by railroads, and was in favor of controlling by law the regulation of freight and fares upon all railroads within the state. after the close of the session of the legislature, when consolidation was effected between certain massachusetts and new hampshire railroads without the consent of the proper authorities, and against the law, he contended against their action in the courts, in the press, and in all legitimate ways. its success would have placed the whole railroad interest in the lines running through the center of the state and their branches under the control of massachusetts capital and massachusetts corporations. his legal positions have been sustained by the court, and the custody and control of the roads ordered to be taken and exercised by their rightful owners. the latest honor conferred upon mr. chandler was his selection by president arthur as a member of his cabinet. he was nominated, april , , for secretary of the navy, and confirmed april , by a vote of twenty-eight to sixteen; he qualified and took possession of the office, april , . in closing this sketch of a busy and useful life, i must add a few words appreciative of the character of one whom as a boy and man i have known for forty years. in his personal habits mr. chandler is above reproach,--pure in speech as in action,--with a mind quick to perceive, prompt to execute, and comprehensive in its scope. he is a man with convictions and the courage to express and maintain them. he has never sought advancement by flattery or pandering to prejudice. those who know him best have the most faith in his integrity. the best evidence of it is the fact that in twenty-five years of aggressive political life, while occupying positions of temptation, and criticising freely the action of men who forgot their moral obligations or were shirking their official duties to the detriment of the public good, no one of them has been able to connect him with personal dishonesty, corrupt practice in official life, or political treachery or double-dealing. his methods are direct, positive, systematic, exact, and logical. the positions he has held have all come to him in recognition of his ability and earnest efforts in serving the cause he espouses. mr. chandler has been twice married,--in , to a daughter of gov. joseph a. gilmore, and in , to a daughter of hon. john p. hale. he has three sons,--joseph gilmore, born in ; william dwight, in ; and lloyd horwitz, in . mr. chandler's father died in . his mother is still living in concord. he has two brothers,--john k. chandler, formerly a merchant in boston and the east indies, now residing on a farm in canterbury, n. h.; and george h. chandler, who was first adjutant and afterwards major of the ninth new hampshire regiment, and is now a lawyer in baltimore. mr. chandler's father was a whig, a man of great intelligence and firmness of character. his mother is a woman of equally positive traits, and has contributed much to the formation of the character which has given success to her sons. [illustration: wm. c. clarke.] hon. william c. clarke. among the public men of new hampshire who have lately passed away, none was more widely known in the state, or more sincerely respected, than hon. william cogswell clarke, of manchester. he was born in atkinson, n. h., december , , being the eldest son of greenleaf and julia (cogswell) clarke. his father was a farmer and master-mason, the constructor of many fine business buildings in the neighboring town of haverhill, mass., and a highly esteemed citizen of atkinson, where he served as selectman and justice of the peace. he was descended from nathaniel clarke, a merchant of newbury, mass., who died in , and from capt. edmund greenleaf, of that place, an officer of repute in the wars of the early colonists with the indians. the wife of greenleaf clarke was a daughter of dr. william cogswell, of atkinson, who was a surgeon in the revolutionary army, and at one time chief of the military hospital at west point. william c. clarke pursued his early studies at atkinson academy, of which his maternal grandfather was one of the founders, and then entered dartmouth college, at the age of eighteen years. he was graduated with high honors in the class of , which included professors noyes and sanborn, of dartmouth, and the late samuel h. taylor, ll.d., the noted instructor at andover, mass. immediately becoming principal of gilmanton academy, he held the position for one year, while beginning the study of law. he continued his legal studies in the harvard law school, in the office of stephen moody, at gilmanton, and in that of stephen c. lyford, at meredith bridge, now laconia, n. h. on his admission to the bar, in , he began practice in the latter town, and on the creation of belknap county, at the close of , he was appointed county solicitor. he held this position until the spring of , when he removed to manchester, and continued the practice of his profession. two years later he was one of a committee of seven chosen by the town to petition the legislature for a city charter, and at the first city election, in august, , was the democratic candidate for mayor. there being two other candidates, there was no choice, and he withdrew his name before the second ballot, in september. in the same year, however, he consented to act as chief engineer of the fire department of the young city, and he retained this position till the close of , having a number of leading citizens as his assistants. in he was elected to the office of city solicitor, which he held for two years, and in he served as a member of the state constitutional convention. appointed the judge of probate for hillsborough county in , he obtained the judicial title which clung to him thereafter. in he was again the democratic candidate for mayor, but the whig ticket was successful. a year later judge clarke was tendered, by governor metcalf, an appointment to the bench of the supreme court, but declined the position. as judge of probate he discharged his duties with high public approval, but his removal from this office, in , was included in the sweeping political changes which began in . in he served as a member of the manchester board of aldermen. soon after the death of the hon. john sullivan, he was appointed, in , to succeed him as attorney-general of the state; and, receiving a re-appointment in , he continued to fill the office until his death in . from the time of his admission to the bar until he became the chief prosecuting officer of the state, judge clarke was actively engaged in private legal practice. he early acquired the reputation of a sound and able lawyer, and obtained an extensive clientage. as attorney-general he was highly successful in the performance of his duties, to which he devoted himself with conscientious faithfulness. recognizing the semi-judicial character of his office, he did not allow the zeal of the advocate to outweigh more important considerations, and, in cases where a minor offense had been committed for the first time, he frequently caused indictments to be suspended, so as to give the culprit both a chance and a stimulus to reform. hardened or flagrant criminals he pursued with the rigor demanded by the interests of justice, leaving no stone unturned in his efforts to secure their conviction. he drew all his indictments with the greatest care, and it is said that no one of the number was ever set aside. he took equal pains with the preparation of evidence and of his arguments in all important causes. these cases included a number of murder trials which attracted wide attention when in progress, and which afforded marked proof of his legal skill. his sense of duty being above all other considerations, he was unmoved by all attempts to affect his official course by private appeals or by any species of personal influence. judge clarke had a marked distaste for ordinary politics and the arts of the politician. on the few occasions when he consented to be a candidate for an elective office, he did not seek the nomination, but accepted it at the request of his friends. firmly believing, however, in the original principles of the democratic party, he often gave his voice and pen to their support, and was long a prominent member of that party in new hampshire. when the rebellion broke out he did not hesitate a moment in regard to his political course, but was among the foremost of those who urged all citizens to sink minor party differences and rally to sustain the imperiled government. during this crisis he was active in calling and addressing many public meetings, which pledged aid to the most vigorous measures for the defense of the union. at the great war mass-meeting held in concord, n. h., on the th of june. ,--which was attended by thirty thousand people, from all parts of the state, and was addressed by men of national eminence, including a member of president lincoln's cabinet,--judge clarke called the assembly to order, and read the call, after which he was chosen the first vice-president. being dissatisfied with the attitude toward the war assumed by many of the leaders of the democratic party, he was largely instrumental in organizing the zealous war democrats of the state into a third, or "union," party, which nominated a separate ticket for state officers in and . this organization was not maintained after the latter year, and judge clarke thenceforward voted with the republican party; but, after the early years of the war, he refrained from any active participation in politics, which he regarded as inconsistent with the nature of his duties as attorney-general. he was one of the original directors of the manchester bank, serving from till , and of the city bank, with which he was connected from till . he was also a trustee of the manchester savings bank from until his death. for many years he was a trustee of the manchester atheneum, and when this was succeeded by the city library, in , he was chosen a member and clerk of the board of trustees of the latter institution, retaining both positions during the rest of his life. he was the first treasurer of the manchester & lawrence railroad company, holding that office from july , , till his resignation took effect, february , ; and he was the clerk of that company from february , , until he died, being also its attorney when engaged in private legal practice. he was a trustee of gilmanton academy, and in was a member of the national board of visitors to the united states military academy at west point. judge clarke was one of the earliest members of the franklin-street congregational church in manchester, and one of the original officers of the society, to both of which he rendered valuable service. some mention of his personal appearance should not be omitted, as he was a man of unusually distinguished presence, having a large, finely proportioned figure, with a handsome, dignified head and face. without undue formality, his manners were invariably courteous and refined. with excellent literary tastes, he possessed much general information, and was very attractive in conversation. though rigid in his sense of right and wrong, he was eminently charitable in his views of others, having a broad tolerance of opinions which differed from his own. his disposition was genial, and his kindness of heart unfailing. he was married, in , to anna maria greeley, only daughter of the late stephen l. greeley, esq., of gilmanton, n. h. his wife survives him, with four children,--stephen greeley, anna norton, julia cogswell, and greenleaf. the death of judge clarke occurred at his home in manchester on april , , and was the cause of wide-spread sorrow. at his funeral there was a large attendance of prominent citizens from many parts of the state. resolutions of regret and eulogy were adopted by the city bar, the hillsborough-county bar, the manchester common council, and various other bodies with which he had been connected. in the resolutions of the common council he was spoken of as "one who, as a former member of the city government, and its legal public adviser, served it with marked fidelity and ability, and who, by his many virtues, had won the confidence and esteem of his fellow-citizens." his associates of the manchester bar declared that "he was a faithful officer, a wise counselor, a respected citizen, and a christian gentleman. he was courteous in manner, efficient in duty, upright in character, and an ornament to his profession." in the resolutions adopted by the bar of hillsborough county, and entered upon the records of the supreme court, judge clarke was described as "a public officer faithful and upright, discharging his official duties with signal ability; a lawyer of large experience in his profession, of well balanced judgment and discretion, well read in the principles of the law, and faithful alike to the court and his client; a citizen patriotic and public-spirited; in his private relations, a gentleman of unblemished reputation, distinguished for his high-toned character, affable manners, and uniform courtesy; and illustrating in his public and private life the character of a christian gentleman, governed by the principles which he was not ashamed to profess." hon. archibald harris dunlap. by rev. w. r. cochrane. mr. dunlap comes of strong, sturdy, presbyterian stock and scotch ancestry, of which he is a characteristic and worthy representative. archibald dunlap came from the scotch settlement in ireland and located in chester, n. h., in , or a little earlier. he married martha neal, whom he found in chester. she was of scotch race, and her father, joseph neal, was among the presbyterians that petitioned the legislature, in , to be freed from paying a second tax to support a congregational minister. the third child of archibald was maj. john dunlap of revolutionary memory. maj. john was born in chester in ; married martha gilmore; settled in bedford; was a farmer on a large scale; was a manufacturer of furniture; and acquired a large property. he was a famous military man in his day; and on one occasion entertained his entire regiment at his house, at his own expense. one of the incidents of the day was the rolling out of a barrel of _new england rum_ and setting it on end, staving in the head, and the soldiers were allowed to help themselves to their heart's content. john dunlap, son of maj. john, went to antrim when a young man, and built at the north branch village in that town. he married jennie, daughter of dea. jonathan nesmith, of antrim, june , . he carried on the cabinet-making business at the branch village many years. about the year he introduced the manufacture of ladies' and gentlemen's knit underclothing, and made looms for that purpose; and it was probably the first thing of the kind ever known in this state, and was considered a great curiosity. in , mr. dunlap put up a factory in south antrim,--now known as the "silk-factory." he died december , , in ripe old age. hon. archibald harris dunlap, son of john and jennie (nesmith) dunlap, was born in north branch village, antrim, september , . he passed through the usual routine of country boys in that day,--hard work the year round, except a few weeks at school in the winter. april , , in company with his oldest brother, the late robert n. dunlap, of zanesville, o., he left antrim to strike out in the world for himself. with a small bundle of effects in one hand and a pilgrim's staff in the other, these two boys started out in the dim light of the early morning for a journey on foot to nashua,--nearly thirty-five miles. "harris," as every one then called him, was only thirteen and one half years old when he thus turned his back upon his pleasant cottage home and faced the battle, come as it might. this shows the stuff he was made of. the scotch grit and zeal and powers of endurance were manifest in that first journey. painters and poets have dwelt upon subjects far less worthy of remembrance than that boy's march of thirty-five miles, inspired only by the determination to succeed in spite of poverty and toil. [illustration: a. h. dunlap.] as the weary hours of the forenoon wore away, and they began to feel the strain upon their physical strength, the boys consulted together as they walked, as to what refreshments they could afford. the arguments of the occasion are not handed down; but it was decided, considering the low state of the treasury, that a "_glass of brandy apiece would do the most good for the money_." (the temperance reform had not reached the people then!) so at the next tavern, just above mont vernon, they called for the brandy,--which was brought out in _one glass_,--and they divided it as fairly as they could. then they passed on to amherst, and taking a little _solid_ refreshment, such as a country store ordinarily affords, _without_ brandy, and spending an hour for rest, then they started on the eleven dreary miles that lay between that place and nashua. the younger boy said he "thought the last five miles never _would_ come to an end;" but they _did_ end, and nashua was reached late in the afternoon. i have heard mr. dunlap say, that, however many better and wiser boys may have reached that city, certainly a more tired one never did than he! saturday, april , his first day in nashua in which he was to be so prominent, he spent in looking over the place. on the sabbath, having been brought up to go to meeting and to the sabbath-school, he attended mr. nott's church, of which he had heard in antrim. he was turned into a side gallery with a lot of boys; but the solemnity of years was upon him as he looked on that large, strange audience on his first sabbath of absence from home. the impression made upon him will never be forgotten. that day he cast his anchor in with that people, and it has held ever since. the strange country boy that looked and listened with so much feeling that day is now, after fifty years, one of the leading spirits in that church, while nearly all the vast audience he looked upon have passed away! the poor boy reached the highest place! he early became a member of the church; was deacon in the olive-street church from till its recent union with the pearl-street church; was then chosen deacon in the united or pilgrim church; and was chairman of their building committee in the erection of the new and stately edifice of . about that time ( ) "nashua village" had begun to attract attention. the nashua manufacturing company and the indian head company were completing cotton-mills. in one of those erected by the latter company, col. william boardman was setting up the heavy machinery; and for him the boy of whom we write went to work for his _board_ until he could do better. the colonel gave him his dinner, and that was the price of his first half-day's work in nashua. but that afternoon (monday, april ,) ziba gay, esq., manufacturer of machinery, sent for him and engaged him for the summer. the boy of thirteen years, and stranger to all, had found a place in the great machine-shop! here he staid till the fall of the same year, when he left to enter franklin academy, under prof. benjamin m. tyler. remaining at this institution till the spring of , he returned to nashua and entered the service of the nashua manufacturing company, where he continued till the fall of . then, being disabled from active labor by an accident, he left, and entered francestown academy, under charge of prof. benj. f. wallace. at the close of the fall term he went home to his native town and attended the winter district school, taught by edward l. vose, esq. here, in a small unpainted school-house on the southward slope of "meeting-house hill," he "graduated" in the early spring of . whether the "graduating exercises" were of a "high order" the record does not say; but certainly they were as rich with promise as some of greater sound and name. and now, after all this varied and often rough experience, a. h. dunlap was only seventeen years old! large in body, sound in mind, fearless, independent, upright, and tested by hard discipline, he was just the man to succeed. at once he returned to nashua and resumed his place in the mills of the nashua company, where he remained three years. then at the age of twenty he was made an overseer in the indian head mills. in this business he remained till the spring of , when he was compelled to abandon it on account of failing health. then he was in trade two years in franklin, n. h. then ( ) he returned to nashua and commenced the garden-seed business, in which he has been very successful, and which he still continues under the firm name of a. h. dunlap & sons. "dunlap's garden seeds" are known all over the land. mr. dunlap has had the confidence of the people of nashua, as shown by the many trusts committed to him, and the offices he has held in the city government. he was a representative from nashua in the legislature of the state two years, and . in he was elected railroad commissioner for three years. in he was chosen one of the presidential electors for new hampshire, and had the honor of casting one of the electoral votes for that great and good man, abraham lincoln, whom all men now have learned to love and honor. he is one of the directors of the nashua & rochester railroad, and is a trustee of the new hampshire banking company. he has always cherished a deep interest in his native town, and his address at her centennial celebration, in , was among the best of the many able efforts on that occasion. he aided nobly, both by investigation and by gifts of money, in preparing the recently published history of antrim. mr. dunlap married lucy jane fogg, of exeter, august , . she was the daughter of josiah fogg, of raymond, and grand-daughter of maj. josiah fogg, who came from hampton and settled, in , in that part of chester set off as the town of raymond in . maj. fogg was prominent in chester before the separation; and paid the highest "parish and state and war tax" in raymond in . the fogg family is traced back in england and wales to the year a. d. the first of the name in this country was samuel fogg, who came to hampton in . the children of hon. a. h. and lucy j. (fogg) dunlap are james h., georgie a., john f., abbie j., and charles h. [illustration: a. m. shaw.] hon. albert m. shaw. by a. w. baker. albert m. shaw, of lebanon, is a native of poland, me., born may , . he came to, and has spent most of his active life in, new hampshire, where a wide field for the exercise of his energy and abilities was open to him. his parents, francis and olive (garland) shaw, had four children,--three sons and a daughter,--of whom albert m. is the oldest. mr. shaw's father was a successful merchant, able and willing to give his children the advantages of a fair education, and such special training as would fit them for callings towards which their proclivities and natural abilities inclined them. at the age of twenty, albert, having acquired such an education as could be obtained in the public schools of his native state, went to boston and spent nearly two years in the study of civil engineering and practical work for building railroads. he had made such progress that he was engaged to assist in the construction of a branch railroad from the boston & providence road to stoughton, a distance of about six miles, and executed this assignment so well that he was made superintendent of the work of constructing a branch railroad from natick to framingham, and afterwards was engaged in the construction of the old colony road, which occupied him until . previous to this, preparation had been made to build the northern railroad from concord to west lebanon. he came to new hampshire in , and engaged in the building of the road, and remained on the road until the entire line was completed. with this road he has been closely identified nearly ever since. for eighteen years he was its civil engineer and road-master; and during the entire time that the late ex-governor stearns was its president was his trusted and confidential adviser and executive officer. he has also served in its board of directors, and superintended the construction of its principal branches, including the sugar river and peterborough & hillsborough roads. the activity of mr. shaw has, however, been by no means satisfied with his duties upon the northern road. since he has been engaged in the building of the kennebec & portland road in maine, the portsmouth road in this state, the air-line road from rochester to syracuse in new york, and that from waterloo to huntington mines in canada, besides the building of the granite hosiery-mills at franklin, and the carrying to a successful conclusion many private enterprises for himself and others. in he was called to the important position of superintendent of road-way of the central vt., and its branches. while building the northern road he became acquainted with caroline dearborn emery, of andover, whom he married in , and soon after located his home in the beautiful village of lebanon, where he still resides with his wife and two sons, william f., and albert o., who are engaged in business near by. his only daughter, mary estelle, died in . the same qualities which have made mr. shaw successful in business have given him prominence in social and political life. he has always taken great pride in lebanon, and has been a leader in most of the projects which have added to her beauty and stability. his support has, from the first, helped establish her schools, strengthen her churches, and sustain her social and charitable associations, and his enterprise has contributed largely to her material prosperity. in politics, mr. shaw is a republican who works hard, manages shrewdly, and gives liberally, that his party may win. he doesn't like to be beaten, and seldom is. he has done much for his neighbors and friends, and they have lost no opportunity to honor him. in the stormy days of and , when strong men were needed, he was sent to the popular branch of the state legislature, to which he was returned in . in he was sent by the governor to look after the interests of new hampshire soldiers on that ever memorable field of gettysburg, a duty for which his warm sympathies and his executive ability eminently fitted him. in he represented lebanon in the constitutional convention, and in and was the state senator from that district. he was appointed a consul to the province of quebec by president lincoln in , was a presidential elector in , and in was one of the three commissioners appointed by gov. prescott to build the new state-prison. in all of these positions, his extensive knowledge of public affairs, his tact in dealing with men, and his skill and courage in overcoming opposition have enabled him to acquit himself with great credit, and render those for whom he acted most valuable service. the prison, which is one of the few public buildings in this country that cost less than the estimates, is a monument to his business capacity and strict integrity. he is a great reader on scientific matters, is interested in books of travel and adventure, especially in those relating to the arctic regions, and gratifies his taste in the collection of a library. mr. shaw is a royal arch mason, and takes an interest in the mystic art. he attends the methodist church, and is a liberal contributor to all that pertains to the success of that society. the worthy poor find in him a sympathizing friend, always prepared to contribute to their necessities in a most liberal manner. he is good to himself, and true and generous to his friends. mr. shaw is fond of hunting and fishing, loves the woods and streams for their own sakes, as well as for the relief and rest they afford him; amid the busy employments of his life some part of the season is pretty sure to find him "camped" in the wilds of northern new hampshire or maine. mr. shaw has many acquaintances among the prominent men of the day. as a companion he is lively, genial, fond of fun, relishes a joke at the expense of others, and can take one at his own expense with becoming meekness, if it will not be otherwise spoiled. he is at present engaged in caring for the large property interests which have resulted from so long a term of skillful industry and sagacious calculation. [illustration: b f martin] col. benjamin franklin martin. benjamin f. martin, who has been prominently identified with the paper-making industry of new england for many years, and is widely known as one of manchester's wealthy and influential citizens, is the son of a vermont farmer. his parents were truman and mary (noyes) martin, whose homestead was at peacham, where they resided with their five sons and four daughters. their son benjamin franklin was born july , , and passed his youth at home, attending the short district schools, and filling the long vacations with farm work and the few recreations that were then open to farmers' boys. he also had the advantage of some instruction at the peacham academy, and when he arrived at the age of eighteen was thought to be sufficiently educated in books to begin a business career, to which he was naturally inclined. he accordingly went to meredith bridge, now laconia, to learn paper-making in a mill owned by an older brother. he spent one year in this mill, and then next served as a journeyman in one at millbury, mass., where he acquired a thorough knowledge of the business. mr. martin then formed a partnership with a brother-in-law, the late thomas rice, for the manufacture of paper at newton lower falls, mass., where he remained until , when he removed to middleton, mass., and purchased a mill there, which he successfully operated for nine years. in he had arranged to locate in lawrence, mass., but the inducements offered him to go to manchester were sufficient to change his plans, and he at once commenced the erection of a mill at amoskeag falls. this was soon completed, and in it mr. martin carried on for twelve years an extensive and profitable business. in he sold it to hudson keeney, but four years later repurchased it, and continued to operate it until , when he sold the establishment to john hoyt & co., and retired to enjoy the fruits of his well directed industry and sagacity. the demands of his business have left mr. martin little time for office-holding; but in and he represented ward three in the common council, and in was a member of the board of aldermen. in and he was a member of the state legislature, and also served as a colonel on the staff of gov. gilmore. in he was a delegate to the national convention that nominated abraham lincoln. he was elected a director of the merrimack river bank when it was organized, in , and was chosen its president in , but resigned the next year. he was one of the first trustees of the merrimack river five cent savings bank, and its vice-president in . he was a director of the manchester bank under its state charter, and has since held a similar position in the manchester national bank, and is a trustee in the manchester savings bank. he has long been connected with the portsmouth and manchester & lawrence railroads as a director, and since has been president of the manchester & lawrence. he is now president of the manchester gas company. col. martin married, january , , mary ann rice, of boston, a sister of hon. alexander h. and willard rice, by whom he has had three daughters, fanny r., the wife of hon. george b. chandler, being the only one now living. mr. martin is, in the best sense of the term, a successful business man. he is a master of the art of paper-making, which was carried in his mill to a high degree of perfection. his standing in the commercial world is such as only a long and uninterrupted course of honorable dealing and unexceptional promptness in responding to every obligation secures. he was quick to see the possibilities of his business, always ready to improve opportunities, and judicious in the execution of all his plans. in manchester, he is highly honored and respected as a citizen, whose prosperity contributed to that of others, and as a man whose integrity is beyond suspicion, and whose private life is above reproach. he has been a great help to the city in which he has acquired most of his wealth, not only in building one of her great factories in which hundreds of men have found steady and profitable employment, but in giving liberally to her charities and other institutions which have depended upon the generosity of the public, and in discharging all the duties of a public-spirited citizen. he has long been one of the chief supporters of the episcopal church, where he worships, and a willing helper of the republican party, with which he has always acted. his home is one of the most elegant in manchester; and it is the home of good taste, comfort, happiness, and hospitality. [illustration: dexter richards] hon. dexter richards. by joseph w. parmelee. from the twelve immigrants of the name of richards that originally came from england to this country, at different times, in the years from to , have come, as may be seen by the records of the new england historic-genealogical society, in boston, a great number of descendants, who, from the beginning, have borne a royal part in the toils and trials and hardships of our early time, and who are to-day represented in the learned professions, the arts, commerce, and manufactures, and general business of this great country. the sixth of these immigrants, in point of time, was edward richards, a passenger in the ship lion, from london, who landed in boston, september , . his brother, nathaniel, was also a passenger. nathaniel afterward joined the party of rev. mr. hooker,--a memorable expedition,--and with it traversed the then howling wilderness to the valley of the connecticut, and was among the founders of hartford. edward richards was, for a time, resident at cambridge, mass., where he married, september , , susan hunting. he was afterward one of the sixty-two original proprietors of the town of dedham, near boston, where he lived, and died in , and where many of his descendants are to be found at this time. we follow the descent of the line from edward ( ), through john ( ), john ( ), john ( ), abiathar ( ), to sylvanus in the sixth generation, who, about the beginning of this century, moved, with his family, to newport, n. h., where he settled on a large tract of land in the western part of the township, on what is known as the old road to claremont. the place is now ( ) in possession of shepard h. cutting. mr. richards was, for some years, one of the largest land-holders and tax-payers in the town. in connection with his farming business he kept a way-side inn, where rest and refreshment awaited the dusty and chilly traveler,--man and beast. this was nearly three-quarters of a century before the scream of the locomotive was ever heard in this part of new hampshire, a time when the people were mostly dependent upon their own resources, in regard to methods of travel and transportation. about the year , sylvanus richards moved to newport village, and became the proprietor of the "rising sun" tavern, a house originally built and occupied as a public house by gordon buell, the father of the late mrs. sarah j. hale, of philadelphia, the accomplished writer and editor of the _lady's book_. it was in this house that dexter richards was born. of the four children, all sons, born to sylvanus and lucy (richardson) his wife, was seth richards ( ), born in dedham, mass., february , , who grew up to aid him in his business, and ultimately succeeded to the proprietorship of the "rising sun." the writer remembers capt. seth richards as a man of great personal activity and tact in business, of irreproachable integrity in all his transactions with his fellow-men through a long and busy life, genial and benevolent, a downright gentleman of the old school, and in his departure leaving a place in the social and business affairs of this community exceedingly difficult to fill. he was often called by his fellow-citizens to fill town offices and places of trust and responsibility, and was chosen as a representative to the state legislature in . after leaving the hotel he turned his attention to the mercantile business, and was for some time a clerk in the store of erastus baldwin, one of the earlier merchants of the town. in , when the cheneys retired from newport, he purchased their stock and trade, and the "old stand," and continued the business successfully for many years, or until about the year , when he became interested in the sugar river flannel-mills,--of which we shall have more to say hereafter,--and finally retired from active life about the year . captain richards married, april , , fanny richards, of dedham, mass., and to them were born, in the years from to , two sons and six daughters. in regard to the family of seth and fanny richards, we may say that no more pleasant and hospitable home ever opened its doors in newport. they died in the faith and communion of the congregational church. fanny died august , . seth died october , . of the children of seth and fanny richards, was dexter, born september , , who is more particularly the subject of this sketch. tracing his genealogy, we find him in the eighth generation from edward in the line of the american richardses. to say that dexter richards was born with a silver spoon in his mouth would belie the facts in the case; but to say that he comes through a worthy line of ancestors, and that he inherits their good and noble qualities and best abilities, will meet our case at the threshold. he has some time said that he never had any childhood or youth, in the common acceptation of the term; that in his early years his parents were in moderate circumstances, and, being the eldest son of a family mostly daughters, he was called to work, and think of ways and means for promoting their welfare. while other lads of his age were engaged in their sports and pastimes, or enjoying public occasions like the old-fashioned trainings and musters, fourth-of-july celebrations, or town-meetings and court days, he early manifested a natural tact for business, by engaging in some juvenile enterprise by which to turn an honest penny with the crowd. the public school in district number two afforded him an opportunity for learning the rudiments of knowledge, which was eagerly improved, summer and winter, as he could be spared from other duties. when about eighteen years of age he finished his education, so far as schools are concerned, with a term or two at a high school in lebanon, under the tutelage of the late eminent prof. edmund r. peaslee. mr. richards has, therefore, never been through with what is termed a regular course of study, and comes to us with no diploma from college or hall. the most important part of his education has been acquired outside the schools, in the great university of active life, and is of the most practical character. politically, he was reared in the democratic faith; but, when the union of the states was assailed, the action of the democratic party in regard to the great questions of that day not being in accord with his views he withdrew from it, and affiliated with the republican party, just then commencing its career. the ranks of this great party, that has for more than twenty years dominated in this country, were greatly augmented and strengthened by such acquisitions from the democratic party; men who arose in their might, declaring the patriotic sentiment of their old leader and hero, andrew jackson,--"the union must and shall be preserved." in regard to his public career, mr. richards was many times, when quite a young man, elected to serve on the board of selectmen. in the years , , and , he represented the town in the state legislature. in and he was a member, from this district, of the executive council, and about that time a delegate to the republican national convention at philadelphia, that nominated general grant for his second term of the presidency. in he was a delegate to the convention for revising the constitution of the state; and, so far as his official course is concerned, from the beginning it has been distinguished by eminent ability and the strictest integrity. the "spoils," so-called, have never been his object in accepting offices of trust at the hands of his constituents. he has found his reward more in the faithful and conscientious performance of his duty. in regard to the business career of mr. richards, we may say it has been characterized by great industry and enterprise, on a basis of good judgment, and in a spirit of fair dealing throughout. we have already alluded to his early inclination to buy and sell and get gain in a small way, as a boy, and in this respect the child foreshadowed the man. during the years of his minority he was the faithful and efficient coadjutor of his father in all his plans and purposes, and particularly so when capt. seth richards succeeded to the mercantile business at the old cheney stand, about the year . in the management of this business the son was a most important factor, and on coming of age became a partner with his father. the business was well managed and profitable, and with it came prosperity to the richards family, and to dexter richards the foundation and assurance of future successes in life. about the year , richards & son came to be interested in a flannel-mill in newport, that, possibly, had not heretofore been very successfully managed. the history of this concern may be briefly stated as follows:-- the sugar river mills were built in , by perley s. coffin and john puffer. about the year , richards & son (dexter) succeeded by purchase to the original interest of john puffer, then owned by d. j. goodridge. on the retirement of the senior richards, in , changes were made by which the entire establishment came into possession of dexter richards, mr. coffin retiring from the concern with a handsome fortune. in the prosecution of the business up to this time, the parties interested had been singularly favored by circumstances that brought disaster to many other firms and business men throughout our northern towns and cities. we have reference to the great civil war that about this time ( - ) so much disturbed the commerce of the country. of the gray twilled flannels produced by the sugar river mills, a large stock had accumulated at this time. the goods were well adapted to the wants of laborers, and particularly the soldiers in the union army. the war created a demand; prices appreciated; the machinery was kept running night and day; the flannels found ready sale as fast as they could be produced; and the success of the sugar river mills was henceforth assured. in the mean time, the establishment had been greatly enlarged and improved, and was turning out about eight hundred thousand yards of flannel yearly. in , seth mason richards, the eldest son of dexter richards, a young man just entered upon his majority, was admitted to a partnership with his father. enlargements and improvements have continued from time to time, and the condition of the establishment at this date ( ) may be stated as follows: dexter richards & son, proprietors; capital stock, $ , . s. m. richards, superintendent; arthur r. chase, secretary. it gives steady employment to eighty-five operatives; runs eight sets of cards, forty-four narrow looms, fifteen spinning-machines; works up two hundred and eighty thousand pounds of cotton and wool, and turns out annually nearly one million yards of gray twilled flannel. the trade-mark (d. r. p.) of these goods is well known, among dealers and others, throughout the country, and the products of the factory find market and ready sale through commission merchants in boston, new york, philadelphia, and chicago. up to the year , the manufacturing and agricultural interests of newport and the towns adjoining had achieved all the prosperity it was possible for them to attain without railroad facilities to enable them to compete successfully with other places in the enjoyment of such facilities. as early as , the concord & claremont railroad company had been incorporated, and in the road had been put in operation to bradford. from bradford to claremont the rugged nature of the route was appalling to engineers and contractors, and particularly so to capitalists who were expected to construct the road. the enterprise here came to a stand. further efforts, legislative and otherwise, to continue the work, were made without success, and for twenty-one years the heavy-laden stages and teams continued to toil on over the weary hills, to and fro, waiting for some able and friendly hand to establish a new order of things, and deliver them. in the meantime, the war of the rebellion, that had absorbed the thought and labor and capital of the country, had come and gone, and "enterprises of great pith and moment," that had long slumbered, were again revived,--day dawned again upon the sugar river railroad. in the year , mainly through the influence of dexter richards, then a member of the legislature, and his enterprise as a citizen, the sugar river railroad company, now known as the concord & claremont railroad company, was chartered. the means to revive and continue the building of the road through to claremont were furnished by the northern railroad company, aided by large assessments on the towns on the route of the road. the town of newport, by official act, became responsible for forty-five thousand dollars, or about five per cent on its valuation. in addition to this amount, the further sum of twenty thousand dollars was required to assure the continuance and completion of the work. of this amount, mr. richards became liable for eleven thousand dollars, and other parties interested made up the remaining nine thousand dollars. the assurance of sixty-five thousand dollars from the town of newport secured the construction of the road through to claremont beyond a doubt. the road was soon afterward completed, and the first regular train from bradford to claremont passed through newport, september , . it was also through the instrumentality of mr. richards, that in july, , the wires of the western union telegraph company were extended and in operation to this town. of the one thousand dollars subscribed by citizens of newport to secure this great facility of communication, three-fourths of the amount were paid by him. mr. richards has identified himself with the friends of education, and dartmouth college particularly, by the endowment of a scholarship in that venerable and favorite institution of learning. he has also contributed liberally to the support of kimball union academy, at meriden, of which he is one of the trustees. he is also one of the founders and benefactors of the orphans' home, at franklin, and a trustee of the new hampshire asylum for the insane, at concord, benevolent institutions that are an honor to our state. the congregational church and society, of newport, of which mr. richards has been for many years a member, are greatly indebted to him for their present substantial prosperity. he has identified himself not only with the ample support of the ministry of this time-honored church, its mission work, its charities, local and remote; its sunday-school,--of which, up to , when he retired from the position, he had been for more than twenty years the superintendent,--but with the improvements and additions to its buildings and grounds, and the erection of its parsonage. at an expense of some two thousand five hundred dollars, he has placed a large and fine-toned organ in the choir, as a memorial of a beloved daughter (elizabeth) who died in the year , in the twenty-first year of her age. to complete the list of interests that wait on mr. richards for his attention, we find his name as one of the directors of the eastern railroad in new hampshire; and, also, one of the directors of the n. h. fire insurance company, at manchester. he is the president of the first national bank of newport. he was also one of the founders and the first president of the newport savings bank, chartered july , , and now in successful operation. he married, january , , louisa frances, daughter of the late dr. mason hatch, a long time highly esteemed physician and citizen of newport. of the six children born to them in the years from to , three only survive: seth mason, born june , , now a partner with his father in the sugar river mills establishment, in which he has exhibited superior business qualities, and bids fair to become a useful and influential citizen of the town and state. josephine ellen, born october , , a graduate of the female seminary, at andover, mass., and the founder of a scholarship in honor of her _alma mater_. during the years and , miss richards, with a party of friends, sought entertainment and culture from an extended tour in europe, visiting egypt and palestine in the course of their trip. william francis, born january , , is now ( ) a student connected with phillips academy, andover, mass. the richards family have a delightful cottage at straw's point, rye beach, where an unaffected hospitality, as well as the breath of the sea, await their friends during the summer months. there are several instances in the history of newport of men who, having acquired wealth in their dealings with its citizens, have removed to more important places to enjoy the spending and investing of their incomes, without leaving behind them any visible improvement in the way of buildings, or a public good of any kind,--nothing but a memory of their insatiate avarice, followed by unsparing criticisms. such a record can never be made of dexter richards. with increasing ability in the way of means, he has manifested a corresponding disposition to improve the physical aspect of his native town. he has placed on the street not only his elegant private residence, but houses for rent, and substantial and sightly blocks of buildings for business purposes. he has improved his factory buildings and grounds, built barns, cultivated lands, produced crops, interested himself in improved breeds of cattle and horses, thus giving employment to many working men and hands, and increased the productive industry of the town and its general valuation in many respects, aside from his manufacturing interest, as indicated by the assessment for taxation. he is by far the largest tax-payer in newport, and one of the largest in sullivan county and the state of new hampshire. he has managed his private affairs and the public business, as far as it has been intrusted to his care, with superior ability; and now in his mature prime of life, should the state require his further service, his past record and present position would afford an abundant guarantee for the able fulfillment of any future or more important trust. hon. david hanson buffum. david hanson buffum was born in the town of north berwick, county of york, and state of maine, on the tenth day of november, . he was the oldest child and only son of timothy and anna (austin) buffum. his mother was a native of dover,--a daughter of nathaniel austin. his father--who manufactured furniture and carriages to a limited extent--died when the subject of this notice was but six years of age, leaving also two sisters still younger. subsequently his mother was united in marriage with william hussey, and at her death, fifteen years afterward, two children were left as the result of this marriage. still later mr. hussey was united in marriage with mary j. hanson, and, at his death, in , two children remained as the result of this union. this presented the rather singular and unusual occurrence, that three children by one marriage and two children by another were _half-brothers and half-sisters_ to two children by a third union, and yet were _in no way related to each other_. the care of the fatherless six-years-old boy and of the two little sisters still younger was too much for the very slender resources of the widowed mother. the family was broken up, and the "child david" was taken into the family of his father's brother. the next eleven years of his childhood and boyhood were spent with this uncle. he was a country merchant who "kept everything," as the old-time merchants of fifty years ago all did. the boy was taught to work in the store, "to do the chores," and was sent to the district school as opportunity afforded,--which generally consisted of two terms of eight or ten weeks each per year. the quaker uncle was a kind but sturdy master, and habits of temperance, thrift, untiring energy, steady perseverance, and a love of buying and selling were ingrained into the very bones of the boy. leaving his uncle when seventeen years old, he made his home with his step-father for two years, during which time he attended two terms at an academy, and taught a country school "to pay his way." at nineteen years of age, in the autumn of , with few dollars and much courage, he commenced as a clerk with two brothers in a general store at great falls, in strafford county, of which place he has since been a citizen. his salary was eight dollars per month and board, for the first six months. at twenty-one he bought out one of his employers, at twenty-three he sold out to the other and erected a brick block which contained three stores, one of which he occupied as a merchant in general merchandise, always keeping abreast of the times, until called to a new business. the legislature of granted the charter of the great falls bank, the first in the town, and its originators had got together the one hundred thousand dollars of capital stock by such efforts of labor and persuasion as would astonish the railroad builders and bankers of these days. the directors, december , , selected mr. buffum as its cashier, which position he held until april , . on the th of august, , he was elected treasurer of the somersworth savings bank, which position he held for ten years. while he filled these positions, both of which he resigned in order to give his exclusive attention to manufacturing, he had become interested, by way of investments, in real estate, shipping, and manufacturing. [illustration: d. h. buffum.] in , mr. buffum, in company with john h. burleigh, organized the newichawanick woolen company at south berwick, me., an enterprise at first unprofitable, but which proved to be a financial success. in he organized the great falls woolen company with a capital of fifty thousand dollars, which, from fortunate earnings in the next few years, was increased to one hundred thousand dollars; and he has since been treasurer and general manager of it excepting for a period of six years, when he was compelled to withdraw from the active management by reason of impaired health, occasioned by too close application to business, three years of which time he spent in travel. for twenty years mr. buffum has been engaged in the manufacture of woolen fabrics, gradually extending his operations, until, at this writing, he is owner of a felt-mill at milton, n. h., a partner in the wool-pulling establishment of l. r. hersom & co., in berwick, me., treasurer and manager of the great falls woolen company, and treasurer and director of the newichawanick woolen company at south berwick, me.; he has also been a director of the great falls manufacturing company since . he has been connected with the great falls bank, both state and national, from its commencement, as cashier, director, and president, which latter position he now holds; and, with the exception of the first two years, has been connected with the somersworth savings bank as treasurer, trustee, and vice-president. in local affairs, mr. buffum has taken an active and leading part. the same nervous, physical energy which made him the first player in the game of ball in his youth afforded just the qualities needed in the fire department, in which he was always among the foremost, and for many years at the head. he was chosen town clerk in - , moderator in and , and selectman in and - . in political affairs, mr. buffum has acted with the whigs and republicans. in - he was chosen representative to the legislature, serving the first year as a member of the committee on banks, and the second year as chairman of the committee on the reform school. in he was elected to the senate from district number five, and served as a member of the committees on judiciary, finance, banks, and state institutions. in he was re-elected to the senate, and chosen its president. he was the last president of the senate of twelve members. of the sixty-two presidents of that body, he was the only one from district number five, or from strafford county as now constituted. in he was elected as a delegate-at-large to the republican national convention at chicago. in his domestic relations, mr. buffum was happily connected, and his home reflected the results of a successful business career. he was married, january , , to charlotte e. stickney, daughter of alexander h. stickney, one of the old-time citizens of great falls. the issue of this union was three sons and a daughter. the wife and mother died march , , and the daughter, may , . two of the sons, edgar stickney and harry austin, are graduates, and the third, david hanson jr., is now an undergraduate, of yale college. of the two little sisters left fatherless with him, one is the widow of the late hon. john h. burleigh, of south berwick, me., and the other is the wife of isaac p. evans, an oil-manufacturer, of richmond, ind. the half-brother is timothy b. hussey, plow-manufacturer, of north berwick, me., and the half-sister has presided over his household since the death of his wife. mr. buffum received his youthful impressions and early religious training among the society of friends, whose tenets have exercised a marked influence upon his career. at great falls he has been a regular attendant at the congregational church, to which he has been a liberal contributor. the many trusts committed to his care fairly prove the esteem and respect in which he has been held by his neighbors and townsmen. hon. charles adams, jr., a. m. by rev. w. r. cochrane. it appears from the new england historical and genealogical register, vol. vii., and also from drake's history and antiquities of boston, folio edition, , that "ap adam (the welsh for adams) came out of the marches of wales." their descendants appear to have lived for many generations in the english shires of lancaster, gloucester, and devon. from the latter, henry adams, the first of this family in america, emigrated, and settled in that part of braintree which is now quincy, mass., about . he died there in . twenty-four generations in the male line are given below, the first seventeen of which are copied from the authorities cited above. . sir john ap adam, knt., lord ap adam, member of parliament from to . . sir john ap adam kt. . sir john ap adam. . william ap adam. . sir john ap adam. . thomas ap adam. . sir john ap adam, knt. . sir john ap adam, _alias_ adams. . roger adams. . thomas adams. . john adams. . john adams. . john adams. . richard adams. . william adams. . henry adams who settled in braintree, (now quincy), mass., and died . . edward adams, of medfield, mass. . john adams, of medway, mass. . abraham adams, of brookfield, mass. . jesse adams, of brookfield, mass. . dr. charles adams, of antrim, n. h. . hon. charles adams, jr., a. m., north brookfield, mass. . charles woodburn adams, north brookfield, mass. . charles joseph adams, north brookfield, mass. [illustration: chat. adams jr.] from henry adams ( ), who settled in braintree, descended the presidents. he had a large family besides the edward named above, and among them a son joseph, born in , who married abigail baxter. these last had a son joseph, born december , . of this second joseph, the second son was dea. john adams of braintree. dea. john married susanna boylston, of brookline, mass., and their oldest son was john adams, born october , , second president of the united states. his oldest son was john quincy adams, sixth president of the united states, and father of hon. charles francis adams. dr. charles adams, the twenty-first generation from ap adam of wales, was son of jesse and miriam (richardson) adams, of brookfield, mass., and was born in that place, february , . his early years were spent on the farm with his father. his education was chiefly acquired in the district school and leicester academy. he then taught some two years in half moon, n. y. on his return, in , he commenced the study of medicine with dr. asa walker, of barre, mass., with whom he remained in practice one year after completing his studies. he came to antrim, n. h., and began practice in the early summer of , coming to take the place of dr. nathan w. cleaves, whose early and much lamented death occurred in april of that year. dr. adams married, february , , sarah mcallister, of antrim, daughter of james and sarah (mcclary) mcallister. she was a woman of excellent tastes and superior mind, of rare patience in toil and trial, and of a sweet and winning christian spirit,--all of which made her conspicuously worthy and attractive. she was of pure scotch descent and strict presbyterian opinions. she was a mother whose children might well "rise up and call her blessed." dr. adams was a favorite in antrim; was early in town office; was a successful physician; was a great reader, full of information; and was looked upon by contemporaries as an original and able man. he moved from antrim to oakham, mass., in , where he died of old age, march , . hon. charles adams, jr., a. m., the subject of this sketch, was born in antrim, january , ; in that part of the town then known as "woodbury village," having only eight or ten houses all told, now the large and flourishing village of south antrim. here he had his first schooling, under charge of fanny baldwin and daniel m. christie, afterwards hon. daniel m. of dover. of those early school-days he retains a vivid remembrance; and he is the last of that group of scholars, or nearly the last, now living. after removal from antrim, he continued and completed a common-school education at oakham; was at a select school six months under rev. john bisbee, of brookfield, mass.; then he studied eight months with rev. josiah clark, of rutland, mass.; and this was the limit of his opportunity for education. then, though quite young, he was in a store about five years in petersham, mass., obtaining much practical knowledge in the course of his work. he is what called a self-made man. few men can be found better versed in literary matters, or political economy, or the history of our land. he has been familiar with distinguished men, and is one we count winsome in the social hour, with a fund of information on most topics of conversation; with apt quotation, or vigorous repartee ever ready on his tongue. hence he is one of the most agreeable, genial, and gentlemanly of men. he was some years book-keeper, and afterwards partner, in the immense boot and shoe-manufacturing establishment of north brookfield (now employing from twelve hundred to fifteen hundred hands), from which company he retired just before the war. with singular continuance, mr. adams has been kept in offices of trust by the people of his adopted town and state. he was clerk of north brookfield (now of about forty-five hundred inhabitants) ten years; representative in the massachusetts house four years; on the executive council of massachusetts four years; treasurer of the state of massachusetts five years; and member of the senate of that state four years. and in all these cases the office sought the man, not the man the office. the writer of this knows that some of his friends were almost angry with him because he would not consent to run for congress, when the way was clear and an election sure. it is simply the truth to say that he has been in public life more than a quarter of a century; that he is a man of fixed principles and irreproachable character, a vigorous hater of shams and corruption, and held in honor throughout his adopted state. during his administration as treasurer and receiver-general of the commonwealth, it became necessary, in arranging its financial matters, to negotiate, sign, and deliver in england, a large amount of its bonds, and mr. adams was commissioned by the governor and council to go to london for that purpose. after having successfully accomplished the objects of his mission, he took the opportunity of traveling for a short time on the continent of europe, as well as in great britain, and especially in scotland. in the latter country he had an ardent and loving interest, which was increased by travel there, and has lost nothing in subsequent years. he is a scotch antiquarian of much reading and research. mr. adams has always been greatly attached to his native town, antrim,--cherishing with undiminished love the rocks and the hills upon which he looked in childhood. his visits are frequent to the old town; he still retains his membership in the old presbyterian church; clearly remembers the old faces; loves the old ways; was a great helper in preparing the recent history of antrim, and was a willing contributor to its embellishment. with all the rest, he has been something of a musician, being a member of the church choir (north brookfield, mass.,) more than forty years,--for many years its leader. and in these traits his children follow him, as they are gifted with rare musical taste and skill. mr. adams married, may , , eliza, daughter of hon. joseph cummings, of ware, mass.; and they have three surviving children,--charles woodburn and george arthur, of north brookfield, and john quincy, of boston. an only daughter, ellen eliza, married frank a. smith, and died at west brookfield in . the degree of a. m. was conferred on mr. adams by dartmouth college in . and it may be added that such men as mr. adams are continually reflecting honor upon our rocky new hampshire, from which they went forth. their success goes to prove, that, with an eager mind, good ready common sense, persevering application, and inflexible honesty, the boys of the granite state may win high places among men. we see by this biography, that, if the _man be good enough_, the place will seek the man. truth and uprightness, backed by good abilities, are pretty sure to be appreciated. [illustration: b. f. prescott.] gov. benjamin f. prescott. by col. william e. stevens. the first person by the name of prescott in the province of new hampshire, was james, who came from dryby, in the county of lincolnshire in england, and settled in hampton, in . on his arrival he began farming operations in what is now hampton falls, upon the farm now known as the "wells healy place," and remained there until he moved to kingston, in , when that town was granted to him, and others. in he married mary, daughter of nathaniel and grace boulter, who was born in exeter, may , . from this couple sprang the prescotts in new hampshire. james was the second cousin of john, who came to massachusetts and settled in watertown in , from whom sprang the prescotts mainly in that state, and among them col. william, the hero of bunker hill, and his grandson, william h. prescott, the eminent scholar and historian. james is represented to have been an influential man, honest in his dealings, upright in character, sound in judgment. his opinions were sought and respected. they had nine children, five sons and four daughters. their fourth child was jonathan, who was born august , . when he grew up, he settled in that part of hampton, which, since , has been known as kensington. in he was at fort william and mary and remained there some time, and in served under capt. john gilman in a scouting party. he had four sons and two daughters. his first child was named jonathan. he was married, april , , to judith, daughter of ebenezer and judith (sanborn) gove. he was appointed, by gov. benning wentworth, captain in a company, in the celebrated expedition against louisburg, on the island of cape breton, under sir william pepperell. while on this expedition he died of fever on the th of january, , leaving eleven children, four sons and seven daughters. his eighth child was named nathan gove prescott, and was born march , . he married, february , , patience brown, of kensington. near the time of his marriage he moved to epping and began work as a farmer and blacksmith. his brother micah settled near him, on the opposite side of the road, and was engaged in the same occupation. they both signed the "association test," in , with two hundred and seven others in the town. nathan gove prescott had five children, three sons and two daughters, born upon the farm where he settled. he died november , , aged nearly ninety-one years. nathan was his first child, and was born june , . he became a carpenter and went to monmouth in the province of maine, but returned to new hampshire and died at an advanced age. he married anna wells and had nine children, four sons and five daughters. his fourth son was asa, who was born in deerfield, may , . he was a farmer and blacksmith. he married polly clark, of greenland, and by this marriage had nine children, six sons and three daughters. he died in epsom, march , , aged nearly eighty years. his oldest son was named nathan gove prescott, after his great-grandfather. he was born upon the homestead, november , . he became a farmer and was successful in his work. he possessed excellent judgment on all matters relating to his occupation, and was considered by all who knew him as an excellent and thrifty farmer with the limited means at his command. he was honest, frugal, and upright. his word was never questioned, his judgment was relied upon, and his opinion respected and valued by his townsmen. on the th day of may, , he married betsey hills richards, daughter of captain benjamin and mehitable (hills) richards, of nottingham, who was born december , . she is a lady of fine presence, vigorous constitution, and cultivated manners. she still resides in epping with her son. her husband, nathan gove prescott, died july , , aged nearly sixty years. they had only one child, benjamin franklin prescott, who was born on the family homestead, february , . thus the line of ancestry has been traced from . the families on both sides can point to a fair and honorable record. the subject of this sketch inherited from his paternal and maternal line a strong constitution and great power of endurance, which have aided him much in his career. like the rest of the boys in his neighborhood, he attended the district school a few months in the summer and winter, and worked upon the farm the remainder of the time. he made commendable progress in his studies, and as soon as his age would allow, his parents, feeling the want of a liberal education themselves, determined to give their son the advantages of the higher seminaries of learning. in the fall of he was sent to blanchard academy, in pembroke, where he remained a portion of the time till , when he entered phillips academy, in exeter. he remained at this distinguished institution until the summer of , when he entered the sophomore class in dartmouth college, from which he graduated in . while at exeter he delivered an oration before the "golden branch," a literary society, at its annual anniversary, which at the time was well received. while in college, in the winter of , he taught school in chester. at his graduation he had an oration, and was for a time president of the united fraternity, a public society in the college. after his graduation, in the fall and winter of he taught two district schools and one private school in epping, and in february, , he entered as a student in the law firm of henry a. & abel h. bellows, in concord, and after studying the requisite time was admitted to the bar, in august, . he began the practice of his profession in concord, and remained in it until may, , when he became associate editor of the _independent democrat_, during the absence of hon. george g. fogg, united states minister to switzerland, until the summer of . mr. prescott was, from his youth, strongly opposed to the institution of slavery, and on reaching his majority allied himself with the republican party, and cast his first presidential vote for john c. fremont. his father was also a whig and then republican. about or he was elected secretary of the republican state committee, succeeding the hon. william e. chandler, and filled that position for fifteen years, during which time many of the important and successful political campaigns were conducted. while connected with the _independent democrat_, he was appointed a special agent of the united states treasury department for new england, his duty being, unless otherwise directed, to examine and report upon the custom-houses and their business, light-houses, revenue-cutters, sub-treasury and marine hospitals. he held this position less than three years, and was removed early in the administration of andrew johnson because he openly denounced the policy and course of the president. he served as secretary of the colleges of electors for new hampshire in , , , , and ; he was elected secretary of state in june, , , , and . on the th of january, , mr. prescott received the nomination as the republican candidate for governor, and on the second tuesday of march following was elected, by a majority of thirty-six hundred and thirty-two over his competitor, hon. daniel marcy, of portsmouth. on the th day of january, , he was unanimously renominated at the state convention in concord, and on the second tuesday of march following was re-elected by a majority of nine hundred and fifty-six over his regular competitor, hon. frank a. mckean, of nashua, and a plurality of fifteen hundred and twelve. on june , , he was elected a resident member of the new hampshire historical society, and was for several years vice-president of the same. in he was elected fellow of the royal historical society of great britain, also president of the bennington (vt.) battle monument association, also president of the provident mutual relief association. on may , , he was elected a delegate-at-large to the republican convention in chicago, and while there was chosen chairman of the new hampshire delegation. on the th of december, , he was elected an honorary member of the marshfield club in boston. in he was appointed a trustee of the new hampshire college of agriculture and the mechanic arts, and in he was elected a trustee of dartmouth college, both of which positions he holds at the present time. while governor, he was frequently called upon to address public and private gatherings, and when it did not interfere with his official duties he seldom failed to respond. his first address was at epping, on the occasion of a public reception given him by the citizens of the town, without distinction of party, on the day after his inauguration. the occasion was brilliant and highly complimentary. he also was present at the inauguration of rev. samuel c. bartlett, d. d., ll.d., as president of dartmouth college, and gave an address of welcome to this eminent scholar. the governor visited, with a large detachment of the state militia and distinguished citizens of the state, the centennial celebration of the battle of bennington, vt., and spoke there for the state at the banquet on that memorable occasion. he was also at state and town fairs, and meetings of various kinds held within the limits, and without the state, on all of which occasions he acquitted himself creditably, both in matter and manner, his style of speech being graceful and forcible. gov. prescott was married, june , , to mary little noyes, daughter of jefferson and nancy (peart) noyes, of concord. mrs. prescott was born in atkinson, may , . she is a lady of refined manners and a favorite in society. they have had only one child, who takes his father's name. he was born june , , upon the family homestead. gov. prescott is an excellent and successful farmer, and has a large farm under a high state of cultivation. in he erected a spacious dwelling-house and other buildings. he has a large and well selected library. under gov. prescott's administration the laws of the state were revised, the new prison constructed, the militia re-organized, and judicial appointments made. the prison was built within the appropriation. in all his official acts gov. prescott was animated by a purpose single to the welfare of the state, and upon his retirement to private life, at the end of his term, he took with him the respect of its people, irrespective of party or sect. pre-eminently a man of the people, without ostentation or pride of place beyond that which is befitting one who has filled the office of chief magistrate, he has always been as approachable to the humblest citizen as to the most exalted personage. from the beginning of his public life, gov. prescott has taken a deep interest in all that appertains to the welfare of his native state. for its institutions of learning he has shown a high regard. his _alma mater_, dartmouth college, is an object of solicitude, and no other son has done more for her in proportion to his means and influence. many of the portraits of eminent graduates, presidents, and benefactors that now adorn the walls of the college, were procured through his thoughtful and persistent efforts. the portraits and marble busts that grace the hall in phillips academy, in exeter, with one or two exceptions, were secured to it through his indefatigable zeal and wise action. this declaration will apply with equal truth to the collection of portraits by eminent artists in the state-house, and also the historical society at concord. his interest in the history of the state is very keen, and few of new hampshire's sons have done more to vindicate the fame of her revolutionary heroes, and secure for them and their state the credit withheld by partial or poorly informed historians. gov. prescott has a fine presence. erect of body, with broad massive shoulders indicative of great physical strength; features regular, strongly marked and of kindly expression; agreeable manners, genial and open-hearted; outspoken at all times, but never censorious; hospitable, and considerate; a strict partisan, but never intrusive or arrogant; impatient of shams, but a firm friend of all philanthropic undertakings,--he has filled with credit to himself and luster to his state and country every place of honor and trust to which the favor and good judgment of his fellow-citizens have called him. [illustration: h w blair] hon. henry william blair. among the many strong and self-reliant men and women who went out from the old scotch-irish colony of londonderry to establish homes in other sections of the state were the livermores, shepherds, coxes, and blairs, who were the first settlers in the pemigewasset valley, where they and their descendants have ever since exerted a controlling influence. the blairs located in campton, where the father of new hampshire's senator of that name was born and grew to manhood. he was an excellent scholar, a talented musician, an accomplished military officer, and a man of great bodily strength and agility who was a recognized leader in the town. his wife was lois baker, a descendant of the bakers of candia, a family noted in colonial and revolutionary times, and for many years one of the most respected and influential in campton. she was a very fine singer, and was gifted with remarkable mental endowments and rare sweetness of disposition. both mr. and mrs. blair were teachers in their youth, but after their marriage located themselves upon a farm in their native town, where they lived happily until he was fatally injured by falling timbers, while engaged upon the frame of a building. he died december , , leaving three children: a daughter, hannah palmer blair, aged six years; a son, moses baker blair, aged four years; and a son, henry william blair, aged two years. a fourth child, lois esther blair, was born soon after his death. of these, the oldest daughter died in , and the oldest son, a young man of remarkable abilities, in . the death of mr. blair left his widow very poor, and finding it impossible to support the children in her old home she was obliged to separate them. the two eldest were "put out" to live in the families of neighboring farmers, while she kept with her the youngest son, henry, and the infant daughter, until he was six years of age, when she arranged with samuel keniston, a leading citizen of campton, to take him for one year, and, carrying the little girl with her, journeyed by stage to lowell in quest of work in the factories there, by which she might obtain the means to support and educate her children. this venture was not a pecuniary success, as her small earnings were nearly all absorbed in necessary expenses; and in the summer of she returned to campton, and soon after removed with the two young children to plymouth, where for the next year she supported them by sewing. at this time the boy henry w., who was born december , , was seven years of age, bright, active, and able to make himself useful on a farm; and he attracted the attention of richard bartlett, one of the prosperous farmers of campton, who offered to take him and give him a home in his house, with what small educational advantages the district school afforded, in return for such services as a boy of his build and mettle could render. thither he went in may, , to begin to earn his own living, and for several years his home was with mr. bartlett, who treated him kindly and generously. in mrs. blair died, and from that time on the boy fought the battle of life aided only by such friends as he made for himself, and inspired by a purpose to show himself a worthy son of his noble parents, whose memory he has always reverently cherished. writing of them many years after, when the people of new hampshire had conferred upon him the highest honor in their gift, he said: "i owe very much to my parents, who, though poor, were among the best that a child ever had; and to them i have always applied cowper's proud tribute to his own:-- 'my boast is not that i deduce my birth from loins enthroned, and rulers of the earth, but higher far my proud pretensions rise, the son of parents passed into the skies.'" until he was seventeen he worked hard upon a farm summers, and attended the district school winters, and in the autumns of and the holmes academy at plymouth, of which rev. james h. shepard was principal. his earnings the following winter enabled him to still further gratify his longings for an education by going to the new hampshire conference seminary for one term in the spring of . as this exhausted his means, in the hope of obtaining more he worked for a mechanic one year, and was expecting soon to resume his studies, when his employer failed in business and he lost his wages. before he could secure another situation he was prostrated by a severe illness, which left him broken in health, and compelled him, after a long struggle, to abandon his purpose of obtaining a collegiate training. the next three years he worked upon a farm, taught school in new hampshire and massachusetts, tramped through this state selling books, and did whatever honest work his health would permit, in the hope of gaining strength and money enough to complete his academical course, studying, in the meantime, two terms at northfield and one at plymouth, when it became evident that his strength was unequal to the task he had set himself, and he yielded to the advice of samuel a. burns, an eminent scholar and teacher, who took a warm interest in him, and may , , entered the office of william leverett, an able plymouth lawyer, as a student. three years afterwards he was admitted to the bar, and, associating himself with his instructor, began practice as the junior member of the firm of leverett & blair; and, devoting himself to his profession with the same industry, perseverance, and ability which enabled him to enter it, he soon gained an enviable reputation as a lawyer. the next year he was appointed solicitor of grafton county, which was his first public office. from the first, mr. blair was a thorough-going republican. an instinctive hatred of slavery and all its attendant iniquities inspired him as a boy to look eagerly forward to the time when he could join in the warfare against it, and when he reached his majority he lost no occasion to declare by voice and vote his convictions upon the subject. when the slaveholders raised the standard of revolt against the government, he had just begun to reap the fruits of his early struggles and see the realization of his boyish dreams of success in his profession; but every call for men served to render him uncomfortable at home, and while the twelfth regiment was being recruited he put away his books and briefs and tried to join it, but failed to pass the surgeon's examination. he then enlisted as a private in the fifteenth regiment, and was chosen captain of company b. before leaving the state he was commissioned major by gov. berry, in which capacity he went to louisiana. soon after his arrival there the disability of his superior officers left him in command of the regiment, and from that time the drill and discipline which made it one of the best in the service were his work. in the assault upon port hudson, in may, , he was severely wounded by a minie-ball, in the right arm, and was carried to the hospital to recover; but, learning a few days later that another attack on that rebel stronghold was to be made, he insisted on disregarding the commands of the surgeons by joining his command, and, with his arm in a sling, led his men, who had the right of the column, in the ill-fated charge of june . here he was shot again in the same arm by a bullet, which tore open the old wound; but he refused to leave his troops, and remained with them until he could take them from the field. about this time he was promoted to be lieutenant-colonel of the regiment, and, as such, brought it home when its term of service had expired. he reached concord little more than a bodily wreck, and for some days his life hung by a thread; but careful nursing by his devoted wife and friends restored him to sufficient strength to warrant his removal to his old home on the banks of the pemigewasset. a long season of suffering and disability from wounds and disease contracted in the army followed his return; but he gradually regained his health sufficiently to resume the practice of law at plymouth, in which the court records show him to have been remarkably successful. he had a legal mind, had fitted himself for the bar with great thoroughness, prepared his cases carefully and patiently, and managed them skillfully, seldom failing to obtain a verdict. the grafton-county bar was at that time noted for the ability and learning of its members, and he was rapidly working his way to a prominent place among them, when he turned aside to enter political life,--a step which many of the eminent men with whom he was associated in the trial of causes regard even now as a great mistake, his brilliant success in the field of politics failing, in their estimation, to compensate for what he was capable of achieving in the law. for several years he practiced alone; but in formed a partnership with alvin burleigh, which continued until his election to the senate. in , mr. blair was elected a representative to the popular branch of the state legislature, and there began the political service which has since made him so widely known. the next year he was promoted to the state senate by the voters of the eleventh district, and in was re-elected. in the third district, composed of the counties of coos, grafton, sullivan, and cheshire, elected a democrat to congress; and in the republicans, looking about for a candidate under whose lead they could redeem it, found him in mr. blair, whose reputation as a soldier, clean record as a citizen, personal popularity, and indefatigable industry and zeal dictated his enthusiastic nomination, and after an exciting campaign secured his election to the forty-fourth congress. in he was again elected, and in declined a renomination. the next summer the term of united states senator wadleigh expired, and mr. blair came forward as a candidate for the succession. he was earnestly supported by the younger men of the party, by the temperance and soldier elements; and, though his competitors were the ablest men in the state, he bore away the great prize, and immediately entered upon the discharge of his duties at washington, to which he has since devoted himself. mr. blair's election to the national senate was largely due to the record he had made in the house, and to his remarkable faculty of winning and retaining the hearty friendship of nearly all with whom he had ever been associated. from his youth up he had held radical views upon public questions; and the persistency and zeal with which he advanced and defended these under all circumstances convinced even his opponents of his entire sincerity, and bound to him his coworkers with locks of steel. men liked him because he was cordial, frank, and earnest, and respected him because he had ability, industry, and courage; and so they rallied around him with a devotion and faith which overcame all opposition. during the four years he represented the third district in the house, he served upon the committees on railroads and accounts, and several special committees. in the senate of the forty-sixth congress, upon the committees on education and labor, agriculture, transportation, routes to the seaboard, election frauds, pensions, and exodus of the colored people: and in the present congress is chairman of the senate committee on education and labor, and a member of those on pensions, public lands, agriculture, and woman suffrage. soon after entering the house he introduced and advocated with great ability a proposition to amend the national constitution so as to prohibit the manufacture or sale of distilled spirits in the united states after , a measure which gave him a national reputation, and caused him to be recognized by the temperance people of the country as their leader and champion in the national capitol. the woman suffragists have also found in him a vigorous and unwearying defender; and his speeches in support of his bill to extend government aid to the common schools of the south are among the most carefully prepared and conclusive arguments on that subject. when the financial policy of the country became a subject of discussion, and many of its strongest minds were carried from their moorings by the greenback cyclone, senator blair stood sturdily for an honest currency and strict honesty in dealing with the government creditors, and by his speeches in congress and on the stump contributed in no small degree to the triumph of those principles and the incidental success of the republican party. the veteran soldier has always found in him a friend who lost no opportunity to speak and vote for the most liberal pension laws, and who never tired in responding to individual calls for assistance at the department. his other service as a senator has been most conspicuous in his speeches against the texas pacific railroad subsidies, upon foreign markets and commerce, election frauds in the south, the exodus of colored people, the japanese indemnity fund, the public land bill, and the commission of inquiry into the liquor traffic; his eulogies upon henry wilson, zachariah chandler, and evarts w. farr; and his reports on numerous subjects which have claimed the attention of his committees. he is rarely absent from his seat, and when present never declines to vote. his first term expires march , . from this brief sketch it will be seen that mr. blair owes his exceptional success in life to no extraneous or accidental aids. his parents were poor, and their untimely death deprived him of their counsel and example. his boyhood was a struggle with poverty, of which his youth was only a continuance. all he had, he earned. what he became, he made himself. as a man, he has shown great capacity for work and a disposition to do his best in every position. he is always intensely in earnest. he has indomitable perseverance and persistency, and never allows his abilities to rust in idleness. he is an outspoken and aggressive but practical reformer; a radical but sagacious republican. though his early advantages were few, he has been a voracious reader and a close student, and does not lack for the help which familiarity with books gives. he is an easy writer and a fluent speaker. he is generous to a fault; and his most prominent weakness is a disposition to magnify his obligations to his friends. senator blair married eliza nelson, the daughter of a methodist clergyman, of groton, and has one son,--henry patterson blair,--aged fourteen years. [illustration: r a maxsfield] rufus a. maxfield. by j. p. rufus a. maxfield was born in nashua, n. h., on the fifth day of march, . his father, stephen c. maxfield, was a native of newbury, vt., was married to clarissa staples, a native of chichester. n. h., at nashua n. h., when the now populous city was but a small village. there were ten children born to them. four died quite young; six are now living, viz.: the subject of this sketch; james g. maxfield, m. d., surgeon at the national home for disabled volunteer soldiers at togus, me.; j. p. maxfield, treasurer of the hiscox file manufacturing company, at west chelmsford, mass., who resides in lowell, mass.; stephen w. maxfield, a mechanic, now living in nashua; susan t. and helen a.; the former married and resides in wolfeborough, n. h., the latter in lowell, mass., with the widowed mother, who is still living at the ripe age of seventy years. stephen c, the father, was employed for seventeen years by the nashua manufacturing company, and was a faithful servant to his employers. he early became identified with the methodist denomination, and was among the most zealous workers in building up the two societies in those early days. he died in lowell. mass., august , , having lived a consistent christian life, at the age of fifty-three years. when rufus was eight years old he was employed in the carding department of the nashua company's mills during his school vacations. it was here that he was first taught the rudiments of cotton-manufacture. for awhile he worked as back boy in the mule-spinning department. in the family removed to lowell, mass. after attending school here for a short time he again went into the mill in the carding department on the lawrence corporation. from here he was transferred to the mule-spinning department. in he left the mill temporarily to attend school at northfield, n. h., where he remained two years, when he returned to the mill and to his mule-spinning. he passed through the various grades until he reached the position of second overseer. he was married on the th of may, , to mary a. spaulding, daughter of joshua spaulding, of pepperell, mass. soon after the breaking out of the war of the rebellion, the mills of lowell suspended operations, and thousands were thrown out of employment, mr. maxfield among the rest. in he entered the employ of the naumkeag mill, at salem, mass., as second overseer under charles d. mcduffie, esq., who had charge of all the spinning in these mills. mr. mcduffie is now agent of the manchester mills, manchester, n. h. mr. maxfield remained in the employ of the naumkeag mill until the close of the war, when, the corporations in lowell resuming operations, he was tendered the position of overseer of the mule-spinning in the hosiery-mill of the lawrence manufacturing company, who were then starting. here he remained until the spring of , when he took charge of the mule-spinning in number five mill, then the largest mill owned by the lawrence company. during the latter part of he had charge of all the spinning in this mill. in he was appointed superintendent of ida hill mill, troy, n. y. under adverse circumstances, with a mill cramped for power, and with old machinery very much out of repair, he was very successful, earning satisfactory profits for the owners. in the year , the management of the tremont and suffolk mills in lowell, mass., offered him the position of superintendent of their large mills, where, under thomas s. shaw, esq., agent, he remained until . during his connection with this company, the quality of the canton flannels, which are a "specialty" with these mills, was brought up to a standard that made them rank among the first in the market, commanding ready sales and good prices. the directors of the nashua manufacturing company, on the death of oliver hussey, esq., in january, , realizing the qualifications of mr. maxfield for such a position, appointed him agent of their large mills in nashua, n. h. during mr. maxfield's administration to the present time, there have been extensive alterations and improvements in the direction of economy of manufacture and increased production, so that the reputation of the company that owned the model mills of new england has been maintained. thus we find the boy who at eight years of age took his first lesson in cotton-manufacture, returning, after the lapse of thirty-two years, to the same mills as agent. little did the youth dream what thirty-two years would bring to pass in his career. socially mr. maxfield is a very agreeable gentleman; and, while he has devoted his energies during all these years to his chosen calling, he has found time to connect himself by social ties to beneficiary organizations, thus lending his influence to the great work in which they are engaged. he was prominent for many years in the management of the affairs of mechanics lodge of odd fellows of lowell, mass., passing through the various positions until now he is one of the "past grands" of this lodge. he is also a member of pentucket lodge of masons, royal arch chapter, ahasuerus council, and pilgrim commandry of that city. he is a regular attendant of the methodist church, and is respected by the people of nashua for his upright and honorable course of life. he is prompt to decide questions that come before him; but his decisions, though firm, are tempered with that affability of manner which relieves them of much of the harshness that many men manifest. may he be spared many years to pursue his favorite calling; and may the day be far distant when the nashua manufacturing company shall lose his services, or the city of nashua lose so worthy a citizen. [illustration: geo. b. spalding] george burley spalding, d. d. by rev. a. h. quint. d. d. george burley spalding, the present pastor of the first church in dover, was born in montpelier, vt., august , , son of dr. james eliza (reed) spalding. the line of american descent on the paternal side as follows: edward, of chelmsford, mass., immigrant; benjamin, whose will was proved april , ; edward, of canterbury, conn.; ephraim, of connecticut; reuben, of connecticut; reuben, who married jerusha carpenter, and lived in sharon, vt.; dr. james; and rev. george burley. deacon reuben spalding, grandfather of the subject of this sketch, was one of the early settlers of vermont, whose life was not more remarkable for his toils, privations, and energy as a pioneer in a new country, than for his unbending christian integrity. he entered sharon in , and lived on the same farm eighty years. he was a member of the church sixty-one years, and deacon forty-two years. he was distinguished for "the best qualities of the old new england puritanism." dr. james spalding was the third of twelve children, and for many years a successful practitioner of medicine in montpelier, vt., but especially eminent in surgery. he graduated at the dartmouth medical school at the age of twenty years. he was more than forty years a member of the vermont medical society; its secretary over twenty years, its president in , , and . "his life," says a printed sketch, "was that of the good samaritan, a life of toil, prayer, and sympathy for others." by the line of reed, the family is of the same blood with rev. dr. gardiner spring and rev. dr. edwards a. park. the grandmother of dr. george b. spalding, and the grandfather of the late senator matthew h. carpenter, were sister and brother. george burley spalding was the seventh of nine children. he fitted for college at the washington county academy, montpelier, and graduated at the university of vermont in , being twenty-one years of age. he read law one year in montpelier, with hon. charles w. willard, and then went to tallahassee, fla., where he read law another year with judge w. c. m. davis. while in the south, he was a regular correspondent of the _new york courier and enquirer_, of which his brother, james reed spalding, was one of the editors. as such he attended the noted southern commercial convention in savannah, in , where yancey, rhett, barnwell, and debow poured out their hot invective. in the following year he mingled with the great southern leaders, on the eve of the great events which were soon to burst upon the country. doubtless in his law study and in his intercourse with men in different phases of society, he acquired that practical acquaintance with human nature which makes available his instinctive and common-sense power of meeting all classes of men. flattering offers were made him by judge davis to remain and enter into practice with that eminent lawyer, at a large assured income. but mr. spalding had already changed his purpose for life. he returned north, abandoned the law, and began the study of theology in the union theological seminary in new york city in . here he remained two years. here, also, he did regular editorial work on the _new york world_, of which his brother was founder, and subsequently wrote for the columns of the _new york times_. this experience enabled him, later, to write, for five years, a large portion of the editorial leaders of the _watchman and reflector_. while in union seminary, his spirit of independence and industry was so strong that he supported himself entirely by his literary work. leaving new york, he entered andover theological seminary, where, after one year's study, he graduated in . on the th of october of that year he was ordained pastor of the congregational church in vergennes, vt., a position to which he had, in fact, been called before his graduation, as well as to another field. he resigned his successful pastorate at vergennes, august , , to accept a call to the park church, hartford, conn., formerly dr. bushnell's, where he was installed september . he resigned that charge, and was dismissed march , , and was installed pastor of the first church in dover, september , following. this church is the second in point of age in this state, being organized in december, , and preceded by hampton only. the old exeter first church itself later, became extinct in , and the present first church of exeter dates from only. the dover first _parish_ dates from october, , and is unquestionably the oldest in new hampshire. a long line of able men has been on the roll of the pastors of that venerable church. under none has it been so strong and so influential as under dr. spalding. its numbers have largely increased; its pews are at a constant premium; its pew-occupants number men of the highest distinction in the state. three years since, the whole of the handsome church edifice was refitted at an expense of over twelve thousand dollars, besides the amount necessary to purchase the pew property, and no debt remains. an elegant and commodious parsonage has also been purchased and paid for. without disparagement to others, it is safe to say that public opinion accords to mr. spalding a foremost place among the ministers of new hampshire. certainly no pastor of the ancient first church ever had a greater public respect or a deeper personal affection. his administration of a strong and thinking society goes on without even a ripple. he has been frequently called to attend distant councils, some of great and even national interest, and some where delicate questions required the wisest consideration; and in all cases his calm and deliberate judgment has had an influence inferior to none. one of these was the great brooklyn council, of national interest, in . in his preaching, one has to study him to get the secret of his influence. there is nothing in it to startle. there is no dramatic exhibition. it is the farthest possible from the sensational. there are never any protruding logical bones. he never indulges in any prettinesses of diction. but a critical analysis (the last thing one thinks of in listening to him) reveals the elements of his power. his themes are always elevated themes. one sees the most earnest convictions held in perfect independence and honesty; a natural development of thought in an always fresh and orderly way; a diction as clear as a pellucid brook; illustrations drawn from wide observation, always simple and frequently beautiful; a genial, sometimes intense, glow pervading his whole discourse; and a dignified but simple manliness throughout. fully six feet in height, and with liberally developed physique, he impresses one at first mainly with the idea of manly strength. but it takes no great time to see that commanding intellectual abilities are fully parallel with his physique; and those who hear him, and especially those who know him, find an equal development of a generous nature which inclines always to sympathy, and with which he answers, in public and private, to every appeal to his helpful power. in doctrine he is understood to hold the main tenets of what is called _old_ theology, but as forces rather than dogmas, and liberally instead of severely applied. mr. spalding's literary work has been extensive, but mainly upon current newspaper periodicals. this has given him, of course, a valuable directness and clearness of expression. a few sermons and other productions have been published: a sermon on god's presence and purpose in the war, november , ; a discourse commemorative of gen. samuel p. strong, february , ; a discourse on the th anniversary of the settlement of dover, may , ; a discourse commemorative of the character and career of hon. john p. hale, november , , which the poet whittier characterized in the highest terms,--a fine specimen of judicious analysis, in which he does justice to the pioneer of the anti-slavery cause in the united states senate,--a justice now lately apparently purposely ignored out of a desire to magnify a brilliant but later laborer. the relation of the church to children, november , . the dover pulpit in the revolution, july , ,--for which he searched and well used the manuscript of his eminent predecessor, dr. jeremy belknap. the fiftieth anniversary of the organization of the conference of churches of strafford county, june , . the idea and necessity of normal-school training, december , . annual report of the trustees of the state normal school, june, . memorial on the death of garfield, september, . historical discourse on the one-hundredth anniversary of the piscataqua association, october , . on the death of wells waldron, november , . on the death of john riley varney, may , . in addition, however, to his other work, he has been, and is, the editor of the _new hampshire journal_, a successful weekly in the interest of the congregational churches, from which some of his keen editorials have met with favor throughout the country. mr. spalding was a member of the constitutional convention of new hampshire which met january , . he represented dover in the new hampshire house of representatives in . he is also a trustee of the state normal school, by appointment of the governor and council, his first appointment, for two years, being made in , and his chairmanship of that board commencing soon after and now continuing. he became a member of the school committee of dover in , and still continues, having been its chairman from . he was chosen trustee and one of the executive committee of the new hampshire missionary society is ; and still retains each position. he received the degree of doctor of divinity from dartmouth college in . dr. spalding married sarah livingston, daughter of rev. dr. john w. olmstead, manager and editor of the _watchman and reflector_; her mother, mary, was daughter of richard montgomery livingston, a lawyer of saratoga, n.y. their children are mary livingston, martha reed, catherine olmstead (who died august , , aged fourteen), gertrude parker, and george brown. james f. briggs. by henry m. putney. john and nancy (franklin) briggs were of that class of working englishmen who had the courage to flee from hard surroundings which no strength could overcome, and seek in a new world, among strangers, a chance to improve their condition. they were factory operatives at bury, lancashire county, england, where their son james f. was born, october , . when he was fourteen months old they took passage on an emigrant ship for america, and after a rough voyage of more than seven weeks landed in boston, march , . going direct to andover, mass., the father found employment in a woolen-factory there. from that place he removed to saugus, where he worked a short time, and from thence to amesbury, which was the family home until . in the fall of that year the father, in company with two brothers, bought a small woolen-factory at holderness, now ashland, n. h., and, having established his home near by, commenced business on his own account, in manufacturing woolen cloths. but few operatives were needed to run this mill, and they were mainly the three proprietors and their children, among whom was the boy james, then a lad nine years old, who had begun to earn his living in a factory before the removal from massachusetts, the family circumstances being such that all had to contribute to its support as soon as they were able. he was continuously employed in the mill for the next five years; but during this time he had learned enough of books to make him ambitious to know more; and, as the affairs of the family were fairly prosperous, at the age of fourteen he was sent to the academy at newbury, vt., and afterwards to the one at tilton. being an expert operative, able to take the wool from the fleece and convert it into cloth, by working in the factory a part of each year he earned the money to pay his expenses at these institutions one or more terms every year until , when he arranged to commence the study of law with hon. william c. thompson, at plymouth; but in february of that year his father died leaving a family of eight children, six of whom were younger than james, in destitute circumstances. this affliction, which threw the care of the family largely upon the young man, compelled him to change somewhat his plans; but he did not for a moment lose sight of the object he had in view, and, as he could not enter the law office at plymouth, he borrowed books from it and pursued his studies during such time as he could get at home, for a year, when he entered the office of hon. joseph burrows, then a practicing lawyer at holderness. [illustration: yours truly j. f. briggs] in the family removed to fisherville, in order that the younger children might obtain employment in the factory there, and he completed his studies in the office of judge butler, from which he was admitted to the bar in . a few months later he commenced the practice of law at hillsborough bridge, whither he went a perfect stranger, without money or reputation. but he had ability and energy, was willing to work, knew how to live within a small income until he could make it larger, and little by little he gained clients and friends, who gave him a lucrative practice, accepted his counsel, followed his leadership, and established his reputation as the most popular and influential man of the town. in , , and , he was sent by a nearly unanimous vote to represent hillsborough in the legislature, where he was at once accorded a prominent position as a member of the judiciary committee, and the third year was honored by the nomination of his party for the speakership. at this time he acted with the democratic party, and continued to do so until the war of the rebellion, when he felt that all loyal men should unite to save the union and maintain the national authority, and, having been nominated by the democracy of his district for councilor upon a platform which enunciated peace-at-any-price doctrines, to which he could not assent, he declined the nomination, and from that day has been an ardent, active, and enthusiastic republican. while the eleventh regiment was being recruited, he tendered his services to the governor of the state and was appointed quartermaster on the staff of col. harriman. in this capacity he served through the battles of fredericksburg, the military operations in kentucky, and the mississippi-river expeditions which resulted in the capture of vicksburg and jackson, for about a year, when he was prostrated by the malaria of the southern swamps, and compelled to resign and return to his home in hillsborough. during his absence in the field, and the illness which succeeded his return, his legal business had become somewhat demoralized, and on the recovery of his health he concluded to start anew in a wider field of action in manchester, to which city he removed in , forming a partnership with hon. henry h. huse, which still exists. manchester gave him a cordial welcome. her mill operatives and other mechanics greeted him as an honored graduate of their school, who in his after triumphs had never forgotten the hard road by which he had journeyed to success; her lawyers and clients were already well acquainted with his professional abilities; her soldiers recognized him as an old companion in arms, and her politicians as an earnest republican who could and would be a tower of strength in every campaign. under these circumstances he did not have to wait for business or political preferment. soon after opening his office he was appointed city solicitor, and in he was elected to the legislature from ward three. two years later he was chosen senator from the manchester district, and in the same year was sent to the constitutional convention. in all these positions he won reputation and friends to such an extent that in he was nominated for congress without substantial opposition, and elected by a large majority. at the expiration of his first term he was unanimously renominated, and after an exciting campaign was re-elected by a majority of eight hundred and forty-nine over the combined democratic and greenback vote. two years afterwards it became a question whether he should be returned. the traditions and prejudices of the district were strongly against a third term. four other able and deserving men were ambitious to succeed him, and he declined to push for the nomination, but accepted a call to take the stump in maine, leaving it for his friends to determine whether his name should be used in the convention. to one of these, who wrote him that he ought to return from maine and attend to his canvass, he replied: "i am assured that i can be of considerable service here, and, as it is of vastly more importance that the cause shall triumph in this state next monday than that i shall be renominated, i must remain and trust to you and others to decide whether it is best to send me back to washington. whatever that decision may be, i shall be satisfied." the convention met just after the disastrous defeat of the party in maine, and when it appeared that there was only a desperate chance for its nominee to be elected. it decided that if any man could succeed he could, and a few days after he took the stump. manchester, which was counted a doubtful city when the convention assembled, gave him more than eight hundred majority, and the rest of the district swelled this to fourteen hundred and eighty. in congress, mr. briggs has been from the first a faithful, hard-working member, always in his seat, tireless in serving his constituents, especially the veteran soldiers, and conscientiously devoted to the discharge of all his duties. in the forty-fifth congress he was a member of the committee on patents; in the forty-sixth, of the committee on naval affairs; and in the present, the forty-seventh, is chairman of the committee on expenditures in the war department, and a member of the judiciary and reform in the civil service. no member of the house commands a more perfect confidence in his associates, and few, if any, are able to accomplish so much. he succeeds at washington as he did at home, by quiet, patient, persistent work, and is satisfied with results rather than with brilliant outbursts and noisy exhibitions of his rhetorical powers. mr. briggs married roxana smith, the daughter of obadiah and eliza m. smith, of new hampton, and has had three children, all of whom are living. the oldest, a son, was educated at west point, and served four years in the army, when he resigned, and is now engaged in the manufacturing business in trenton, n. j. two daughters reside with their parents in manchester. in concluding this brief sketch, written without the knowledge of its subject, the author feels that it will fail to satisfy those who have known mr. briggs intimately without some direct reference to the qualities which characterize him in all positions in life. prominent among these are his perfect fidelity, industry, steady courage, and thoroughness. it is natural for him to be true, impossible for him to be false. he is ambitious, and few prize more highly the honors they win; but he is incapable of the duplicity, demagogy, and all the cheap artifices by which some men succeed. his faithfulness to his convictions does not count cost or query about consequences to himself. he is as stanch and true a friend as ever lived, and he never cheats those whom he dislikes or despises. his generosity and devotion to his family are far-reaching and untiring. he is a public-spirited citizen, a kind neighbor, and a pleasant companion. he is always approachable, patient, and considerate. in every cause in which he enlists he is a hard worker and a free giver. he knows how to wait, and how to look beyond temporary reverses to the complete triumph which he always believes will crown and establish the right. he never frets, and never rests until the result is secure. his private life is without a stain, and the fierce light of the hottest campaign has disclosed no shadow of a blot upon his public record. his sympathies are with the people, and his head and hands are controlled by his heart. these qualities have made james f. briggs what he is. they have supplied the place of early advantages, influential friends, and fortune. they have carried him from the woolen-mill, working for a few cents a day, to the national house of representatives, commissioned to speak and act for the largest and richest district in new hampshire. they have made him strong at the bar, popular at the polls, and influential in congress. [illustration: nath. w. cumner] nathan wentworth cumner. by j. w. fellows. the ancestors of the cumner family were of english origin. the name is first discovered in the period following the supremacy of the norman rule,--the return from the dynasty of the conqueror to the ascendency of the english-saxon line. it was first spelled comnor, and later cumnor, meaning "hospitality to strangers," or a "place of hospitality," and comes through the saxon branch. to this period may be referred the formation of many english family names,--often derived from some unimportant circumstance, or suggested by personal characteristics. these became marks of distinction, new titles to manhood, and were proudly bequeathed by father to son,--"inherited sur-names." during the century following the loss of normandy, the anglo-saxon, as a written language, having been banished from courts and superseded in all legal papers by the latin, became dearer to the common people as a spoken language, preserving their cherished objects and transmitting leading sentiments. it increased its power and volume by building new terms and means of expression, and particularly by multiplying its patronymics. in a comparatively short space of time the language had become vernacular, and fairly entitled to be styled english, rich in the idioms and proper names of its own creation and outgrowth. "the history of words," says trench, "is the history of ideas," and he might have said of people and nations. they are not only the "vehicle of thought," but they tell anew the story of their times and enrich the great body of history with countless incidents of value and importance. in studying their genealogy, the english-speaking people find the starting-point of many an illustrious name in the peculiar circumstances of those mediæval times,--the natural product of the mingling of different tongues, and the constant struggle between feudalism and servitude. the famous old manor-house, cumnor castle, so celebrated in romance, once enjoyed the rent-fee and service of a large body of retainers, and carried for many a year, by reason of its feudal allotments, a numerous vassalage. its walls have long since fallen into shapeless ruins, but the lands of its tenantry now embrace the beautiful village of cumnor. the families bearing this name have not been numerous in england, but have maintained their lineage with remarkable directness. the earliest trace of these people shows that they belonged to the industrial classes,--the guilds-people, who in the latter part of the seventeenth century had attained such prominence as to nearly control the business interests of the great metropolis, and to whom the lord mayor of london was pleased to say on a memorable occasion, "while our gracious nobility are the leaf and flower of the kingdom, ye are the sturdy trunk and branches." the subject of this sketch belongs to the third generation in america. his grandfather robert francis cumner came to this country when about fifteen years of age, under circumstances of a very interesting character. in june, , while walking in the streets of london, he was seized by a "gang of pressmen" from the ship somerset, sent out to recruit his majesty's marine. he was carried directly on board, forced to become one of the crew, and do the duty of a common sailor. he was not allowed the privilege of communicating with his friends, and no tidings from him or knowledge of his situation were received during the long cruise of the somerset in distant waters, until she appeared in boston harbor and took part in the battle of bunker hill. her position and the service she rendered the british troops on that memorable day are well known in history. from her decks came the first fatal shot, and under the fire of her guns the broken and retreating ranks of royalists found protection. the scenes of that bloody struggle made a deep impression upon the mind of young cumner, and fixed his determination to take no part in the work of subjugation. circumstances fortunately soon favored his settled purpose. the somerset not long after the battle "got aground," probably somewhere in the lower part of massachusetts bay. during their efforts to get afloat, some of the crew went ashore, among them the cumner boy, who immediately availed himself of the opportunity to escape from his unwilling service. while following the highway into which he first came, near the shore where lay the stranded somerset he was overtaken by a quaker on horseback, who, learning his situation and purpose to obtain his freedom from the "british yoke," invited our young hero to "get up behind," and, throwing his gray cloak over the lad, soon carried him beyond the king's power. he settled in wareham, mass., learned the tailor's trade and began the permanent business of his life. october , , he married miss sylvia sturtevant, whose family connections were very worthy and highly respected. her father was a soldier in the war of the revolution, and fell on the battle-field fighting for independence. the sturtevant people have received honorable mention in the annals of history, and their name is written among those who deserve well of their country. not long after his marriage he moved to sandwich, mass., from that place to wayne, in the state of maine, where he resided during the remainder of his life. he was successful in business and became a prominent and highly respected citizen. he was a man of modest and retiring habits and exemplary character, but of indomitable will and inflexible adherence to what he believed to be right. if his life were the subject of our sketch, we could fill it with incidents showing his remarkable tenacity of purpose. robert francis and sylvia cumner had two children,--john, born january , , and polly, a few years younger. he died february , , and his wife, march , , and their remains were interred in the evergreen cemetery in wayne. john cumner was but a few months old when the family moved from sandwich, mass., to wayne. he was of a sanguine active nature and early evinced the character of a sincere and zealous worker in religious matters. he obtained a fair education, and although to a certain extent compelled to work on the farm and devote himself to that kind of employment, his thoughts ran upon matters more congenial to his nature. when about eighteen years of age he was employed by gen. landsell to take charge of his farm in bridgewater, mass., where he remained several summer seasons. during this time he became acquainted with miss hannah thomas bartlett, of bridgewater, whom he married july , . he settled in wayne, upon the farm which became the homestead, and was so occupied by the family during his many years of labor and life in the ministry. he was associated with the society of the methodist episcopal church, and interested in the affairs of that denomination, at the early age of nineteen years, and soon after appointed a class leader and licensed to preach. his labors were attended with marked success, and at the annual meeting of the general conference for maine, in , he was admitted to membership and received his first appointment. he continued in the active ministry until , when failing health obliged him to cease labor; but his love for the church and his zeal in the cause of its established creeds continued unabated during his remaining years. he died february , , closing a life of industry and devotion, in which he had accomplished more good than usually falls to the lot of man. his wife died december , . she was very beautiful when young, and was much beloved and admired by her wide circle of friends. possessed of an earnest and devotional nature, she entered with ardent sympathy into the plans and labors of her husband; faithfully bearing her share of life's varied duties,--firmly in the hour of trial, and with amiable companionship when prosperity filled the measure of their ambition. they had eleven children, two of whom died in infancy. three others have deceased,--maryetta in , and francis and james in . the remaining members of the family are cathamander, william b., john t., nathaniel w., charles w., and benjamin g. cumner. nathaniel wentworth, the youngest but two of the children of john and hannah t. cumner, was born at wayne, november , . his early life was devoted to obtaining an education in the vicinity of his home, passing from the district to the private school in the town of wayne, and to other schools and seminaries in the circuit where his father's appointments were made. during some portion of the season, for a few years he assisted the older brothers in cultivating the homestead farm, but at the age of sixteen he went to wilton, me., and engaged in learning the tailor's trade. he remained there about three years; then went to waltham, mass., staying there about one year and a half; then to lowell, mass., where he remained until , when he came to manchester, n. h., and entered the employ of b. f. manning, then doing business in the store occupied in later years by the firm of cumner & company. in january, , mr. cumner became a partner in the business of merchant tailors and clothiers, the firm name being manning & cumner. this arrangement continued until august, . mr. cumner then withdrew and went to washington, d. c., as a member of the firm of f. tenney & co., proprietors of the national hotel. in august, , he returned to manchester and purchased the stock and "good will" of the manning store, and entered at once into business, in which he continued as the sole proprietor until , when his brother benjamin g. cumner became associated with him, forming the copartnership of cumner & company. at this time mr. cumner became also a member of the well known wholesale house of sibley, cumner, & co., in boston, having purchased an interest in the old house of foster & sibley, and devoted his attention largely to the wholesale trade. in , lyman e. sibley retired and mr. cumner became the senior member, the name of the firm remaining the same. in the great fire of november , , their establishment was among the first to be burned, and the firm suffered a total loss of their immense stock; but their credit was so strong, and their energy and ability so widely recognized, that their business received no check, and the transactions of the house proceeded even upon a more extensive scale than before. in the firm became cumner, jones, & co., which is the present style of the business. in he sold his interest in the business of cumner & co. in manchester, which had enjoyed unvarying success and great prosperity from the beginning; and from that time devoted himself entirely to the boston house. the business had so largely increased that it became necessary to give it his constant personal attention. the reputation of cumner, jones, & co., in commercial circles, has become widely known, and its remarkable success an acknowledged fact. mr. cumner has been eminently successful as a business man. possessing in a large degree self-reliance and confidence in his own judgment, he selected an honorable calling and devoted himself to its duties and demands. he believed that industry and perseverance, with well matured plans, were certain to produce the most desirable results. he knew the energy and fidelity of his own character, and trusted to the safety of sound principle; and he has proved that his plans were wisely laid and his ways well chosen. at a comparatively early age he has acquired a competence, and in his position of senior member of one of the soundest and most prosperous, and at the same time conservative, wholesale houses in new england, his influence is always in favor of that healthy and reliable condition of trade which establishes public confidence and guarantees general prosperity. and not only in connection with his partnership associations is mr. cumner known as a business man. in the circles where the leading merchants and importers of our new england metropolis are accustomed to meet and discuss the laws of trade and canvass the prospects of the future, his judgment is greatly respected, and the intelligence and foresight with which he is able to advise are highly regarded. he bears an unblemished reputation as a man of honor and fairness, in all ways commanding universal respect and esteem,--a gentleman in the true significance of the term. in the wide range of personal distinction, among all the marks of honor and renown which the world affords, the title of a true gentleman stands first, and he who bears it worthily need envy neither prince nor potentate. as a citizen, mr. cumner has taken an earnest and unvarying interest in public affairs. politically, his associations have been with the democratic party; but his views have been conservative, looking to the real purposes of the government rather than the aims and desires of party politicians. while residing in manchester he held important offices in the municipal government, was a faithful public servant, working zealously to promote the general interests and the common good of his constituents, of whom he deserved well. mr. cumner became a member of the celebrated military organization, the amoskeag veterans, in the days of its origin, and has continued to do active duty through the entire term of its existence. he held the office of captain in , and commander of the battalion, with the rank of major, in and . during his membership he has served in countless capacities incident to the general management of the organization, and while commander did very effective service in promoting harmony and unity of purpose, and increased in a great degree the interest and efficiency of the corps. mr. cumner's connection with the masonic fraternity has been a very prominent feature of his life. he became a mason in lafayette lodge, manchester. may, , and was one of the petitioners and charter members of washington lodge in . he held many subordinate offices, and was the worshipful master in and , and has been treasurer nearly all the time since. his keen scrutiny of its business affairs and careful management of its accounts have done much to keep his lodge in sound financial condition. in he received the capitular degrees in mt. horeb royal arch chapter, and, after serving at almost every post in that body, became its high priest from to . he took the cryptic degrees in adoniram council, in may, , and soon after the orders of knighthood were conferred upon him in trinity commandry, knights templar. in all these subordinate bodies he sustained an ardent and zealous membership, contributing freely to their support and aiding materially in their prosperity. in he was admitted to the degree of high priesthood, and in received the degrees of the ancient and accepted rite to the d, inclusive, in boston, and in september, , was elected to the rd and last grade in masonry. in the grand masonic bodies of new hampshire he has been equally prominent, and his earnest labors and sincere devotion to their interests have been recognized and appreciated. after holding several offices in the m. e. grand royal arch chapter of new hampshire, he was elected grand high priest in and , and gave eminent satisfaction by his management of affairs. in the grand lodge of new hampshire he held nearly all the subordinate positions, and was elected most worshipful grand master in , , and . as the presiding officer in these grand bodies, whose duties are mostly legislative, he commanded the respect of the fraternity for fairness and impartiality, and was highly esteemed for his graceful and courteous bearing. his addresses and official papers were regarded as sound and creditable documents by the fraternity in other jurisdictions. if mr. cumner has been prosperous and successful in other departments of life, he has been remarkably happy and fortunate in his family and social relations. he married miss harriet elizabeth wadley, daughter of moses d. wadley, of bradford, n. h., january , . they have two sons,--harry wadley cumner, born july , , and arthur bartlett cumner, born july , . harry wadley graduated from the manchester high school in , with high standing in his class and the reputation of a faithful and efficient student. he entered the massachusetts institute of technology, in boston, in , as a special student, remaining two years. in he engaged in mercantile life; and having integrity and the capacity to make the best use of his privileges and attainments, he has certainly the earnest of a prosperous and honorable life. arthur bartlett, a bright and beautiful boy of uncommon intelligence, has yet to climb the pathway of youth; but if aught can be predicted from such tender years he is not likely to disappoint the fond hopes of parents and friends. in the common judgment of mankind, woman receives very little credit for the success of man in the struggles and achievements of this life. the intuitive judgment and unfaltering support with which the faithful and devoted wife aids her husband are unseen influences, the force and importance of which never have been and probably never will be understood or appreciated; and, although the remarkable success which the subject of this sketch has gained may be attributed to his ability and integrity, still the high social position to which the family have attained, and the important and very creditable purposes which they have accomplished, are equally due to the clear and well trained judgment, the watchful care and oversight of domestic affairs, and the amiable companionship of his estimable and accomplished wife. while in their relative spheres, either in the busy marts of trade or the domestic departments of life, "on change" or in the drawing-room, each to a certain extent must be judged independently, in all the economy of life her individuality and influence will be seen to have done their full share in molding the fortunes of the family. anxiously we strive to look behind the "cloud curtains" that veil the future and hide from view what lies in the untried ways beyond. vainly through the shadows which the sorrows of real life cast far in advance, and into the misty lands "whence come the troops of good and evil forces," so strangely and mysteriously mingled, we gaze and endeavor to discern the hastening events upon which our happiness and success so largely depend. but if we may predict of the future by the past, if we can anticipate what is to come by what has been accomplished, then shall the members of this family be blessed with the enjoyment of their full share of all that is happiest and best. col. chandler e. potter. col. chandler eastman potter was a native of east concord, n. h., born march , , son of joseph and anna (drake) potter. he graduated at dartmouth college in , taught high schools in concord and portsmouth several years, read law, and was admitted to the bar and practiced in concord. in he moved to manchester, where he owned and edited the _manchester democrat_ until the fall of , when he sold the paper. from to he was editor of the _monthly visitor_ and _granite farmer_. in june, , he was appointed justice of the manchester police court, succeeding hon. samuel d. bell, which office he filled seven years, with honor and credit to himself. he was an able and efficient member of the historical society in new hampshire, and other societies, and author of a very elaborate and correct history of manchester. his ennobling views of man and nature, and of sound, true principles were always heard with profound attention and delight. he had copiousness of ideas, and his writings were always filled with the thoughts of a comprehensive mind, instructing all who read what he wrote with a ready pen. he was interested in the study of the indian language, and has written many sketches of indian character, and was a contributor to schoolcraft's indian work. "col. potter was probably the best informed man and antiquarian in the state, on all topics that related to the early settlement of new hampshire." he was genial and social, with a keen relish for humor and anecdote, friendly with all classes. the rich and the poor found in him a true friend in time of need. he was a devoted friend of the militia organizations of the state, and second commander of the amoskeag veterans, a company that adopted the uniform of the continentals. they visited washington during the administration of president pierce, commanded by col. potter, who entertained the veterans at his home, the mcneil (n. h.) mansion and birthplace of franklin pierce, in . a grand entertainment was given them in a large tent upon the grounds. in dr. loring's address to the veterans he remarks:-- "as a strong, active, and useful son of new hampshire, he will long be remembered, and when all to whom his form and presence were so familiar shall have passed away,--his associates, his family, kindred, his daily companions to whom his anecdote and good sense rendered his company desirable,--the fruits of his labor as a careful historian and annalist will remain, a valuable contribution to the literature of new hampshire, a tribute from one who loved every incident of her early and aboriginal and heroic age. to his friends he left an honorable reputation; to his company, a record which will not be forgotten until the history of new hampshire shall be blotted out." col. potter's last able work, the military history of new hampshire, published in , consists of two volumes, from the settlement in to the close of the war of , with valuable biographical sketches. [illustration: c. e. potter] judge potter married, november , , clara a., daughter of john underwood, of portsmouth, by whom he had four children. she died march , , and november , , he married frances maria, daughter of gen. john mcneil, of hillsborough. after this marriage he resided at the gov. pierce homestead in hillsborough during the remainder of his life. col. potter loved the society of intelligent and worthy people, and welcomed all without distinction. his domestic relations gave a great charm to his existence. he died at flint, mich., whither he had gone with his wife on business, august , . after the funeral ceremonies were performed at manchester, the veterans met at their armory and passed the following resolution:-- "whereas, an inscrutable providence has seen fit to remove from our midst our loved and chosen commander, and we have performed the last sad rites of sepulture over his remains; therefore, be it "_resolved_, that in the decease of their colonel, chandler e. potter, the amoskeag veterans have sustained an irreparable loss,--that their foremost man from the beginning, who at all times, and under all circumstances, in sunshine and in storms, unselfishly sought to promote their highest welfare, is no more,--and for each one of us to resolve that in our day and generation we will endeavor to follow his example is the highest tribute we can pay his memory. we mourn not alone. society has lost an ornament; the state a historian whose labors, yet incompleted, in compiling and preserving her military history, will long outlive our feeble efforts." hon. daniel barnard. by m. b. goodwin. . john barnard, was among the early settlers of massachusetts. he came to this country in , in the ship elizabeth, from ipswich, england, and settled in watertown. . john barnard, son of the pioneer, john barnard, had two sons, jonathan and samuel. . jonathan barnard, son of john barnard, was a resident of amesbury, mass. owing to the manifold duties of a busy professional life, daniel barnard has not had the time or opportunity to trace out the genealogy of his family fully, but there is much reason for believing that this jonathan barnard was his great-grandfather. his great-grandfather was captain jonathan barnard, inn-holder in amesbury, who kept "the lion's mouth" in provincial days, was a captain in the colonial militia, and was prominent in the affairs of the town in which he lived. he was one of the sixty original grantees, in , of the township of new amesbury, or "number one," which was afterwards granted, in , by the masonian proprietors, as warner. his name heads the list of the grantees. . charles barnard, son of capt. jonathan barnard, was a soldier in the patriot army of the revolution, and settled in warner, on the northeast slope of burnt hill. . thomas barnard, son of charles barnard, was born in warner in ; married, first, ruth eastman, of hopkinton; married, second, phebe, his first wife's sister. in the fall of he removed, with his young family, from warner to orange. he died january , ; his second wife died june , . . daniel barnard, son of thomas and phebe (eastman) barnard, was born in orange, january , . when his father, thomas barnard, went there and planted his home on his lot of three hundred acres on the highlands dividing the waters which flow into the pemigewasset from those which flow into the connecticut, the whole territory was still covered by the primeval forest. but rugged, courageous hearts and hands in due time converted forest into field, and while a troupe of seven sons and a daughter was springing up in the rugged mountain home, a good farm was opened, which, with its abundant crops of grass, the stocks of cattle and very large flocks of sheep, allowed no place for idleness, summer or winter. the church and the district school stood together more than three miles off, and so continued till the subject of this notice, the fifth child of the family, was fourteen years old, no regular school being established nearer till he was eighteen years old. but the father being a man of sense and intelligence, and the mother an uncommonly bright, capable woman, they not only made the utmost exertion to give their children the full benefit of the meager chances of the district school, but also systematically supplemented these opportunities with regular study and teaching in the long winter evenings at home. the father, a good mathematician, managed the flock in arithmetic, and the mother handled them in other branches. from the age of seventeen, daniel barnard was granted the privilege of attending the canaan academy every season during the winter months, until he was twenty-one, being employed during the summer on his father's farm. [illustration: daniel barnard] when he arrived at man's estate he fearlessly took his stand with the free-soil democrats, and was four times elected to represent his native town in the state legislature. during this time he was intent upon securing the advantages of a college education, and with this end in view he taught school, during the winter, in orange, grafton, groton, lyme, enfield, and amherst, and pursued his preparatory studies at canaan and boscawen academies, and under the tuition of prof. william russell at the normal institute at reed's ferry. mr. barnard's legislative experience materially changed his plans in life; and he decided to enter at once upon his professional studies. he was well known in the house from his first appearance in that body; not merely because so youthful in appearance, but because, also, of the uncommon capacity, the sincerity and sagacity with which, in unassuming, almost diffident ways, he met all his duties; and in the latter sessions of the four years' service he became a leader of the independent party in the house, and an influential member of that body. at home, during the same period, he was sleepless in his vigilance, contriving by sagacious management to hold the little band of free-soil democrats in a solid column, and annually to carry the town till he left it, in the autumn of . at the close of the legislative session of that year, with fixed professional aims, he went to franklin, entered upon the study of the law in the office of nesmith & pike, and in , on admission to the bar, became at once the junior partner with mr. pike, in the office where he had read his profession, mr. nesmith at that time retiring from the office and extensive business which he had so honorably founded and built into its large proportions. in , mr. barnard withdrew from the firm and established himself alone in his profession in the same village, rapidly rising into the very large, wide, and lucrative business which for more than eighteen years has allowed him not so much as a week, or scarcely a day, of vacation in the year. during this period he has had as many students in his office constantly as the circumstances of his office would admit, and has nearly all the time had a partner in a temporary way. his partner now is his eldest son, william m. barnard, who graduated at dartmouth college with superior rank, in , at the age of twenty years; studied his profession in his father's office and at the boston law school; and was admitted to the bar and into partnership with his father in . in relation to the business of the office, it is perfectly safe to add that there has been no time within the last fifteen years in which there has not been a formidable amount of business piled up awaiting attention, notwithstanding the most sleepless and indefatigable industry which mr. barnard has brought to his duties. for the last ten years he has not only regularly attended all the courts in the counties of merrimack, belknap, and the plymouth sessions of grafton, but has constantly attended the united states circuit courts, practicing in bankrupt, patent, and revenue cases. the esteem in which mr. barnard is held by the immediate community in which he lives may be casually mentioned. though never seeking office, he has been often chosen to places of responsibility by his townsmen. in and he represented the town of franklin in the legislature; and in all political contests in the town in which he has been candidate for the suffrages of his townsmen he has always run much ahead of the party ticket. in and he was a member of the state senate, presiding over that body in the latter-named year; in and he was a member of the governor's council; and in was a member of the republican national convention at philadelphia. he was solicitor of merrimack county from till declining re-appointment in , the position being again tendered to him and declined in . he was a firm, earnest supporter of the homestead-exemption law of , which was opposed by most of the profession through the state, and introduced the resolution in the house which first gave the members a daily paper. as a member of the senate in , he took a profound interest in the amendment of the federal constitution prohibiting slavery, making an able and effective argument in its support in that body. in the cause of education he has always been a foremost friend in franklin and throughout the state. his own early struggles have doubtless contributed to make him peculiarly a friend of the common school, and his experience as a teacher in his early years gives him practical wisdom in the cause. while studying his profession in franklin, he was from year to year employed in the teachers' institutes, which did a large work in awakening higher ideas of the mission of the common school in new hampshire during that period, and in that business he was in nearly every county of the state. in , the honorary degree of master of arts was conferred upon mr. barnard by dartmouth college. mr. barnard has been prominently identified with all the leading industries which have been established in franklin, and which have so remarkably built up the town within the last twenty years; procured the charters and helped organize all the great corporations; has been a continuous trustee of the franklin library association since its establishment, more than fifteen years since, and a trustee of the franklin savings bank since its establishment, in ; legal counsel of the franklin falls company from its organization, in , and the last eight years its local agent; and is a director and vice-president of the franklin national bank, recently organized in that town. as a lawyer, mr. barnard ranks very high in the profession, his advice being eagerly sought by the humblest client and the most influential corporations; but no person, however poor, with a meritorious cause, was ever turned away from his office to make room for a richer or more powerful client. his client's cause becomes his, and his whole energy is directed to winning for his employer what he believes he should have. his terse and logical arguments are especially powerful before a jury; and his eloquent voice has been often heard in legislative halls, leading and guiding the law-making assemblies, and in political meetings, sustaining the motives and policy of his party. in the social, humane, and religious work of the community, he has always been active and efficient, generous almost to a fault in every good enterprise; and in these spheres of duty he has ever had the efficient co-operation of a cultivated, and, it is not too much to add, a model christian wife,--amelia, only child of rev. william morse, a unitarian clergyman of chelmsford, mass., at the time of the marriage,--to whom he was married november , . mr. morse, now deceased, was one of the pioneer clergymen of the unitarian faith in this country, was many years pastor of the callow-hill-street church, philadelphia, and an able and excellent minister. his wife was sophronia, daughter of abner kneeland, of boston, an able and upright man, whose trial on the technical charge of blasphemy, but really for the publication of heretical religious doctrines, was a most noted episode in new england forty years ago. mrs. morse was a noble woman. mr. morse and his wife resided during the last years of their pleasant lives in franklin, near their daughter, who watched with singular tenderness over the closing years of the parents to whom she is indebted for superior training as well as superior ability. their union has been blessed with seven children, six of whom, four sons and two daughters, are living. [illustration: respectfully william p. riddle] william p. riddle. the lives men live and the character of communities lived in are retroactive. written or unwritten, the good and ill of them swell the tide of human progress, which ebbs and flows by force of individual influences. time and place are accidental to birth, but often determine conditions that shape fortune. in new england, in the last century, men achieved and wore the iron crown, and their descendants inherited traits of mental and moral character that make material for biography. the subject of this sketch was of the third generation of his family in the town of bedford, n. h., the place of his nativity. in origin the family was of anglo-norman extraction. the name of riddle appears in the english and scotch genealogies, and is traceable back into the ninth century. gaen riddle, of scotch descent, the head of his branch of the family in this country, came over and settled in bedford, n. h., about the year , and was one of the original settlers of that town. william p. riddle, of whom is the present memoir, was the grandson of gaen riddle, and the son of isaac,--a man of prominence in the affairs and events of his time and locality. william p. inherited in a marked degree his father's characteristics. born on the th day of april, , during the period of the formation of our constitutional government, he became early imbued with the ideas of nationality. his youth was passed at the district school, upon the farm, and about his father's business, in which he displayed aptness and activity. at the old atkinson academy, in new hampshire, he ultimately acquired what education it was his privilege to obtain, and for a short time taught school in his native town. in , mr. riddle located in piscataquog, a village in bedford, situated on the merrimack river, and now apart of the city of manchester. there he took charge of his father's mercantile affairs. business soon increased in importance, which led to the formation of the partnership of isaac riddle & sons, in . this firm eventually extended its business operations throughout central new england. they owned and carried on stores, warehouses, lumber-yards, saw and grain mills at bedford and piscataquog, and also operated cotton and nail factories, and lumber and grain mills, on the souhegan at merrimack. at the latter place they erected dwelling-houses, stores, and a hotel, whence it came to be known as riddle's village, and was an active and thriving place. during this time the project of constructing the "union locks and canals," on the merrimack river, was inaugurated,--an enterprise which rendered that river navigable for boats and barges to the capital of the state of new hampshire, and opened up water communication with boston. with this achievement mr. riddle became identified, manifesting energy and foresight. taking advantage of the facilities thus afforded for inland navigation, the firm of isaac riddle & sons established a warehouse in boston, together with a line of canal-boats, and in connection with their other extensive business entered actively into the carrying-trade. this water transportation was continued by mr. riddle after the dissolution of his firm in , and until the opening of the nashua & concord railroad. at the decease of his father, the old firm was dissolved, and mr. riddle assumed and carried on the business in his own name, both at merrimack and bedford. he supplied the region round about with merchandise, and furnished lumber largely for the cities of nashua, lowell, newburyport, boston, and providence, supplying the navy-yard at charlestown with spars and ship-timber, boston, and lowell, and other large cities with lumber for public buildings and bridges, and the railways of new england with ties and contract lumber, and shipped railroad sleepers to the west indies. the old "yellow store" at piscataquog bridge was the scene of many of these transactions. it was a busy mart. here were bought and bartered domestic products, wood, timber and lumber from all the outlying country, in exchange for groceries and merchandise, which in turn were transported down the merrimack to the markets of massachusetts. during this latter period of his business activity, mr. riddle also dealt extensively in hops, buying them throughout new hampshire, vermont, and canada, and shipping and marketing them in boston, new york, and philadelphia, and in some instances exporting them. in he was appointed inspector-general of hops for new hampshire, the culture of which having become of important concern to the farmers of the state. in this capacity he was favorably known and respected among hop-growers and merchants of new england. in the piscataquog steam-mills were erected by him, and successfully operated for several years. thus were continued and carried on mercantile pursuits and business enterprises until his retirement, about the year , filling up a busy life of upwards of half a century. early in life mr. riddle evinced a taste for military affairs. at the age of twenty-five years he organized a company known as the bedford grenadiers, and was chosen its first captain. five years afterwards he was promoted to the rank of major of the "old ninth regiment." the next year he became lieutenant-colonel, and on june , , was promoted to the colonelcy of the regiment, and was in command for seven years. the "old ninth" was then composed of ten full infantry companies, two rifle companies, one artillery company, and one cavalry company, and for discipline and efficiency ranked first in the state. in june, , col. riddle was promoted brigadier-general; and on the th of june, , was further promoted to the rank of major-general of the division, which military office he held till his resignation. thus he had filled all the offices of military rank within the state. mr. riddle married, in , miss sarah ferguson, daughter of capt. john ferguson, of dunbarton,--a soldier of the revolution who fought at bunker's hill. of this union there were seven children. after his marriage he continued to reside in piscataquog, living on the present homestead till his death. in civil life, gen. riddle also held offices of trust. he was representative at the legislature, county road commissioner, justice of the peace and of the quorum, trustee of institutions, on committees of public matters, and frequently moderator at the town-meetings. in he was chairman of a committee chosen to build piscataquog meeting-house, a matter of some church importance to the town of bedford; and some twenty years later he was on the committee to remodel it into an academy, of which he was made and continued a trustee, and in which he exercised a lively interest. it was his pleasure to promote public education in every way. the common school, the academy, and the college received his patronage and fostering consideration. as the town's committee, he superintended the early construction of bridges across the piscataquog and merrimack rivers; in , rebuilt the mcgregor bridge, now the location of the new iron bridge on bridge street, manchester; and at a later period was the president of the granite bridge company, which erected the lattice toll-bridge at merrill's falls. in the "masonic fraternity," mr. riddle was prominent, becoming a member of the order in . the following year he helped found the lafayette lodge in piscataquog, being a charter member. he gave liberally to the support of this lodge, both in funds and effort, supplying it with a hall for meetings and work for twenty-five years. he was the last surviving member of its early projectors. the old lafayette lodge was among the very few in the state during the anti-mason troubles that held its regular communications unbroken. he was also a member of the mt. horeb chapter, and of trinity commandry of knights templar. about agriculture he found time to exercise his taste. he owned several farms, and cultivated them with success, experimenting with crops, and giving results to the public. he was a patron of the state and county fairs, and sought in many ways to advance and encourage the best interests of husbandry. hop-raising was a specialty with him, and through his methods and example the culture of hops within the state was extended and improved. in , after the incorporation of the city of manchester, at a time when there seemed to be little interest manifested in military affairs in the state, gen. riddle undertook and assisted in the organization of the amoskeag veterans, now so well known and respected. in its origin the corps was a military association, composed of many of the most prominent and worthy citizens of the community. from such an association a battalion was formed, and gen. riddle chosen its first commander. the success of this movement gave an impetus to the military spirit of the day, and was the means of inaugurating a new militia system for the state. the veterans, as is well known, uniformed in continental style, and to-day enjoy a wide reputation for their unique and quaint appearance on parade, their martial bearing, and soldierly mien, and for the character of the rank and file. in the fall of , upon the invitation of president pierce, the amoskeag veterans visited washington and became guests at the white house, freely enjoying its hospitality, and receiving official honor. while there they made a notable pilgrimage to the tomb of washington at mount vernon. on its return, the battalion attracted much public notice. at baltimore, philadelphia, and new york, it received special attention and entertainment. during the late war the veterans showed patriotism, both in deed and sentiment, and otherwise promoted the national cause. in politics, mr. riddle was a whig, during the existence of the party; and subsequently became a republican. though not a politician, he took an earnest and active interest in the public affairs of the country. respecting the constitutional rights of all sections, he most faithfully upheld the integrity of the nation. with him, liberty of thought, speech, and action was a fundamental and inherent idea. to him the history and traditions of the american people were a sacred heritage, and the constitution and union were solemn and paramount obligations, inseparable and indissoluble. in political faith, he believed the nation co-existed in perpetuity, and that the people were the source of all sovereignty; that parties and policies were expedients,--essential, but subordinate to principle and the fundamental concerns of the state. in the early discussions prior to the outbreak of the late rebellion, he took an earnest and serious interest. he regarded secession as treasonable heresy, and odious. during the war he was an ardent supporter of the government, and threw all his influence in its behalf. with deep faith in free institutions, and the power of the nation, he "never despaired of the republic." upon the close of hostilities, peace was welcomed by him as the harbinger of a redeemed country. though nurtured under scotch presbyterian influences, mr. riddle was ultimately a unitarian in his religious faith. he was prominent among the founders of the unitarian society at manchester, and exercised much personal regard for its success. liberal in his views, he was always actuated by principle, and aimed at consistency in christianity. the sermon on the mount was to him an abiding force. dogma was subordinated to faith; and faith enlightened by reason. a patient listener to religious teaching, he molded his own opinions. in his last days he was wont to say, that, upon a retrospection of his life, he "did not wish to change anything." simplicity of character, charity, and hospitality were marked traits in life. energy, efficiency, and integrity characterized his whole career. in private life he was much respected, and fully sustained the confidence of his fellow-men. in public life he was identified with every worthy achievement of his time. few men of his generation and nativity have lived more active lives, and few will leave for a memorial a wider record of usefulness and enterprise. in the full possession of his faculties, at the ripe age of eighty-six years, the subject of this sketch passed quietly away, on the th day of may, . the church he helped to build and to sustain was the scene of his obsequies. in the cemetery at bedford, by the place of his birth, within the old family tomb, he was interred, amid the kindly offices of friends, and the associations with which he had so long been identified. such is the brief portrayal of a life and character, which in some degree was the logical outcome of the rugged circumstances that beset the early settlements of new hampshire. the causes which led to the establishment of civil and religious liberty in new england equally wrought out the characteristics of the people. bedford, londonderry, antrim, were primarily a part of the wilds, and the "rock-ribbed" hills, that were subdued and made habitable by the indomitable energy and frugal industry of those early pioneers. their descendants, partaking somewhat of their own robust virtues, have in turn impressed the higher culture and the later institutions of the country. in those old towns may yet be traced the lineaments of the ancestry which so eminently struggled for "conscience' sake." perhaps to no influence more than that of the new england mothers' is attributable the steady, underlying moral force which pervaded that elder civilization. well may it be said, that "new hampshire was a good state to emigrate from,"--for those communities which have had the good fortune to be the recipients of such an emigration. [illustration: john b. clarke.] john b. clarke. by john w. moore. among the various pursuits of the american people there can be no one which ranks higher in a literary point of view than journalism. once the orator, the teacher, the learned adviser, and the judge had the greater influence among the people; but now the newspaper, as a power in civilization and culture, exceeds all other influences, for journalism has become, in this country, a most potent agency for good, and editors now, far more than statesmen, teachers, or ecclesiastics, are the guides of current opinion. it was at one time a common saying in england, that "america is too much governed by newspapers." thomas jefferson, hearing this assertion, answered, "i would rather live in a country with newspapers and without a government, than in a country with a government but without newspapers." the well managed newspaper of to-day is not only a recorder of events, but it occupies itself with all the thoughts and doings of men, the discoveries of science, the treasures of literature, the progress of art, the acts of heroes, and the sayings and doings of christendom. sustained by the people, and laboring for them, it has the power to make and unmake presidents, control parties, build up free institutions, and regulate the minutest details of daily life; it becomes in one sense school-master, preacher, lawgiver, judge, jury, and policeman, in one grand combination. among the influential newspaper-men of this country who are now, and who for thirty years past have been, busy in publishing journals, speaking for truth, honesty, liberty, religion, and good government, is found the subject of this sketch, john badger clarke, the well known, genial, liberal, enterprising, able, and very successful editor and publisher of the manchester, new hampshire, _daily mirror and american_, and the _weekly mirror and farmer_. john badger clarke was born at atkinson, january , , and was the junior of six children--five sons and one daughter--of greenleaf and julia (cogswell) clarke. atkinson was a good town to be born in, and an excellent place in which to gain religious, moral, and educational instruction. the direct ancestors of the present clarke family were from atkinson; and from that excellent farming town the children of greenleaf clarke went forth on their way to college and to places of responsibility, and to high callings in life,--the ancestors being known as intelligent, honored, enterprising, patriotic people, conscientiously religious, after the puritan faith. julia cogswell, the mother of mr. clarke, was the daughter of dr. william and judith (badger) cogswell, and sister of rev. william cogswell, hon. thomas cogswell, hon. francis cogswell, and hon. george cogswell, biographical sketches of whom appear in this book. she was a woman of great intellectual powers, a fine scholar, and was preceptress of atkinson academy at the time when john vose, author of a treatise on astronomy, was principal. the badger family, connected with the clarkes and cogswells, are descendants of giles badger, who settled at newbury, mass., in . gen. joseph badger, born at haverhill, mass., january , , and who died april , , in the eighty-second year of his age, was active in the revolution, a member of the provincial congress, and of the convention which adopted the constitution. after removing to gilmanton, n. h., he held many town offices, was made a brigadier-general, was a member of the state council, and was a stanch supporter of the institutions of learning and religion. hon. william badger, born in gilmanton, january , , was a representative, senator, president of the senate, and governor of the state in and . he was also an elector of president and vice-president of the united states in , , and ; was an associate justice of the court of common pleas from to , and for ten years high-sheriff of the county. hon. joseph badger, jr., son of the general, was born in bradford, mass., october , ; was distinguished as a military officer for thirty years, passing from captain to brigadier-general. he served in the revolutionary war, and was present at the capture of burgoyne. he died at gilmanton, january , , aged sixty-two. his wife was a daughter of rev. william parsons, and their marriage was the first one recorded in gilmanton. of mr. clarke's four brothers, a sketch of the eldest, the hon. william cogswell clarke, is given elsewhere in this book. dr. francis clarke was a very successful physician, who resided during his professional life at andover, mass., where he died july , . hon. greenleaf clarke was a teacher of the high school at lynn until obliged to leave because the sea air disagreed with him, when he returned to the old homestead in atkinson, where he has since resided. he was a member of gov. hubbard's staff, several years a representative to the legislature, and, in , the senator from the rockingham district, and is now new hampshire's commissioner of the boston & maine railroad, an office which he held in earlier days. dr. moses clarke graduated from the medical college, hanover, and received his degree in . he was eminent as a physician and surgeon; settled at east cambridge, mass., in , and was a member of the medical societies of that state in , and a representative to the american medical association. he was city physician for many years, school committee, and one of the standing committee for the congregational society. he died at cambridge, march , . the sister of these gentlemen, sarah clarke, married col. samuel carleton of haverhill, mass., and has since resided in that town. it is seldom that a whole family of six children have so creditably been advanced to distinction. the marriage of john b. clarke with susan greeley moulton, of gilmanton, a descendant of john moulton, who came to hampton in , more firmly united the mentioned old families, adding the thurstons, gilmans, lampreys, towles, beans, philbricks, and others, as did the marriage of william c. clarke with a daughter of stephen l. greeley unite the nortons of newburyport, and others; while moses clarke, by marrying a direct descendant of john dwight, who came from england in , and settled in dedham. mass., , became connected with a family which furnished a commandant at fort dummer, during the indian war, and whose youngest son, timothy c. dwight, born at the fort, was the first white child born in vermont; thus through the dwights, connecting the woolseys, edwardses, hookers, and other massachusetts and connecticut families known in the history of education and the growth of yale college with the clarkes, cogswells, badgers, and gilmans of new hampshire. mr. clarke passed the years of boyhood upon the farm of his father, breathing the pure air, and enjoying the healthy exercise of farm labor. here was laid the foundation of that robust constitution which was calculated to build up the excellent physical man we see in him. studying at atkinson academy, he was prepared to enter dartmouth college at the age of nineteen years, from which he graduated with high honors in the class of , being only outranked in scholarship by the late prof. j. n. putnam. after leaving college, mr. clarke was for three years principal of the academy at gilford (now laconia), exhibiting an aptness for teaching rarely possessed. while thus engaged, he commenced the study of law in the office of stephen c. lyford, esq., and continued his studies in manchester with his brother, william c. clarke, until admitted to the bar of hillsborough county in . february , , he started for california, _via_ the isthmus of panama, where he was detained eleven weeks, and bought for the manchester party of forty-three with him, in company with a gentleman of maine with twenty men, the brig copiapo, in which they left the isthmus for california with one hundred and fifty-eight passengers, mr. clarke being supercargo. he remained in california a little more than a year, practicing law and working in the mines. he then spent about four months in central america, returning home in february, . he went to salem, mass., with the intention of establishing a law office there, but returned to manchester and opened an office, applying himself to the practice of his profession with success, until february, , when, at the request of mr. joseph c. emerson, he took charge of the editorial department of the _daily mirror_. mr. emerson becoming financially embarrassed, the property was sold at auction on the th of october, , mr. clarke being the purchaser of the _daily_ and _weekly mirror_, and of the job-printing establishment connected therewith, of which he has ever since been the sole owner and manager. subsequently he purchased the _daily_ and _weekly american_ (in which the _weekly democrat_ had been previously merged), and the _new hampshire journal of agriculture_. these were all combined with the _mirror_, and the name of the daily changed to _mirror and american_, and the weekly from _dollar weekly mirror_ to _mirror and farmer_. since these additions to the _mirror_, mr. clarke has found it needful to enlarge both the daily and weekly papers twice. though mr. clarke commenced his journalistic career at manchester, in , without training and without capital, he had what at that time proved most valuable to him, the capacity to see quickly and to express correctly the tendencies of opinion; and consequently his paper seemed to echo the voice of the people without any appearance of attempting to create it. from the day he came to manchester as a citizen of the growing city (or town it then was), he has labored for the welfare of the place and the prosperity of its people. an examination of the records and the history of manchester shows us that he was one of the most active to recommend and push forward the manufacturing, mercantile, and mechanical interests of the corporations and people, as well as to aid in the perfection of all the educational, charitable, and reformatory institutions of the city, county, and state. he in the outset aspired to make the _mirror_ one of the leading newspapers of the country, cost what it might; and his adroitness, energy, persistency, and straightforward devotion to that idea has enabled him to realize his aspirations. when mr. clarke took possession of the _mirror_, the weekly paper had but a few hundred subscribers, while it now has a larger circulation than any other paper of its class published in new england out of boston. doubtless much of his success is due to his great knowledge of men, as this enables him to select the best suited to carry out his purposes, whether as assistants in the various departments of his business, or to attend to details in any city, state, or national measures in which he takes an interest. he is possessed of a brave, earnest, and sound mind, and never wastes his energies or time upon aspirations which may be barren of results. his work is steady, like a good fire, throwing out light and heat constantly and continually. previous to the war the _mirror_ had been non-partisan politically; but mr. clarke decided that there should be no neutrals in time of war, and his paper came out boldly on the side of the administration, and has ever since advocated the principles of the republican party. in connection with his daily and weekly newspapers, mr. clarke has built up a very extensive book and job printing business, and to this has added a book-binding establishment. he has published many valuable works of his own and others: among his own publications will be found "the londonderry celebration," "sanborn's history of new hampshire," "clarke's manchester almanac and directory," "clarke's history of manchester," and several smaller works. readers of the _mirror_ know that mr. clarke is accustomed to talking and writing with great positiveness. he generally forms his opinions quickly, and acts upon them with directness. he will decide upon a project, map out a plan for its execution, select the men to carry out its details, and dispose of the matter, while other men would be halting and trying to determine whether it was feasible. he never does anything lukewarmly; whatever cause he espouses he enters into heartily, bending all his efforts to bring about success and make certain the desired end. if mr. clarke would do his friend a favor, he devotes himself to that purpose with as much zeal as if its attainment were the chief object of his life. he never wears two faces; and whether your friend or opponent you will know his position from the start. mr. clarke has always refused to be a candidate for office, because he believed that office-holding would interfere with his influence as a public journalist, but was a delegate to the baltimore convention that nominated abraham lincoln for the second time to the presidency, and was one of the national committee of seven (including ex-governor claflin, of massachusetts, ex-governor marcus l. ward, of new jersey, and hon. henry t. raymond, of the _new york times_), who managed that campaign. he has been connected with the college of agriculture, been a trustee of the merrimack river savings bank since its organization, in ; a master for three years of the amoskeag grange no. ; for two years lieutenant-colonel of the amoskeag veterans, and was twice elected commander, but declined that honor. six times he has been elected state printer; in , , , , , and in for two years. mr. clarke has always manifested a great interest in the subject of elocution, probably having learned how faulty many students were as orators during his senior year in college, when he was president of the social friends society, and in , after he was elected president of the tri kappa society. for two years he gave to the manchester high school forty dollars a year for prizes in public speaking and reading. he then offered (in ) one hundred dollars a year for five years to dartmouth college for the same object. in october, , mr. clarke proposed to give forty dollars a year for five years for superiority in elocution in the high and grammar schools of manchester, to be divided into four prizes of $ , $ , $ , $ , the awards to be made at a public exhibition in the month of january each year, the proceeds from sale of tickets to which should be invested, and the income from the investment applied for prizes for a similar object perpetually. the proposition was accepted by the school board, and the first contest for the prizes was made in smyth's hall in january, , the net proceeds from the sale of tickets being $ . . the succeeding january $ . was realized, and in january, , $ . , or a total of $ . in three years. in february, , mr. clarke offered to add to his original forty dollars twenty dollars a year for the next two years, with the suggestion that the forty dollars be divided into prizes of $ , $ , $ , and $ respectively, for the best four of all the sixteen contestants, on the score of merit, and the remaining twenty dollars awarded in equal prizes to the contestants adjudged the best in each of the schools represented, excluding all who should have received either of the four prizes first named. the result of this generous offer on the part of mr. clarke has been a great interest and improvement in reading and speaking in the public schools of manchester, and it is probable that there will be a permanent fund of not less than fifteen hundred dollars accruing from the exhibitions at the end of the five years, insuring a perpetual income for the clarke prizes. mr. clarke has always been interested in farming, and, believing that "blood will tell," has done much with voice and pen to bring about an improvement in the breeds of horses and other stock in the state. his admiration for good horses (of which he is never without several in his stable), and his fondness for hunting, are so much a part of his life that any sketch of him without allusion to them would be incomplete. as a coon hunter he has had no rival in the state. he has served as president of the new hampshire game and fish league from the first, and was the prime mover in its organization. within a few past years mr. clarke has learned by experience that there is a limit to the amount of care and business the strongest man can undertake, especially when everything is done with the intensity characteristic of his nature. in , being obliged by the advice of physicians to abstain from all business for several months, he visited great britain, france, and germany, to regain the health too close attention to business had temporarily destroyed. he has since applied the wisdom thus dearly bought by limiting the time to be devoted to business, rarely allowing himself to overstep the bounds. generous to a fault, mr. clarke has contributed liberally to all measures calculated to advance the interests of his town and city, and hardly a public work in manchester now exists that does not owe something to his influence or pecuniary aid. he has always adhered to the christian faith in which he was reared, and has been a liberal supporter of the franklin-street congregational church of the city, a constant attendant upon its worship, and has been elected to various offices in that society. mr. clarke married, july , , susan greeley moulton, of gilmanton. they have two sons,--arthur eastman, born may , , and william cogswell, born march , . both are graduates of the scientific department of dartmouth college, and both are now employed on the _mirror_. fishin' jimmy by annie trumbull slosson author's edition fishin' jimmy it was on the margin of pond brook, just back of uncle eben's, that i first saw fishin' jimmy. it was early june, and we were again at franconia, that peaceful little village among the northern hills. the boys, as usual, were tempting the trout with false fly or real worm, and i was roaming along the bank, seeking spring flowers, and hunting early butterflies and moths. suddenly there was a little plash in the water at the spot where ralph was fishing, the slender tip of his rod bent, i heard a voice cry out, "strike him, sonny, strike him!" and an old man came quickly but noiselessly through the bushes, just as ralph's line flew up into space, with, alas! no shining, spotted trout upon the hook. the new comer was a spare, wiry man of middle height, with a slight stoop in his shoulders, a thin brown face, and scanty gray hair. he carried a fishing-rod, and had some small trout strung on a forked stick in one hand. a simple, homely figure, yet he stands out in memory just as i saw him then, no more to be forgotten than the granite hills, the rushing streams, the cascades of that north country i love so well. we fell into talk at once, ralph and waldo rushing eagerly into questions about the fish, the bait, the best spots in the stream, advancing their own small theories, and asking advice from their new friend. for friend he seemed even in that first hour, as he began simply, but so wisely, to teach my boys the art he loved. they are older now, and are no mean anglers, i believe; but they look back gratefully to those brookside lessons, and acknowledge gladly their obligations to fishin' jimmy. but it is not of these practical teachings i would now speak; rather of the lessons of simple faith, of unwearied patience, of self-denial and cheerful endurance, which the old man himself seemed to have learned, strangely enough, from the very sport so often called cruel and murderous. incomprehensible as it may seem, to his simple intellect the fisherman's art was a whole system of morality, a guide for every-day life, an education, a gospel. it was all any poor mortal man, woman, or child, needed in this world to make him or her happy, useful, good. at first we scarcely realized this, and wondered greatly at certain things he said, and the tone in which he said them. i remember at that first meeting i asked him, rather carelessly, "do you like fishing?" he did not reply at first; then he looked at me with those odd, limpid, green-gray eyes of his which always seemed to reflect the clear waters of mountain streams, and said very quietly: "you would n't ask me if i liked my mother--or my wife." and he always spoke of his pursuit as one speaks of something very dear, very sacred. part of his story i learned from others, but most of it from himself, bit by bit, as we wandered together day by day in that lovely hill-country. as i tell it over again i seem to hear the rush of mountain streams, the "sound of a going in the tops of the trees," the sweet, pensive strain of white-throat sparrow, and the plash of leaping trout; to see the crystal-clear waters pouring over granite rock, the wonderful purple light upon the mountains, the flash and glint of darting fish, the tender green of early summer in the north country. fishin' jimmy's real name was james whitcher. he was born in the franconia valley of northern new hampshire, and his whole life had been passed there. he had always fished; he could not remember when or how he learned the art. from the days when, a tiny, bare-legged urchin in ragged frock, he had dropped his piece of string with its bent pin at the end into the narrow, shallow brooklet behind his father's house, through early boyhood's season of roaming along gale river, wading black brook, rowing a leaky boat on streeter or mink pond, through youth, through manhood, on and on into old age, his life had apparently been one long day's fishing--an angler's holiday. had it been only that? he had not cared for books, or school, and all efforts to tie him down to study were unavailing. but he knew well the books of running brooks. no dry botanical text-book or manual could have taught him all he now knew of plants and flowers and trees. he did not call the yellow spatterdock nuphar advena, but he knew its large leaves of rich green, where the black bass or pickerel sheltered themselves from the summer sun, and its yellow balls on stout stems, around which his line so often twined and twisted, or in which the hook caught, not to be jerked out till the long, green, juicy stalk itself, topped with globe of greenish gold, came up from its wet bed. he knew the sedges along the bank with their nodding tassels and stiff lance-like leaves, the feathery grasses, the velvet moss upon the wet stones, the sea-green lichen on boulder or tree-trunk. there, in that corner of echo lake, grew the thickest patch of pipewort, with its small, round, grayish-white, mushroom-shaped tops on long, slender stems. if he had styled it eriocaulon septangulare, would it have shown a closer knowledge of its habits than did his careful avoidance of its vicinity, his keeping line and flies at a safe distance, as he muttered to himself, "them pesky butt'ns agin!" he knew by sight the bur-reed of mountain ponds, with its round, prickly balls strung like big beads on the stiff, erect stalks; the little water-lobelia, with tiny purple blossoms, springing from the waters of lake and pond. he knew, too, all the strange, beautiful under-water growth: bladderwort in long, feathery garlands, pellucid water-weed, quillwort in stiff little bunches with sharp-pointed leaves of olive-green,--all so seldom seen save by the angler whose hooks draw up from time to time the wet, lovely tangle. i remember the amusement with which a certain well-known botanist, who had journeyed to the mountains in search of a little plant, found many years ago near echo lake, but not since seen, heard me propose to consult fishin' jimmy on the subject. but i was wiser than he knew. jimmy looked at the specimen brought as an aid to identification. it was dry and flattened, and as unlike a living, growing plant as are generally the specimens from an herbarium. but it showed the awl-shaped leaves, and thread-like stalk with its tiny round seed-vessels, like those of our common shepherd's-purse, and jimmy knew it at once. "there's a dreffle lot o' that peppergrass out in deep water there, jest where i ketched the big pick'ril," he said quietly. "i seen it nigh a foot high, an' it 's juicier and livin'er than them dead sticks in your book." at our request he accompanied the unbelieving botanist and myself to the spot; and there, looking down through the sunlit water, we saw great patches of that rare and long-lost plant of the cruciferse known to science as subularia aquatica. for forty years it had hidden itself away, growing and blossoming and casting abroad its tiny seeds in its watery home, unseen, or at least unnoticed, by living soul, save by the keen, soft, limpid eyes of fishin' jimmy. and he knew the trees and shrubs so well: the alder and birch from which as a boy he cut his simple, pliant pole; the shad-blow and iron-wood (he called them, respectively, sugarplum and hard-hack) which he used for the more ambitious rods of maturer years; the mooseberry, wayfaring-tree, hobble-bush, or triptoe,--it has all these names, with stout, trailing branches, over which he stumbled as he hurried through the woods and underbrush in the darkening twilight. he had never heard of entomology. guenee, hubner, and fabricius were unknown names; but he could have told these worthies many new things. did they know just at what hour the trout ceased leaping at dark fly or moth, and could see only in the dim light the ghostly white miller? did they know the comparative merits, as a tempting bait, of grasshopper, cricket, spider, or wasp; and could they, with bits of wool, tinsel, and feather, copy the real dipterous, hymenopterous, or orthopterous insect? and the birds: he knew them as do few ornithologists, by sight, by sound, by little ways and tricks of their own, known only to themselves and him. the white-throat sparrow with its sweet, far-reaching chant; the hermit-thrush with its chime of bells in the calm summer twilight; the vesper-sparrow that ran before him as he crossed the meadow, or sang for hours, as he fished the stream, its unvarying, but scarcely monotonous little strain; the cedar-bird, with its smooth brown coast of quaker simplicity, and speech as brief and simple as quaker yea or nay; the winter-wren sending out his strange, lovely, liquid warble from the high, rocky side of cannon mountain; the bluebird of the early spring, so welcome to the winter-weary dwellers in that land of ice and show, as he "from the bluer deeps lets fall a quick, prophetic strain," of summer, of streams freed and flowing again, of waking, darting, eager fish; the veery, the phoebe, the jay, the vireo,--all these were friends, familiar, tried and true to fishin' jimmy. the cluck and coo of the cuckoo, the bubbling song of bobolink in buff and black, the watery trill of the stream-loving swamp-sparrow, the whispered whistle of the stealthy, darkness-haunting whippoorwill, the gurgle and gargle of the cow-bunting,--he knew each and all, better than did audubon, nuttall, or wilson. but he never dreamed that even the tiniest of his little favorites bore, in the scientific world, far away from that quiet mountain nest, such names as troglodytes hyemalis or melospiza palustris. he could tell you, too, of strange, shy creatures rarely seen except by the early-rising, late-fishing angler, in quiet, lonesome places: the otter, muskrat, and mink of ponds and lakes,--rival fishers, who bore off prey sometimes from under his very eyes,--field-mice in meadow and pasture, blind, burrowing moles, prickly hedge-hogs, brown hares, and social, curious squirrels. sometimes he saw deer, in the early morning or in the dusk of the evening, as they came to drink at the lake shore, and looked at him with big, soft eyes not unlike his own. sometimes a shaggy bear trotted across his path and hid himself in the forest, or a sharp-eared fox ran barking through the bushes. he loved to tell of these things to us who cared to listen, and i still seem to hear his voice saying in hushed tones, after a story of woodland sight or sound: "nobody don't see 'em but fishermen. nobody don't hear 'em but fishermen." ii but it was of another kind of knowledge he oftenest spoke, and of which i shall try to tell you, in his own words as nearly as possible. first let me say that if there should seem to be the faintest tinge of irreverence in aught i write, i tell my story badly. there was no irreverence in fishin' jimmy. he possessed a deep and profound veneration for all things spiritual and heavenly; but it was the veneration of a little child, mingled as is that child's with perfect confidence and utter frankness. and he used the dialect of the country in which he lived. "as i was tellin' ye," he said, "i allers loved fishin' an' knowed 't was the best thing in the hull airth. i knowed it larnt ye more about creeters an' yarbs an' stuns an' water than books could tell ye. i knowed it made folks patienter an' commonsenser an' weather-wiser an' cuter gen'ally; gin 'em more fac'lty than all the school larnin' in creation. i knowed it was more fillin' than vittles, more rousin' than whisky, more soothin' than lodlum. i knowed it cooled ye off when ye was het, an' het ye when ye was cold. i knowed all that, o' course--any fool knows it. but--will ye b'l'eve it?--i was more 'n twenty-one year old, a man growed, 'fore i foun' out why 't was that away. father an' mother was christian folks, good out-an'-out calv'nist baptists from over east'n way. they fetched me up right, made me go to meetin' an' read a chapter every sunday, an' say a hymn sat'day night a'ter washin'; an' i useter say my prayers mos' nights. i wa'n't a bad boy as boys go. but nobody thought o' tellin' me the one thing, jest the one single thing, that 'd ha' made all the diffunce. i knowed about god, an' how he made me an' made the airth, an' everything an' once i got thinkin' about that, an' i asked my father if god made the fishes. he said 'course he did, the sea an' all that in 'em is; but somehow that did n't seem to mean nothin' much to me, an' i lost my int'rist agin. an' i read the scripter account o' jonah an' the big fish, an' all that in job about pullin' out levi'thing with a hook an' stickin' fish spears in his head, an' some parts in them queer books nigh the end o' the ole test'ment about fish-ponds an' fish-gates an' fish-pools, an' how the fishers shall l'ment--everything i could pick out about fishin' an' seen; but it did n't come home to me; 't wa'n't my kind o' fishin' an' i did n't seem ter sense it. "but one day--it's more 'n forty year ago now, but i rec'lect it same 's 't was yest'day, an' i shall rec'lect it forty thousand year from now if i 'm 'round, an' i guess i shall be--i heerd--suthin'--diffunt. i was down in the village one sunday; it wa'n't very good fishin'--the streams was too full; an' i thought i 'd jest look into the meetin'-house 's i went by. 't was the ole union meetin'-house, down to the corner, ye know, an' they had n't got no reg'lar s'pply, an' ye never knowed what sort ye 'd hear, so 't was kind o' excitin'. "'t was late, 'most 'leven o'clock, an' the sarm'n had begun. there was a strange man a-preachin', some one from over to the hotel. i never heerd his name, i never seed him from that day to this; but i knowed his face. queer enough i 'd seed him a-fishin'. i never knowed he was a min'ster; he did n't look like one. he went about like a real fisherman, with ole clo'es an' an ole hat with hooks stuck in it, an' big rubber boots, an' he fished, reely fished, i mean--ketched 'em. i guess 't was that made me liss'n a leetle sharper 'n us'al, for i never seed a fishin' min'ster afore. elder jacks'n, he said 't was a sinf'l waste o' time, an' ole parson loomis, he 'd an idee it was cruel an' onmarciful; so i thought i 'd jest see what this man 'd preach about, an' i settled down to liss'n to the sarm'n. "but there wa'n't no sarm'n; not what i 'd been raised to think was the on'y true kind. there wa'n't no heads, no fustlys nor sec'ndlys, nor fin'ly bruthrins, but the first thing i knowed i was hearin' a story, an' 't was a fishin' story. 't was about some one--i had n't the least idee then who 't was, an' how much it all meant--some one that was dreffle fond o' fishin' an' fishermen, some one that sot everythin' by the water, an' useter go along by the lakes an' ponds, an' sail on 'em, an' talk with the men that was fishin'. an' how the fishermen all liked him, 'nd asked his 'dvice, an' done jest 's he telled 'em about the likeliest places to fish; an' how they allers ketched more for mindin' him; an' how when he was a-preachin' he would n't go into a big meetin'-house an' talk to rich folks all slicked up, but he 'd jest go out in a fishin' boat, an' ask the men to shove out a mite, an' he 'd talk to the folks on shore, the fishin' folks an' their wives an' the boys an' gals playin' on the shore. an' then, best o' everythin', he telled how when he was a-choosin' the men to go about with him an' help him an' larn his ways so 's to come a'ter him, he fust o' all picked out the men he 'd seen every day fishin', an' mebbe fished with hisself; for he knowed 'em an' knowed he could trust 'em. "an' then he telled us about the day when this preacher come along by the lake--a dreffle sightly place, this min'ster said; he 'd seed it hisself when he was trav'lin' in them countries--an' come acrost two men he knowed well; they was brothers, an' they was a-fishin'. an' he jest asked 'em in his pleasant-spoken, frien'ly way--there wa'n't never sech a drawin', takin', lovin' way with any one afore as this man had, the min'ster said--he jest asked 'em to come along with him; an' they lay down their poles an' their lines an' everythin', an' jined him. an' then he come along a spell further, an' he sees two boys out with their ole father, an' they was settin' in a boat an' fixin' up their tackle, an' he asked 'em if they 'd jine him, too, an' they jest dropped all their things, an' left the ole man with the boat an' the fish an' the bait an' follered the preacher. i don't tell it very good. i 've read it an' read it sence that; but i want to make ye see how it sounded to me, how i took it, as the min'ster telled it that summer day in francony meetin'. ye see i 'd no idee who the story was about, the man put it so plain, in common kind o' talk, without any come-to-passes an' whuffers an' thuffers, an' i never conceited 't was a bible narr'tive. "an' so fust thing i knowed i says to myself, 'that 's the kind o' teacher i want. if i could come acrost a man like that, i 'd jest foller him, too, through thick an' thin.' well, i can't put the rest on it into talk very good; 't aint jest the kind o' thing to speak on 'fore folks, even sech good friends as you. i aint the sort to go back on my word,--fishermen aint, ye know,--an' what i 'd said to myself 'fore i knowed who i was bindin' myself to, i stuck to a'terwards when i knowed all about him. for 't aint for me to tell ye, who've got so much more larnin' than me, that there was a dreffle lot more to that story than the fishin' part. that lovin', givin' up, suff'rin', dyin' part, ye know it all yerself, an' i can't kinder say much on it, 'cept when i 'm jest all by myself, or--'long o' him. "that a'ternoon i took my ole bible that i had n't read much sence i growed up, an' i went out into the woods 'long the river, an' 'stid o' fishin' i jest sot down an' read that hull story. now ye know it yerself by heart, an' ye 've knowed it all yer born days, so ye can't begin to tell how new an' 'stonishin' 't was to me, an' how findin' so much fishin' in it kinder helped me unnerstan' an' b'l'eve it every mite, an' take it right hum to me to foller an' live up to 's long 's i live an' breathe. did j'ever think on it, reely? i tell ye, his r'liging 's a fishin' r'liging all through. his friends was fishin' folks; his pulpit was a fishin' boat, or the shore o' the lake; he loved the ponds an' streams; an' when his d'sciples went out fishin', if he did n't go hisself with 'em, he 'd go a'ter 'em, walkin' on the water, to cheer 'em up an' comfort 'em. "an' he was allers 'round the water; for the story 'll say, 'he come to the seashore,' or 'he begun to teach by the seaside,' or agin, 'he entered into a boat,' an' 'he was in the stern o' the boat, asleep.' "an' he used fish in his mir'cles. he fed that crowd o' folks on fish when they was hungry, bought 'em from a little chap on the shore. i 've oft'n thought how dreffle tickled that boy must 'a' ben to have him take them fish. mebbe they wa'n't nothin' but shiners, but the fust the little feller 'd ever ketched; an' boys set a heap on their fust ketch. he was dreffle good to child'en, ye know. an' who 'd he come to a'ter he 'd died, an' ris agin? why, he come down to the shore 'fore daylight, an' looked off over the pond to where his ole frien's was a-fishin'. ye see they 'd gone out jest to quiet their minds an' keep up their sperrits; ther 's nothin' like fishin' for that, ye know, an' they 'd ben in a heap o' trubble. when they was settin' up the night afore, worryin' an' wond'rin' an' s'misin' what was goin' ter become on 'em without their master; peter 'd got kinder desprit, an' he up an' says in his quick way, says he, 'anyway, _i_ 'm goin' a-fishin'.' an' they all see the sense on it,--any fisherman would,--an' they says, says they, 'we ' go 'long too.' but they did n't ketch anythin'. i suppose they could n't fix their minds on it, an' everythin' went wrong like. but when mornin' come creepin' up over the mountings, fust thin' they knowed they see him on the bank, an' he called out to 'em to know if they'd ketched anythin'. the water jest run down my cheeks when i heerd the min'r ster tell that, an' it kinder makes my eyes wet every time i think on 't. for 't seems 's if it might 'a' ben me in that boat, who heern that v'ice i loved so dreffle well speak up agin so nat'ral from the bank there. an' he eat some o' their fish! o' course he done it to sot their minds easy, to show 'em he wa'n't quite a sperrit yit, but jest their own ole frien' who 'd ben out in the boat with 'em so many, many times. but seems to me, jest the fac' he done it kinder makes fish an' fishin' diffunt from any other thing in the hull airth. i tell ye them four books that gin his story is chock full o' things that go right to the heart o' fishermen,--nets, an' hooks, an' boats, an' the shores, an' the sea, an' the mountings, peter's fishin'-coat, lilies, an' sparrers, an' grass o' the fields, an' all about the evenin' sky bein' red or lowerin', an' fair or foul weather. "it 's an out-doors, woodsy, country story, 'sides bein' the heav'nliest one that was ever telled. i read the hull bible, as a duty ye know. i read the epis'les, but somehow they don't come home to me. paul was a great man, a dreffle smart scholar, but he was raised in the city, i guess, an' when i go from the gospils into paul's writin's it 's like goin' from the woods an' hills an' streams o' francony into the streets of a big city like concord or manch'ster." the old man did not say much of his after life and the fruits of this strange conversion, but his neighbors told us a great deal. they spoke of his unselfishness, his charity, his kindly deeds; told of his visiting the poor and unhappy, nursing the sick. they said the little children loved him, and everyone in the village and for miles around trusted and leaned upon fishin' jimmy. he taught the boys to fish, sometimes the girls too; and while learning to cast and strike, to whip the stream, they drank in knowledge of higher things, and came to know and love jimmy's "fishin' r'liging." i remember they told me of a little french canadian girl, a poor, wretched waif, whose mother, an unknown tramp, had fallen dead in the road near the village. the child, an untamed little heathen, was found clinging to her mother's body in an agony of grief and rage, and fought like a tiger when they tried to take her away. a boy in the little group attracted to the spot, ran away, with a child's faith in his old friend, to summon fishin' jimmy. he came quickly, lifted the little savage tenderly, and carried her away. no one witnessed the taming process, but in a few days the pair were seen together on the margin of black brook, each with a fish-pole. her dark face was bright with interest and excitement as she took her first lesson in the art of angling. she jabbered and chattered in her odd patois, he answered in broadest new england dialect, but the two quite understood each other, and though jimmy said afterward that it was "dreffle to hear her call the fish pois'n," they were soon great friends and comrades. for weeks he kept and cared for the child, and when she left him for a good home in bethlehem, one would scarcely have recognized in the gentle, affectionate girl the wild creature of the past. though often questioned as to the means used to effect this change, jimmy's explanation seemed rather vague and unsatisfactory. "'t was fishin' done it," he said; "on'y fishin'; it allers works. the christian r'liging itself had to begin with fishin', ye know." iii but one thing troubled fishin' jimmy. he wanted to be a "fisher of men." that was what the great teacher had promised he would make the fishermen who left their boats to follow him. what strange, literal meaning he attached to the terms, we could not tell. in vain we--especially the boys, whose young hearts had gone out in warm affection to the old man--tried to show him that he was, by his efforts to do good and make others better and happier, fulfilling the lord's directions. he could not understand it so. "i allers try to think," he said, "that 't was me in that boat when he come along. i make b'l'eve that it was out on streeter pond, an' i was settin' in the boat, fixin' my lan'in' net, when i see him on the shore. i think mebbe i 'm that james--for that's my given name, ye know, though they allers call me jimmy--an' then i hear him callin' me 'james, james.' i can hear him jest 's plain sometimes, when the wind 's blowin' in the trees, an' i jest ache to up an' foller him. but says he, 'i 'll make ye a fisher o' men,' an' he aint done it. i 'm waitin'; mebbe he 'll larn me some day." he was fond of all living creatures, merciful to all. but his love for our dog dash became a passion, for dash was an angler. who that ever saw him sitting in the boat beside his master, watching with eager eye and whole body trembling with excitement the line as it was cast, the flies as they touched the surface--who can forget old dash? his fierce excitement at rise of trout, the efforts at self-restraint, the disappointment if the prey escaped, the wild exultation if it was captured, how plainly--he who runs might read--were shown these emotions in eye, in ear, in tail, in whole quivering body! what wonder that it all went straight to the fisher's heart of jimmy! "i never knowed afore they could be christians," he said, looking, with tears in his soft, keen eyes, at the every-day scene, and with no faintest thought of irreverence. "i never knowed it, but i'd give a stiffikit o' membership in the orthodoxest church goin' to that dog there." it is almost needless to say that as years went on jimmy came to know many "fishin' min'sters;" for there are many of that school who know our mountain country, and seek it yearly. all these knew and loved the old man. and there were others who had wandered by that sea of galilee, and fished in the waters of the holy land, and with them fishin' jimmy dearly loved to talk. but his wonder was never-ending that, in the scheme of evangelizing the world, more use was not made of the "fishin' side" of the story. "haint they ever tried it on them poor heathen?" he would ask earnestly of some clerical angler casting a fly upon the clear water of pond or brook. "i should think 't would 'a' ben the fust thing they 'd done. fishin' fust, an' r'liging 's sure to foller. an' it 's so easy; fur heath'n mostly r'sides on islands, don't they? so ther 's plenty o' water, an' o' course ther 's fishin'; an' oncet gin 'em poles an' git 'em to work, an' they 're out o' mischief fur that day. they 'd like it better 'n cannib'ling, or cuttin' out idles, or scratchin' picters all over theirselves, an' bimeby--not too suddent, ye know, to scare 'em--ye could begin on that story, an' they could n't stan' that, not a heath'n on 'em. won't ye speak to the 'merican board about it, an' sen' out a few fishin' mishneries, with poles an' lines an' tackle gen'ally? i 've tried it on dreffle bad folks, an' it alters done 'em good. but"--so almost all his simple talk ended--"i wish i could begin to be a fisher o' men. i 'm gettin' on now, i 'm nigh seventy, an' i aint got much time, ye see." one afternoon in july there came over franconia notch one of those strangely sudden tempests which sometimes visit that mountain country. it had been warm that day, unusually warm for that refreshingly cool spot; but suddenly the sky grew dark and darker, almost to blackness, there was roll of thunder and flash of lightning, and then poured down the rain--rain at first, but soon hail in large frozen bullets, which fiercely pelted any who ventured outdoors, rattled against the windows of the profile house with sharp cracks like sounds of musketry, and lay upon the piazza in heaps like snow. and in the midst of the wild storm it was remembered that two boys, guests at the hotel, had gone up mount lafayette alone that day. they were young boys, unused to mountain climbing, and their friends were anxious. it was found that dash had followed them; and just as some one was to be sent in search of them, a boy from the stables brought the information that fishin' jimmy had started up the mountain after them as the storm broke. "said if he could n't be a fisher o' men, mebbe he knowed nuff to ketch boys," went on our informant, seeing nothing more in the speech, full of pathetic meaning to us who knew him, than the idle talk of one whom many considered "lackin'." jimmy was old now, and had of late grown very feeble, and we did not like to think of him out in that wild storm. and now suddenly the lost boys themselves appeared through the opening in the woods opposite the house, and ran in through the sleet, now falling more quietly. they were wet, but no worse apparently for their adventure, though full of contrition and distress at having lost sight of the dog. he had rushed off into the woods some hours before, after a rabbit or hedgehog, and had never returned. nor had they seen fishin' jimmy. as hours went by and the old man did not return, a search party was sent out, and guides familiar with the mountain paths went up lafayette to seek for him. it was nearly night when they at last found him, and the grand old mountains had put on those robes of royal purple which they sometimes assume at eventide. at the foot of a mass of rock, which looked like amethyst or wine-red agate in that marvellous evening light, the old man was lying, and dash was with him. from the few faint words jimmy could then gasp out, the truth was gathered. he had missed the boys, leaving the path by which they had returned, and while stumbling along in search of them, feeble and weary, he had heard far below a sound of distress. looking down over a steep, rocky ledge, he had seen his friend and fishing comrade, old dash, in sore trouble. poor dash! he never dreamed of harming his old friend, for he had a kind heart. but he was a sad coward in some matters, and a very baby when frightened and away from master and friends. so i fear he may have assumed the role of wounded sufferer when in reality he was but scared and lonesome. he never owned this afterward, and you may be sure we never let him know, by word or look, the evil he had done. jimmy saw him holding up one paw helplessly, and looking at him with wistful, imploring brown eyes, heard his pitiful whimpering cry for aid, and never doubted his great distress and peril. was dash not a fisherman? and fishermen, in fishin' jimmy's category, were always true and trusty. so the old man without a second's hesitation started down the steep, smooth decline to the rescue of his friend. we do not know just how or where in that terrible descent he fell. to us who afterward saw the spot, and thought of the weak old man, chilled by the storm, exhausted by his exertions, and yet clambering down that precipitous cliff, made more slippery and treacherous by the sleet and hail still falling, it seemed impossible that he could have kept a foothold for an instant. nor am i sure that he expected to save himself, and dash too. but he tried. he was sadly hurt, i will not tell you of that. looking out from the hotel windows through the gathering darkness, we who loved him--it was not a small group--saw a sorrowful sight. flickering lights thrown by the lanterns of the guides came through the woods. across the road, slowly, carefully, came strong men, bearing on a rough hastily made litter of boughs the dear old man. all that could have been done for the most distinguished guest, for the dearest, best-beloved friend, was done for the gentle fisherman. we, his friends, and proud to style ourselves thus, were of different, widely separated lands, greatly varying creeds. some were nearly as old as the dying man, some in the prime of manhood. there were youths and maidens and little children. but through the night we watched together. the old roman bishop, whose calm, benign face we all know and love; the churchman, ascetic in faith, but with the kindest, most indulgent heart when one finds it; the gentle old quakeress with placid, unwrinkled brow and silvery hair; presbyterian, methodist, and baptist,--we were all one that night. the old angler did not suffer--we were so glad of that! but he did not appear to know us, and his talk seemed strange. it rambled on quietly, softly, like one of his own mountain brooks, babbling of green fields, of sunny summer days, of his favorite sport, and ah! of other things. but he was not speaking to us. a sudden, awed hush and thrill came over us as, bending to catch the low words, we all at once understood what only the bishop put into words as he said, half to himself, in a sudden, quick, broken whisper, "god bless the man, he 's talking to his master!" "yes. sir, that 's so," went on the quiet voice; "'t was on'y a dog sure nuff; 'twa'n't even a boy, as ye say, an' ye ast me to be a fisher o' men. but i haint had no chance for that, somehow; mebbe i wa'n't fit for 't. i 'm on'y jest a poor old fisherman, fishin' jimmy, ye know, sir. ye useter call me james--no one else ever done it. on'y a dog? but he wa'n't jest a common dog, sir; he was a fishin' dog. i never seed a man love fishin' mor 'n dash." the dog was in the room, and heard his name. stealing to the bedside, he put a cold nose into the cold hand of his old friend, and no one had the heart to take him away. the touch turned the current of the old man's talk for a moment, and he was fishing again with his dog friend. "see 'em break, dashy! see 'em break! lots on 'em to-day, aint they? keep still, there 's a good dog, while i put on a diffunt fly. don't ye see they 're jumpin' at them gnats? aint the water jest 'live with 'em? aint it shinin' an' clear an'--" the voice faltered an instant, then went on: "yes, sir, i 'm comin'--i 'm glad, dreffle glad to come. don't mind 'bout my leavin' my fishin'; do ye think i care 'bout that? i 'll jest lay down my pole ahin' the alders here, an' put my lan'in' net on the stuns, with my flies an' tackle--the boys 'll like 'em, ye know--an' i 'll be right along. "i mos' knowed ye was on'y a-tryin' me when ye said that 'bout how i had n't been a fisher o' men, nor even boys, on'y a dog. 't was a--fishin' dog--ye know--an' ye was allers dreffle good to fishermen,--dreffle good to--everybody; died--for 'em, did n't ye?-- "please wait--on--the bank there, a minnit; i 'm comin' 'crost. water 's pretty--cold this--spring--an' the stream 's risin'--but--i--can--do it;--don't ye mind--'bout me, sir. i 'll get acrost." once more the voice ceased, and we thought we should not hear it again this side that stream. but suddenly a strange light came over the thin face, the soft gray eyes opened wide, and he cried out, with the strong voice we had so often heard come ringing out to us across the mountain streams above the sound of their rushing: "here i be, sir! it 's fishin' jimmy, ye know, from francony way; him ye useter call james when ye come 'long the shore o' the pond an' i was a-fishin.' i heern ye agin, jest now--an' i--straightway--f'sook--my--nets--an'--follered--" had the voice ceased utterly? no, we could catch faint, low murmurs and the lips still moved. but the words were not for us; and we did not know when he reached the other bank. generously made available by the internet archive/american libraries.) _office of secretary of state,_ _concord, n. h., march, ._ _this is to certify that the author has served the country faithfully; lost his arm at petersburg; and is of good report by all who know him._ (signed,) _j. d. lyman_, _secretary of state_. a history of william a. canfield. sold only by himself. price cents. manchester, n. h.: printed by charles f. livingston. . a history of the army experience of william a. canfield. by himself. _price twenty-five cents._ manchester, n. h.: c. f. livingston, printer. . _preface._ readers: in writing this little book, i do not claim to issue a work of choice language, nor to present any new facts or startling developements concerning the general history of the war. my intention is simply to write a short narrative of my life as a soldier in the army of the potomac and south west, and in the hospital. having lost my left arm from a wound received in front of petersburg, i have taken this method of procuring sufficient means to enable me to engage in some business by which i may gain an honest livelihood for myself and family. craving your kind indulgence, i bring my claim before you, hoping you will grant it a favorable reception. yours respectfully, wm. a. canfield. history. i was born on the th of june, , in thornton, a small town in the northern part of new hampshire. i was the youngest of six children. our parents were poor in this world's goods, but rich in faith and in the knowledge of god as it is in christ jesus. my early instructions were limited to a common school, and i was deprived of this at the age of twelve years. had i improved even these few years, i might have been much farther advanced than i now find myself. as it is, i have to regret many misspent opportunities of my childhood. my parents, as i have said before, were rich in faith, and it was first in their thoughts to instill into the hearts of their children principles of wisdom, virtue and love. especially did our dear mother, both by precept and example, endeavor to lead us in the right way. the summer of i went to franklin, n. h., to work in a hosiery mill. i liked my work, had a good boarding place, and in a short time felt quite at home. i had been there several weeks, and there had been an unusual interest in religious matters for some time; many had already sought and found god. one after another of my associates had found peace in god through the merits of christ, yet i remained unmoved. one evening several of the boarders invited me to go to the prayer meeting. i went, little dreaming of the great blessing there was in store for me that night. i felt no conviction of sin at this time, nor did i until the invitation was given for those to arise who desired the prayers of god's people. to my surprise the whole party that came with me manifested a desire to be prayed for. then for the first time in my life did i feel an earnest consciousness of god's presence. my friends had left me--god was with me, and i was afraid. oh, how my poor heart shrank to hide itself; how gladly would i have hid myself from the presence of god, but i could not; the pure light of god's love was shining into my sinful heart, making every plague-spot clearly visible to my spirit's vision. we returned home. my sister, being one of christ's little ones, invited them to go into the sitting-room for a season of prayer. thus was i again left alone, but not long; for very soon i felt a gentle touch on my shoulder, and heard sister's sweet voice saying: "come, will, and pray with us." i went, and in earnest prayer entreated god for christ's sake to pardon my sins. i did not plead long in vain, for jesus was very near me, and when i yielded my will to the divine, how quickly he received me, and lovingly sheltered me in his bosom. thank god, i have found a hiding place there ever since. when i came out of that room i was clothed and in my right mind--i was no longer afraid. for was not god my father, jesus my elder brother, and heaven my home? i could hardly wait until saturday night, i desired so much to tell my dear parents of my new-found joy. but the week soon passed away, saturday night came, and i was home again. i think my dear mother perceived the change almost as soon as she saw me. i would here say that my father had for some time neglected family worship, and was not enjoying much of spiritual life; but when i told them of my new-found joy, father fell upon his knees praying fervently for pardon for his neglect of duty, renewedly consecrating himself to the lord. truly there was great rejoicing in that little cottage that night. the family altar was again established, and we rejoiced greatly in the love of god. the time passed very quickly until the autumn of , when i went to manchester to work for my brother in a hosiery mill, and boarded in his family. i soon connected myself with the m. e. church in this place, and found many warm friends. among others, i became acquainted with miss m. f. stewart, of new hampton, n. h., and in due time married her. we had been married about one year when the war broke out. my parents always taught us to reverence the stars and stripes; i loved my country's banner, and when rebel hands were raised to hurl it to the ground, i felt as if i must go and bear a part in the great struggle. my ancestors had fought bravely to establish the glorious liberty i had so long enjoyed. it was hard, very hard, for me to leave those whom i loved so dearly, but still harder to sit with folded hands here at home, while others were dying for the aid i could render. frequently, when about my work, would my eye fall upon my hands (i have often thought it strange), and they seemed to reproach me every time i looked at them. at last i could bear it no longer; i felt sure it was my duty to go, and go i must. i enlisted under h. d. davis, at manchester, n. h., july , , in the ninth regiment new hampshire volunteers. i went directly to northfield, to visit my parents and friends before going into camp. it is almost useless for me to speak of the parting scene. i took leave of all my friends except my wife and sister, with her husband. my aged parents were bowed down with sorrow and grief. they had buried their oldest son and two daughters; there were only three of us left--and now to lose me (for they had little hope of ever seeing me again) was almost too much for them to bear. we went into camp the first of august. spent the first night in the barracks. i did not sleep much, i assure you, every thing was so strange--so much noise and confusion of tongues. but i soon became accustomed to my surroundings, and found real attractions in camp life. i had always made it a rule to reprove sin whenever an opportunity offered; but i soon found out what it meant to cast pearls before swine. then i adopted another plan; it was this: first, to watch every opportunity of doing a good turn for my comrades. i interested myself in the loved ones they had left at home--in a word, i tried to make them love me; and i succeeded far beyond what i expected. i do not think there was one in our company who would have seen any harm come to me if they could have prevented it. then, when occasion required, i could reprove sin without being reproached and made to understand it was none of my business. our time was mostly occupied in drilling, until the th of august, when we were mustered into the united states' service. on the th, we struck tents early in the morning and marched to the depot, where we took the cars for the seat of war. it was a sad time with us that morning, as one after another bid farewell to loved ones. very few of those brave men ever returned. i had previously taken leave of my friends and told them i should return to them again. we started from concord about seven in the morning; large crowds were gathered at the stations all along our route to encourage and cheer us. we arrived in washington on the first of september; laid in the barracks near the station that night. the next morning, i got leave to look about the city, and must confess i was sadly disappointed. i had expected to see something grand, and perhaps i should if i had traveled far enough. as it was, about all there were to be seen were cows and goats, with vast numbers of swine running at large in the streets. i went back to the barracks not very well pleased with our capital. in a very short time we had orders to fall in. we then crossed the long bridge, and marched about three miles beyond, and camped for the night. about midnight we received orders to turn out--the rebels were upon us. we turned out in a hurry; formed a line across the road with bayonets fixed, for we had as yet received no ammunition. we remained in line about twenty minutes, and then started off on another road; marched about two miles at double quick; were then ordered back to camp, without seeing or hearing a single rebel. the next day, we marched about six miles up the potomac. here we found work chopping down trees, and throwing up fortifications. on the th of september, a part of the army of the peninsula passed us on their way to the second bull run battle. they were all worn out with continual marching and fighting, and many looked as if they would fall by the wayside. i said to myself as they were passing: why are worn-out men like these pressed to the front, while we are held back! well, when the order comes, we too shall have to go; until then, we must wait and shovel. all i could do for them was to give them my ration of soft bread. the th of september was my first night on picket duty in an enemy's country. about nine o'clock it commenced raining very hard. i was relieved about twelve; laid down near an old stump, and was soon fast asleep. when i awoke, i found myself in a pond of water which nearly covered me. i managed to get out of the water and back to camp. the result of this ducking was the dysentery in its worst form. i was compelled to go directly to the hospital, and receive such care as they had to give. on the th, our regiment received orders to move. they joined the second brigade, second division, ninth army corps. unable to walk i was carried in an ambulance, until we came up with the regiment on the evening of the th, when i joined my company. my comrades soon made a good fire of rails and did every thing they could for my comfort. j. w. lathe got some green corn and roasted it for me, and on the morning of the th, got me aboard an ambulance again. i afterwards learned that he was reprimanded for taking such an interest in me, and i shall ever remember his kindness with gratitude. on the th, we arrived at frederick city, md. during the day it was rumored that an order from gen. lee had fallen into gen. mcclellan's hands, which had so exposed the position of the enemy, that he soon gave orders for the entire army to move forward. our column took the main pike road to middletown. we arrived on the south side of the town after dark, and went into a field that had been recently plowed, where we bivouacked for the night. on the th, at the battle of south mountain, the enemy occupied the side and top of the mountain on both sides of the road. i will not attempt to describe the battle, for i did not participate in it; i was left by order of the surgeon in the hospital just established in the village. it was a large two story building, situated on the east side of the town. that night i was put in the second story. the room was filled with the wounded and dying. at about three o'clock in the morning, i was obliged to go down. the moon was still shining in all its beauty and loveliness over the western hill-tops. as i turned the corner of the building a sight met my gaze which baffles description. there were about thirty dead bodies, mangled in every conceivable shape, covered with blood, with eyes wide open glaring at me. my very blood run cold with horror, and it was some minutes before i could pass them. since then, i have become accustomed to such scenes, but i can never recall that sight without a feeling of dread. on the th, the battle at south mountain was still raging. all was excitement. i had no thought of self now, but bent all my energies to the task of caring for the wounded. there were two others with me, and we tried in every possible way to alleviate their sufferings. we brought them water, washed their wounds, and spoke words of comfort. we had no experience in such things, but did the best we could. the surgeon, who came round about nine o'clock, said we had done well. after looking at some of the worst cases, he gave us orders, advising us to do the best we could. for three days and nights i had neither sleep nor rest, when i was compelled to give up and take my chance with the others. the ladies here, i shall ever remember with gratitude; they were very kind to us, bringing us many luxuries we should not otherwise have had. i was now brought very low by the chronic diarrhea; i could hardly get up, and still no help appeared in my case. true, the surgeon was very kind, but i thought it rather hard when he told me "you must let it run. i cannot help you, i have nothing to do with." i had heard the ladies telling of one polly lincoln, who possessed much skill. i thought perhaps she might cure me, so i made further inquiries in regard to her, and learned that she lived most of the time alone in a hut made of logs, not far from the hospital. she gathered her own herbs, made her own medicine, and performed wonderful cures,--so they told me. with the surgeon's permission, i soon found her out and told her my complaint. "oh!" said she, "i'll fix you all right in a week or two, only keep up good courage." and to work she went, at once; made me a nice bed on the floor, and fixed me a dose of herb tea in a very short time. i felt very comfortable, i can assure you, that afternoon, as i lay there on the floor, watching that good old samaritan in her humble home; my heart was filled with gratitude, and i felt safe in her hands. there was only one room in the house, and that very poorly furnished; still, every thing looked neat and home-like. there were two other soldiers there at the same time; one from the th michigan, with his leg off, the other from massachusetts, with his arm amputated at the shoulder-joint. she took care of us all, and often assisted at the hospital. i was with her two weeks, and then reported in person to the surgeon in charge. he gave me leave to go back another week. at the end of that time i was fit for duty. but i must not leave this good old mother without saying a few more words. she was, in deed and in truth, a good samaritan to us all; and there are hundreds who can testify to the same truth; hundreds who will remember her with heart-felt gratitude as long as they live. the soldier from massachusetts died in a few days; the other was able to go home in four weeks. some time after this, i received orders to report at camp convalescent, alexandria. i stayed there two weeks and then started off with a squad for the front. we arrived at aquia creek, on saturday, october . we were put into camp there and told to wait until after the battle before proceeding further. to wait there within sound of that terrible artillery-fire at fredericksburg, did not suit me. i longed to be with my comrades and share their danger. with these feelings i went to the provost marshal and stated my case. he gave me a pass to report to general fry, at falmouth, but instead of reporting to him, i found my regiment over in the city and took my place in the ranks. the boys were glad to see me, but said i was a fool for coming into that slaughter-yard, as they called it. it was my duty, and i was willing to take my chances with the rest. we went on picket sunday night, but were ordered to fall back across the river about four in the morning, and at day-light we were in our old quarters, there to do picket duty on the rappahannock, as the boys said. this was the most discouraging place that i was in during my stay in the army. any soldier who was there could tell some pretty hard stories of that place. our troubles there are too well known to every one at all conversant with the history of the war, to need any comment. a few days after burnside got stuck in the mud, we received orders to pack up; this was good news for us; we felt sure we could get into no worse place than this mud-hole. we got aboard the cars at falmouth; arrived at aquia creek about dark, then took the transportation boat and landed at newport news. this we found to be a change for the better; it was a very pleasant place. here they gave us tents, and plenty to eat as good as the army could afford. there were some who were not satisfied; and if you had found them in private life, you would have heard them growling continually about something. our regiment went into camp about one mile from the landing. here we had a good drill-ground; drilled six hours each day. i enjoyed my stay in this place very much. our next move was to take a boat for baltimore. the boat was an old rickety craft, and came near sinking, during a slight gale going up the bay. arriving at baltimore, we took the cars bound for the south-west; this was a very pleasant ride, although we were somewhat crowded. when we arrived at pittsburg, we found a good supper awaiting us, and i think those in charge of the tables can truly say that we did justice to the hot coffee, ham, &c., that was set before us. thanks to those true and noble hearts that were so mindful of their country's defenders. all along the route from pittsburg to cincinnati the inhabitants threw into our cars baskets, boxes and pails, filled with good things. this was a pleasant route, the scenery in some places being very beautiful. i should like to go over it again, only under different circumstances. i should be very glad to make the acquaintance of the generous-hearted people of ohio. leaving cincinnati, we crossed the ohio river into covington, kentucky. here we again got aboard of the cars, and arrived at lexington. we went into camp about one mile from the city, in a beautiful grove; the fair-ground was only a short distance from us. i think i never saw a fence come down more quickly, and, as if by magic, a village sprung up, with its streets running north and south beneath those beautiful shade-trees. a crystal stream of pure water ran along in the valley below, which supplied us with water for every purpose. we stayed here two weeks. on the th of april we packed up, and for nearly two months were marching about from place to place. the people treated us kindly, but we could easily discern where their sympathies were strongest. now and then a slave would come to us for protection. i remember, one sabbath morning, a very smart colored boy came to us, and about noon a constable came after him. the colonel told him if "he could find him, to take him back to his mistress;" this word was passed round in double-quick time. the boy was in the first tent they came to, but as they were coming in he darted out past them. then a race commenced worth seeing; round and round the camp they went; at last, the boy started for the woods, and the constable after him, with four or five boys in blue following close upon the pursuer. seeing the boy was likely to escape, the constable drew a revolver and levelled it at him, but before he could fire he was knocked down without ceremony, and i think got the worst of that hunt. this happened near lancaster, kentucky. in a few days we recrossed the ohio river, went aboard of the cars at cincinnati and in due time arrived at cairo, illinois, where there were boats waiting for us; went on board at once; laid at the wharf that night, and started down the mississippi river early in the morning on our way to vicksburg. our company had the upper deck, therefore we had a fine opportunity to view the surrounding country. the rebels fired into us once, but did no damage. we landed on the west shore, near vicksburg, on the th of june. we saw grant's fireworks on that doomed city for two nights. on the th we took the boat and ran up the yazoo river about twelve miles, and landed again. we went into camp on the east shore, about two miles from the landing; made our beds of cane-brake, which was very nice. here we found an abundance of blackberries. while we were awaiting the appearance of johnston, we saw a great many things of interest; but we were annoyed greatly by snakes and lizards. let us make our bed where we would, they were sure to find us, and claim a part of our blankets for a resting place. they were harmless, however, and we soon became accustomed to them. the lizards varied in length from three to eight inches, and were of various colors, gray, green, red, etc. the morning of the th of july dawned on us with all its beauty and loveliness, and the birds seemed to be giving praise to god in commemoration of our national independence; with it came the surrender of vicksburg. in the midst of our joy, and throwing up of hats, we received orders to fall in, and were soon on our way after johnston. he fell back as for as jackson, and made a stand; we soon came upon him and the battle commenced. for eight days we had more or less skirmishing, but it was not such fighting as we had been accustomed to having while with the army of the potomac. at last we made preparation for a general charge, but when we made it, we found empty works. the bird had flown, and had set the business part of the place on fire. the second day after we entered the city we turned back again; this was a very hard march; we started at the quickstep, and kept it up all day. two men fell dead by the roadside, while many others fell by the way; it was very warm, and we could get no good water, but were obliged to drink red mud as we passed through the low grounds and ravines along our route. as we retraced our steps, i noticed an aged lady sitting where i had seen her two weeks before, at her cottage door, smoking her pipe of cob with a stem two feet long, as unconcerned and contented, apparently, as if the rude hand of war had not laid its devastating touch upon the country about her. i do not know but what she is there yet; she seemed to enjoy her pipe very much. in due time we reached our old camp-ground. after staying in camp about one week, we again got aboard of the boat and started down the river. we had not gone far before we run aground, and in backing off, broke the rudder, and were obliged to lay there all night. in the morning a tug came up and helped us off; they took on board a part of the sixth new hampshire volunteers, giving us more room. we were eleven days going up the mississippi river. i took up my quarters on the pilot deck, and enjoyed myself much in looking at the scenery along the route; it was grand. in due time we arrived at cairo, illinois; got aboard of the cattle train, and were rolled away at railroad speed, till at length we arrived at cincinnati, and recrossed the river to covington. here we again got aboard the cars, stopping next at or near camp nelson, kentucky, where we had a good camp-ground, and plenty of good water. the following day we were ordered out for dress-parade; there were but twenty-five officers and men, all told; the remainder had been excused by the surgeon in the morning, or were sick with the "shakes;" so it will be seen that our regiment was very badly used up. we remained here about a week, and then our regiment was distributed along the kentucky central railroad, a company or two at each bridge, with headquarters at paris. companies a and f were stationed at kimbrae's bridge, so called, about one mile south of a pretty little village called cynthiana. there was a block-house on each side of the bridge, which made us very good quarters. our duty, which was to guard the bridge nights, was very light, and gave us plenty of time to visit our neighbors. the people here were very kind and generous, with the exception of a man by the name of smith, a union man, and because he was such he thought the boys ought to work for him: cut up his tobacco, pick his apples, etc., and take their pay in promises; but this soon played out, and i have no doubt but what he lost ten times as much as it would have taken to fulfill all his promises. in october, i was detailed acting sergeant of the provost guard at cynthiana. here i had a chance to become more acquainted with the inhabitants, and learn their views in regard to the war. it was a nigger war to most of them; but for all that, they treated us well with but few exceptions. there were four churches in the place; two black and two white, so called. i attended them all, but i liked best at one of the colored churches, as they had the smartest preacher. in december, , the state of new hampshire sent us about four hundred substitutes gathered from all parts of the country. about one-half of them deserted. in january, , we were ordered to camp nelson; went into camp on the south-east side, near daniel boone's cave. on the th, we broke up camp, and passed through the following places: camp dick robertson, lancaster, stanford, hall's gap, cuba, somerset, and arrived at point burnside on the th, a distance of eighty-four miles february st, we were occupied in fixing up our camp; while we remained here we drilled four hours per day. on the d, we had orders to be in readiness to march. on the morning of the th, struck tents, and took up our line of march; passed through somerset and grundy, and forded buck creek, church valley. it rained very hard the second day and snowed and rained the third day, so there were three inches of snow on the ground that night, and we were wet and cold and covered with mud; but on the th of march, we arrived near an ancient village called london; a distance of sixty miles. we remained here till the th, when we started on our journey again, passed through london, and, tired and footsore, arrived on the north side of cumberland gap, a distance of fifty-six miles, on the th, just as the sun was setting behind the western hills; having for supper only the crumbs of our morning meal. on the , we again set out, passed through the gap, tazewell, tennessee, crossed clinch river, leonard's village, and arrived near knoxville, on the th, a distance of sixty-five miles. here we joined the brigade again, and on the st took the road that led us across the wildcat mountain to burnside point; a distance of one hundred miles. we arrived there on the th about noon, drew rations, and continued our march. we arrived at camp nelson on the st; a distance of seventy-six miles. this was a very hard march; i wore out three pair of army shoes, on this tramp. we did not see an armed rebel on the whole route. april d, marched to nicholasville, and again took the cars, reaching annapolis, maryland, on the th. general grant reviewed us at this place. we remained here until the d, drilling, &c., when we took up our line of march, passed through washington, d. c., crossed the potomac, and went into camp on the other side, on the th; a distance of forty-six miles. on the th, we again started out and arrived on the plains of manassas, on the th; a distance of thirty-four miles. here we remained till the th of may, when we again set out and arrived on the line of battle in the wilderness, on the th. our brigade had been in all day, and at night were scattered all through the woods. colonel walter harriman, of the eleventh new hampshire volunteers, was taken prisoner. the morning of the th, being the third day of the battle, was opened with a terrible roar of musketry all along the line of seven miles. it was impossible for our commanding chief to see but a small portion of the army, so a great deal depended on the corps commanders. i cannot describe the dreadful carnage of the wilderness. the killed and wounded were scattered through that vast forest of underbrush, which, dry as tinder, and set on fire by the shells of the enemy, was burning fiercely. the two lines charged back and forward; we would gain a little ground in one place and lose in another. just at dark, we were ordered to the rear, and lay down to rest. but the next morning we found ourselves on the old chancelorsville battle-ground. here we found human bones strewn all over the ground. on the th, we moved about five miles to the left, and in rear of fredericksburg. a battle raged at spottsylvania. on the th, we went on to the line on the left; hard fighting all along the line. on the th, we were ordered to the rear to another part of the line; it rained hard all night. about five o'clock on the morning of the th, we received orders to advance. on we went driving the rebel skirmishers before us. now you might have seen the gallant hancock leading the second corps to victory; they came upon the enemy unawares, and took two lines of works and seven thousand prisoners. we being the right of the ninth corps, formed on the left of the second. we got in advance of the rest of the line while coming through the woods, and formed on the left of the second just in season to receive the return charge of the rebels. we opened on them as they came up in solid column in front and on our left flank, and gave us a volley lengthwise which sent us staggering back to the woods. we lost two hundred and twelve men out of five hundred, in less than five minutes. i received a slight wound in the leg, but i assure you, it did not hinder me from making good time for the woods. we soon rallied, and went back to the line with only one hundred men to guard the colors; the rest were scattered but came up during the day and night. hard fighting every day till the st. then grant made one of his masterly movements round their right flank. our brigade started direct for their extreme right, struck them about five o'clock, and made preparations for a charge, but darkness set in, and about ten o'clock we started for the rear; marched all night, and took our breakfast on the bank of the pamunkey river; continued our march, and on the th crossed the north anna river, under a severe storm of shell bursting over our heads; we then entered the line. on the th, advanced our line about five hundred yards; th, hard fighting, but nothing gained. during the night we fell back across the river and burned the bridge. may th, we took up our line of march, crossed the pamunkey river, and went into camp; a distance of thirty-five miles. on the th, we started out as rear guard for the brigade teams. may st, general griffin ordered our regiment alone into the woods to try the enemy's strength; we passed down into the ravine and up a steep bluff under a galling fire, but at last we reached the top and held our position till the reserves were sent to support both of our flanks; hard fighting all day. june st, . all quiet till about ten o'clock; then the enemy charged on our left and were driven back with heavy loss. they also charged on our right in plain sight. two lines came up on the double-quick till within two hundred yards. then you might have seen a line of dusty forms spring up as if by magic, and a sheet of fire burst forth which sent them reeling back to their cover in the woods. they soon rallied again and came on with double the force that had first assailed us. just then, one of our light batteries, of six guns, was placed in position in the woods, and gave them grape and canister. on they came regardless of life and fearless as demons; but soon they met a sheet of fire which seemed to consume them; they retreated to the woods for the second time, and made no further attack on that part of our line. on the d, we fell back and moved about five miles to the left. at four o'clock, they came down on us and tried to get in our rear; but all to no purpose. we fought hard during the following day, but rested that night. on the th, we moved about four miles, and formed on the right of the line at coal harbor. every one knows about this place. it will be sufficient to say that we had work to do, and i think all were glad when the order came to fall back. just after dark, on the th, we started back and took our breakfast near whitehouse landing, and continued our march. our next rest was near the james river, where we remained until the th, when we took up our line of march just at dusk, and marched all night and till four o'clock of the following day. forming on the line of battle near the weldon railroad, we went in on a charge, and fought more or less all night. on the morning of the th, we charged all along the line, drove the enemy back, took several pieces of artillery, and more or less prisoners. advanced about one mile on the th, and during the night threw up earth works in an old oat field near a peach orchard. on the th, we dug our pit eight feet wide and three deep, throwing all the earth in front. hard fighting on the left. on the th, hard fighting all along the line. i received a slight wound across my left temple. june st ended my term in the field. i was wounded in the left arm, and had it amputated just above the elbow. now for the hospital. i was carried to city point on the d. thanks to the christian and sanitary commissions, which greatly relieved us, not only in furnishing so many good things, but in sending to us those who always had a kind word for us all. on the th, i was carried on board the hospital boat, and arrived at washington, d. c., on the st of july, and was carried to finley hospital. i was well cared for here, and my arm healed rapidly, while many others sickened and died. on the d of august, i received a furlough for sixty days. i arrived home on the th. i cannot attempt to describe my feelings as i crossed the threshold, and placed this good right arm around the aged form of my beloved mother, who tottered to meet me, and throwing her arms around my neck, kissed me again and again. not less welcome was the fervent "god bless you, my son," from father. my wife was absent at this time, at the bedside of a sick sister, who died in about two weeks after i got home. then she returned to me, and entered into the general rejoicing at my safe arrival. soon after i came home the stump of my arm began to trouble me very much. gangrene set in, the stump swelled up and turned black. they carried me to my sister's, mrs. smith hancock, in franklin, where i was attended by dr. knights of that town. for about three weeks my life was despaired of; then i began to gain. through the kind care of all and the skill of dr. knights,--but more through the providence of god,--i was spared; for what, i do not know. god knows, and he doeth all things well. december d, i reported at concord, and went into the hospital there. on the th, i was sent forward to washington. arrived there on the th, and went into finley hospital. i was transferred to manchester, n. h., on the th of january, , and remained there till i received my discharge, on the th of may. my story is told. transcriber's notes: passages in italics are indicated by _underscore_. the following misprints have been corrected: "landen" corrected to "landed" (page ) "nighth" corrected to "ninth" (page )