autobiography of andrew carnegie with illustrations [illustration: [signature] andrew carnegie] london constable & co. limited copyright, , by louise whitfield carnegie all rights reserved preface after retiring from active business my husband yielded to the earnest solicitations of friends, both here and in great britain, and began to jot down from time to time recollections of his early days. he soon found, however, that instead of the leisure he expected, his life was more occupied with affairs than ever before, and the writing of these memoirs was reserved for his play-time in scotland. for a few weeks each summer we retired to our little bungalow on the moors at aultnagar to enjoy the simple life, and it was there that mr. carnegie did most of his writing. he delighted in going back to those early times, and as he wrote he lived them all over again. he was thus engaged in july, , when the war clouds began to gather, and when the fateful news of the th of august reached us, we immediately left our retreat in the hills and returned to skibo to be more in touch with the situation. these memoirs ended at that time. henceforth he was never able to interest himself in private affairs. many times he made the attempt to continue writing, but found it useless. until then he had lived the life of a man in middle life--and a young one at that--golfing, fishing, swimming each day, sometimes doing all three in one day. optimist as he always was and tried to be, even in the face of the failure of his hopes, the world disaster was too much. his heart was broken. a severe attack of influenza followed by two serious attacks of pneumonia precipitated old age upon him. it was said of a contemporary who passed away a few months before mr. carnegie that "he never could have borne the burden of old age." perhaps the most inspiring part of mr. carnegie's life, to those who were privileged to know it intimately, was the way he bore his "burden of old age." always patient, considerate, cheerful, grateful for any little pleasure or service, never thinking of himself, but always of the dawning of the better day, his spirit ever shone brighter and brighter until "he was not, for god took him." written with his own hand on the fly-leaf of his manuscript are these words: "it is probable that material for a small volume might be collected from these memoirs which the public would care to read, and that a private and larger volume might please my relatives and friends. much i have written from time to time may, i think, wisely be omitted. whoever arranges these notes should be careful not to burden the public with too much. a man with a heart as well as a head should be chosen." who, then, could so well fill this description as our friend professor john c. van dyke? when the manuscript was shown to him, he remarked, without having read mr. carnegie's notation, "it would be a labor of love to prepare this for publication." here, then, the choice was mutual, and the manner in which he has performed this "labor" proves the wisdom of the choice--a choice made and carried out in the name of a rare and beautiful friendship. louise whitfield carnegie _new york_ _april , _ editor's note the story of a man's life, especially when it is told by the man himself, should not be interrupted by the hecklings of an editor. he should be allowed to tell the tale in his own way, and enthusiasm, even extravagance in recitation should be received as a part of the story. the quality of the man may underlie exuberance of spirit, as truth may be found in apparent exaggeration. therefore, in preparing these chapters for publication the editor has done little more than arrange the material chronologically and sequentially so that the narrative might run on unbrokenly to the end. some footnotes by way of explanation, some illustrations that offer sight-help to the text, have been added; but the narrative is the thing. this is neither the time nor the place to characterize or eulogize the maker of "this strange eventful history," but perhaps it is worth while to recognize that the history really was eventful. and strange. nothing stranger ever came out of the _arabian nights_ than the story of this poor scotch boy who came to america and step by step, through many trials and triumphs, became the great steel master, built up a colossal industry, amassed an enormous fortune, and then deliberately and systematically gave away the whole of it for the enlightenment and betterment of mankind. not only that. he established a gospel of wealth that can be neither ignored nor forgotten, and set a pace in distribution that succeeding millionaires have followed as a precedent. in the course of his career he became a nation-builder, a leader in thought, a writer, a speaker, the friend of workmen, schoolmen, and statesmen, the associate of both the lowly and the lofty. but these were merely interesting happenings in his life as compared with his great inspirations--his distribution of wealth, his passion for world peace, and his love for mankind. perhaps we are too near this history to see it in proper proportions, but in the time to come it should gain in perspective and in interest. the generations hereafter may realize the wonder of it more fully than we of to-day. happily it is preserved to us, and that, too, in mr. carnegie's own words and in his own buoyant style. it is a very memorable record--a record perhaps the like of which we shall not look upon again. john c. van dyke _new york_ _august, _ contents i. parents and childhood ii. dunfermline and america iii. pittsburgh and work iv. colonel anderson and books v. the telegraph office vi. railroad service vii. superintendent of the pennsylvania viii. civil war period ix. bridge-building x. the iron works xi. new york as headquarters xii. business negotiations xiii. the age of steel xiv. partners, books, and travel xv. coaching trip and marriage xvi. mills and the men xvii. the homestead strike xviii. problems of labor xix. the "gospel of wealth" xx. educational and pension funds xxi. the peace palace and pittencrieff xxii. matthew arnold and others xxiii. british political leaders xxiv. gladstone and morley xxv. herbert spencer and his disciple xxvi. blaine and harrison xxvii. washington diplomacy xxviii. hay and mckinley xxix. meeting the german emperor bibliography index illustrations andrew carnegie _photogravure frontispiece_ andrew carnegie's birthplace dunfermline abbey mr. carnegie's mother andrew carnegie at sixteen with his brother thomas david mccargo robert pitcairn colonel james anderson henry phipps thomas a. scott john edgar thomson thomas morrison carnegie george lauder junius spencer morgan john pierpont morgan an american four-in-hand in britain andrew carnegie (about ) mrs. andrew carnegie margaret carnegie at fifteen charles m. schwab the carnegie institute at pittsburgh mr. carnegie and viscount bryce matthew arnold william e. gladstone viscount morley of blackburn mr. carnegie and viscount morley the carnegie family at skibo herbert spencer james g. blaine skibo castle mr. carnegie at skibo, autobiography of andrew carnegie chapter i parents and childhood if the story of any man's life, truly told, must be interesting, as some sage avers, those of my relatives and immediate friends who have insisted upon having an account of mine may not be unduly disappointed with this result. i may console myself with the assurance that such a story must interest at least a certain number of people who have known me, and that knowledge will encourage me to proceed. a book of this kind, written years ago by my friend, judge mellon, of pittsburgh, gave me so much pleasure that i am inclined to agree with the wise one whose opinion i have given above; for, certainly, the story which the judge told has proved a source of infinite satisfaction to his friends, and must continue to influence succeeding generations of his family to live life well. and not only this; to some beyond his immediate circle it holds rank with their favorite authors. the book contains one essential feature of value--it reveals the man. it was written without any intention of attracting public notice, being designed only for his family. in like manner i intend to tell my story, not as one posturing before the public, but as in the midst of my own people and friends, tried and true, to whom i can speak with the utmost freedom, feeling that even trifling incidents may not be wholly destitute of interest for them. to begin, then, i was born in dunfermline, in the attic of the small one-story house, corner of moodie street and priory lane, on the th of november, , and, as the saying is, "of poor but honest parents, of good kith and kin." dunfermline had long been noted as the center of the damask trade in scotland.[ ] my father, william carnegie, was a damask weaver, the son of andrew carnegie after whom i was named. [footnote : the eighteenth-century carnegies lived at the picturesque hamlet of patiemuir, two miles south of dunfermline. the growing importance of the linen industry in dunfermline finally led the carnegies to move to that town.] my grandfather carnegie was well known throughout the district for his wit and humor, his genial nature and irrepressible spirits. he was head of the lively ones of his day, and known far and near as the chief of their joyous club--"patiemuir college." upon my return to dunfermline, after an absence of fourteen years, i remember being approached by an old man who had been told that i was the grandson of the "professor," my grandfather's title among his cronies. he was the very picture of palsied eld; "his nose and chin they threatened ither." as he tottered across the room toward me and laid his trembling hand upon my head he said: "and ye are the grandson o' andra carnegie! eh, mon, i ha'e seen the day when your grandfaither and i could ha'e hallooed ony reasonable man oot o' his jidgment." [illustration: andrew carnegie's birthplace] several other old people of dunfermline told me stories of my grandfather. here is one of them: one hogmanay night[ ] an old wifey, quite a character in the village, being surprised by a disguised face suddenly thrust in at the window, looked up and after a moment's pause exclaimed, "oh, it's jist that daft callant andra carnegie." she was right; my grandfather at seventy-five was out frightening his old lady friends, disguised like other frolicking youngsters. [footnote : the st of december.] i think my optimistic nature, my ability to shed trouble and to laugh through life, making "all my ducks swans," as friends say i do, must have been inherited from this delightful old masquerading grandfather whose name i am proud to bear.[ ] a sunny disposition is worth more than fortune. young people should know that it can be cultivated; that the mind like the body can be moved from the shade into sunshine. let us move it then. laugh trouble away if possible, and one usually can if he be anything of a philosopher, provided that self-reproach comes not from his own wrongdoing. that always remains. there is no washing out of these "damned spots." the judge within sits in the supreme court and can never be cheated. hence the grand rule of life which burns gives: "thine own reproach alone do fear." [footnote : "there is no sign that andrew, though he prospered in his wooing, was specially successful in acquisition of worldly gear. otherwise, however, he became an outstanding character not only in the village, but in the adjoining city and district. a 'brainy' man who read and thought for himself he became associated with the radical weavers of dunfermline, who in patiemuir formed a meeting-place which they named a college (andrew was the 'professor' of it)." (_andrew carnegie: his dunfermline ties and benefactions_, by j.b. mackie, f.j.i.)] this motto adopted early in life has been more to me than all the sermons i ever heard, and i have heard not a few, although i may admit resemblance to my old friend baillie walker in my mature years. he was asked by his doctor about his sleep and replied that it was far from satisfactory, he was very wakeful, adding with a twinkle in his eye: "but i get a bit fine doze i' the kirk noo and then." on my mother's side the grandfather was even more marked, for my grandfather thomas morrison was a friend of william cobbett, a contributor to his "register," and in constant correspondence with him. even as i write, in dunfermline old men who knew grandfather morrison speak of him as one of the finest orators and ablest men they have known. he was publisher of "the precursor," a small edition it might be said of cobbett's "register," and thought to have been the first radical paper in scotland. i have read some of his writings, and in view of the importance now given to technical education, i think the most remarkable of them is a pamphlet which he published seventy-odd years ago entitled "head-ication versus hand-ication." it insists upon the importance of the latter in a manner that would reflect credit upon the strongest advocate of technical education to-day. it ends with these words, "i thank god that in my youth i learned to make and mend shoes." cobbett published it in the "register" in , remarking editorially, "one of the most valuable communications ever published in the 'register' upon the subject, is that of our esteemed friend and correspondent in scotland, thomas morrison, which appears in this issue." so it seems i come by my scribbling propensities by inheritance--from both sides, for the carnegies were also readers and thinkers. my grandfather morrison was a born orator, a keen politician, and the head of the advanced wing of the radical party in the district--a position which his son, my uncle bailie morrison, occupied as his successor. more than one well-known scotsman in america has called upon me, to shake hands with "the grandson of thomas morrison." mr. farmer, president of the cleveland and pittsburgh railroad company, once said to me, "i owe all that i have of learning and culture to the influence of your grandfather"; and ebenezer henderson, author of the remarkable history of dunfermline, stated that he largely owed his advancement in life to the fortunate fact that while a boy he entered my grandfather's service. i have not passed so far through life without receiving some compliments, but i think nothing of a complimentary character has ever pleased me so much as this from a writer in a glasgow newspaper, who had been a listener to a speech on home rule in america which i delivered in saint andrew's hall. the correspondent wrote that much was then being said in scotland with regard to myself and family and especially my grandfather thomas morrison, and he went on to say, "judge my surprise when i found in the grandson on the platform, in manner, gesture and appearance, a perfect _facsimile_ of the thomas morrison of old." my surprising likeness to my grandfather, whom i do not remember to have ever seen, cannot be doubted, because i remember well upon my first return to dunfermline in my twenty-seventh year, while sitting upon a sofa with my uncle bailie morrison, that his big black eyes filled with tears. he could not speak and rushed out of the room overcome. returning after a time he explained that something in me now and then flashed before him his father, who would instantly vanish but come back at intervals. some gesture it was, but what precisely he could not make out. my mother continually noticed in me some of my grandfather's peculiarities. the doctrine of inherited tendencies is proved every day and hour, but how subtle is the law which transmits gesture, something as it were beyond the material body. i was deeply impressed. my grandfather morrison married miss hodge, of edinburgh, a lady in education, manners, and position, who died while the family was still young. at this time he was in good circumstances, a leather merchant conducting the tanning business in dunfermline; but the peace after the battle of waterloo involved him in ruin, as it did thousands; so that while my uncle bailie, the eldest son, had been brought up in what might be termed luxury, for he had a pony to ride, the younger members of the family encountered other and harder days. the second daughter, margaret, was my mother, about whom i cannot trust myself to speak at length. she inherited from her mother the dignity, refinement, and air of the cultivated lady. perhaps some day i may be able to tell the world something of this heroine, but i doubt it. i feel her to be sacred to myself and not for others to know. none could ever really know her--i alone did that. after my father's early death she was all my own. the dedication of my first book[ ] tells the story. it was: "to my favorite heroine my mother." [footnote : _an american four-in-hand in great britain._ new york, .] [illustration: dunfermline abbey] fortunate in my ancestors i was supremely so in my birthplace. where one is born is very important, for different surroundings and traditions appeal to and stimulate different latent tendencies in the child. ruskin truly observes that every bright boy in edinburgh is influenced by the sight of the castle. so is the child of dunfermline, by its noble abbey, the westminster of scotland, founded early in the eleventh century ( ) by malcolm canmore and his queen margaret, scotland's patron saint. the ruins of the great monastery and of the palace where kings were born still stand, and there, too, is pittencrieff glen, embracing queen margaret's shrine and the ruins of king malcolm's tower, with which the old ballad of "sir patrick spens" begins: "the king sits in dunfermline _tower_,[ ] drinking the bluid red wine." [footnote : _the percy reliques_ and _the oxford book of ballads_ give "town" instead of "tower"; but mr. carnegie insisted that it should be "tower."] the tomb of the bruce is in the center of the abbey, saint margaret's tomb is near, and many of the "royal folk" lie sleeping close around. fortunate, indeed, the child who first sees the light in that romantic town, which occupies high ground three miles north of the firth of forth, overlooking the sea, with edinburgh in sight to the south, and to the north the peaks of the ochils clearly in view. all is still redolent of the mighty past when dunfermline was both nationally and religiously the capital of scotland. the child privileged to develop amid such surroundings absorbs poetry and romance with the air he breathes, assimilates history and tradition as he gazes around. these become to him his real world in childhood--the ideal is the ever-present real. the actual has yet to come when, later in life, he is launched into the workaday world of stern reality. even then, and till his last day, the early impressions remain, sometimes for short seasons disappearing perchance, but only apparently driven away or suppressed. they are always rising and coming again to the front to exert their influence, to elevate his thought and color his life. no bright child of dunfermline can escape the influence of the abbey, palace, and glen. these touch him and set fire to the latent spark within, making him something different and beyond what, less happily born, he would have become. under these inspiring conditions my parents had also been born, and hence came, i doubt not, the potency of the romantic and poetic strain which pervaded both. as my father succeeded in the weaving business we removed from moodie street to a much more commodious house in reid's park. my father's four or five looms occupied the lower story; we resided in the upper, which was reached, after a fashion common in the older scottish houses, by outside stairs from the pavement. it is here that my earliest recollections begin, and, strangely enough, the first trace of memory takes me back to a day when i saw a small map of america. it was upon rollers and about two feet square. upon this my father, mother, uncle william, and aunt aitken were looking for pittsburgh and pointing out lake erie and niagara. soon after my uncle and aunt aitken sailed for the land of promise. at this time i remember my cousin-brother, george lauder ("dod"), and myself were deeply impressed with the great danger overhanging us because a lawless flag was secreted in the garret. it had been painted to be carried, and i believe was carried by my father, or uncle, or some other good radical of our family, in a procession during the corn law agitation. there had been riots in the town and a troop of cavalry was quartered in the guildhall. my grandfathers and uncles on both sides, and my father, had been foremost in addressing meetings, and the whole family circle was in a ferment. i remember as if it were yesterday being awakened during the night by a tap at the back window by men who had come to inform my parents that my uncle, bailie morrison, had been thrown into jail because he had dared to hold a meeting which had been forbidden. the sheriff with the aid of the soldiers had arrested him a few miles from the town where the meeting had been held, and brought him into the town during the night, followed by an immense throng of people.[ ] [footnote : at the opening of the lauder technical school in october, , nearly half a century after the disquieting scenes of , mr. carnegie thus recalled the shock which was given to his boy mind: "one of my earliest recollections is that of being wakened in the darkness to be told that my uncle morrison was in jail. well, it is one of the proudest boasts i can make to-day to be able to say that i had an uncle who was in jail. but, ladies and gentlemen, my uncle went to jail to vindicate the rights of public assembly." (mackie.)] serious trouble was feared, for the populace threatened to rescue him, and, as we learned afterwards, he had been induced by the provost of the town to step forward to a window overlooking the high street and beg the people to retire. this he did, saying: "if there be a friend of the good cause here to-night, let him fold his arms." they did so. and then, after a pause, he said, "now depart in peace!"[ ] my uncle, like all our family, was a moral-force man and strong for obedience to law, but radical to the core and an intense admirer of the american republic. [footnote : "the crown agents wisely let the proceedings lapse.... mr. morrison was given a gratifying assurance of the appreciation of his fellow citizens by his election to the council and his elevation to the magisterial bench, followed shortly after by his appointment to the office of burgh chamberlain. the patriotic reformer whom the criminal authorities endeavored to convict as a law-breaker became by the choice of his fellow citizens a magistrate, and was further given a certificate for trustworthiness and integrity." (mackie.)] one may imagine when all this was going on in public how bitter were the words that passed from one to the other in private. the denunciations of monarchical and aristocratic government, of privilege in all its forms, the grandeur of the republican system, the superiority of america, a land peopled by our own race, a home for freemen in which every citizen's privilege was every man's right--these were the exciting themes upon which i was nurtured. as a child i could have slain king, duke, or lord, and considered their deaths a service to the state and hence an heroic act. such is the influence of childhood's earliest associations that it was long before i could trust myself to speak respectfully of any privileged class or person who had not distinguished himself in some good way and therefore earned the right to public respect. there was still the sneer behind for mere pedigree--"he is nothing, has done nothing, only an accident, a fraud strutting in borrowed plumes; all he has to his account is the accident of birth; the most fruitful part of his family, as with the potato, lies underground." i wondered that intelligent men could live where another human being was born to a privilege which was not also their birthright. i was never tired of quoting the only words which gave proper vent to my indignation: "there was a brutus once that would have brooked th' eternal devil to keep his state in rome as easily as a king." but then kings were kings, not mere shadows. all this was inherited, of course. i only echoed what i heard at home. dunfermline has long been renowned as perhaps the most radical town in the kingdom, although i know paisley has claims. this is all the more creditable to the cause of radicalism because in the days of which i speak the population of dunfermline was in large part composed of men who were small manufacturers, each owning his own loom or looms. they were not tied down to regular hours, their labors being piece work. they got webs from the larger manufacturers and the weaving was done at home. these were times of intense political excitement, and there was frequently seen throughout the entire town, for a short time after the midday meal, small groups of men with their aprons girt about them discussing affairs of state. the names of hume, cobden, and bright were upon every one's tongue. i was often attracted, small as i was, to these circles and was an earnest listener to the conversation, which was wholly one-sided. the generally accepted conclusion was that there must be a change. clubs were formed among the townsfolk, and the london newspapers were subscribed for. the leading editorials were read every evening to the people, strangely enough, from one of the pulpits of the town. my uncle, bailie morrison, was often the reader, and, as the articles were commented upon by him and others after being read, the meetings were quite exciting. these political meetings were of frequent occurrence, and, as might be expected, i was as deeply interested as any of the family and attended many. one of my uncles or my father was generally to be heard. i remember one evening my father addressed a large outdoor meeting in the pends. i had wedged my way in under the legs of the hearers, and at one cheer louder than all the rest i could not restrain my enthusiasm. looking up to the man under whose legs i had found protection i informed him that was my father speaking. he lifted me on his shoulder and kept me there. to another meeting i was taken by my father to hear john bright, who spoke in favor of j.b. smith as the liberal candidate for the stirling burghs. i made the criticism at home that mr. bright did not speak correctly, as he said "men" when he meant "maan." he did not give the broad _a_ we were accustomed to in scotland. it is not to be wondered at that, nursed amid such surroundings, i developed into a violent young republican whose motto was "death to privilege." at that time i did not know what privilege meant, but my father did. one of my uncle lauder's best stories was about this same j.b. smith, the friend of john bright, who was standing for parliament in dunfermline. uncle was a member of his committee and all went well until it was proclaimed that smith was a "unitawrian." the district was placarded with the enquiry: would you vote for a "unitawrian"? it was serious. the chairman of smith's committee in the village of cairney hill, a blacksmith, was reported as having declared he never would. uncle drove over to remonstrate with him. they met in the village tavern over a gill: "man, i canna vote for a unitawrian," said the chairman. "but," said my uncle, "maitland [the opposing candidate] is a trinitawrian." "damn; that's waur," was the response. and the blacksmith voted right. smith won by a small majority. the change from hand-loom to steam-loom weaving was disastrous to our family. my father did not recognize the impending revolution, and was struggling under the old system. his looms sank greatly in value, and it became necessary for that power which never failed in any emergency--my mother--to step forward and endeavor to repair the family fortune. she opened a small shop in moodie street and contributed to the revenues which, though slender, nevertheless at that time sufficed to keep us in comfort and "respectable." i remember that shortly after this i began to learn what poverty meant. dreadful days came when my father took the last of his webs to the great manufacturer, and i saw my mother anxiously awaiting his return to know whether a new web was to be obtained or that a period of idleness was upon us. it was burnt into my heart then that my father, though neither "abject, mean, nor vile," as burns has it, had nevertheless to "beg a brother of the earth to give him leave to toil." and then and there came the resolve that i would cure that when i got to be a man. we were not, however, reduced to anything like poverty compared with many of our neighbors. i do not know to what lengths of privation my mother would not have gone that she might see her two boys wearing large white collars, and trimly dressed. in an incautious moment my parents had promised that i should never be sent to school until i asked leave to go. this promise i afterward learned began to give them considerable uneasiness because as i grew up i showed no disposition to ask. the schoolmaster, mr. robert martin, was applied to and induced to take some notice of me. he took me upon an excursion one day with some of my companions who attended school, and great relief was experienced by my parents when one day soon afterward i came and asked for permission to go to mr. martin's school.[ ] i need not say the permission was duly granted. i had then entered upon my eighth year, which subsequent experience leads me to say is quite early enough for any child to begin attending school. [footnote : it was known as rolland school.] the school was a perfect delight to me, and if anything occurred which prevented my attendance i was unhappy. this happened every now and then because my morning duty was to bring water from the well at the head of moodie street. the supply was scanty and irregular. sometimes it was not allowed to run until late in the morning and a score of old wives were sitting around, the turn of each having been previously secured through the night by placing a worthless can in the line. this, as might be expected, led to numerous contentions in which i would not be put down even by these venerable old dames. i earned the reputation of being "an awfu' laddie." in this way i probably developed the strain of argumentativeness, or perhaps combativeness, which has always remained with me. in the performance of these duties i was often late for school, but the master, knowing the cause, forgave the lapses. in the same connection i may mention that i had often the shop errands to run after school, so that in looking back upon my life i have the satisfaction of feeling that i became useful to my parents even at the early age of ten. soon after that the accounts of the various people who dealt with the shop were entrusted to my keeping so that i became acquainted, in a small way, with business affairs even in childhood. one cause of misery there was, however, in my school experience. the boys nicknamed me "martin's pet," and sometimes called out that dreadful epithet to me as i passed along the street. i did not know all that it meant, but it seemed to me a term of the utmost opprobrium, and i know that it kept me from responding as freely as i should otherwise have done to that excellent teacher, my only schoolmaster, to whom i owe a debt of gratitude which i regret i never had opportunity to do more than acknowledge before he died. i may mention here a man whose influence over me cannot be overestimated, my uncle lauder, george lauder's father.[ ] my father was necessarily constantly at work in the loom shop and had little leisure to bestow upon me through the day. my uncle being a shopkeeper in the high street was not thus tied down. note the location, for this was among the shopkeeping aristocracy, and high and varied degrees of aristocracy there were even among shopkeepers in dunfermline. deeply affected by my aunt seaton's death, which occurred about the beginning of my school life, he found his chief solace in the companionship of his only son, george, and myself. he possessed an extraordinary gift of dealing with children and taught us many things. among others i remember how he taught us british history by imagining each of the monarchs in a certain place upon the walls of the room performing the act for which he was well known. thus for me king john sits to this day above the mantelpiece signing the magna charta, and queen victoria is on the back of the door with her children on her knee. [footnote : the lauder technical college given by mr. carnegie to dunfermline was named in honor of this uncle, george lauder.] it may be taken for granted that the omission which, years after, i found in the chapter house at westminster abbey was fully supplied in our list of monarchs. a slab in a small chapel at westminster says that the body of oliver cromwell was removed from there. in the list of the monarchs which i learned at my uncle's knee the grand republican monarch appeared writing his message to the pope of rome, informing his holiness that "if he did not cease persecuting the protestants the thunder of great britain's cannon would be heard in the vatican." it is needless to say that the estimate we formed of cromwell was that he was worth them "a' thegither." it was from my uncle i learned all that i know of the early history of scotland--of wallace and bruce and burns, of blind harry's history, of scott, ramsey, tannahill, hogg, and fergusson. i can truly say in the words of burns that there was then and there created in me a vein of scottish prejudice (or patriotism) which will cease to exist only with life. wallace, of course, was our hero. everything heroic centered in him. sad was the day when a wicked big boy at school told me that england was far larger than scotland. i went to the uncle, who had the remedy. "not at all, naig; if scotland were rolled out flat as england, scotland would be the larger, but would you have the highlands rolled down?" oh, never! there was balm in gilead for the wounded young patriot. later the greater population of england was forced upon me, and again to the uncle i went. "yes, naig, seven to one, but there were more than that odds against us at bannockburn." and again there was joy in my heart--joy that there were more english men there since the glory was the greater. this is something of a commentary upon the truth that war breeds war, that every battle sows the seeds of future battles, and that thus nations become traditional enemies. the experience of american boys is that of the scotch. they grow up to read of washington and valley forge, of hessians hired to kill americans, and they come to hate the very name of englishman. such was my experience with my american nephews. scotland was all right, but england that had fought scotland was the wicked partner. not till they became men was the prejudice eradicated, and even yet some of it may linger. uncle lauder has told me since that he often brought people into the room assuring them that he could make "dod" (george lauder) and me weep, laugh, or close our little fists ready to fight--in short, play upon all our moods through the influence of poetry and song. the betrayal of wallace was his trump card which never failed to cause our little hearts to sob, a complete breakdown being the invariable result. often as he told the story it never lost its hold. no doubt it received from time to time new embellishments. my uncle's stories never wanted "the hat and the stick" which scott gave his. how wonderful is the influence of a hero upon children! i spent many hours and evenings in the high street with my uncle and "dod," and thus began a lifelong brotherly alliance between the latter and myself. "dod" and "naig" we always were in the family. i could not say "george" in infancy and he could not get more than "naig" out of carnegie, and it has always been "dod" and "naig" with us. no other names would mean anything. there were two roads by which to return from my uncle's house in the high street to my home in moodie street at the foot of the town, one along the eerie churchyard of the abbey among the dead, where there was no light; and the other along the lighted streets by way of the may gate. when it became necessary for me to go home, my uncle, with a wicked pleasure, would ask which way i was going. thinking what wallace would do, i always replied i was going by the abbey. i have the satisfaction of believing that never, not even upon one occasion, did i yield to the temptation to take the other turn and follow the lamps at the junction of the may gate. i often passed along that churchyard and through the dark arch of the abbey with my heart in my mouth. trying to whistle and keep up my courage, i would plod through the darkness, falling back in all emergencies upon the thought of what wallace would have done if he had met with any foe, natural or supernatural. king robert the bruce never got justice from my cousin or myself in childhood. it was enough for us that he was a king while wallace was the man of the people. sir john graham was our second. the intensity of a scottish boy's patriotism, reared as i was, constitutes a real force in his life to the very end. if the source of my stock of that prime article--courage--were studied, i am sure the final analysis would find it founded upon wallace, the hero of scotland. it is a tower of strength for a boy to have a hero. it gave me a pang to find when i reached america that there was any other country which pretended to have anything to be proud of. what was a country without wallace, bruce, and burns? i find in the untraveled scotsman of to-day something still of this feeling. it remains for maturer years and wider knowledge to tell us that every nation has its heroes, its romance, its traditions, and its achievements; and while the true scotsman will not find reason in after years to lower the estimate he has formed of his own country and of its position even among the larger nations of the earth, he will find ample reason to raise his opinion of other nations because they all have much to be proud of--quite enough to stimulate their sons so to act their parts as not to disgrace the land that gave them birth. it was years before i could feel that the new land could be anything but a temporary abode. my heart was in scotland. i resembled principal peterson's little boy who, when in canada, in reply to a question, said he liked canada "very well for a visit, but he could never live so far away from the remains of bruce and wallace." chapter ii dunfermline and america my good uncle lauder justly set great value upon recitation in education, and many were the pennies which dod and i received for this. in our little frocks or shirts, our sleeves rolled up, paper helmets and blackened faces, with laths for swords, my cousin and myself were kept constantly reciting norval and glenalvon, roderick dhu and james fitz-james to our schoolmates and often to the older people. i remember distinctly that in the celebrated dialogue between norval and glenalvon we had some qualms about repeating the phrase,--"and false as _hell_." at first we made a slight cough over the objectionable word which always created amusement among the spectators. it was a great day for us when my uncle persuaded us that we could say "hell" without swearing. i am afraid we practiced it very often. i always played the part of glenalvon and made a great mouthful of the word. it had for me the wonderful fascination attributed to forbidden fruit. i can well understand the story of marjory fleming, who being cross one morning when walter scott called and asked how she was, answered: "i am very cross this morning, mr. scott. i just want to say 'damn' [with a swing], but i winna." thereafter the expression of the one fearful word was a great point. ministers could say "damnation" in the pulpit without sin, and so we, too, had full range on "hell" in recitation. another passage made a deep impression. in the fight between norval and glenalvon, norval says, "when we contend again our strife is mortal." using these words in an article written for the "north american review" in , my uncle came across them and immediately sat down and wrote me from dunfermline that he knew where i had found the words. he was the only man living who did. my power to memorize must have been greatly strengthened by the mode of teaching adopted by my uncle. i cannot name a more important means of benefiting young people than encouraging them to commit favorite pieces to memory and recite them often. anything which pleased me i could learn with a rapidity which surprised partial friends. i could memorize anything whether it pleased me or not, but if it did not impress me strongly it passed away in a few hours. one of the trials of my boy's life at school in dunfermline was committing to memory two double verses of the psalms which i had to recite daily. my plan was not to look at the psalm until i had started for school. it was not more than five or six minutes' slow walk, but i could readily master the task in that time, and, as the psalm was the first lesson, i was prepared and passed through the ordeal successfully. had i been asked to repeat the psalm thirty minutes afterwards the attempt would, i fear, have ended in disastrous failure. the first penny i ever earned or ever received from any person beyond the family circle was one from my school-teacher, mr. martin, for repeating before the school burns's poem, "man was made to mourn." in writing this i am reminded that in later years, dining with mr. john morley in london, the conversation turned upon the life of wordsworth, and mr. morley said he had been searching his burns for the poem to "old age," so much extolled by him, which he had not been able to find under that title. i had the pleasure of repeating part of it to him. he promptly handed me a second penny. ah, great as morley is, he wasn't my school-teacher, mr. martin--the first "great" man i ever knew. truly great was he to me. but a hero surely is "honest john" morley. in religious matters we were not much hampered. while other boys and girls at school were compelled to learn the shorter catechism, dod and i, by some arrangement the details of which i never clearly understood, were absolved. all of our family connections, morrisons and lauders, were advanced in their theological as in their political views, and had objections to the catechism, i have no doubt. we had not one orthodox presbyterian in our family circle. my father, uncle and aunt aitken, uncle lauder, and also my uncle carnegie, had fallen away from the tenets of calvinism. at a later day most of them found refuge for a time in the doctrines of swedenborg. my mother was always reticent upon religious subjects. she never mentioned these to me nor did she attend church, for she had no servant in those early days and did all the housework, including cooking our sunday dinner. a great reader, always, channing the unitarian was in those days her special delight. she was a marvel! [illustration: andrew carnegie's mother] during my childhood the atmosphere around me was in a state of violent disturbance in matters theological as well as political. along with the most advanced ideas which were being agitated in the political world--the death of privilege, the equality of the citizen, republicanism--i heard many disputations upon theological subjects which the impressionable child drank in to an extent quite unthought of by his elders. i well remember that the stern doctrines of calvinism lay as a terrible nightmare upon me, but that state of mind was soon over, owing to the influences of which i have spoken. i grew up treasuring within me the fact that my father had risen and left the presbyterian church one day when the minister preached the doctrine of infant damnation. this was shortly after i had made my appearance. father could not stand it and said: "if that be your religion and that your god, i seek a better religion and a nobler god." he left the presbyterian church never to return, but he did not cease to attend various other churches. i saw him enter the closet every morning to pray and that impressed me. he was indeed a saint and always remained devout. all sects became to him as agencies for good. he had discovered that theologies were many, but religion was one. i was quite satisfied that my father knew better than the minister, who pictured not the heavenly father, but the cruel avenger of the old testament--an "eternal torturer" as andrew d. white ventures to call him in his autobiography. fortunately this conception of the unknown is now largely of the past. one of the chief enjoyments of my childhood was the keeping of pigeons and rabbits. i am grateful every time i think of the trouble my father took to build a suitable house for these pets. our home became headquarters for my young companions. my mother was always looking to home influences as the best means of keeping her two boys in the right path. she used to say that the first step in this direction was to make home pleasant; and there was nothing she and my father would not do to please us and the neighbors' children who centered about us. my first business venture was securing my companions' services for a season as an employer, the compensation being that the young rabbits, when such came, should be named after them. the saturday holiday was generally spent by my flock in gathering food for the rabbits. my conscience reproves me to-day, looking back, when i think of the hard bargain i drove with my young playmates, many of whom were content to gather dandelions and clover for a whole season with me, conditioned upon this unique reward--the poorest return ever made to labor. alas! what else had i to offer them! not a penny. i treasure the remembrance of this plan as the earliest evidence of organizing power upon the development of which my material success in life has hung--a success not to be attributed to what i have known or done myself, but to the faculty of knowing and choosing others who did know better than myself. precious knowledge this for any man to possess. i did not understand steam machinery, but i tried to understand that much more complicated piece of mechanism--man. stopping at a small highland inn on our coaching trip in , a gentleman came forward and introduced himself. he was mr. macintosh, the great furniture manufacturer of scotland--a fine character as i found out afterward. he said he had ventured to make himself known as he was one of the boys who had gathered, and sometimes he feared "conveyed," spoil for the rabbits, and had "one named after him." it may be imagined how glad i was to meet him--the only one of the rabbit boys i have met in after-life. i hope to keep his friendship to the last and see him often. [as i read this manuscript to-day, december , , i have a very precious note from him, recalling old times when we were boys together. he has a reply by this time that will warm his heart as his note did mine.] with the introduction and improvement of steam machinery, trade grew worse and worse in dunfermline for the small manufacturers, and at last a letter was written to my mother's two sisters in pittsburgh stating that the idea of our going to them was seriously entertained--not, as i remember hearing my parents say, to benefit their own condition, but for the sake of their two young sons. satisfactory letters were received in reply. the decision was taken to sell the looms and furniture by auction. and my father's sweet voice sang often to mother, brother, and me: "to the west, to the west, to the land of the free, where the mighty missouri rolls down to the sea; where a man is a man even though he must toil and the poorest may gather the fruits of the soil." the proceeds of the sale were most disappointing. the looms brought hardly anything, and the result was that twenty pounds more were needed to enable the family to pay passage to america. here let me record an act of friendship performed by a lifelong companion of my mother--who always attracted stanch friends because she was so stanch herself--mrs. henderson, by birth ella ferguson, the name by which she was known in our family. she boldly ventured to advance the needful twenty pounds, my uncles lauder and morrison guaranteeing repayment. uncle lauder also lent his aid and advice, managing all the details for us, and on the th day of may, , we left dunfermline. my father's age was then forty-three, my mother's thirty-three. i was in my thirteenth year, my brother tom in his fifth year--a beautiful white-haired child with lustrous black eyes, who everywhere attracted attention. i had left school forever, with the exception of one winter's night-schooling in america, and later a french night-teacher for a time, and, strange to say, an elocutionist from whom i learned how to declaim. i could read, write, and cipher, and had begun the study of algebra and of latin. a letter written to my uncle lauder during the voyage, and since returned, shows that i was then a better penman than now. i had wrestled with english grammar, and knew as little of what it was designed to teach as children usually do. i had read little except about wallace, bruce, and burns; but knew many familiar pieces of poetry by heart. i should add to this the fairy tales of childhood, and especially the "arabian nights," by which i was carried into a new world. i was in dreamland as i devoured those stories. on the morning of the day we started from beloved dunfermline, in the omnibus that ran upon the coal railroad to charleston, i remember that i stood with tearful eyes looking out of the window until dunfermline vanished from view, the last structure to fade being the grand and sacred old abbey. during my first fourteen years of absence my thought was almost daily, as it was that morning, "when shall i see you again?" few days passed in which i did not see in my mind's eye the talismanic letters on the abbey tower--"king robert the bruce." all my recollections of childhood, all i knew of fairyland, clustered around the old abbey and its curfew bell, which tolled at eight o'clock every evening and was the signal for me to run to bed before it stopped. i have referred to that bell in my "american four-in-hand in britain"[ ] when passing the abbey and i may as well quote from it now: [footnote : _an american four-in-hand in britain_. new york, .] as we drove down the pends i was standing on the front seat of the coach with provost walls, when i heard the first toll of the abbey bell, tolled in honor of my mother and myself. my knees sank from under me, the tears came rushing before i knew it, and i turned round to tell the provost that i must give in. for a moment i felt as if i were about to faint. fortunately i saw that there was no crowd before us for a little distance. i had time to regain control, and biting my lips till they actually bled, i murmured to myself, "no matter, keep cool, you must go on"; but never can there come to my ears on earth, nor enter so deep into my soul, a sound that shall haunt and subdue me with its sweet, gracious, melting power as that did. by that curfew bell i had been laid in my little couch to sleep the sleep of childish innocence. father and mother, sometimes the one, sometimes the other, had told me as they bent lovingly over me night after night, what that bell said as it tolled. many good words has that bell spoken to me through their translations. no wrong thing did i do through the day which that voice from all i knew of heaven and the great father there did not tell me kindly about ere i sank to sleep, speaking the words so plainly that i knew that the power that moved it had seen all and was not angry, never angry, never, but so very, _very_ sorry. nor is that bell dumb to me to-day when i hear its voice. it still has its message, and now it sounded to welcome back the exiled mother and son under its precious care again. the world has not within its power to devise, much less to bestow upon us, such reward as that which the abbey bell gave when it tolled in our honor. but my brother tom should have been there also; this was the thought that came. he, too, was beginning to know the wonders of that bell ere we were away to the newer land. rousseau wished to die to the strains of sweet music. could i choose my accompaniment, i could wish to pass into the dim beyond with the tolling of the abbey bell sounding in my ears, telling me of the race that had been run, and calling me, as it had called the little white-haired child, for the last time--_to sleep_. i have had many letters from readers speaking of this passage in my book, some of the writers going so far as to say that tears fell as they read. it came from the heart and perhaps that is why it reached the hearts of others. we were rowed over in a small boat to the edinburgh steamer in the firth of forth. as i was about to be taken from the small boat to the steamer, i rushed to uncle lauder and clung round his neck, crying out: "i cannot leave you! i cannot leave you!" i was torn from him by a kind sailor who lifted me up on the deck of the steamer. upon my return visit to dunfermline this dear old fellow, when he came to see me, told me it was the saddest parting he had ever witnessed. we sailed from the broomielaw of glasgow in the -ton sailing ship wiscasset. during the seven weeks of the voyage, i came to know the sailors quite well, learned the names of the ropes, and was able to direct the passengers to answer the call of the boatswain, for the ship being undermanned, the aid of the passengers was urgently required. in consequence i was invited by the sailors to participate on sundays, in the one delicacy of the sailors' mess, plum duff. i left the ship with sincere regret. the arrival at new york was bewildering. i had been taken to see the queen at edinburgh, but that was the extent of my travels before emigrating. glasgow we had not time to see before we sailed. new york was the first great hive of human industry among the inhabitants of which i had mingled, and the bustle and excitement of it overwhelmed me. the incident of our stay in new york which impressed me most occurred while i was walking through bowling green at castle garden. i was caught up in the arms of one of the wiscasset sailors, robert barryman, who was decked out in regular jackashore fashion, with blue jacket and white trousers. i thought him the most beautiful man i had ever seen. he took me to a refreshment stand and ordered a glass of sarsaparilla for me, which i drank with as much relish as if it were the nectar of the gods. to this day nothing that i have ever seen of the kind rivals the image which remains in my mind of the gorgeousness of the highly ornamented brass vessel out of which that nectar came foaming. often as i have passed the identical spot i see standing there the old woman's sarsaparilla stand, and i marvel what became of the dear old sailor. i have tried to trace him, but in vain, hoping that if found he might be enjoying a ripe old age, and that it might be in my power to add to the pleasure of his declining years. he was my ideal tom bowling, and when that fine old song is sung i always see as the "form of manly beauty" my dear old friend barryman. alas! ere this he's gone aloft. well; by his kindness on the voyage he made one boy his devoted friend and admirer. we knew only mr. and mrs. sloane in new york--parents of the well-known john, willie, and henry sloane. mrs. sloane (euphemia douglas) was my mother's companion in childhood in dunfermline. mr. sloane and my father had been fellow weavers. we called upon them and were warmly welcomed. it was a genuine pleasure when willie, his son, bought ground from me in opposite our new york residence for his two married daughters so that our children of the third generation became playmates as our mothers were in scotland. my father was induced by emigration agents in new york to take the erie canal by way of buffalo and lake erie to cleveland, and thence down the canal to beaver--a journey which then lasted three weeks, and is made to-day by rail in ten hours. there was no railway communication then with pittsburgh, nor indeed with any western town. the erie railway was under construction and we saw gangs of men at work upon it as we traveled. nothing comes amiss to youth, and i look back upon my three weeks as a passenger upon the canal-boat with unalloyed pleasure. all that was disagreeable in my experience has long since faded from recollection, excepting the night we were compelled to remain upon the wharf-boat at beaver waiting for the steamboat to take us up the ohio to pittsburgh. this was our first introduction to the mosquito in all its ferocity. my mother suffered so severely that in the morning she could hardly see. we were all frightful sights, but i do not remember that even the stinging misery of that night kept me from sleeping soundly. i could always sleep, never knowing "horrid night, the child of hell." our friends in pittsburgh had been anxiously waiting to hear from us, and in their warm and affectionate greeting all our troubles were forgotten. we took up our residence with them in allegheny city. a brother of my uncle hogan had built a small weaver's shop at the back end of a lot in rebecca street. this had a second story in which there were two rooms, and it was in these (free of rent, for my aunt aitken owned them) that my parents began housekeeping. my uncle soon gave up weaving and my father took his place and began making tablecloths, which he had not only to weave, but afterwards, acting as his own merchant, to travel and sell, as no dealers could be found to take them in quantity. he was compelled to market them himself, selling from door to door. the returns were meager in the extreme. [illustration: andrew carnegie at sixteen with his brother thomas] as usual, my mother came to the rescue. there was no keeping her down. in her youth she had learned to bind shoes in her father's business for pin-money, and the skill then acquired was now turned to account for the benefit of the family. mr. phipps, father of my friend and partner mr. henry phipps, was, like my grandfather, a master shoemaker. he was our neighbor in allegheny city. work was obtained from him, and in addition to attending to her household duties--for, of course, we had no servant--this wonderful woman, my mother, earned four dollars a week by binding shoes. midnight would often find her at work. in the intervals during the day and evening, when household cares would permit, and my young brother sat at her knee threading needles and waxing the thread for her, she recited to him, as she had to me, the gems of scottish minstrelsy which she seemed to have by heart, or told him tales which failed not to contain a moral. this is where the children of honest poverty have the most precious of all advantages over those of wealth. the mother, nurse, cook, governess, teacher, saint, all in one; the father, exemplar, guide, counselor, and friend! thus were my brother and i brought up. what has the child of millionaire or nobleman that counts compared to such a heritage? my mother was a busy woman, but all her work did not prevent her neighbors from soon recognizing her as a wise and kindly woman whom they could call upon for counsel or help in times of trouble. many have told me what my mother did for them. so it was in after years wherever we resided; rich and poor came to her with their trials and found good counsel. she towered among her neighbors wherever she went. chapter iii pittsburgh and work the great question now was, what could be found for me to do. i had just completed my thirteenth year, and i fairly panted to get to work that i might help the family to a start in the new land. the prospect of want had become to me a frightful nightmare. my thoughts at this period centered in the determination that we should make and save enough of money to produce three hundred dollars a year--twenty-five dollars monthly, which i figured was the sum required to keep us without being dependent upon others. every necessary thing was very cheap in those days. the brother of my uncle hogan would often ask what my parents meant to do with me, and one day there occurred the most tragic of all scenes i have ever witnessed. never can i forget it. he said, with the kindest intentions in the world, to my mother, that i was a likely boy and apt to learn; and he believed that if a basket were fitted out for me with knickknacks to sell, i could peddle them around the wharves and make quite a considerable sum. i never knew what an enraged woman meant till then. my mother was sitting sewing at the moment, but she sprang to her feet with outstretched hands and shook them in his face. "what! my son a peddler and go among rough men upon the wharves! i would rather throw him into the allegheny river. leave me!" she cried, pointing to the door, and mr. hogan went. she stood a tragic queen. the next moment she had broken down, but only for a few moments did tears fall and sobs come. then she took her two boys in her arms and told us not to mind her foolishness. there were many things in the world for us to do and we could be useful men, honored and respected, if we always did what was right. it was a repetition of helen macgregor, in her reply to osbaldistone in which she threatened to have her prisoners "chopped into as many pieces as there are checks in the tartan." but the reason for the outburst was different. it was not because the occupation suggested was peaceful labor, for we were taught that idleness was disgraceful; but because the suggested occupation was somewhat vagrant in character and not entirely respectable in her eyes. better death. yes, mother would have taken her two boys, one under each arm, and perished with them rather than they should mingle with low company in their extreme youth. as i look back upon the early struggles this can be said: there was not a prouder family in the land. a keen sense of honor, independence, self-respect, pervaded the household. walter scott said of burns that he had the most extraordinary eye he ever saw in a human being. i can say as much for my mother. as burns has it: "her eye even turned on empty space, beamed keen with honor." anything low, mean, deceitful, shifty, coarse, underhand, or gossipy was foreign to that heroic soul. tom and i could not help growing up respectable characters, having such a mother and such a father, for the father, too, was one of nature's noblemen, beloved by all, a saint. soon after this incident my father found it necessary to give up hand-loom weaving and to enter the cotton factory of mr. blackstock, an old scotsman in allegheny city, where we lived. in this factory he also obtained for me a position as bobbin boy, and my first work was done there at one dollar and twenty cents per week. it was a hard life. in the winter father and i had to rise and breakfast in the darkness, reach the factory before it was daylight, and, with a short interval for lunch, work till after dark. the hours hung heavily upon me and in the work itself i took no pleasure; but the cloud had a silver lining, as it gave me the feeling that i was doing something for my world--our family. i have made millions since, but none of those millions gave me such happiness as my first week's earnings. i was now a helper of the family, a breadwinner, and no longer a total charge upon my parents. often had i heard my father's beautiful singing of "the boatie rows" and often i longed to fulfill the last lines of the verse: "when aaleck, jock, and jeanettie, _are up and got their lair_,[ ] they'll serve to gar the boatie row, and lichten a' our care." [footnote : education.] i was going to make our tiny craft skim. it should be noted here that aaleck, jock, and jeanettie were first to get their education. scotland was the first country that required all parents, high or low, to educate their children, and established the parish public schools. soon after this mr. john hay, a fellow-scotch manufacturer of bobbins in allegheny city, needed a boy, and asked whether i would not go into his service. i went, and received two dollars per week; but at first the work was even more irksome than the factory. i had to run a small steam-engine and to fire the boiler in the cellar of the bobbin factory. it was too much for me. i found myself night after night, sitting up in bed trying the steam gauges, fearing at one time that the steam was too low and that the workers above would complain that they had not power enough, and at another time that the steam was too high and that the boiler might burst. but all this it was a matter of honor to conceal from my parents. they had their own troubles and bore them. i must play the man and bear mine. my hopes were high, and i looked every day for some change to take place. what it was to be i knew not, but that it would come i felt certain if i kept on. besides, at this date i was not beyond asking myself what wallace would have done and what a scotsman ought to do. of one thing i was sure, he ought never to give up. one day the chance came. mr. hay had to make out some bills. he had no clerk, and was himself a poor penman. he asked me what kind of hand i could write, and gave me some writing to do. the result pleased him, and he found it convenient thereafter to let me make out his bills. i was also good at figures; and he soon found it to be to his interest--and besides, dear old man, i believe he was moved by good feeling toward the white-haired boy, for he had a kind heart and was scotch and wished to relieve me from the engine--to put me at other things, less objectionable except in one feature. it now became my duty to bathe the newly made spools in vats of oil. fortunately there was a room reserved for this purpose and i was alone, but not all the resolution i could muster, nor all the indignation i felt at my own weakness, prevented my stomach from behaving in a most perverse way. i never succeeded in overcoming the nausea produced by the smell of the oil. even wallace and bruce proved impotent here. but if i had to lose breakfast, or dinner, i had all the better appetite for supper, and the allotted work was done. a real disciple of wallace or bruce could not give up; he would die first. my service with mr. hay was a distinct advance upon the cotton factory, and i also made the acquaintance of an employer who was very kind to me. mr. hay kept his books in single entry, and i was able to handle them for him; but hearing that all great firms kept their books in double entry, and after talking over the matter with my companions, john phipps, thomas n. miller, and william cowley, we all determined to attend night school during the winter and learn the larger system. so the four of us went to a mr. williams in pittsburgh and learned double-entry bookkeeping. one evening, early in , when i returned home from work, i was told that mr. david brooks, manager of the telegraph office, had asked my uncle hogan if he knew where a good boy could be found to act as messenger. mr. brooks and my uncle were enthusiastic draught-players, and it was over a game of draughts that this important inquiry was made. upon such trifles do the most momentous consequences hang. a word, a look, an accent, may affect the destiny not only of individuals, but of nations. he is a bold man who calls anything a trifle. who was it who, being advised to disregard trifles, said he always would if any one could tell him what a trifle was? the young should remember that upon trifles the best gifts of the gods often hang. my uncle mentioned my name, and said he would see whether i would take the position. i remember so well the family council that was held. of course i was wild with delight. no bird that ever was confined in a cage longed for freedom more than i. mother favored, but father was disposed to deny my wish. it would prove too much for me, he said; i was too young and too small. for the two dollars and a half per week offered it was evident that a much larger boy was expected. late at night i might be required to run out into the country with a telegram, and there would be dangers to encounter. upon the whole my father said that it was best that i should remain where i was. he subsequently withdrew his objection, so far as to give me leave to try, and i believe he went to mr. hay and consulted with him. mr. hay thought it would be for my advantage, and although, as he said, it would be an inconvenience to him, still he advised that i should try, and if i failed he was kind enough to say that my old place would be open for me. this being decided, i was asked to go over the river to pittsburgh and call on mr. brooks. my father wished to go with me, and it was settled that he should accompany me as far as the telegraph office, on the corner of fourth and wood streets. it was a bright, sunshiny morning and this augured well. father and i walked over from allegheny to pittsburgh, a distance of nearly two miles from our house. arrived at the door i asked father to wait outside. i insisted upon going alone upstairs to the second or operating floor to see the great man and learn my fate. i was led to this, perhaps, because i had by that time begun to consider myself something of an american. at first boys used to call me "scotchie! scotchie!" and i answered, "yes, i'm scotch and i am proud of the name." but in speech and in address the broad scotch had been worn off to a slight extent, and i imagined that i could make a smarter showing if alone with mr. brooks than if my good old scotch father were present, perhaps to smile at my airs. i was dressed in my one white linen shirt, which was usually kept sacred for the sabbath day, my blue round-about, and my whole sunday suit. i had at that time, and for a few weeks after i entered the telegraph service, but one linen suit of summer clothing; and every saturday night, no matter if that was my night on duty and i did not return till near midnight, my mother washed those clothes and ironed them, and i put them on fresh on sabbath morning. there was nothing that heroine did not do in the struggle we were making for elbow room in the western world. father's long factory hours tried his strength, but he, too, fought the good fight like a hero and never failed to encourage me. the interview was successful. i took care to explain that i did not know pittsburgh, that perhaps i would not do, would not be strong enough; but all i wanted was a trial. he asked me how soon i could come, and i said that i could stay now if wanted. and, looking back over the circumstance, i think that answer might well be pondered by young men. it is a great mistake not to seize the opportunity. the position was offered to me; something might occur, some other boy might be sent for. having got myself in i proposed to stay there if i could. mr. brooks very kindly called the other boy--for it was an additional messenger that was wanted--and asked him to show me about, and let me go with him and learn the business. i soon found opportunity to run down to the corner of the street and tell my father that it was all right, and to go home and tell mother that i had got the situation. [illustration: david mccargo] and that is how in i got my first real start in life. from the dark cellar running a steam-engine at two dollars a week, begrimed with coal dirt, without a trace of the elevating influences of life, i was lifted into paradise, yes, heaven, as it seemed to me, with newspapers, pens, pencils, and sunshine about me. there was scarcely a minute in which i could not learn something or find out how much there was to learn and how little i knew. i felt that my foot was upon the ladder and that i was bound to climb. i had only one fear, and that was that i could not learn quickly enough the addresses of the various business houses to which messages had to be delivered. i therefore began to note the signs of these houses up one side of the street and down the other. at night i exercised my memory by naming in succession the various firms. before long i could shut my eyes and, beginning at the foot of a business street, call off the names of the firms in proper order along one side to the top of the street, then crossing on the other side go down in regular order to the foot again. the next step was to know the men themselves, for it gave a messenger a great advantage, and often saved a long journey, if he knew members or employees of firms. he might meet one of these going direct to his office. it was reckoned a great triumph among the boys to deliver a message upon the street. and there was the additional satisfaction to the boy himself, that a great man (and most men are great to messengers), stopped upon the street in this way, seldom failed to note the boy and compliment him. the pittsburgh of was very different from what it has since become. it had not yet recovered from the great fire which destroyed the entire business portion of the city on april , . the houses were mainly of wood, a few only were of brick, and not one was fire-proof. the entire population in and around pittsburgh was not over forty thousand. the business portion of the city did not extend as far as fifth avenue, which was then a very quiet street, remarkable only for having the theater upon it. federal street, allegheny, consisted of straggling business houses with great open spaces between them, and i remember skating upon ponds in the very heart of the present fifth ward. the site of our union iron mills was then, and many years later, a cabbage garden. general robinson, to whom i delivered many a telegraph message, was the first white child born west of the ohio river. i saw the first telegraph line stretched from the east into the city; and, at a later date, i also saw the first locomotive, for the ohio and pennsylvania railroad, brought by canal from philadelphia and unloaded from a scow in allegheny city. there was no direct railway communication to the east. passengers took the canal to the foot of the allegheny mountains, over which they were transported to hollidaysburg, a distance of thirty miles by rail; thence by canal again to columbia, and then eighty-one miles by rail to philadelphia--a journey which occupied three days.[ ] [footnote : "beyond philadelphia was the camden and amboy railway; beyond pittsburgh, the fort wayne and chicago, separate organizations with which we had nothing to do." (_problems of to-day_, by andrew carnegie, p. . new york, .)] the great event of the day in pittsburgh at that time was the arrival and departure of the steam packet to and from cincinnati, for daily communication had been established. the business of the city was largely that of forwarding merchandise east and west, for it was the great transfer station from river to canal. a rolling mill had begun to roll iron; but not a ton of pig metal was made, and not a ton of steel for many a year thereafter. the pig iron manufacture at first was a total failure because of the lack of proper fuel, although the most valuable deposit of coking coal in the world lay within a few miles, as much undreamt of for coke to smelt ironstone as the stores of natural gas which had for ages lain untouched under the city. there were at that time not half a dozen "carriage" people in the town; and not for many years after was the attempt made to introduce livery, even for a coachman. as late as , perhaps, the most notable financial event which had occurred in the annals of pittsburgh was the retirement from business of mr. fahnestock with the enormous sum of $ , , paid by his partners for his interest. how great a sum that seemed then and how trifling now! my position as messenger boy soon made me acquainted with the few leading men of the city. the bar of pittsburgh was distinguished. judge wilkins was at its head, and he and judge maccandless, judge mcclure, charles shaler and his partner, edwin m. stanton, afterwards the great war secretary ("lincoln's right-hand man") were all well known to me--the last-named especially, for he was good enough to take notice of me as a boy. in business circles among prominent men who still survive, thomas m. howe, james park, c.g. hussey, benjamin f. jones, william thaw, john chalfant, colonel herron were great men to whom the messenger boys looked as models, and not bad models either, as their lives proved. [alas! all dead as i revise this paragraph in , so steadily moves the solemn procession.] my life as a telegraph messenger was in every respect a happy one, and it was while in this position that i laid the foundation of my closest friendships. the senior messenger boy being promoted, a new boy was needed, and he came in the person of david mccargo, afterwards the well-known superintendent of the allegheny valley railway. he was made my companion and we had to deliver all the messages from the eastern line, while two other boys delivered the messages from the west. the eastern and western telegraph companies were then separate, although occupying the same building. "davy" and i became firm friends at once, one great bond being that he was scotch; for, although "davy" was born in america, his father was quite as much a scotsman, even in speech, as my own father. a short time after "davy's" appointment a third boy was required, and this time i was asked if i could find a suitable one. this i had no difficulty in doing in my chum, robert pitcairn, later on my successor as superintendent and general agent at pittsburgh of the pennsylvania railroad. robert, like myself, was not only scotch, but scotch-born, so that "davy," "bob," and "andy" became the three scotch boys who delivered all the messages of the eastern telegraph line in pittsburgh, for the then magnificent salary of two and a half dollars per week. it was the duty of the boys to sweep the office each morning, and this we did in turn, so it will be seen that we all began at the bottom. hon. h.w. oliver,[ ] head of the great manufacturing firm of oliver brothers, and w.c. morland,[ ] city solicitor, subsequently joined the corps and started in the same fashion. it is not the rich man's son that the young struggler for advancement has to fear in the race of life, nor his nephew, nor his cousin. let him look out for the "dark horse" in the boy who begins by sweeping out the office. [footnote : died .] [footnote : died .] [illustration: robert pitcairn] a messenger boy in those days had many pleasures. there were wholesale fruit stores, where a pocketful of apples was sometimes to be had for the prompt delivery of a message; bakers' and confectioners' shops, where sweet cakes were sometimes given to him. he met with very kind men, to whom he looked up with respect; they spoke a pleasant word and complimented him on his promptness, perhaps asked him to deliver a message on the way back to the office. i do not know a situation in which a boy is more apt to attract attention, which is all a really clever boy requires in order to rise. wise men are always looking out for clever boys. one great excitement of this life was the extra charge of ten cents which we were permitted to collect for messages delivered beyond a certain limit. these "dime messages," as might be expected, were anxiously watched, and quarrels arose among us as to the right of delivery. in some cases it was alleged boys had now and then taken a dime message out of turn. this was the only cause of serious trouble among us. by way of settlement i proposed that we should "pool" these messages and divide the cash equally at the end of each week. i was appointed treasurer. peace and good-humor reigned ever afterwards. this pooling of extra earnings not being intended to create artificial prices was really coöperation. it was my first essay in financial organization. the boys considered that they had a perfect right to spend these dividends, and the adjoining confectioner's shop had running accounts with most of them. the accounts were sometimes greatly overdrawn. the treasurer had accordingly to notify the confectioner, which he did in due form, that he would not be responsible for any debts contracted by the too hungry and greedy boys. robert pitcairn was the worst offender of all, apparently having not only one sweet tooth, but all his teeth of that character. he explained to me confidentially one day, when i scolded him, that he had live things in his stomach that gnawed his insides until fed upon sweets. chapter iv colonel anderson and books with all their pleasures the messenger boys were hard worked. every other evening they were required to be on duty until the office closed, and on these nights it was seldom that i reached home before eleven o'clock. on the alternating nights we were relieved at six. this did not leave much time for self-improvement, nor did the wants of the family leave any money to spend on books. there came, however, like a blessing from above, a means by which the treasures of literature were unfolded to me. colonel james anderson--i bless his name as i write--announced that he would open his library of four hundred volumes to boys, so that any young man could take out, each saturday afternoon, a book which could be exchanged for another on the succeeding saturday. my friend, mr. thomas n. miller, reminded me recently that colonel anderson's books were first opened to "working boys," and the question arose whether messenger boys, clerks, and others, who did not work with their hands, were entitled to books. my first communication to the press was a note, written to the "pittsburgh dispatch," urging that we should not be excluded; that although we did not now work with our hands, some of us had done so, and that we were really working boys.[ ] dear colonel anderson promptly enlarged the classification. so my first appearance as a public writer was a success. [footnote : the note was signed "working boy." the librarian responded in the columns of the _dispatch_ defending the rules, which he claimed meant that "a working boy should have a trade." carnegie's rejoinder was signed "a working boy, though without a trade," and a day or two thereafter the _dispatch_ had an item on its editorial page which read: "will 'a working boy without a trade' please call at this office." (david homer bates in _century magazine_, july, .)] my dear friend, tom miller, one of the inner circle, lived near colonel anderson and introduced me to him, and in this way the windows were opened in the walls of my dungeon through which the light of knowledge streamed in. every day's toil and even the long hours of night service were lightened by the book which i carried about with me and read in the intervals that could be snatched from duty. and the future was made bright by the thought that when saturday came a new volume could be obtained. in this way i became familiar with macaulay's essays and his history, and with bancroft's "history of the united states," which i studied with more care than any other book i had then read. lamb's essays were my special delight, but i had at this time no knowledge of the great master of all, shakespeare, beyond the selected pieces in the school books. my taste for him i acquired a little later at the old pittsburgh theater. john phipps, james r. wilson, thomas n. miller, william cowley--members of our circle--shared with me the invaluable privilege of the use of colonel anderson's library. books which it would have been impossible for me to obtain elsewhere were, by his wise generosity, placed within my reach; and to him i owe a taste for literature which i would not exchange for all the millions that were ever amassed by man. life would be quite intolerable without it. nothing contributed so much to keep my companions and myself clear of low fellowship and bad habits as the beneficence of the good colonel. later, when fortune smiled upon me, one of my first duties was the erection of a monument to my benefactor. it stands in front of the hall and library in diamond square, which i presented to allegheny, and bears this inscription: to colonel james anderson, founder of free libraries in western pennsylvania. he opened his library to working boys and upon saturday afternoons acted as librarian, thus dedicating not only his books but himself to the noble work. this monument is erected in grateful remembrance by andrew carnegie, one of the "working boys" to whom were thus opened the precious treasures of knowledge and imagination through which youth may ascend. [illustration: colonel james anderson] this is but a slight tribute and gives only a faint idea of the depth of gratitude which i feel for what he did for me and my companions. it was from my own early experience that i decided there was no use to which money could be applied so productive of good to boys and girls who have good within them and ability and ambition to develop it, as the founding of a public library in a community which is willing to support it as a municipal institution. i am sure that the future of those libraries i have been privileged to found will prove the correctness of this opinion. for if one boy in each library district, by having access to one of these libraries, is half as much benefited as i was by having access to colonel anderson's four hundred well-worn volumes, i shall consider they have not been established in vain. "as the twig is bent the tree's inclined." the treasures of the world which books contain were opened to me at the right moment. the fundamental advantage of a library is that it gives nothing for nothing. youths must acquire knowledge themselves. there is no escape from this. it gave me great satisfaction to discover, many years later, that my father was one of the five weavers in dunfermline who gathered together the few books they had and formed the first circulating library in that town. the history of that library is interesting. it grew, and was removed no less than seven times from place to place, the first move being made by the founders, who carried the books in their aprons and two coal scuttles from the hand-loom shop to the second resting-place. that my father was one of the founders of the first library in his native town, and that i have been fortunate enough to be the founder of the last one, is certainly to me one of the most interesting incidents of my life. i have said often, in public speeches, that i had never heard of a lineage for which i would exchange that of a library-founding weaver.[ ] i followed my father in library founding unknowingly--i am tempted almost to say providentially--and it has been a source of intense satisfaction to me. such a father as mine was a guide to be followed--one of the sweetest, purest, and kindest natures i have ever known. [footnote : "it's a god's mercy we are all from honest weavers; let us pity those who haven't ancestors of whom they can be proud, dukes or duchesses though they be." (_our coaching trip_, by andrew carnegie. new york, .)] i have stated that it was the theater which first stimulated my love for shakespeare. in my messenger days the old pittsburgh theater was in its glory under the charge of mr. foster. his telegraphic business was done free, and the telegraph operators were given free admission to the theater in return. this privilege extended in some degree also to the messengers, who, i fear, sometimes withheld telegrams that arrived for him in the late afternoon until they could be presented at the door of the theater in the evening, with the timid request that the messenger might be allowed to slip upstairs to the second tier--a request which was always granted. the boys exchanged duties to give each the coveted entrance in turn. in this way i became acquainted with the world that lay behind the green curtain. the plays, generally, were of the spectacular order; without much literary merit, but well calculated to dazzle the eye of a youth of fifteen. not only had i never seen anything so grand, but i had never seen anything of the kind. i had never been in a theater, or even a concert room, or seen any form of public amusement. it was much the same with "davy" mccargo, "harry" oliver, and "bob" pitcairn. we all fell under the fascination of the footlights, and every opportunity to attend the theater was eagerly embraced. a change in my tastes came when "gust" adams,[ ] one of the most celebrated tragedians of the day, began to play in pittsburgh a round of shakespearean characters. thenceforth there was nothing for me but shakespeare. i seemed to be able to memorize him almost without effort. never before had i realized what magic lay in words. the rhythm and the melody all seemed to find a resting-place in me, to melt into a solid mass which lay ready to come at call. it was a new language and its appreciation i certainly owe to dramatic representation, for, until i saw "macbeth" played, my interest in shakespeare was not aroused. i had not read the plays. [footnote : edwin adams.] at a much later date, wagner was revealed to me in "lohengrin." i had heard at the academy of music in new york, little or nothing by him when the overture to "lohengrin" thrilled me as a new revelation. here was a genius, indeed, differing from all before, a new ladder upon which to climb upward--like shakespeare, a new friend. i may speak here of another matter which belongs to this same period. a few persons in allegheny--probably not above a hundred in all--had formed themselves into a swedenborgian society, in which our american relatives were prominent. my father attended that church after leaving the presbyterian, and, of course, i was taken there. my mother, however, took no interest in swedenborg. although always inculcating respect for all forms of religion, and discouraging theological disputes, she maintained for herself a marked reserve. her position might best be defined by the celebrated maxim of confucius: "to perform the duties of this life well, troubling not about another, is the prime wisdom." she encouraged her boys to attend church and sunday school; but there was no difficulty in seeing that the writings of swedenborg, and much of the old and new testaments had been discredited by her as unworthy of divine authorship or of acceptance as authoritative guides for the conduct of life. i became deeply interested in the mysterious doctrines of swedenborg, and received the congratulations of my devout aunt aitken upon my ability to expound "spiritual sense." that dear old woman fondly looked forward to a time when i should become a shining light in the new jerusalem, and i know it was sometimes not beyond the bounds of her imagination that i might blossom into what she called a "preacher of the word." as i more and more wandered from man-made theology these fond hopes weakened, but my aunt's interest in and affection for her first nephew, whom she had dandled on her knee in scotland, never waned. my cousin, leander morris, whom she had some hopes of saving through the swedenborgian revelation, grievously disappointed her by actually becoming a baptist and being dipped. this was too much for the evangelist, although she should have remembered her father passed through that same experience and often preached for the baptists in edinburgh. leander's reception upon his first call after his fall was far from cordial. he was made aware that the family record had suffered by his backsliding when at the very portals of the new jerusalem revealed by swedenborg and presented to him by one of the foremost disciples--his aunt. he began deprecatingly: "why are you so hard on me, aunt? look at andy, he is not a member of any church and you don't scold him. surely the baptist church is better than none." the quick reply came: "andy! oh! andy, he's naked, but you are clothed in rags." he never quite regained his standing with dear aunt aitken. i might yet be reformed, being unattached; but leander had chosen a sect and that sect not of the new jerusalem. it was in connection with the swedenborgian society that a taste for music was first aroused in me. as an appendix to the hymn-book of the society there were short selections from the oratorios. i fastened instinctively upon these, and although denied much of a voice, yet credited with "expression," i was a constant attendant upon choir practice. the leader, mr. koethen, i have reason to believe, often pardoned the discords i produced in the choir because of my enthusiasm in the cause. when, at a later date, i became acquainted with the oratorios in full, it was a pleasure to find that several of those considered in musical circles as the gems of handel's musical compositions were the ones that i as an ignorant boy had chosen as favorites. so the beginning of my musical education dates from the small choir of the swedenborgian society of pittsburgh. i must not, however, forget that a very good foundation was laid for my love of sweet sounds in the unsurpassed minstrelsy of my native land as sung by my father. there was scarcely an old scottish song with which i was not made familiar, both words and tune. folk-songs are the best possible foundation for sure progress to the heights of beethoven and wagner. my father being one of the sweetest and most pathetic singers i ever heard, i probably inherited his love of music and of song, though not given his voice. confucius' exclamation often sounds in my ears: "music, sacred tongue of god! i hear thee calling and i come." an incident of this same period exhibits the liberality of my parents in another matter. as a messenger boy i had no holidays, with the exception of two weeks given me in the summer-time, which i spent boating on the river with cousins at my uncle's at east liverpool, ohio. i was very fond of skating, and in the winter about which i am speaking, the slack water of the river opposite our house was beautifully frozen over. the ice was in splendid condition, and reaching home late saturday night the question arose whether i might be permitted to rise early in the morning and go skating before church hours. no question of a more serious character could have been submitted to ordinary scottish parents. my mother was clear on the subject, that in the circumstances i should be allowed to skate as long as i liked. my father said he believed it was right i should go down and skate, but he hoped i would be back in time to go with him to church. i suppose this decision would be arrived at to-day by nine hundred and ninety-nine out of every thousand homes in america, and probably also in the majority of homes in england, though not in scotland. but those who hold to-day that the sabbath in its fullest sense was made for man, and who would open picture galleries and museums to the public, and make the day somewhat of a day of enjoyment for the masses instead of pressing upon them the duty of mourning over sins largely imaginary, are not more advanced than were my parents forty years ago. they were beyond the orthodox of the period when it was scarcely permissible, at least among the scotch, to take a walk for pleasure or read any but religious books on the sabbath. chapter v the telegraph office i had served as messenger about a year, when colonel john p. glass, the manager of the downstairs office, who came in contact with the public, began selecting me occasionally to watch the office for a few minutes during his absence. as mr. glass was a highly popular man, and had political aspirations, these periods of absence became longer and more frequent, so that i soon became an adept in his branch of the work. i received messages from the public and saw that those that came from the operating-room were properly assigned to the boys for prompt delivery. this was a trying position for a boy to fill, and at that time i was not popular with the other boys, who resented my exemption from part of my legitimate work. i was also taxed with being penurious in my habits--mean, as the boys had it. i did not spend my extra dimes, but they knew not the reason. every penny that i could save i knew was needed at home. my parents were wise and nothing was withheld from me. i knew every week the receipts of each of the three who were working--my father, my mother, and myself. i also knew all the expenditures. we consulted upon the additions that could be made to our scanty stock of furniture and clothing and every new small article obtained was a source of joy. there never was a family more united. day by day, as mother could spare a silver half-dollar, it was carefully placed in a stocking and hid until two hundred were gathered, when i obtained a draft to repay the twenty pounds so generously lent to us by her friend mrs. henderson. that was a day we celebrated. the carnegie family was free from debt. oh, the happiness of that day! the debt was, indeed, discharged, but the debt of gratitude remains that never can be paid. old mrs. henderson lives to-day. i go to her house as to a shrine, to see her upon my visits to dunfermline; and whatever happens she can never be forgotten. [as i read these lines, written some years ago, i moan, "gone, gone with the others!" peace to the ashes of a dear, good, noble friend of my mother's.] the incident in my messenger life which at once lifted me to the seventh heaven, occurred one saturday evening when colonel glass was paying the boys their month's wages. we stood in a row before the counter, and mr. glass paid each one in turn. i was at the head and reached out my hand for the first eleven and a quarter dollars as they were pushed out by mr. glass. to my surprise he pushed them past me and paid the next boy. i thought it was a mistake, for i had heretofore been paid first, but it followed in turn with each of the other boys. my heart began to sink within me. disgrace seemed coming. what had i done or not done? i was about to be told that there was no more work for me. i was to disgrace the family. that was the keenest pang of all. when all had been paid and the boys were gone, mr. glass took me behind the counter and said that i was worth more than the other boys, and he had resolved to pay me thirteen and a half dollars a month. my head swam; i doubted whether i had heard him correctly. he counted out the money. i don't know whether i thanked him; i don't believe i did. i took it and made one bound for the door and scarcely stopped until i got home. i remember distinctly running or rather bounding from end to end of the bridge across the allegheny river--inside on the wagon track because the foot-walk was too narrow. it was saturday night. i handed over to mother, who was the treasurer of the family, the eleven dollars and a quarter and said nothing about the remaining two dollars and a quarter in my pocket--worth more to me then than all the millions i have made since. tom, a little boy of nine, and myself slept in the attic together, and after we were safely in bed i whispered the secret to my dear little brother. even at his early age he knew what it meant, and we talked over the future. it was then, for the first time, i sketched to him how we would go into business together; that the firm of "carnegie brothers" would be a great one, and that father and mother should yet ride in their carriage. at the time that seemed to us to embrace everything known as wealth and most of what was worth striving for. the old scotch woman, whose daughter married a merchant in london, being asked by her son-in-law to come to london and live near them, promising she should "ride in her carriage," replied: "what good could it do me to ride in a carriage gin i could na be seen by the folk in strathbogie?" father and mother would not only be seen in pittsburgh, but should visit dunfermline, their old home, in style. on sunday morning with father, mother, and tom at breakfast, i produced the extra two dollars and a quarter. the surprise was great and it took some moments for them to grasp the situation, but it soon dawned upon them. then father's glance of loving pride and mother's blazing eye soon wet with tears, told their feeling. it was their boy's first triumph and proof positive that he was worthy of promotion. no subsequent success, or recognition of any kind, ever thrilled me as this did. i cannot even imagine one that could. here was heaven upon earth. my whole world was moved to tears of joy. having to sweep out the operating-room in the mornings, the boys had an opportunity of practicing upon the telegraph instruments before the operators arrived. this was a new chance. i soon began to play with the key and to talk with the boys who were at the other stations who had like purposes to my own. whenever one learns to do anything he has never to wait long for an opportunity of putting his knowledge to use. one morning i heard the pittsburgh call given with vigor. it seemed to me i could divine that some one wished greatly to communicate. i ventured to answer, and let the slip run. it was philadelphia that wanted to send "a death message" to pittsburgh immediately. could i take it? i replied that i would try if they would send slowly. i succeeded in getting the message and ran out with it. i waited anxiously for mr. brooks to come in, and told him what i had dared to do. fortunately, he appreciated it and complimented me, instead of scolding me for my temerity; yet dismissing me with the admonition to be very careful and not to make mistakes. it was not long before i was called sometimes to watch the instrument, while the operator wished to be absent, and in this way i learned the art of telegraphy. we were blessed at this time with a rather indolent operator, who was only too glad to have me do his work. it was then the practice for us to receive the messages on a running slip of paper, from which the operator read to a copyist, but rumors had reached us that a man in the west had learned to read by sound and could really take a message by ear. this led me to practice the new method. one of the operators in the office, mr. maclean, became expert at it, and encouraged me by his success. i was surprised at the ease with which i learned the new language. one day, desiring to take a message in the absence of the operator, the old gentleman who acted as copyist resented my presumption and refused to "copy" for a messenger boy. i shut off the paper slip, took pencil and paper and began taking the message by ear. i shall never forget his surprise. he ordered me to give him back his pencil and pad, and after that there was never any difficulty between dear old courtney hughes and myself. he was my devoted friend and copyist. soon after this incident joseph taylor, the operator at greensburg, thirty miles from pittsburgh, wishing to be absent for two weeks, asked mr. brooks if he could not send some one to take his place. mr. brooks called me and asked whether i thought i could do the work. i replied at once in the affirmative. "well," he said, "we will send you out there for a trial." i went out in the mail stage and had a most delightful trip. mr. david bruce, a well-known solicitor of scottish ancestry, and his sister happened to be passengers. it was my first excursion, and my first glimpse of the country. the hotel at greensburg was the first public house in which i had ever taken a meal. i thought the food wonderfully fine. [illustration: henry phipps] this was in . deep cuts and embankments near greensburg were then being made for the pennsylvania railroad, and i often walked out in the early morning to see the work going forward, little dreaming that i was so soon to enter the service of that great corporation. this was the first responsible position i had occupied in the telegraph service, and i was so anxious to be at hand in case i should be needed, that one night very late i sat in the office during a storm, not wishing to cut off the connection. i ventured too near the key and for my boldness was knocked off my stool. a flash of lightning very nearly ended my career. after that i was noted in the office for caution during lightning storms. i succeeded in doing the small business at greensburg to the satisfaction of my superiors, and returned to pittsburgh surrounded with something like a halo, so far as the other boys were concerned. promotion soon came. a new operator was wanted and mr. brooks telegraphed to my afterward dear friend james d. reid, then general superintendent of the line, another fine specimen of the scotsman, and took upon himself to recommend me as an assistant operator. the telegram from louisville in reply stated that mr. reid highly approved of promoting "andy," provided mr. brooks considered him competent. the result was that i began as a telegraph operator at the tremendous salary of twenty-five dollars per month, which i thought a fortune. to mr. brooks and mr. reid i owe my promotion from the messenger's station to the operating-room.[ ] i was then in my seventeenth year and had served my apprenticeship. i was now performing a man's part, no longer a boy's--earning a dollar every working day. [footnote : "i liked the boy's looks, and it was very easy to see that though he was little he was full of spirit. he had not been with me a month when he began to ask whether i would teach him to telegraph. i began to instruct him and found him an apt pupil." (james d. reid, _the telegraph in america_, new york, .) reid was born near dunfermline and forty years afterwards mr. carnegie was able to secure for him the appointment of united states consul at dunfermline.] the operating-room of a telegraph office is an excellent school for a young man. he there has to do with pencil and paper, with composition and invention. and there my slight knowledge of british and european affairs soon stood me in good stead. knowledge is sure to prove useful in one way or another. it always tells. the foreign news was then received by wire from cape race, and the taking of successive "steamer news" was one of the most notable of our duties. i liked this better than any other branch of the work, and it was soon tacitly assigned to me. the lines in those days worked poorly, and during a storm much had to be guessed at. my guessing powers were said to be phenomenal, and it was my favorite diversion to fill up gaps instead of interrupting the sender and spending minutes over a lost word or two. this was not a dangerous practice in regard to foreign news, for if any undue liberties were taken by the bold operator, they were not of a character likely to bring him into serious trouble. my knowledge of foreign affairs became somewhat extensive, especially regarding the affairs of britain, and my guesses were quite safe, if i got the first letter or two right. the pittsburgh newspapers had each been in the habit of sending a reporter to the office to transcribe the press dispatches. later on one man was appointed for all the papers and he suggested that multiple copies could readily be made of the news as received, and it was arranged that i should make five copies of all press dispatches for him as extra work for which he was to pay me a dollar per week. this, my first work for the press, yielded very modest remuneration, to be sure; but it made my salary thirty dollars per month, and every dollar counted in those days. the family was gradually gaining ground; already future millionairedom seemed dawning. another step which exercised a decided influence over me was joining the "webster literary society" along with my companions, the trusty five already named. we formed a select circle and stuck closely together. this was quite an advantage for all of us. we had before this formed a small debating club which met in mr. phipps's father's room in which his few journeymen shoemakers worked during the day. tom miller recently alleged that i once spoke nearly an hour and a half upon the question, "should the judiciary be elected by the people?" but we must mercifully assume his memory to be at fault. the "webster" was then the foremost club in the city and proud were we to be thought fit for membership. we had merely been preparing ourselves in the cobbler's room. i know of no better mode of benefiting a youth than joining such a club as this. much of my reading became such as had a bearing on forthcoming debates and that gave clearness and fixity to my ideas. the self-possession i afterwards came to have before an audience may very safely be attributed to the experience of the "webster society." my two rules for speaking then (and now) were: make yourself perfectly at home before your audience, and simply talk _to_ them, not _at_ them. do not try to be somebody else; be your own self and _talk_, never "orate" until you can't help it. i finally became an operator by sound, discarding printing entirely. the accomplishment was then so rare that people visited the office to be satisfied of the extraordinary feat. this brought me into such notice that when a great flood destroyed all telegraph communication between steubenville and wheeling, a distance of twenty-five miles, i was sent to the former town to receive the entire business then passing between the east and the west, and to send every hour or two the dispatches in small boats down the river to wheeling. in exchange every returning boat brought rolls of dispatches which i wired east, and in this way for more than a week the entire telegraphic communication between the east and the west _via_ pittsburgh was maintained. while at steubenville i learned that my father was going to wheeling and cincinnati to sell the tablecloths he had woven. i waited for the boat, which did not arrive till late in the evening, and went down to meet him. i remember how deeply affected i was on finding that instead of taking a cabin passage, he had resolved not to pay the price, but to go down the river as a deck passenger. i was indignant that one of so fine a nature should be compelled to travel thus. but there was comfort in saying: "well, father, it will not be long before mother and you shall ride in your carriage." my father was usually shy, reserved, and keenly sensitive, very saving of praise (a scotch trait) lest his sons might be too greatly uplifted; but when touched he lost his self-control. he was so upon this occasion, and grasped my hand with a look which i often see and can never forget. he murmured slowly: "andra, i am proud of you." the voice trembled and he seemed ashamed of himself for saying so much. the tear had to be wiped from his eye, i fondly noticed, as he bade me good-night and told me to run back to my office. those words rang in my ear and warmed my heart for years and years. we understood each other. how reserved the scot is! where he feels most he expresses least. quite right. there are holy depths which it is sacrilege to disturb. silence is more eloquent than words. my father was one of the most lovable of men, beloved of his companions, deeply religious, although non-sectarian and non-theological, not much of a man of the world, but a man all over for heaven. he was kindness itself, although reserved. alas! he passed away soon after returning from this western tour just as we were becoming able to give him a life of leisure and comfort. after my return to pittsburgh it was not long before i made the acquaintance of an extraordinary man, thomas a. scott, one to whom the term "genius" in his department may safely be applied. he had come to pittsburgh as superintendent of that division of the pennsylvania railroad. frequent telegraphic communication was necessary between him and his superior, mr. lombaert, general superintendent at altoona. this brought him to the telegraph office at nights, and upon several occasions i happened to be the operator. one day i was surprised by one of his assistants, with whom i was acquainted, telling me that mr. scott had asked him whether he thought that i could be obtained as his clerk and telegraph operator, to which this young man told me he had replied: "that is impossible. he is now an operator." but when i heard this i said at once: "not so fast. he can have me. i want to get out of a mere office life. please go and tell him so." the result was i was engaged february , , at a salary of thirty-five dollars a month as mr. scott's clerk and operator. a raise in wages from twenty-five to thirty-five dollars per month was the greatest i had ever known. the public telegraph line was temporarily put into mr. scott's office at the outer depot and the pennsylvania railroad company was given permission to use the wire at seasons when such use would not interfere with the general public business, until their own line, then being built, was completed. chapter vi railroad service from the operating-room of the telegraph office i had now stepped into the open world, and the change at first was far from agreeable. i had just reached my eighteenth birthday, and i do not see how it could be possible for any boy to arrive at that age much freer from a knowledge of anything but what was pure and good. i do not believe, up to that time, i had ever spoken a bad word in my life and seldom heard one. i knew nothing of the base and the vile. fortunately i had always been brought in contact with good people. i was now plunged at once into the company of coarse men, for the office was temporarily only a portion of the shops and the headquarters for the freight conductors, brakemen, and firemen. all of them had access to the same room with superintendent scott and myself, and they availed themselves of it. this was a different world, indeed, from that to which i had been accustomed. i was not happy about it. i ate, necessarily, of the fruit of the tree of knowledge of good and evil for the first time. but there were still the sweet and pure surroundings of home, where nothing coarse or wicked ever entered, and besides, there was the world in which i dwelt with my companions, all of them refined young men, striving to improve themselves and become respected citizens. i passed through this phase of my life detesting what was foreign to my nature and my early education. the experience with coarse men was probably beneficial because it gave me a "scunner" (disgust), to use a scotism, at chewing or smoking tobacco, also at swearing or the use of improper language, which fortunately remained with me through life. i do not wish to suggest that the men of whom i have spoken were really degraded or bad characters. the habit of swearing, with coarse talk, chewing and smoking tobacco, and snuffing were more prevalent then than to-day and meant less than in this age. railroading was new, and many rough characters were attracted to it from the river service. but many of the men were fine young fellows who have lived to be highly respectable citizens and to occupy responsible positions. and i must say that one and all of them were most kind to me. many are yet living from whom i hear occasionally and regard with affection. a change came at last when mr. scott had his own office which he and i occupied. i was soon sent by mr. scott to altoona to get the monthly pay-rolls and checks. the railroad line was not completed over the allegheny mountains at that time, and i had to pass over the inclined planes which made the journey a remarkable one to me. altoona was then composed of a few houses built by the company. the shops were under construction and there was nothing of the large city which now occupies the site. it was there that i saw for the first time the great man in our railroad field--mr. lombaert, general superintendent. his secretary at that time was my friend, robert pitcairn, for whom i had obtained a situation on the railroad, so that "davy," "bob," and "andy" were still together in the same service. we had all left the telegraph company for the pennsylvania railroad company. mr. lombaert was very different from mr. scott; he was not sociable, but rather stern and unbending. judge then of robert's surprise, and my own, when, after saying a few words to me, mr. lombaert added: "you must come down and take tea with us to-night." i stammered out something of acceptance and awaited the appointed hour with great trepidation. up to this time i considered that invitation the greatest honor i had received. mrs. lombaert was exceedingly kind, and mr. lombaert's introduction of me to her was: "this is mr. scott's 'andy.'" i was very proud indeed of being recognized as belonging to mr. scott. an incident happened on this trip which might have blasted my career for a time. i started next morning for pittsburgh with the pay-rolls and checks, as i thought, securely placed under my waistcoat, as it was too large a package for my pockets. i was a very enthusiastic railroader at that time and preferred riding upon the engine. i got upon the engine that took me to hollidaysburg where the state railroad over the mountain was joined up. it was a very rough ride, indeed, and at one place, uneasily feeling for the pay-roll package, i was horrified to find that the jolting of the train had shaken it out. i had lost it! there was no use in disguising the fact that such a failure would ruin me. to have been sent for the pay-rolls and checks and to lose the package, which i should have "grasped as my honor," was a dreadful showing. i called the engineer and told him it must have been shaken out within the last few miles. would he reverse his engine and run back for it? kind soul, he did so. i watched the line, and on the very banks of a large stream, within a few feet of the water, i saw that package lying. i could scarcely believe my eyes. i ran down and grasped it. it was all right. need i add that it never passed out of my firm grasp again until it was safe in pittsburgh? the engineer and fireman were the only persons who knew of my carelessness, and i had their assurance that it would not be told. it was long after the event that i ventured to tell the story. suppose that package had fallen just a few feet farther away and been swept down by the stream, how many years of faithful service would it have required upon my part to wipe out the effect of that one piece of carelessness! i could no longer have enjoyed the confidence of those whose confidence was essential to success had fortune not favored me. i have never since believed in being too hard on a young man, even if he does commit a dreadful mistake or two; and i have always tried in judging such to remember the difference it would have made in my own career but for an accident which restored to me that lost package at the edge of the stream a few miles from hollidaysburg. i could go straight to the very spot to-day, and often as i passed over that line afterwards i never failed to see that light-brown package lying upon the bank. it seemed to be calling: "all right, my boy! the good gods were with you, but don't do it again!" at an early age i became a strong anti-slavery partisan and hailed with enthusiasm the first national meeting of the republican party in pittsburgh, february , , although too young to vote. i watched the prominent men as they walked the streets, lost in admiration for senators wilson, hale, and others. some time before i had organized among the railroad men a club of a hundred for the "new york weekly tribune," and ventured occasionally upon short notes to the great editor, horace greeley, who did so much to arouse the people to action upon this vital question. the first time i saw my work in type in the then flaming organ of freedom certainly marked a stage in my career. i kept that "tribune" for years. looking back to-day one cannot help regretting so high a price as the civil war had to be paid to free our land from the curse, but it was not slavery alone that needed abolition. the loose federal system with state rights so prominent would inevitably have prevented, or at least long delayed, the formation of one solid, all-powerful, central government. the tendency under the southern idea was centrifugal. to-day it is centripetal, all drawn toward the center under the sway of the supreme court, the decisions of which are, very properly, half the dicta of lawyers and half the work of statesmen. uniformity in many fields must be secured. marriage, divorce, bankruptcy, railroad supervision, control of corporations, and some other departments should in some measure be brought under one head. [re-reading this paragraph to-day, july, , written many years ago, it seems prophetic. these are now burning questions.] it was not long after this that the railroad company constructed its own telegraph line. we had to supply it with operators. most of these were taught in our offices at pittsburgh. the telegraph business continued to increase with startling rapidity. we could scarcely provide facilities fast enough. new telegraph offices were required. my fellow messenger-boy, "davy" mccargo, i appointed superintendent of the telegraph department march , . i have been told that "davy" and myself are entitled to the credit of being the first to employ young women as telegraph operators in the united states upon railroads, or perhaps in any branch. at all events, we placed girls in various offices as pupils, taught and then put them in charge of offices as occasion required. among the first of these was my cousin, miss maria hogan. she was the operator at the freight station in pittsburgh, and with her were placed successive pupils, her office becoming a school. our experience was that young women operators were more to be relied upon than young men. among all the new occupations invaded by women i do not know of any better suited for them than that of telegraph operator. mr. scott was one of the most delightful superiors that anybody could have and i soon became warmly attached to him. he was my great man and all the hero worship that is inherent in youth i showered upon him. i soon began placing him in imagination in the presidency of the great pennsylvania railroad--a position which he afterwards attained. under him i gradually performed duties not strictly belonging to my department and i can attribute my decided advancement in the service to one well-remembered incident. the railway was a single line. telegraph orders to trains often became necessary, although it was not then a regular practice to run trains by telegraph. no one but the superintendent himself was permitted to give a train order on any part of the pennsylvania system, or indeed of any other system, i believe, at that time. it was then a dangerous expedient to give telegraphic orders, for the whole system of railway management was still in its infancy, and men had not yet been trained for it. it was necessary for mr. scott to go out night after night to break-downs or wrecks to superintend the clearing of the line. he was necessarily absent from the office on many mornings. one morning i reached the office and found that a serious accident on the eastern division had delayed the express passenger train westward, and that the passenger train eastward was proceeding with a flagman in advance at every curve. the freight trains in both directions were all standing still upon the sidings. mr. scott was not to be found. finally i could not resist the temptation to plunge in, take the responsibility, give "train orders," and set matters going. "death or westminster abbey," flashed across my mind. i knew it was dismissal, disgrace, perhaps criminal punishment for me if i erred. on the other hand, i could bring in the wearied freight-train men who had lain out all night. i could set everything in motion. i knew i could. i had often done it in wiring mr. scott's orders. i knew just what to do, and so i began. i gave the orders in his name, started every train, sat at the instrument watching every tick, carried the trains along from station to station, took extra precautions, and had everything running smoothly when mr. scott at last reached the office. he had heard of the delays. his first words were: "well! how are matters?" he came to my side quickly, grasped his pencil and began to write his orders. i had then to speak, and timidly said: "mr. scott, i could not find you anywhere and i gave these orders in your name early this morning." "are they going all right? where is the eastern express?" i showed him the messages and gave him the position of every train on the line--freights, ballast trains, everything--showed him the answers of the various conductors, the latest reports at the stations where the various trains had passed. all was right. he looked in my face for a second. i scarcely dared look in his. i did not know what was going to happen. he did not say one word, but again looked carefully over all that had taken place. still he said nothing. after a little he moved away from my desk to his own, and that was the end of it. he was afraid to approve what i had done, yet he had not censured me. if it came out all right, it was all right; if it came out all wrong, the responsibility was mine. so it stood, but i noticed that he came in very regularly and in good time for some mornings after that. of course i never spoke to any one about it. none of the trainmen knew that mr. scott had not personally given the orders. i had almost made up my mind that if the like occurred again, i would not repeat my proceeding of that morning unless i was authorized to do so. i was feeling rather distressed about what i had done until i heard from mr. franciscus, who was then in charge of the freighting department at pittsburgh, that mr. scott, the evening after the memorable morning, had said to him: "do you know what that little white-haired scotch devil of mine did?" "no." "i'm blamed if he didn't run every train on the division in my name without the slightest authority." "and did he do it all right?" asked franciscus. "oh, yes, all right." this satisfied me. of course i had my cue for the next occasion, and went boldly in. from that date it was very seldom that mr. scott gave a train order. [illustration: thomas a. scott] [illustration: john edgar thomson] the greatest man of all on my horizon at this time was john edgar thomson, president of the pennsylvania, and for whom our steel-rail mills were afterward named. he was the most reserved and silent of men, next to general grant, that i ever knew, although general grant was more voluble when at home with friends. he walked about as if he saw nobody when he made his periodical visits to pittsburgh. this reserve i learned afterwards was purely the result of shyness. i was surprised when in mr. scott's office he came to the telegraph instrument and greeted me as "scott's andy." but i learned afterwards that he had heard of my train-running exploit. the battle of life is already half won by the young man who is brought personally in contact with high officials; and the great aim of every boy should be to do something beyond the sphere of his duties--something which attracts the attention of those over him. some time after this mr. scott wished to travel for a week or two and asked authority from mr. lombaert to leave me in charge of the division. pretty bold man he was, for i was then not very far out of my teens. it was granted. here was the coveted opportunity of my life. with the exception of one accident caused by the inexcusable negligence of a ballast-train crew, everything went well in his absence. but that this accident should occur was gall and wormwood to me. determined to fulfill all the duties of the station i held a court-martial, examined those concerned, dismissed peremptorily the chief offender, and suspended two others for their share in the catastrophe. mr. scott after his return of course was advised of the accident, and proposed to investigate and deal with the matter. i felt i had gone too far, but having taken the step, i informed him that all that had been settled. i had investigated the matter and punished the guilty. some of these appealed to mr. scott for a reopening of the case, but this i never could have agreed to, had it been pressed. more by look i think than by word mr. scott understood my feelings upon this delicate point, and acquiesced. it is probable he was afraid i had been too severe and very likely he was correct. some years after this, when i, myself, was superintendent of the division i always had a soft spot in my heart for the men then suspended for a time. i had felt qualms of conscience about my action in this, my first court. a new judge is very apt to stand so straight as really to lean a little backward. only experience teaches the supreme force of gentleness. light but certain punishment, when necessary, is most effective. severe punishments are not needed and a judicious pardon, for the first offense at least, is often best of all. as the half-dozen young men who constituted our inner circle grew in knowledge, it was inevitable that the mysteries of life and death, the here and the hereafter, should cross our path and have to be grappled with. we had all been reared by good, honest, self-respecting parents, members of one or another of the religious sects. through the influence of mrs. mcmillan, wife of one of the leading presbyterian ministers of pittsburgh, we were drawn into the social circle of her husband's church. [as i read this on the moors, july , , i have before me a note from mrs. mcmillan from london in her eightieth year. two of her daughters were married in london last week to university professors, one remains in britain, the other has accepted an appointment in boston. eminent men both. so draws our english-speaking race together.] mr. mcmillan was a good strict calvinist of the old school, his charming wife a born leader of the young. we were all more at home with her and enjoyed ourselves more at her home gatherings than elsewhere. this led to some of us occasionally attending her church. a sermon of the strongest kind upon predestination which miller heard there brought the subject of theology upon us and it would not down. mr. miller's people were strong methodists, and tom had known little of dogmas. this doctrine of predestination, including infant damnation--some born to glory and others to the opposite--appalled him. to my astonishment i learned that, going to mr. mcmillan after the sermon to talk over the matter, tom had blurted out at the finish, "mr. mcmillan, if your idea were correct, your god would be a perfect devil," and left the astonished minister to himself. this formed the subject of our sunday afternoon conferences for many a week. was that true or not, and what was to be the consequence of tom's declaration? should we no longer be welcome guests of mrs. mcmillan? we could have spared the minister, perhaps, but none of us relished the idea of banishment from his wife's delightful reunions. there was one point clear. carlyle's struggles over these matters had impressed us and we could follow him in his resolve: "if it be incredible, in god's name let it be discredited." it was only the truth that could make us free, and the truth, the whole truth, we should pursue. once introduced, of course, the subject remained with us, and one after the other the dogmas were voted down as the mistaken ideas of men of a less enlightened age. i forget who first started us with a second axiom. it was one we often dwelt upon: "a forgiving god would be the noblest work of man." we accepted as proven that each stage of civilization creates its own god, and that as man ascends and becomes better his conception of the unknown likewise improves. thereafter we all became less theological, but i am sure more truly religious. the crisis passed. happily we were not excluded from mrs. mcmillan's society. it was a notable day, however, when we resolved to stand by miller's statement, even if it involved banishment and worse. we young men were getting to be pretty wild boys about theology, although more truly reverent about religion. the first great loss to our circle came when john phipps was killed by a fall from a horse. this struck home to all of us, yet i remember i could then say to myself: "john has, as it were, just gone home to england where he was born. we are all to follow him soon and live forever together." i had then no doubts. it was not a hope i was pressing to my heart, but a certainty. happy those who in their agony have such a refuge. we should all take plato's advice and never give up everlasting hope, "alluring ourselves as with enchantments, for the hope is noble and the reward is great." quite right. it would be no greater miracle that brought us into another world to live forever with our dearest than that which has brought us into this one to live a lifetime with them. both are equally incomprehensible to finite beings. let us therefore comfort ourselves with everlasting hope, "as with enchantments," as plato recommends, never forgetting, however, that we all have our duties here and that the kingdom of heaven is within us. it also passed into an axiom with us that he who proclaims there is no hereafter is as foolish as he who proclaims there is, since neither can know, though all may and should hope. meanwhile "home our heaven" instead of "heaven our home" was our motto. during these years of which i have been writing, the family fortunes had been steadily improving. my thirty-five dollars a month had grown to forty, an unsolicited advance having been made by mr. scott. it was part of my duty to pay the men every month.[ ] we used checks upon the bank and i drew my salary invariably in two twenty-dollar gold pieces. they seemed to me the prettiest works of art in the world. it was decided in family council that we could venture to buy the lot and the two small frame houses upon it, in one of which we had lived, and the other, a four-roomed house, which till then had been occupied by my uncle and aunt hogan, who had removed elsewhere. it was through the aid of my dear aunt aitken that we had been placed in the small house above the weaver's shop, and it was now our turn to be able to ask her to return to the house that formerly had been her own. in the same way after we had occupied the four-roomed house, uncle hogan having passed away, we were able to restore aunt hogan to her old home when we removed to altoona. one hundred dollars cash was paid upon purchase, and the total price, as i remember, was seven hundred dollars. the struggle then was to make up the semi-annual payments of interest and as great an amount of the principal as we could save. it was not long before the debt was cleared off and we were property-holders, but before that was accomplished, the first sad break occurred in our family, in my father's death, october , . fortunately for the three remaining members life's duties were pressing. sorrow and duty contended and we had to work. the expenses connected with his illness had to be saved and paid and we had not up to this time much store in reserve. [footnote : "i remember well when i used to write out the monthly pay-roll and came to mr. scott's name for $ . i wondered what he did with it all. i was then getting thirty-five." (andrew carnegie in speech at reunion of u.s. military telegraph corps, march , .)] and here comes in one of the sweet incidents of our early life in america. the principal member of our small swedenborgian society was mr. david mccandless. he had taken some notice of my father and mother, but beyond a few passing words at church on sundays, i do not remember that they had ever been brought in close contact. he knew aunt aitken well, however, and now sent for her to say that if my mother required any money assistance at this sad period he would be very pleased to advance whatever was necessary. he had heard much of my heroic mother and that was sufficient. one gets so many kind offers of assistance when assistance is no longer necessary, or when one is in a position which would probably enable him to repay a favor, that it is delightful to record an act of pure and disinterested benevolence. here was a poor scottish woman bereft of her husband, with her eldest son just getting a start and a second in his early teens, whose misfortunes appealed to this man, and who in the most delicate manner sought to mitigate them. although my mother was able to decline the proffered aid, it is needless to say that mr. mccandless obtained a place in our hearts sacred to himself. i am a firm believer in the doctrine that people deserving necessary assistance at critical periods in their career usually receive it. there are many splendid natures in the world--men and women who are not only willing, but anxious to stretch forth a helping hand to those they know to be worthy. as a rule, those who show willingness to help themselves need not fear about obtaining the help of others. father's death threw upon me the management of affairs to a greater extent than ever. mother kept on the binding of shoes; tom went steadily to the public school; and i continued with mr. scott in the service of the railroad company. just at this time fortunatus knocked at our door. mr. scott asked me if i had five hundred dollars. if so, he said he wished to make an investment for me. five hundred cents was much nearer my capital. i certainly had not fifty dollars saved for investment, but i was not going to miss the chance of becoming financially connected with my leader and great man. so i said boldly i thought i could manage that sum. he then told me that there were ten shares of adams express stock that he could buy, which had belonged to a station agent, mr. reynolds, of wilkinsburg. of course this was reported to the head of the family that evening, and she was not long in suggesting what might be done. when did she ever fail? we had then paid five hundred dollars upon the house, and in some way she thought this might be pledged as security for a loan. my mother took the steamer the next morning for east liverpool, arriving at night, and through her brother there the money was secured. he was a justice of the peace, a well-known resident of that then small town, and had numerous sums in hand from farmers for investment. our house was mortgaged and mother brought back the five hundred dollars which i handed over to mr. scott, who soon obtained for me the coveted ten shares in return. there was, unexpectedly, an additional hundred dollars to pay as a premium, but mr. scott kindly said i could pay that when convenient, and this of course was an easy matter to do. this was my first investment. in those good old days monthly dividends were more plentiful than now and adams express paid a monthly dividend. one morning a white envelope was lying upon my desk, addressed in a big john hancock hand, to "andrew carnegie, esquire." "esquire" tickled the boys and me inordinately. at one corner was seen the round stamp of adams express company. i opened the envelope. all it contained was a check for ten dollars upon the gold exchange bank of new york. i shall remember that check as long as i live, and that john hancock signature of "j.c. babcock, cashier." it gave me the first penny of revenue from capital--something that i had not worked for with the sweat of my brow. "eureka!" i cried. "here's the goose that lays the golden eggs." it was the custom of our party to spend sunday afternoons in the woods. i kept the first check and showed it as we sat under the trees in a favorite grove we had found near wood's run. the effect produced upon my companions was overwhelming. none of them had imagined such an investment possible. we resolved to save and to watch for the next opportunity for investment in which all of us should share, and for years afterward we divided our trifling investments and worked together almost as partners. up to this time my circle of acquaintances had not enlarged much. mrs. franciscus, wife of our freight agent, was very kind and on several occasions asked me to her house in pittsburgh. she often spoke of the first time i rang the bell of the house in third street to deliver a message from mr. scott. she asked me to come in; i bashfully declined and it required coaxing upon her part to overcome my shyness. she was never able for years to induce me to partake of a meal in her house. i had great timidity about going into other people's houses, until late in life; but mr. scott would occasionally insist upon my going to his hotel and taking a meal with him, and these were great occasions for me. mr. franciscus's was the first considerable house, with the exception of mr. lombaert's at altoona, i had ever entered, as far as i recollect. every house was fashionable in my eyes that was upon any one of the principal streets, provided it had a hall entrance. i had never spent a night in a strange house in my life until mr. stokes of greensburg, chief counsel of the pennsylvania railroad, invited me to his beautiful home in the country to pass a sunday. it was an odd thing for mr. stokes to do, for i could little interest a brilliant and educated man like him. the reason for my receiving such an honor was a communication i had written for the "pittsburgh journal." even in my teens i was a scribbler for the press. to be an editor was one of my ambitions. horace greeley and the "tribune" was my ideal of human triumph. strange that there should have come a day when i could have bought the "tribune"; but by that time the pearl had lost its luster. our air castles are often within our grasp late in life, but then they charm not. the subject of my article was upon the attitude of the city toward the pennsylvania railroad company. it was signed anonymously and i was surprised to find it got a prominent place in the columns of the "journal," then owned and edited by robert m. riddle. i, as operator, received a telegram addressed to mr. scott and signed by mr. stokes, asking him to ascertain from mr. riddle who the author of that communication was. i knew that mr. riddle could not tell the author, because he did not know him; but at the same time i was afraid that if mr. scott called upon him he would hand him the manuscript, which mr. scott would certainly recognize at a glance. i therefore made a clean breast of it to mr. scott and told him i was the author. he seemed incredulous. he said he had read it that morning and wondered who had written it. his incredulous look did not pass me unnoticed. the pen was getting to be a weapon with me. mr. stokes's invitation to spend sunday with him followed soon after, and the visit is one of the bright spots in my life. henceforth we were great friends. the grandeur of mr. stokes's home impressed me, but the one feature of it that eclipsed all else was a marble mantel in his library. in the center of the arch, carved in the marble, was an open book with this inscription: "he that cannot reason is a fool, he that will not a bigot, he that dare not a slave." these noble words thrilled me. i said to myself, "some day, some day, i'll have a library" (that was a look ahead) "and these words shall grace the mantel as here." and so they do in new york and skibo to-day. another sunday which i spent at his home after an interval of several years was also noteworthy. i had then become the superintendent of the pittsburgh division of the pennsylvania railroad. the south had seceded. i was all aflame for the flag. mr. stokes, being a leading democrat, argued against the right of the north to use force for the preservation of the union. he gave vent to sentiments which caused me to lose my self-control, and i exclaimed: "mr. stokes, we shall be hanging men like you in less than six weeks." i hear his laugh as i write, and his voice calling to his wife in the adjoining room: "nancy, nancy, listen to this young scotch devil. he says they will be hanging men like me in less than six weeks." strange things happened in those days. a short time after, that same mr. stokes was applying to me in washington to help him to a major's commission in the volunteer forces. i was then in the secretary of war's office, helping to manage the military railroads and telegraphs for the government. this appointment he secured and ever after was major stokes, so that the man who doubted the right of the north to fight for the union had himself drawn sword in the good cause. men at first argued and theorized about constitutional rights. it made all the difference in the world when the flag was fired upon. in a moment everything was ablaze--paper constitutions included. the union and old glory! that was all the people cared for, but that was enough. the constitution was intended to insure one flag, and as colonel ingersoll proclaimed: "there was not air enough on the american continent to float two." chapter vii superintendent of the pennsylvania mr. scott was promoted to be the general superintendent of the pennsylvania railroad in , taking mr. lombaert's place; and he took me, then in my twenty-third year, with him to altoona. this breaking-up of associations in pittsburgh was a sore trial, but nothing could be allowed to interfere for a moment with my business career. my mother was satisfied upon this point, great as the strain was upon her. besides, "follow my leader" was due to so true a friend as mr. scott had been. his promotion to the superintendency gave rise to some jealousy; and besides that, he was confronted with a strike at the very beginning of his appointment. he had lost his wife in pittsburgh a short time before and had his lonely hours. he was a stranger in altoona, his new headquarters, and there was none but myself seemingly of whom he could make a companion. we lived for many weeks at the railway hotel together before he took up housekeeping and brought his children from pittsburgh, and at his desire i occupied the same large bedroom with him. he seemed anxious always to have me near him. the strike became more and more threatening. i remember being wakened one night and told that the freight-train men had left their trains at mifflin; that the line was blocked on this account and all traffic stopped. mr. scott was then sleeping soundly. it seemed to me a pity to disturb him, knowing how overworked and overanxious he was; but he awoke and i suggested that i should go up and attend to the matter. he seemed to murmur assent, not being more than half awake. so i went to the office and in his name argued the question with the men and promised them a hearing next day at altoona. i succeeded in getting them to resume their duties and to start the traffic. not only were the trainmen in a rebellious mood, but the men in the shops were rapidly organizing to join with the disaffected. this i learned in a curious manner. one night, as i was walking home in the dark, i became aware that a man was following me. by and by he came up to me and said: "i must not be seen with you, but you did me a favor once and i then resolved if ever i could serve you i would do it. i called at the office in pittsburgh and asked for work as a blacksmith. you said there was no work then at pittsburgh, but perhaps employment could be had at altoona, and if i would wait a few minutes you would ask by telegraph. you took the trouble to do so, examined my recommendations, and gave me a pass and sent me here. i have a splendid job. my wife and family are here and i was never so well situated in my life. and now i want to tell you something for your good." i listened and he went on to say that a paper was being rapidly signed by the shopmen, pledging themselves to strike on monday next. there was no time to be lost. i told mr. scott in the morning and he at once had printed notices posted in the shops that all men who had signed the paper, pledging themselves to strike, were dismissed and they should call at the office to be paid. a list of the names of the signers had come into our possession in the meantime, and this fact was announced. consternation followed and the threatened strike was broken. i have had many incidents, such as that of the blacksmith, in my life. slight attentions or a kind word to the humble often bring back reward as great as it is unlooked for. no kind action is ever lost. even to this day i occasionally meet men whom i had forgotten, who recall some trifling attention i have been able to pay them, especially when in charge at washington of government railways and telegraphs during the civil war, when i could pass people within the lines--a father helped to reach a wounded or sick son at the front, or enabled to bring home his remains, or some similar service. i am indebted to these trifles for some of the happiest attentions and the most pleasing incidents of my life. and there is this about such actions: they are disinterested, and the reward is sweet in proportion to the humbleness of the individual whom you have obliged. it counts many times more to do a kindness to a poor working-man than to a millionaire, who may be able some day to repay the favor. how true wordsworth's lines: "that best portion of a good man's life-- his little, nameless, unremembered acts of kindness and of love." the chief happening, judged by its consequences, of the two years i spent with mr. scott at altoona, arose from my being the principal witness in a suit against the company, which was being tried at greensburg by the brilliant major stokes, my first host. it was feared that i was about to be subpoenaed by the plaintiff, and the major, wishing a postponement of the case, asked mr. scott to send me out of the state as rapidly as possible. this was a happy change for me, as i was enabled to visit my two bosom companions, miller and wilson, then in the railway service at crestline, ohio. on my way thither, while sitting on the end seat of the rear car watching the line, a farmer-looking man approached me. he carried a small green bag in his hand. he said the brakeman had informed him i was connected with the pennsylvania railroad. he wished to show me the model of a car which he had invented for night traveling. he took a small model out of the bag, which showed a section of a sleeping-car. this was the celebrated t.t. woodruff, the inventor of that now indispensable adjunct of civilization--the sleeping-car. its importance flashed upon me. i asked him if he would come to altoona if i sent for him, and i promised to lay the matter before mr. scott at once upon my return. i could not get that sleeping-car idea out of my mind, and was most anxious to return to altoona that i might press my views upon mr. scott. when i did so, he thought i was taking time by the forelock, but was quite receptive and said i might telegraph for the patentee. he came and contracted to place two of his cars upon the line as soon as they could be built. after this mr. woodruff, greatly to my surprise, asked me if i would not join him in the new enterprise and offered me an eighth interest in the venture. i promptly accepted his offer, trusting to be able to make payments somehow or other. the two cars were to be paid for by monthly installments after delivery. when the time came for making the first payment, my portion was two hundred and seventeen and a half dollars. i boldly decided to apply to the local banker, mr. lloyd, for a loan of that sum. i explained the matter to him, and i remember that he put his great arm (he was six feet three or four) around me, saying: "why, of course i will lend it. you are all right, andy." and here i made my first note, and actually got a banker to take it. a proud moment that in a young man's career! the sleeping-cars were a great success and their monthly receipts paid the monthly installments. the first considerable sum i made was from this source. [to-day, july , , as i re-read this, how glad i am that i have recently heard from mr. lloyd's married daughter telling me of her father's deep affection for me, thus making me very happy, indeed.] one important change in our life at altoona, after my mother and brother arrived, was that, instead of continuing to live exclusively by ourselves, it was considered necessary that we should have a servant. it was with the greatest reluctance my mother could be brought to admit a stranger into the family circle. she had been everything and had done everything for her two boys. this was her life, and she resented with all a strong woman's jealousy the introduction of a stranger who was to be permitted to do anything whatever in the home. she had cooked and served her boys, washed their clothes and mended them, made their beds, cleaned their home. who dare rob her of those motherly privileges! but nevertheless we could not escape the inevitable servant girl. one came, and others followed, and with these came also the destruction of much of that genuine family happiness which flows from exclusiveness. being served by others is a poor substitute for a mother's labor of love. the ostentatious meal prepared by a strange cook whom one seldom sees, and served by hands paid for the task, lacks the sweetness of that which a mother's hands lay before you as the expression and proof of her devotion. among the manifold blessings i have to be thankful for is that neither nurse nor governess was my companion in infancy. no wonder the children of the poor are distinguished for the warmest affection and the closest adherence to family ties and are characterized by a filial regard far stronger than that of those who are mistakenly called more fortunate in life. they have passed the impressionable years of childhood and youth in constant loving contact with father and mother, to each they are all in all, no third person coming between. the child that has in his father a teacher, companion, and counselor, and whose mother is to him a nurse, seamstress, governess, teacher, companion, heroine, and saint all in one, has a heritage to which the child of wealth remains a stranger. there comes a time, although the fond mother cannot see it, when a grown son has to put his arms around his saint and kissing her tenderly try to explain to her that it would be much better were she to let him help her in some ways; that, being out in the world among men and dealing with affairs, he sometimes sees changes which it would be desirable to make; that the mode of life delightful for young boys should be changed in some respects and the house made suitable for their friends to enter. especially should the slaving mother live the life of ease hereafter, reading and visiting more and entertaining dear friends--in short, rising to her proper and deserved position as her ladyship. of course the change was very hard upon my mother, but she finally recognized the necessity for it, probably realized for the first time that her eldest son was getting on. "dear mother," i pleaded, my arms still around her, "you have done everything for and have been everything to tom and me, and now do let me do something for you; let us be partners and let us always think what is best for each other. the time has come for you to play the lady and some of these days you are to ride in your carriage; meanwhile do get that girl in to help you. tom and i would like this." the victory was won, and my mother began to go out with us and visit her neighbors. she had not to learn self-possession nor good manners, these were innate; and as for education, knowledge, rare good sense, and kindliness, seldom was she to meet her equal. i wrote "never" instead of "seldom" and then struck it out. nevertheless my private opinion is reserved. life at altoona was made more agreeable for me through mr. scott's niece, miss rebecca stewart, who kept house for him. she played the part of elder sister to me to perfection, especially when mr. scott was called to philadelphia or elsewhere. we were much together, often driving in the afternoons through the woods. the intimacy did not cease for many years, and re-reading some of her letters in i realized more than ever my indebtedness to her. she was not much beyond my own age, but always seemed a great deal older. certainly she was more mature and quite capable of playing the elder sister's part. it was to her i looked up in those days as the perfect lady. sorry am i our paths parted so widely in later years. her daughter married the earl of sussex and her home in late years has been abroad. [july , , mrs. carnegie and i found my elder-sister friend april last, now in widowhood, in paris, her sister and also her daughter all well and happy. a great pleasure, indeed. there are no substitutes for the true friends of youth.] mr. scott remained at altoona for about three years when deserved promotion came to him. in he was made vice-president of the company, with his office in philadelphia. what was to become of me was a serious question. would he take me with him or must i remain at altoona with the new official? the thought was to me unbearable. to part with mr. scott was hard enough; to serve a new official in his place i did not believe possible. the sun rose and set upon his head so far as i was concerned. the thought of my promotion, except through him, never entered my mind. he returned from his interview with the president at philadelphia and asked me to come into the private room in his house which communicated with the office. he told me it had been settled that he should remove to philadelphia. mr. enoch lewis, the division superintendent, was to be his successor. i listened with great interest as he approached the inevitable disclosure as to what he was going to do with me. he said finally: "now about yourself. do you think you could manage the pittsburgh division?" i was at an age when i thought i could manage anything. i knew nothing that i would not attempt, but it had never occurred to me that anybody else, much less mr. scott, would entertain the idea that i was as yet fit to do anything of the kind proposed. i was only twenty-four years old, but my model then was lord john russell, of whom it was said he would take the command of the channel fleet to-morrow. so would wallace or bruce. i told mr. scott i thought i could. "well," he said, "mr. potts" (who was then superintendent of the pittsburgh division) "is to be promoted to the transportation department in philadelphia and i recommended you to the president as his successor. he agreed to give you a trial. what salary do you think you should have?" "salary," i said, quite offended; "what do i care for salary? i do not want the salary; i want the position. it is glory enough to go back to the pittsburgh division in your former place. you can make my salary just what you please and you need not give me any more than what i am getting now." that was sixty-five dollars a month. "you know," he said, "i received fifteen hundred dollars a year when i was there; and mr. potts is receiving eighteen hundred. i think it would be right to start you at fifteen hundred dollars, and after a while if you succeed you will get the eighteen hundred. would that be satisfactory?" "oh, please," i said, "don't speak to me of money!" it was not a case of mere hire and salary, and then and there my promotion was sealed. i was to have a department to myself, and instead of signing "t.a.s." orders between pittsburgh and altoona would now be signed "a.c." that was glory enough for me. the order appointing me superintendent of the pittsburgh division was issued december , . preparations for removing the family were made at once. the change was hailed with joy, for although our residence in altoona had many advantages, especially as we had a large house with some ground about it in a pleasant part of the suburbs and therefore many of the pleasures of country life, all these did not weigh as a feather in the scale as against the return to old friends and associations in dirty, smoky pittsburgh. my brother tom had learned telegraphy during his residence in altoona and he returned with me and became my secretary. the winter following my appointment was one of the most severe ever known. the line was poorly constructed, the equipment inefficient and totally inadequate for the business that was crowding upon it. the rails were laid upon huge blocks of stone, cast-iron chairs for holding the rails were used, and i have known as many as forty-seven of these to break in one night. no wonder the wrecks were frequent. the superintendent of a division in those days was expected to run trains by telegraph at night, to go out and remove all wrecks, and indeed to do everything. at one time for eight days i was constantly upon the line, day and night, at one wreck or obstruction after another. i was probably the most inconsiderate superintendent that ever was entrusted with the management of a great property, for, never knowing fatigue myself, being kept up by a sense of responsibility probably, i overworked the men and was not careful enough in considering the limits of human endurance. i have always been able to sleep at any time. snatches of half an hour at intervals during the night in a dirty freight car were sufficient. the civil war brought such extraordinary demands on the pennsylvania line that i was at last compelled to organize a night force; but it was with difficulty i obtained the consent of my superiors to entrust the charge of the line at night to a train dispatcher. indeed, i never did get their unequivocal authority to do so, but upon my own responsibility i appointed perhaps the first night train dispatcher that ever acted in america--at least he was the first upon the pennsylvania system. upon our return to pittsburgh in we rented a house in hancock street, now eighth street, and resided there for a year or more. any accurate description of pittsburgh at that time would be set down as a piece of the grossest exaggeration. the smoke permeated and penetrated everything. if you placed your hand on the balustrade of the stair it came away black; if you washed face and hands they were as dirty as ever in an hour. the soot gathered in the hair and irritated the skin, and for a time after our return from the mountain atmosphere of altoona, life was more or less miserable. we soon began to consider how we could get to the country, and fortunately at that time mr. d.a. stewart, then freight agent for the company, directed our attention to a house adjoining his residence at homewood. we moved there at once and the telegraph was brought in, which enabled me to operate the division from the house when necessary. here a new life was opened to us. there were country lanes and gardens in abundance. residences had from five to twenty acres of land about them. the homewood estate was made up of many hundreds of acres, with beautiful woods and glens and a running brook. we, too, had a garden and a considerable extent of ground around our house. the happiest years of my mother's life were spent here among her flowers and chickens and the surroundings of country life. her love of flowers was a passion. she was scarcely ever able to gather a flower. indeed i remember she once reproached me for pulling up a weed, saying "it was something green." i have inherited this peculiarity and have often walked from the house to the gate intending to pull a flower for my button-hole and then left for town unable to find one i could destroy. with this change to the country came a whole host of new acquaintances. many of the wealthy families of the district had their residences in this delightful suburb. it was, so to speak, the aristocratic quarter. to the entertainments at these great houses the young superintendent was invited. the young people were musical and we had musical evenings a plenty. i heard subjects discussed which i had never known before, and i made it a rule when i heard these to learn something about them at once. i was pleased every day to feel that i was learning something new. it was here that i first met the vandevort brothers, benjamin and john. the latter was my traveling-companion on various trips which i took later in life. "dear vandy" appears as my chum in "round the world." our neighbors, mr. and mrs. stewart, became more and more dear to us, and the acquaintance we had before ripened into lasting friendship. one of my pleasures is that mr. stewart subsequently embarked in business with us and became a partner, as "vandy" did also. greatest of all the benefits of our new home, however, was making the acquaintance of the leading family of western pennsylvania, that of the honorable judge wilkins. the judge was then approaching his eightieth year, tall, slender, and handsome, in full possession of all his faculties, with a courtly grace of manner, and the most wonderful store of knowledge and reminiscence of any man i had yet been privileged to meet. his wife, the daughter of george w. dallas, vice-president of the united states, has ever been my type of gracious womanhood in age--the most beautiful, most charming venerable old lady i ever knew or saw. her daughter, miss wilkins, with her sister, mrs. saunders, and her children resided in the stately mansion at homewood, which was to the surrounding district what the baronial hall in britain is or should be to its district--the center of all that was cultured, refined, and elevating. to me it was especially pleasing that i seemed to be a welcome guest there. musical parties, charades, and theatricals in which miss wilkins took the leading parts furnished me with another means of self-improvement. the judge himself was the first man of historical note whom i had ever known. i shall never forget the impression it made upon me when in the course of conversation, wishing to illustrate a remark, he said: "president jackson once said to me," or, "i told the duke of wellington so and so." the judge in his earlier life ( ) had been minister to russia under jackson, and in the same easy way spoke of his interview with the czar. it seemed to me that i was touching history itself. the house was a new atmosphere, and my intercourse with the family was a powerful stimulant to the desire for improvement of my own mind and manners. the only subject upon which there was always a decided, though silent, antagonism between the wilkins family and myself was politics. i was an ardent free-soiler in days when to be an abolitionist was somewhat akin to being a republican in britain. the wilkinses were strong democrats with leanings toward the south, being closely connected with leading southern families. on one occasion at homewood, on entering the drawing-room, i found the family excitedly conversing about a terrible incident that had recently occurred. "what do you think!" said mrs. wilkins to me; "dallas" (her grandson) "writes me that he has been compelled by the commandant of west point to sit next a negro! did you ever hear the like of that? is it not disgraceful? negroes admitted to west point!" "oh!" i said, "mrs. wilkins, there is something even worse than that. i understand that some of them have been admitted to heaven!" there was a silence that could be felt. then dear mrs. wilkins said gravely: "that is a different matter, mr. carnegie." by far the most precious gift ever received by me up to that time came about in this manner. dear mrs. wilkins began knitting an afghan, and during the work many were the inquiries as to whom it was for. no, the dear queenly old lady would not tell; she kept her secret all the long months until, christmas drawing near, the gift finished and carefully wrapped up, and her card with a few loving words enclosed, she instructed her daughter to address it to me. it was duly received in new york. such a tribute from such a lady! well, that afghan, though often shown to dear friends, has not been much used. it is sacred to me and remains among my precious possessions. i had been so fortunate as to meet leila addison while living in pittsburgh, the talented daughter of dr. addison, who had died a short time before. i soon became acquainted with the family and record with grateful feelings the immense advantage which that acquaintance also brought to me. here was another friendship formed with people who had all the advantages of the higher education. carlyle had been mrs. addison's tutor for a time, for she was an edinburgh lady. her daughters had been educated abroad and spoke french, spanish, and italian as fluently as english. it was through intercourse with this family that i first realized the indescribable yet immeasurable gulf that separates the highly educated from people like myself. but "the wee drap o' scotch bluid atween us" proved its potency as usual. miss addison became an ideal friend because she undertook to improve the rough diamond, if it were indeed a diamond at all. she was my best friend, because my severest critic. i began to pay strict attention to my language, and to the english classics, which i now read with great avidity. i began also to notice how much better it was to be gentle in tone and manner, polite and courteous to all--in short, better behaved. up to this time i had been, perhaps, careless in dress and rather affected it. great heavy boots, loose collar, and general roughness of attire were then peculiar to the west and in our circle considered manly. anything that could be labeled foppish was looked upon with contempt. i remember the first gentleman i ever saw in the service of the railway company who wore kid gloves. he was the object of derision among us who aspired to be manly men. i was a great deal the better in all these respects after we moved to homewood, owing to the addisons. chapter viii civil war period in the civil war broke out and i was at once summoned to washington by mr. scott, who had been appointed assistant secretary of war in charge of the transportation department. i was to act as his assistant in charge of the military railroads and telegraphs of the government and to organize a force of railway men. it was one of the most important departments of all at the beginning of the war. the first regiments of union troops passing through baltimore had been attacked, and the railway line cut between baltimore and annapolis junction, destroying communication with washington. it was therefore necessary for me, with my corps of assistants, to take train at philadelphia for annapolis, a point from which a branch line extended to the junction, joining the main line to washington. our first duty was to repair this branch and make it passable for heavy trains, a work of some days. general butler and several regiments of troops arrived a few days after us, and we were able to transport his whole brigade to washington. i took my place upon the first engine which started for the capital, and proceeded very cautiously. some distance from washington i noticed that the telegraph wires had been pinned to the ground by wooden stakes. i stopped the engine and ran forward to release them, but i did not notice that the wires had been pulled to one side before staking. when released, in their spring upwards, they struck me in the face, knocked me over, and cut a gash in my cheek which bled profusely. in this condition i entered the city of washington with the first troops, so that with the exception of one or two soldiers, wounded a few days previously in passing through the streets of baltimore, i can justly claim that i "shed my blood for my country" among the first of its defenders. i gloried in being useful to the land that had done so much for me, and worked, i can truly say, night and day, to open communication to the south. i soon removed my headquarters to alexandria,[ ] virginia, and was stationed there when the unfortunate battle of bull run was fought. we could not believe the reports that came to us, but it soon became evident that we must rush every engine and car to the front to bring back our defeated forces. the closest point then was burke station. i went out there and loaded up train after train of the poor wounded volunteers. the rebels were reported to be close upon us and we were finally compelled to close burke station, the operator and myself leaving on the last train for alexandria where the effect of panic was evident upon every side. some of our railway men were missing, but the number at the mess on the following morning showed that, compared with other branches of the service, we had cause for congratulation. a few conductors and engineers had obtained boats and crossed the potomac, but the great body of the men remained, although the roar of the guns of the pursuing enemy was supposed to be heard in every sound during the night. of our telegraphers not one was missing the next morning. [footnote : "when carnegie reached washington his first task was to establish a ferry to alexandria and to extend the baltimore and ohio railroad track from the old depot in washington, along maryland avenue to and across the potomac, so that locomotives and cars might be crossed for use in virginia. long bridge, over the potomac, had to be rebuilt, and i recall the fact that under the direction of carnegie and r.f. morley the railroad between washington and alexandria was completed in the remarkably short period of seven days. all hands, from carnegie down, worked day and night to accomplish the task." (bates, _lincoln in the telegraph office_, p. . new york, .)] soon after this i returned to washington and made my headquarters in the war building with colonel scott. as i had charge of the telegraph department, as well as the railways, this gave me an opportunity of seeing president lincoln, mr. seward, secretary cameron, and others; and i was occasionally brought in personal contact with these men, which was to me a source of great interest. mr. lincoln would occasionally come to the office and sit at the desk awaiting replies to telegrams, or perhaps merely anxious for information. all the pictures of this extraordinary man are like him. he was so marked of feature that it was impossible for any one to paint him and not produce a likeness. he was certainly one of the most homely men i ever saw when his features were in repose; but when excited or telling a story, intellect shone through his eyes and illuminated his face to a degree which i have seldom or never seen in any other. his manners were perfect because natural; and he had a kind word for everybody, even the youngest boy in the office. his attentions were not graduated. they were the same to all, as deferential in talking to the messenger boy as to secretary seward. his charm lay in the total absence of manner. it was not so much, perhaps, what he said as the way in which he said it that never failed to win one. i have often regretted that i did not note down carefully at the time some of his curious sayings, for he said even common things in an original way. i never met a great man who so thoroughly made himself one with all men as mr. lincoln. as secretary hay so well says, "it is impossible to imagine any one a valet to mr. lincoln; he would have been his companion." he was the most perfect democrat, revealing in every word and act the equality of men. when mason and slidell in were taken from the british ship trent there was intense anxiety upon the part of those who, like myself, knew what the right of asylum on her ships meant to britain. it was certain war or else a prompt return of the prisoners. secretary cameron being absent when the cabinet was summoned to consider the question, mr. scott was invited to attend as assistant secretary of war. i did my best to let him understand that upon this issue britain would fight beyond question, and urged that he stand firm for surrender, especially since it had been the american doctrine that ships should be immune from search. mr. scott, knowing nothing of foreign affairs, was disposed to hold the captives, but upon his return from the meeting he told me that seward had warned the cabinet it meant war, just as i had said. lincoln, too, was at first inclined to hold the prisoners, but was at last converted to seward's policy. the cabinet, however, had decided to postpone action until the morrow, when cameron and other absentees would be present. mr. scott was requested by seward to meet cameron on arrival and get him right on the subject before going to the meeting, for he was expected to be in no surrendering mood. this was done and all went well next day. the general confusion which reigned at washington at this time had to be seen to be understood. no description can convey my initial impression of it. the first time i saw general scott, then commander-in-chief, he was being helped by two men across the pavement from his office into his carriage. he was an old, decrepit man, paralyzed not only in body, but in mind; and it was upon this noble relic of the past that the organization of the forces of the republic depended. his chief commissary, general taylor, was in some degree a counterpart of scott. it was our business to arrange with these, and others scarcely less fit, for the opening of communications and for the transportation of men and supplies. they were seemingly one and all martinets who had passed the age of usefulness. days would elapse before a decision could be obtained upon matters which required prompt action. there was scarcely a young active officer at the head of any important department--at least i cannot recall one. long years of peace had fossilized the service. the same cause had produced like results, i understood, in the navy department, but i was not brought in personal contact with it. the navy was not important at the beginning; it was the army that counted. nothing but defeat was to be looked for until the heads of the various departments were changed, and this could not be done in a day. the impatience of the country at the apparent delay in producing an effective weapon for the great task thrown upon the government was no doubt natural, but the wonder to me is that order was so soon evolved from the chaos which prevailed in every branch of the service. as far as our operations were concerned we had one great advantage. secretary cameron authorized mr. scott (he had been made a colonel) to do what he thought necessary without waiting for the slow movements of the officials under the secretary of war. of this authority unsparing use was made, and the important part played by the railway and telegraph department of the government from the very beginning of the war is to be attributed to the fact that we had the cordial support of secretary cameron. he was then in the possession of all his faculties and grasped the elements of the problem far better than his generals and heads of departments. popular clamor compelled lincoln to change him at last, but those who were behind the scenes well knew that if other departments had been as well managed as was the war department under cameron, all things considered, much of disaster would have been avoided. lochiel, as cameron liked to be called, was a man of sentiment. in his ninetieth year he visited us in scotland and, passing through one of our glens, sitting on the front seat of our four-in-hand coach, he reverently took off his hat and bareheaded rode through the glen, overcome by its grandeur. the conversation turned once upon the efforts which candidates for office must themselves put forth and the fallacy that office seeks the man, except in very rare emergencies. apropos of this lochiel told this story about lincoln's second term: one day at cameron's country home near harrisburg, pennsylvania, he received a telegram saying that president lincoln would like to see him. accordingly he went to washington. lincoln began: "cameron, the people about me are telling me that it is my patriotic duty to become a candidate for a second term, that i am the only man who can save my country, and so on; and do you know i'm just beginning to be fool enough to believe them a little. what do you say, and how could it be managed?" "well, mr. president, twenty-eight years ago president jackson sent for me as you have now done and told me just the same story. his letter reached me in new orleans and i traveled ten days to reach washington. i told president jackson i thought the best plan would be to have the legislature of one of the states pass resolutions insisting that the pilot should not desert the ship during these stormy times, and so forth. if one state did this i thought others would follow. mr. jackson concurred and i went to harrisburg, and had such a resolution prepared and passed. other states followed as i expected and, as you know, he won a second term." "well," said lincoln, "could you do that now?" "no," said i, "i am too near to you, mr. president; but if you desire i might get a friend to attend to it, i think." "well," said president lincoln, "i leave the matter with you." "i sent for foster here" (who was his companion on the coach and our guest) "and asked him to look up the jackson resolutions. we changed them a little to meet new conditions and passed them. the like result followed as in the case of president jackson. upon my next visit to washington i went in the evening to the president's public reception. when i entered the crowded and spacious east room, being like lincoln very tall, the president recognized me over the mass of people and holding up both white-gloved hands which looked like two legs of mutton, called out: 'two more in to-day, cameron, two more.' that is, two additional states had passed the jackson-lincoln resolutions." apart from the light this incident throws upon political life, it is rather remarkable that the same man should have been called upon by two presidents of the united states, twenty-eight years apart, under exactly similar circumstances and asked for advice, and that, the same expedient being employed, both men became candidates and both secured second terms. as was once explained upon a memorable occasion: "there's figuring in all them things." when in washington i had not met general grant, because he was in the west up to the time of my leaving, but on a journey to and from washington he stopped at pittsburgh to make the necessary arrangements for his removal to the east. i met him on the line upon both occasions and took him to dine with me in pittsburgh. there were no dining-cars then. he was the most ordinary-looking man of high position i had ever met, and the last that one would select at first glance as a remarkable man. i remember that secretary of war stanton said that when he visited the armies in the west, general grant and his staff entered his car; he looked at them, one after the other, as they entered and seeing general grant, said to himself, "well, i do not know which is general grant, but there is one that cannot be." yet this was he. [reading this years after it was written, i laugh. it is pretty hard on the general, for i have been taken for him more than once.] in those days of the war much was talked about "strategy" and the plans of the various generals. i was amazed at general grant's freedom in talking to me about such things. of course he knew that i had been in the war office, and was well known to secretary stanton,[ ] and had some knowledge of what was going on; but my surprise can be imagined when he said to me: "well, the president and stanton want me to go east and take command there, and i have agreed to do it. i am just going west to make the necessary arrangements." i said, "i suspected as much." "i am going to put sherman in charge," he said. "that will surprise the country," i said, "for i think the impression is that general thomas should succeed." "yes, i know that," he said, "but i know the men and thomas will be the first to say that sherman is the man for the work. there will be no trouble about that. the fact is the western end is pretty far down, and the next thing we must do is to push the eastern end down a little." [footnote : mr. carnegie gave to stanton's college, kenyon, $ , , and on april , , delivered at the college an address on the great war secretary. it has been published under the title _edwin m. stanton, an address by andrew carnegie on stanton memorial day at kenyon college_. (new york, .)] that was exactly what he did. and that was grant's way of putting strategy into words. it was my privilege to become well acquainted with him in after years. if ever a man was without the slightest trace of affectation, grant was that man. even lincoln did not surpass him in that: but grant was a quiet, slow man while lincoln was always alive and in motion. i never heard grant use a long or grand word, or make any attempt at "manner," but the general impression that he was always reticent is a mistake. he was a surprisingly good talker sometimes and upon occasion liked to talk. his sentences were always short and to the point, and his observations upon things remarkably shrewd. when he had nothing to say he said nothing. i noticed that he was never tired of praising his subordinates in the war. he spoke of them as a fond father speaks of his children. the story is told that during the trials of war in the west, general grant began to indulge too freely in liquor. his chief of staff, rawlins, boldly ventured to tell him so. that this was the act of a true friend grant fully recognized. "you do not mean that? i was wholly unconscious of it. i am surprised!" said the general. "yes, i do mean it. it is even beginning to be a subject of comment among your officers." "why did you not tell me before? i'll never drink a drop of liquor again." he never did. time after time in later years, dining with the grants in new york, i have seen the general turn down the wine-glasses at his side. that indomitable will of his enabled him to remain steadfast to his resolve, a rare case as far as my experience goes. some have refrained for a time. in one noted case one of our partners refrained for three years, but alas, the old enemy at last recaptured its victim. grant, when president, was accused of being pecuniarily benefited by certain appointments, or acts, of his administration, while his friends knew that he was so poor that he had been compelled to announce his intention of abandoning the customary state dinners, each one of which, he found, cost eight hundred dollars--a sum which he could not afford to pay out of his salary. the increase of the presidential salary from $ , to $ , a year enabled him, during his second term, to save a little, although he cared no more about money than about uniforms. at the end of his first term i know he had nothing. yet i found, when in europe, that the impression was widespread among the highest officials there that there was something in the charge that general grant had benefited pecuniarily by appointments. we know in america how little weight to attach to these charges, but it would have been well for those who made them so recklessly to have considered what effect they would produce upon public opinion in other lands. the cause of democracy suffers more in britain to-day from the generally received opinion that american politics are corrupt, and therefore that republicanism necessarily produces corruption, than from any other one cause. yet, speaking with some knowledge of politics in both lands, i have not the slightest hesitation in saying that for every ounce of corruption of public men in the new land of republicanism there is one in the old land of monarchy, only the forms of corruption differ. titles are the bribes in the monarchy, not dollars. office is a common and proper reward in both. there is, however, this difference in favor of the monarchy; titles are given openly and are not considered by the recipients or the mass of the people as bribes. when i was called to washington in , it was supposed that the war would soon be over; but it was seen shortly afterwards that it was to be a question of years. permanent officials in charge would be required. the pennsylvania railroad company was unable to spare mr. scott, and mr. scott, in turn, decided that i must return to pittsburgh, where my services were urgently needed, owing to the demands made upon the pennsylvania by the government. we therefore placed the department at washington in the hands of others and returned to our respective positions. after my return from washington reaction followed and i was taken with my first serious illness. i was completely broken down, and after a struggle to perform my duties was compelled to seek rest. one afternoon, when on the railway line in virginia, i had experienced something like a sunstroke, which gave me considerable trouble. it passed off, however, but after that i found i could not stand heat and had to be careful to keep out of the sun--a hot day wilting me completely. [that is the reason why the cool highland air in summer has been to me a panacea for many years. my physician has insisted that i must avoid our hot american summers.] leave of absence was granted me by the pennsylvania railroad company, and the long-sought opportunity to visit scotland came. my mother, my bosom friend tom miller, and myself, sailed in the steamship etna, june , , i in my twenty-seventh year; and on landing in liverpool we proceeded at once to dunfermline. no change ever affected me so much as this return to my native land. i seemed to be in a dream. every mile that brought us nearer to scotland increased the intensity of my feelings. my mother was equally moved, and i remember, when her eyes first caught sight of the familiar yellow bush, she exclaimed: "oh! there's the broom, the broom!" her heart was so full she could not restrain her tears, and the more i tried to make light of it or to soothe her, the more she was overcome. for myself, i felt as if i could throw myself upon the sacred soil and kiss it.[ ] [footnote : "it's a god's mercy i was born a scotchman, for i do not see how i could ever have been contented to be anything else. the little dour deevil, set in her own ways, and getting them, too, level-headed and shrewd, with an eye to the main chance always and yet so lovingly weak, so fond, so led away by song or story, so easily touched to fine issues, so leal, so true. ah! you suit me, scotia, and proud am i that i am your son." (andrew carnegie, _our coaching trip_, p. . new york, .)] in this mood we reached dunfermline. every object we passed was recognized at once, but everything seemed so small, compared with what i had imagined it, that i was completely puzzled. finally, reaching uncle lauder's and getting into the old room where he had taught dod and myself so many things, i exclaimed: "you are all here; everything is just as i left it, but you are now all playing with toys." the high street, which i had considered not a bad broadway, uncle's shop, which i had compared with some new york establishments, the little mounds about the town, to which we had run on sundays to play, the distances, the height of the houses, all had shrunk. here was a city of the lilliputians. i could almost touch the eaves of the house in which i was born, and the sea--to walk to which on a saturday had been considered quite a feat--was only three miles distant. the rocks at the seashore, among which i had gathered wilks (whelks) seemed to have vanished, and a tame flat shoal remained. the schoolhouse, around which had centered many of my schoolboy recollections--my only alma mater--and the playground, upon which mimic battles had been fought and races run, had shrunk into ridiculously small dimensions. the fine residences, broomhall, fordell, and especially the conservatories at donibristle, fell one after the other into the petty and insignificant. what i felt on a later occasion on a visit to japan, with its small toy houses, was something like a repetition of the impression my old home made upon me. everything was there in miniature. even the old well at the head of moodie street, where i began my early struggles, was changed from what i had pictured it. but one object remained all that i had dreamed of it. there was no disappointment in the glorious old abbey and its glen. it was big enough and grand enough, and the memorable carved letters on the top of the tower--"king robert the bruce"--filled my eye and my heart as fully as of old. nor was the abbey bell disappointing, when i heard it for the first time after my return. for this i was grateful. it gave me a rallying point, and around the old abbey, with its palace ruins and the glen, other objects adjusted themselves in their true proportions after a time. my relatives were exceedingly kind, and the oldest of all, my dear old auntie charlotte, in a moment of exultation exclaimed: "oh, you will just be coming back here some day and _keep a shop in the high street_." to keep a shop in the high street was her idea of triumph. her son-in-law and daughter, both my full cousins, though unrelated to each other, had risen to this sublime height, and nothing was too great to predict for her promising nephew. there is an aristocracy even in shopkeeping, and the family of the green grocer of the high street mingles not upon equal terms with him of moodie street. auntie, who had often played my nurse, liked to dwell upon the fact that i was a screaming infant that had to be fed with two spoons, as i yelled whenever one left my mouth. captain jones, our superintendent of the steel works at a later day, described me as having been born "with two rows of teeth and holes punched for more," so insatiable was my appetite for new works and increased production. as i was the first child in our immediate family circle, there were plenty of now venerable relatives begging to be allowed to play nurse, my aunties among them. many of my childhood pranks and words they told me in their old age. one of them that the aunties remembered struck me as rather precocious. i had been brought up upon wise saws and one that my father had taught me was soon given direct application. as a boy, returning from the seashore three miles distant, he had to carry me part of the way upon his back. going up a steep hill in the gloaming he remarked upon the heavy load, hoping probably i would propose to walk a bit. the response, however, which he received was: "ah, faither, never mind, patience and perseverance make the man, ye ken." he toiled on with his burden, but shaking with laughter. he was hoist with his own petard, but his burden grew lighter all the same. i am sure of this. my home, of course, was with my instructor, guide, and inspirer, uncle lauder--he who had done so much to make me romantic, patriotic, and poetical at eight. now i was twenty-seven, but uncle lauder still remained uncle lauder. he had not shrunk, no one could fill his place. we had our walks and talks constantly and i was "naig" again to him. he had never had any name for me but that and never did have. my dear, dear uncle, and more, much more than uncle to me.[ ] [footnote : "this uncle, who loved liberty because it is the heritage of brave souls, in the dark days of the american civil war stood almost alone in his community for the cause which lincoln represented." (hamilton wright mabie in _century magazine_, vol. , p. .)] i was still dreaming and so excited that i could not sleep and had caught cold in the bargain. the natural result of this was a fever. i lay in uncle's house for six weeks, a part of that time in a critical condition. scottish medicine was then as stern as scottish theology (both are now much softened), and i was bled. my thin american blood was so depleted that when i was pronounced convalescent it was long before i could stand upon my feet. this illness put an end to my visit, but by the time i had reached america again, the ocean voyage had done me so much good i was able to resume work. i remember being deeply affected by the reception i met with when i returned to my division. the men of the eastern end had gathered together with a cannon and while the train passed i was greeted with a salvo. this was perhaps the first occasion upon which my subordinates had an opportunity of making me the subject of any demonstration, and their reception made a lasting impression. i knew how much i cared for them and it was pleasing to know that they reciprocated my feelings. working-men always do reciprocate kindly feeling. if we truly care for others we need not be anxious about their feelings for us. like draws to like. chapter ix bridge-building during the civil war the price of iron went up to something like $ per ton. even at that figure it was not so much a question of money as of delivery. the railway lines of america were fast becoming dangerous for want of new rails, and this state of affairs led me to organize in a rail-making concern at pittsburgh. there was no difficulty in obtaining partners and capital, and the superior rail mill and blast furnaces were built. in like manner the demand for locomotives was very great, and with mr. thomas n. miller[ ] i organized in the pittsburgh locomotive works, which has been a prosperous and creditable concern--locomotives made there having obtained an enviable reputation throughout the united states. it sounds like a fairy tale to-day to record that in the one-hundred-dollar shares of this company sold for three thousand dollars--that is, thirty dollars for one. large annual dividends had been paid regularly and the company had been very successful--sufficient proof of the policy: "make nothing but the very best." we never did. [footnote : mr. carnegie had previous to this--as early as --been associated with mr. miller in the sun city forge company, doing a small iron business.] when at altoona i had seen in the pennsylvania railroad company's works the first small bridge built of iron. it proved a success. i saw that it would never do to depend further upon wooden bridges for permanent railway structures. an important bridge on the pennsylvania railroad had recently burned and the traffic had been obstructed for eight days. iron was the thing. i proposed to h.j. linville, who had designed the iron bridge, and to john l. piper and his partner, mr. schiffler, who had charge of bridges on the pennsylvania line, that they should come to pittsburgh and i would organize a company to build iron bridges. it was the first company of its kind. i asked my friend, mr. scott, of the pennsylvania railroad, to go with us in the venture, which he did. each of us paid for a one fifth interest, or $ . my share i borrowed from the bank. looking back at it now the sum seemed very small, but "tall oaks from little acorns grow." in this way was organized in the firm of piper and schiffler which was merged into the keystone bridge company in --a name which i remember i was proud of having thought of as being most appropriate for a bridge-building concern in the state of pennsylvania, the keystone state. from this beginning iron bridges came generally into use in america, indeed, in the world at large so far as i know. my letters to iron manufacturers in pittsburgh were sufficient to insure the new company credit. small wooden shops were erected and several bridge structures were undertaken. cast-iron was the principal material used, but so well were the bridges built that some made at that day and since strengthened for heavier traffic, still remain in use upon various lines. the question of bridging the ohio river at steubenville came up, and we were asked whether we would undertake to build a railway bridge with a span of three hundred feet over the channel. it seems ridiculous at the present day to think of the serious doubts entertained about our ability to do this; but it must be remembered this was before the days of steel and almost before the use of wrought-iron in america. the top cords and supports were all of cast-iron. i urged my partners to try it anyhow, and we finally closed a contract, but i remember well when president jewett[ ] of the railway company visited the works and cast his eyes upon the piles of heavy cast-iron lying about, which were parts of the forthcoming bridge, that he turned to me and said: "i don't believe these heavy castings can be made to stand up and carry themselves, much less carry a train across the ohio river." [footnote : thomas l. jewett, president of the panhandle.] the judge, however, lived to believe differently. the bridge remained until recently, though strengthened to carry heavier traffic. we expected to make quite a sum by this first important undertaking, but owing to the inflation of the currency, which occurred before the work was finished, our margin of profit was almost swallowed up. it is an evidence of the fairness of president edgar thomson, of the pennsylvania, that, upon learning the facts of the case, he allowed an extra sum to secure us from loss. the subsequent position of affairs, he said, was not contemplated by either party when the contract was made. a great and a good man was edgar thomson, a close bargainer for the pennsylvania railroad, but ever mindful of the fact that the spirit of the law was above the letter. in linville, piper, and schiffler, we had the best talent of that day--linville an engineer, piper a hustling, active mechanic, and schiffler sure and steady. colonel piper was an exceptional man. i heard president thomson of the pennsylvania once say he would rather have him at a burnt bridge than all the engineering corps. there was one subject upon which the colonel displayed great weakness (fortunately for us) and that was the horse. whenever a business discussion became too warm, and the colonel showed signs of temper, which was not seldom, it was a sure cure to introduce that subject. everything else would pass from his mind; he became absorbed in the fascinating topic of horseflesh. if he had overworked himself, and we wished to get him to take a holiday, we sent him to kentucky to look after a horse or two that one or the other of us was desirous of obtaining, and for the selection of which we would trust no one but himself. but his craze for horses sometimes brought him into serious difficulties. he made his appearance at the office one day with one half of his face as black as mud could make it, his clothes torn, and his hat missing, but still holding the whip in one hand. he explained that he had attempted to drive a fast kentucky colt; one of the reins had broken and he had lost his "steerage-way," as he expressed it. he was a grand fellow, "pipe" as we called him, and when he took a fancy to a person, as he did to me, he was for and with him always. in later days when i removed to new york he transferred his affections to my brother, whom he invariably called thomas, instead of tom. high as i stood in his favor, my brother afterwards stood higher. he fairly worshiped him, and anything that tom said was law and gospel. he was exceedingly jealous of our other establishments, in which he was not directly interested, such as our mills which supplied the keystone works with iron. many a dispute arose between the mill managers and the colonel as to quality, price, and so forth. on one occasion he came to my brother to complain that a bargain which he had made for the supply of iron for a year had not been copied correctly. the prices were "net," and nothing had been said about "net" when the bargain was made. he wanted to know just what that word "net" meant. "well, colonel," said my brother, "it means that nothing more is to be added." "all right, thomas," said the colonel, entirely satisfied. there is much in the way one puts things. "nothing to be deducted" might have caused a dispute. [illustration: thomas morrison carnegie] he was made furious one day by bradstreet's volume which gives the standing of business concerns. never having seen such a book before, he was naturally anxious to see what rating his concern had. when he read that the keystone bridge works were "bc," which meant "bad credit," it was with difficulty he was restrained from going to see our lawyers to have a suit brought against the publishers. tom, however, explained to him that the keystone bridge works were in bad credit because they never borrowed anything, and he was pacified. no debt was one of the colonel's hobbies. once, when i was leaving for europe, when many firms were hard up and some failing around us, he said to me: "the sheriff can't get us when you are gone if i don't sign any notes, can he?" "no," i said, "he can't." "all right, we'll be here when you come back." talking of the colonel reminds me of another unusual character with whom we were brought in contact in these bridge-building days. this was captain eads, of st. louis,[ ] an original genius _minus_ scientific knowledge to guide his erratic ideas of things mechanical. he was seemingly one of those who wished to have everything done upon his own original plans. that a thing had been done in one way before was sufficient to cause its rejection. when his plans for the st. louis bridge were presented to us, i handed them to the one man in the united states who knew the subject best--our mr. linville. he came to me in great concern, saying: "the bridge if built upon these plans will not stand up; it will not carry its own weight." "well," i said, "captain eads will come to see you and in talking over matters explain this to him gently, get it into proper shape, lead him into the straight path and say nothing about it to others." [footnote : captain james b. eads, afterward famous for his jetty system in the mississippi river.] this was successfully accomplished; but in the construction of the bridge poor piper was totally unable to comply with the extraordinary requirements of the captain. at first he was so delighted with having received the largest contract that had yet been let that he was all graciousness to captain eads. it was not even "captain" at first, but "'colonel' eads, how do you do? delighted to see you." by and by matters became a little complicated. we noticed that the greeting became less cordial, but still it was "good-morning, captain eads." this fell till we were surprised to hear "pipe" talking of "mr. eads." before the troubles were over, the "colonel" had fallen to "jim eads," and to tell the truth, long before the work was out of the shops, "jim" was now and then preceded by a big "d." a man may be possessed of great ability, and be a charming, interesting character, as captain eads undoubtedly was, and yet not be able to construct the first bridge of five hundred feet span over the mississippi river,[ ] without availing himself of the scientific knowledge and practical experience of others. [footnote : the span was feet, and at that time considered the finest metal arch in the world.] when the work was finished, i had the colonel with me in st. louis for some days protecting the bridge against a threatened attempt on the part of others to take possession of it before we obtained full payment. when the colonel had taken up the planks at both ends, and organized a plan of relieving the men who stood guard, he became homesick and exceedingly anxious to return to pittsburgh. he had determined to take the night train and i was at a loss to know how to keep him with me until i thought of his one vulnerable point. i told him, during the day, how anxious i was to obtain a pair of horses for my sister. i wished to make her a present of a span, and i had heard that st. louis was a noted place for them. had he seen anything superb? the bait took. he launched forth into a description of several spans of horses he had seen and stables he had visited. i asked him if he could possibly stay over and select the horses. i knew very well that he would wish to see them and drive them many times which would keep him busy. it happened just as i expected. he purchased a splendid pair, but then another difficulty occurred about transporting them to pittsburgh. he would not trust them by rail and no suitable boat was to leave for several days. providence was on my side evidently. nothing on earth would induce that man to leave the city until he saw those horses fairly started and it was an even wager whether he would not insist upon going up on the steamer with them himself. we held the bridge. "pipe" made a splendid horatius. he was one of the best men and one of the most valuable partners i ever was favored with, and richly deserved the rewards which he did so much to secure. the keystone bridge works have always been a source of satisfaction to me. almost every concern that had undertaken to erect iron bridges in america had failed. many of the structures themselves had fallen and some of the worst railway disasters in america had been caused in that way. some of the bridges had given way under wind pressure but nothing has ever happened to a keystone bridge, and some of them have stood where the wind was not tempered. there has been no luck about it. we used only the best material and enough of it, making our own iron and later our own steel. we were our own severest inspectors, and would build a safe structure or none at all. when asked to build a bridge which we knew to be of insufficient strength or of unscientific design, we resolutely declined. any piece of work bearing the stamp of the keystone bridge works (and there are few states in the union where such are not to be found) we were prepared to underwrite. we were as proud of our bridges as carlyle was of the bridge his father built across the annan. "an honest brig," as the great son rightly said. this policy is the true secret of success. uphill work it will be for a few years until your work is proven, but after that it is smooth sailing. instead of objecting to inspectors they should be welcomed by all manufacturing establishments. a high standard of excellence is easily maintained, and men are educated in the effort to reach excellence. i have never known a concern to make a decided success that did not do good, honest work, and even in these days of the fiercest competition, when everything would seem to be matter of price, there lies still at the root of great business success the very much more important factor of quality. the effect of attention to quality, upon every man in the service, from the president of the concern down to the humblest laborer, cannot be overestimated. and bearing on the same question, clean, fine workshops and tools, well-kept yards and surroundings are of much greater importance than is usually supposed. i was very much pleased to hear a remark, made by one of the prominent bankers who visited the edgar thomson works during a bankers convention held at pittsburgh. he was one of a party of some hundreds of delegates, and after they had passed through the works he said to our manager: "somebody appears to belong to these works." he put his finger there upon one of the secrets of success. they did belong to somebody. the president of an important manufacturing work once boasted to me that their men had chased away the first inspector who had ventured to appear among them, and that they had never been troubled with another since. this was said as a matter of sincere congratulation, but i thought to myself: "this concern will never stand the strain of competition; it is bound to fail when hard times come." the result proved the correctness of my belief. the surest foundation of a manufacturing concern is quality. after that, and a long way after, comes cost. i gave a great deal of personal attention for some years to the affairs of the keystone bridge works, and when important contracts were involved often went myself to meet the parties. on one such occasion in , i visited dubuque, iowa, with our engineer, walter katte. we were competing for the building of the most important railway bridge that had been built up to that time, a bridge across the wide mississippi at dubuque, to span which was considered a great undertaking. we found the river frozen and crossed it upon a sleigh drawn by four horses. that visit proved how much success turns upon trifles. we found we were not the lowest bidder. our chief rival was a bridge-building concern in chicago to which the board had decided to award the contract. i lingered and talked with some of the directors. they were delightfully ignorant of the merits of cast- and wrought-iron. we had always made the upper cord of the bridge of the latter, while our rivals' was made of cast-iron. this furnished my text. i pictured the result of a steamer striking against the one and against the other. in the case of the wrought-iron cord it would probably only bend; in the case of the cast-iron it would certainly break and down would come the bridge. one of the directors, the well-known perry smith, was fortunately able to enforce my argument, by stating to the board that what i said was undoubtedly the case about cast-iron. the other night he had run his buggy in the dark against a lamp-post which was of cast-iron and the lamp-post had broken to pieces. am i to be censured if i had little difficulty here in recognizing something akin to the hand of providence, with perry smith the manifest agent? "ah, gentlemen," i said, "there is the point. a little more money and you could have had the indestructible wrought-iron and your bridge would stand against any steamboat. we never have built and we never will build a cheap bridge. ours don't fall." there was a pause; then the president of the bridge company, mr. allison, the great senator, asked if i would excuse them for a few moments. i retired. soon they recalled me and offered the contract, provided we took the lower price, which was only a few thousand dollars less. i agreed to the concession. that cast-iron lamp-post so opportunely smashed gave us one of our most profitable contracts and, what is more, obtained for us the reputation of having taken the dubuque bridge against all competitors. it also laid the foundation for me of a lifelong, unbroken friendship with one of america's best and most valuable public men, senator allison. the moral of that story lies on the surface. if you want a contract, be on the spot when it is let. a smashed lamp-post or something equally unthought of may secure the prize if the bidder be on hand. and if possible stay on hand until you can take the written contract home in your pocket. this we did at dubuque, although it was suggested we could leave and it would be sent after us to execute. we preferred to remain, being anxious to see more of the charms of dubuque. after building the steubenville bridge, it became a necessity for the baltimore and ohio railroad company to build bridges across the ohio river at parkersburg and wheeling, to prevent their great rival, the pennsylvania railroad company, from possessing a decided advantage. the days of ferryboats were then fast passing away. it was in connection with the contracts for these bridges that i had the pleasure of making the acquaintance of a man, then of great position, mr. garrett, president of the baltimore and ohio. we were most anxious to secure both bridges and all the approaches to them, but i found mr. garrett decidedly of the opinion that we were quite unable to do so much work in the time specified. he wished to build the approaches and the short spans in his own shops, and asked me if we would permit him to use our patents. i replied that we would feel highly honored by the baltimore and ohio doing so. the stamp of approval of the baltimore and ohio railroad would be worth ten times the patent fees. he could use all, and everything, we had. there was no doubt as to the favorable impression that made upon the great railway magnate. he was much pleased and, to my utter surprise, took me into his private room and opened up a frank conversation upon matters in general. he touched especially upon his quarrels with the pennsylvania railroad people, with mr. thomson and mr. scott, the president and vice-president, whom he knew to be my special friends. this led me to say that i had passed through philadelphia on my way to see him and had been asked by mr. scott where i was going. "i told him that i was going to visit you to obtain the contracts for your great bridges over the ohio river. mr. scott said it was not often that i went on a fool's errand, but that i was certainly on one now; that mr. garrett would never think for a moment of giving me his contracts, for every one knew that i was, as a former employee, always friendly to the pennsylvania railroad. well, i said, we shall build mr. garrett's bridges." mr. garrett promptly replied that when the interests of his company were at stake it was the best always that won. his engineers had reported that our plans were the best and that scott and thomson would see that he had only one rule--the interests of his company. although he very well knew that i was a pennsylvania railroad man, yet he felt it his duty to award us the work. the negotiation was still unsatisfactory to me, because we were to get all the difficult part of the work--the great spans of which the risk was then considerable--while mr. garrett was to build all the small and profitable spans at his own shops upon our plans and patents. i ventured to ask whether he was dividing the work because he honestly believed we could not open his bridges for traffic as soon as his masonry would permit. he admitted he was. i told him that he need not have any fear upon that point. "mr. garrett," i said, "would you consider my personal bond a good security?" "certainly," he said. "well, now," i replied, "bind me! i know what i am doing. i will take the risk. how much of a bond do you want me to give you that your bridges will be opened for traffic at the specified time if you give us the entire contract, provided you get your masonry ready?" "well, i would want a hundred thousand dollars from you, young man." "all right," i said, "prepare your bond. give us the work. our firm is not going to let me lose a hundred thousand dollars. you know that." "yes," he said, "i believe if you are bound for a hundred thousand dollars your company will work day and night and i will get my bridges." this was the arrangement which gave us what were then the gigantic contracts of the baltimore and ohio railroad. it is needless to say that i never had to pay that bond. my partners knew much better than mr. garrett the conditions of his work. the ohio river was not to be trifled with, and long before his masonry was ready we had relieved ourselves from all responsibility upon the bond by placing the superstructure on the banks awaiting the completion of the substructure which he was still building. mr. garrett was very proud of his scottish blood, and burns having been once touched upon between us we became firm friends. he afterwards took me to his fine mansion in the country. he was one of the few americans who then lived in the grand style of a country gentleman, with many hundreds of acres of beautiful land, park-like drives, a stud of thoroughbred horses, with cattle, sheep, and dogs, and a home that realized what one had read of the country life of a nobleman in england. at a later date he had fully determined that his railroad company should engage in the manufacture of steel rails and had applied for the right to use the bessemer patents. this was a matter of great moment to us. the baltimore and ohio railroad company was one of our best customers, and we were naturally anxious to prevent the building of steel-rail rolling mills at cumberland. it would have been a losing enterprise for the baltimore and ohio, for i was sure it could buy its steel rails at a much cheaper rate than it could possibly make the small quantity needed for itself. i visited mr. garrett to talk the matter over with him. he was then much pleased with the foreign commerce and the lines of steamships which made baltimore their port. he drove me, accompanied by several of his staff, to the wharves where he was to decide about their extension, and as the foreign goods were being discharged from the steamship side and placed in the railway cars, he turned to me and said: "mr. carnegie, you can now begin to appreciate the magnitude of our vast system and understand why it is necessary that we should make everything for ourselves, even our steel rails. we cannot depend upon private concerns to supply us with any of the principal articles we consume. we shall be a world to ourselves." "well," i said, "mr. garrett, it is all very grand, but really your 'vast system' does not overwhelm me. i read your last annual report and saw that you collected last year for transporting the goods of others the sum of fourteen millions of dollars. the firms i control dug the material from the hills, made their own goods, and sold them to a much greater value than that. you are really a very small concern compared with carnegie brothers and company." my railroad apprenticeship came in there to advantage. we heard no more of the baltimore and ohio railroad company entering into competition with us. mr. garrett and i remained good friends to the end. he even presented me with a scotch collie dog of his own rearing. that i had been a pennsylvania railroad man was drowned in the "wee drap o' scotch bluid atween us." chapter x the iron works the keystone works have always been my pet as being the parent of all the other works. but they had not been long in existence before the advantage of wrought- over cast-iron became manifest. accordingly, to insure uniform quality, and also to make certain shapes which were not then to be obtained, we determined to embark in the manufacture of iron. my brother and i became interested with thomas n. miller, henry phipps, and andrew kloman in a small iron mill. miller was the first to embark with kloman and he brought phipps in, lending him eight hundred dollars to buy a one-sixth interest, in november, . i must not fail to record that mr. miller was the pioneer of our iron manufacturing projects. we were all indebted to tom, who still lives (july , ) and sheds upon us the sweetness and light of a most lovable nature, a friend who grows more precious as the years roll by. he has softened by age, and even his outbursts against theology as antagonistic to true religion are in his fine old age much less alarming. we are all prone to grow philosophic in age, and perhaps this is well. [in re-reading this--july , --in our retreat upon the high moors at aultnagar, i drop a tear for my bosom friend, dear tom miller, who died in pittsburgh last winter. mrs. carnegie and i attended his funeral. henceforth life lacks something, lacks much--my first partner in early years, my dearest friend in old age. may i go where he is, wherever that may be.] andrew kloman had a small steel-hammer in allegheny city. as a superintendent of the pennsylvania railroad i had found that he made the best axles. he was a great mechanic--one who had discovered, what was then unknown in pittsburgh, that whatever was worth doing with machinery was worth doing well. his german mind made him thorough. what he constructed cost enormously, but when once started it did the work it was intended to do from year's end to year's end. in those early days it was a question with axles generally whether they would run any specified time or break. there was no analysis of material, no scientific treatment of it. how much this german created! he was the first man to introduce the cold saw that cut cold iron the exact lengths. he invented upsetting machines to make bridge links, and also built the first "universal" mill in america. all these were erected at our works. when captain eads could not obtain the couplings for the st. louis bridge arches (the contractors failing to make them) and matters were at a standstill, kloman told us that he could make them and why the others had failed. he succeeded in making them. up to that date they were the largest semicircles that had ever been rolled. our confidence in mr. kloman may be judged from the fact that when he said he could make them we unhesitatingly contracted to furnish them. i have already spoken of the intimacy between our family and that of the phippses. in the early days my chief companion was the elder brother, john. henry was several years my junior, but had not failed to attract my attention as a bright, clever lad. one day he asked his brother john to lend him a quarter of a dollar. john saw that he had important use for it and handed him the shining quarter without inquiry. next morning an advertisement appeared in the "pittsburgh dispatch": "a willing boy wishes work." this was the use the energetic and willing harry had made of his quarter, probably the first quarter he had ever spent at one time in his life. a response came from the well-known firm of dilworth and bidwell. they asked the "willing boy" to call. harry went and obtained a position as errand boy, and as was then the custom, his first duty every morning was to sweep the office. he went to his parents and obtained their consent, and in this way the young lad launched himself upon the sea of business. there was no holding back a boy like that. it was the old story. he soon became indispensable to his employers, obtained a small interest in a collateral branch of their business; and then, ever on the alert, it was not many years before he attracted the attention of mr. miller, who made a small investment for him with andrew kloman. that finally resulted in the building of the iron mill in twenty-ninth street. he had been a schoolmate and great crony of my brother tom. as children they had played together, and throughout life, until my brother's death in , these two formed, as it were, a partnership within a partnership. they invariably held equal interests in the various firms with which they were connected. what one did the other did. the errand boy is now one of the richest men in the united states and has begun to prove that he knows how to expend his surplus. years ago he gave beautiful conservatories to the public parks of allegheny and pittsburgh. that he specified "that these should be open upon sunday" shows that he is a man of his time. this clause in the gift created much excitement. ministers denounced him from the pulpit and assemblies of the church passed resolutions declaring against the desecration of the lord's day. but the people rose, _en masse_, against this narrow-minded contention and the council of the city accepted the gift with acclamation. the sound common sense of my partner was well expressed when he said in reply to a remonstrance by ministers: "it is all very well for you, gentlemen, who work one day in the week and are masters of your time the other six during which you can view the beauties of nature--all very well for you--but i think it shameful that you should endeavor to shut out from the toiling masses all that is calculated to entertain and instruct them during the only day which you well know they have at their disposal." these same ministers have recently been quarreling in their convention at pittsburgh upon the subject of instrumental music in churches. but while they are debating whether it is right to have organs in churches, intelligent people are opening museums, conservatories, and libraries upon the sabbath; and unless the pulpit soon learns how to meet the real wants of the people in this life (where alone men's duties lie) much better than it is doing at present, these rival claimants for popular favor may soon empty their churches. unfortunately kloman and phipps soon differed with miller about the business and forced him out. being convinced that miller was unfairly treated, i united with him in building new works. these were the cyclops mills of . after they were set running it became possible, and therefore advisable, to unite the old and the new works, and the union iron mills were formed by their consolidation in . i did not believe that mr. miller's reluctance to associate again with his former partners, phipps and kloman, could not be overcome, because they would not control the union works. mr. miller, my brother, and i would hold the controlling interest. but mr. miller proved obdurate and begged me to buy his interest, which i reluctantly did after all efforts had failed to induce him to let bygones be bygones. he was irish, and the irish blood when aroused is uncontrollable. mr. miller has since regretted (to me) his refusal of my earnest request, which would have enabled the pioneer of all of us to reap what was only his rightful reward--millionairedom for himself and his followers. we were young in manufacturing then and obtained for the cyclops mills what was considered at the time an enormous extent of land--seven acres. for some years we offered to lease a portion of the ground to others. it soon became a question whether we could continue the manufacture of iron within so small an area. mr. kloman succeeded in making iron beams and for many years our mill was far in advance of any other in that respect. we began at the new mill by making all shapes which were required, and especially such as no other concern would undertake, depending upon an increasing demand in our growing country for things that were only rarely needed at first. what others could not or would not do we would attempt, and this was a rule of our business which was strictly adhered to. also we would make nothing except of excellent quality. we always accommodated our customers, even although at some expense to ourselves, and in cases of dispute we gave the other party the benefit of the doubt and settled. these were our rules. we had no lawsuits. as i became acquainted with the manufacture of iron i was greatly surprised to find that the cost of each of the various processes was unknown. inquiries made of the leading manufacturers of pittsburgh proved this. it was a lump business, and until stock was taken and the books balanced at the end of the year, the manufacturers were in total ignorance of results. i heard of men who thought their business at the end of the year would show a loss and had found a profit, and _vice-versa_. i felt as if we were moles burrowing in the dark, and this to me was intolerable. i insisted upon such a system of weighing and accounting being introduced throughout our works as would enable us to know what our cost was for each process and especially what each man was doing, who saved material, who wasted it, and who produced the best results. to arrive at this was a much more difficult task than one would imagine. every manager in the mills was naturally against the new system. years were required before an accurate system was obtained, but eventually, by the aid of many clerks and the introduction of weighing scales at various points in the mill, we began to know not only what every department was doing, but what each one of the many men working at the furnaces was doing, and thus to compare one with another. one of the chief sources of success in manufacturing is the introduction and strict maintenance of a perfect system of accounting so that responsibility for money or materials can be brought home to every man. owners who, in the office, would not trust a clerk with five dollars without having a check upon him, were supplying tons of material daily to men in the mills without exacting an account of their stewardship by weighing what each returned in the finished form. the siemens gas furnace had been used to some extent in great britain for heating steel and iron, but it was supposed to be too expensive. i well remember the criticisms made by older heads among the pittsburgh manufacturers about the extravagant expenditure we were making upon these new-fangled furnaces. but in the heating of great masses of material, almost half the waste could sometimes be saved by using the new furnaces. the expenditure would have been justified, even if it had been doubled. yet it was many years before we were followed in this new departure; and in some of those years the margin of profit was so small that the most of it was made up from the savings derived from the adoption of the improved furnaces. our strict system of accounting enabled us to detect the great waste possible in heating large masses of iron. this improvement revealed to us a valuable man in a clerk, william borntraeger, a distant relative of mr. kloman, who came from germany. he surprised us one day by presenting a detailed statement showing results for a period, which seemed incredible. all the needed labor in preparing this statement he had performed at night unasked and unknown to us. the form adapted was uniquely original. needless to say, william soon became superintendent of the works and later a partner, and the poor german lad died a millionaire. he well deserved his fortune. it was in that the great oil wells of pennsylvania attracted attention. my friend mr. william coleman, whose daughter became, at a later date, my sister-in-law, was deeply interested in the discovery, and nothing would do but that i should take a trip with him to the oil regions. it was a most interesting excursion. there had been a rush to the oil fields and the influx was so great that it was impossible for all to obtain shelter. this, however, to the class of men who flocked thither, was but a slight drawback. a few hours sufficed to knock up a shanty, and it was surprising in how short a time they were able to surround themselves with many of the comforts of life. they were men above the average, men who had saved considerable sums and were able to venture something in the search for fortune. what surprised me was the good humor which prevailed everywhere. it was a vast picnic, full of amusing incidents. everybody was in high glee; fortunes were supposedly within reach; everything was booming. on the tops of the derricks floated flags on which strange mottoes were displayed. i remember looking down toward the river and seeing two men working their treadles boring for oil upon the banks of the stream, and inscribed upon their flag was "hell or china." they were going down, no matter how far. the adaptability of the american was never better displayed than in this region. order was soon evolved out of chaos. when we visited the place not long after we were serenaded by a brass band the players of which were made up of the new inhabitants along the creek. it would be safe to wager that a thousand americans in a new land would organize themselves, establish schools, churches, newspapers, and brass bands--in short, provide themselves with all the appliances of civilization--and go ahead developing their country before an equal number of british would have discovered who among them was the highest in hereditary rank and had the best claims to leadership owing to his grandfather. there is but one rule among americans--the tools to those who can use them. to-day oil creek is a town of many thousand inhabitants, as is also titusville at the other end of the creek. the district which began by furnishing a few barrels of oil every season, gathered with blankets from the surface of the creek by the seneca indians, has now several towns and refineries, with millions of dollars of capital. in those early days all the arrangements were of the crudest character. when the oil was obtained it was run into flat-bottomed boats which leaked badly. water ran into the boats and the oil overflowed into the river. the creek was dammed at various places, and upon a stipulated day and hour the dams were opened and upon the flood the oil boats floated to the allegheny river, and thence to pittsburgh. in this way not only the creek, but the allegheny river, became literally covered with oil. the loss involved in transportation to pittsburgh was estimated at fully a third of the total quantity, and before the oil boats started it is safe to say that another third was lost by leakage. the oil gathered by the indians in the early days was bottled in pittsburgh and sold at high prices as medicine--a dollar for a small vial. it had general reputation as a sure cure for rheumatic tendencies. as it became plentiful and cheap its virtues vanished. what fools we mortals be! the most celebrated wells were upon the storey farm. upon these we obtained an option of purchase for forty thousand dollars. we bought them. mr. coleman, ever ready at suggestion, proposed to make a lake of oil by excavating a pool sufficient to hold a hundred thousand barrels (the waste to be made good every day by running streams of oil into it), and to hold it for the not far distant day when, as we then expected, the oil supply would cease. this was promptly acted upon, but after losing many thousands of barrels waiting for the expected day (which has not yet arrived) we abandoned the reserve. coleman predicted that when the supply stopped, oil would bring ten dollars a barrel and therefore we would have a million dollars worth in the lake. we did not think then of nature's storehouse below which still keeps on yielding many thousands of barrels per day without apparent exhaustion. this forty-thousand-dollar investment proved for us the best of all so far. the revenues from it came at the most opportune time.[ ] the building of the new mill in pittsburgh required not only all the capital we could gather, but the use of our credit, which i consider, looking backward, was remarkably good for young men. [footnote : the wells on the storey farm paid in one year a million dollars in cash and dividends, and the farm itself eventually became worth, on a stock basis, five million dollars.] having become interested in this oil venture, i made several excursions to the district and also, in , to an oil field in ohio where a great well had been struck which yielded a peculiar quality of oil well fitted for lubricating purposes. my journey thither with mr. coleman and mr. david ritchie was one of the strangest experiences i ever had. we left the railway line some hundreds of miles from pittsburgh and plunged through a sparsely inhabited district to the waters of duck creek to see the monster well. we bought it before leaving. it was upon our return that adventures began. the weather had been fine and the roads quite passable during our journey thither, but rain had set in during our stay. we started back in our wagon, but before going far fell into difficulties. the road had become a mass of soft, tenacious mud and our wagon labored fearfully. the rain fell in torrents, and it soon became evident that we were in for a night of it. mr. coleman lay at full length on one side of the wagon, and mr. ritchie on the other, and i, being then very thin, weighing not much more than a hundred pounds, was nicely sandwiched between the two portly gentlemen. every now and then the wagon proceeded a few feet heaving up and down in the most outrageous manner, and finally sticking fast. in this fashion we passed the night. there was in front a seat across the wagon, under which we got our heads, and in spite of our condition the night was spent in uproarious merriment. by the next night we succeeded in reaching a country town in the worst possible plight. we saw the little frame church of the town lighted and heard the bell ringing. we had just reached our tavern when a committee appeared stating that they had been waiting for us and that the congregation was assembled. it appears that a noted exhorter had been expected who had no doubt been delayed as we had been. i was taken for the absentee minister and asked how soon i would be ready to accompany them to the meeting-house. i was almost prepared with my companions to carry out the joke (we were in for fun), but i found i was too exhausted with fatigue to attempt it. i had never before come so near occupying a pulpit. my investments now began to require so much of my personal attention that i resolved to leave the service of the railway company and devote myself exclusively to my own affairs. i had been honored a short time before this decision by being called by president thomson to philadelphia. he desired to promote me to the office of assistant general superintendent with headquarters at altoona under mr. lewis. i declined, telling him that i had decided to give up the railroad service altogether, that i was determined to make a fortune and i saw no means of doing this honestly at any salary the railroad company could afford to give, and i would not do it by indirection. when i lay down at night i was going to get a verdict of approval from the highest of all tribunals, the judge within. i repeated this in my parting letter to president thomson, who warmly congratulated me upon it in his letter of reply. i resigned my position march , , and received from the men on the railway a gold watch. this and mr. thomson's letter i treasure among my most precious mementos. the following letter was written to the men on the division: pennsylvania railroad company superintendent's office, pittsburgh division pittsburgh, _march , _ to the officers and employees of the pittsburgh division gentlemen: i cannot allow my connection with you to cease without some expression of the deep regret felt at parting. twelve years of pleasant intercourse have served to inspire feelings of personal regard for those who have so faithfully labored with me in the service of the company. the coming change is painful only as i reflect that in consequence thereof i am not to be in the future, as in the past, intimately associated with you and with many others in the various departments, who have through business intercourse, become my personal friends. i assure you although the official relations hitherto existing between us must soon close, i can never fail to feel and evince the liveliest interest in the welfare of such as have been identified with the pittsburgh division in times past, and who are, i trust, for many years to come to contribute to the success of the pennsylvania railroad company, and share in its justly deserved prosperity. thanking you most sincerely for the uniform kindness shown toward me, for your zealous efforts made at all times to meet my wishes, and asking for my successor similar support at your hands, i bid you all farewell. very respectfully (signed) andrew carnegie thenceforth i never worked for a salary. a man must necessarily occupy a narrow field who is at the beck and call of others. even if he becomes president of a great corporation he is hardly his own master, unless he holds control of the stock. the ablest presidents are hampered by boards of directors and shareholders, who can know but little of the business. but i am glad to say that among my best friends to-day are those with whom i labored in the service of the pennsylvania railroad company. in the year , mr. phipps, mr. j.w. vandevort, and myself revisited europe, traveling extensively through england and scotland, and made the tour of the continent. "vandy" had become my closest companion. we had both been fired by reading bayard taylor's "views afoot." it was in the days of the oil excitement and shares were going up like rockets. one sunday, lying in the grass, i said to "vandy": "if you could make three thousand dollars would you spend it in a tour through europe with me?" "would a duck swim or an irishman eat potatoes?" was his reply. the sum was soon made in oil stock by the investment of a few hundred dollars which "vandy" had saved. this was the beginning of our excursion. we asked my partner, harry phipps, who was by this time quite a capitalist, to join the party. we visited most of the capitals of europe, and in all the enthusiasm of youth climbed every spire, slept on mountain-tops, and carried our luggage in knapsacks upon our backs. we ended our journey upon vesuvius, where we resolved some day to go around the world. this visit to europe proved most instructive. up to this time i had known nothing of painting or sculpture, but it was not long before i could classify the works of the great painters. one may not at the time justly appreciate the advantage he is receiving from examining the great masterpieces, but upon his return to america he will find himself unconsciously rejecting what before seemed truly beautiful, and judging productions which come before him by a new standard. that which is truly great has so impressed itself upon him that what is false or pretentious proves no longer attractive. my visit to europe also gave me my first great treat in music. the handel anniversary was then being celebrated at the crystal palace in london, and i had never up to that time, nor have i often since, felt the power and majesty of music in such high degree. what i heard at the crystal palace and what i subsequently heard on the continent in the cathedrals, and at the opera, certainly enlarged my appreciation of music. at rome the pope's choir and the celebrations in the churches at christmas and easter furnished, as it were, a grand climax to the whole. these visits to europe were also of great service in a commercial sense. one has to get out of the swirl of the great republic to form a just estimate of the velocity with which it spins. i felt that a manufacturing concern like ours could scarcely develop fast enough for the wants of the american people, but abroad nothing seemed to be going forward. if we excepted a few of the capitals of europe, everything on the continent seemed to be almost at a standstill, while the republic represented throughout its entire extent such a scene as there must have been at the tower of babel, as pictured in the story-books--hundreds rushing to and fro, each more active than his neighbor, and all engaged in constructing the mighty edifice. it was cousin "dod" (mr. george lauder) to whom we were indebted for a new development in our mill operations--the first of its kind in america. he it was who took our mr. coleman to wigan in england and explained the process of washing and coking the dross from coal mines. mr. coleman had constantly been telling us how grand it would be to utilize what was then being thrown away at our mines, and was indeed an expense to dispose of. our cousin "dod" was a mechanical engineer, educated under lord kelvin at glasgow university, and as he corroborated all that mr. coleman stated, in december, , i undertook to advance the capital to build works along the line of the pennsylvania railroad. contracts for ten years were made with the leading coal companies for their dross and with the railway companies for transportation, and mr. lauder, who came to pittsburgh and superintended the whole operation for years, began the construction of the first coal-washing machinery in america. he made a success of it--he never failed to do that in any mining or mechanical operation he undertook--and he soon cleared the cost of the works. no wonder that at a later date my partners desired to embrace the coke works in our general firm and thus capture not only these, but lauder also. "dod" had won his spurs. [illustration: george lauder] the ovens were extended from time to time until we had five hundred of them, washing nearly fifteen hundred tons of coal daily. i confess i never pass these coal ovens at larimer's station without feeling that if he who makes two blades of grass grow where one grew before is a public benefactor and lays the race under obligation, those who produce superior coke from material that has been for all previous years thrown over the bank as worthless, have great cause for self-congratulation. it is fine to make something out of nothing; it is also something to be the first firm to do this upon our continent. we had another valuable partner in a second cousin of mine, a son of cousin morrison of dunfermline. walking through the shops one day, the superintendent asked me if i knew i had a relative there who was proving an exceptional mechanic. i replied in the negative and asked that i might speak with him on our way around. we met. i asked his name. "morrison," was the reply, "son of robert"--my cousin bob. "well, how did you come here?" "i thought we could better ourselves," he said. "who have you with you?" "my wife," was the reply. "why didn't you come first to see your relative who might have been able to introduce you here?" "well, i didn't feel i needed help if i only got a chance." there spoke the true morrison, taught to depend on himself, and independent as lucifer. not long afterwards i heard of his promotion to the superintendency of our newly acquired works at duquesne, and from that position he steadily marched upward. he is to-day a blooming, but still sensible, millionaire. we are all proud of tom morrison. [a note received from him yesterday invites mrs. carnegie and myself to be his guests during our coming visit of a few days at the annual celebration of the carnegie institute.] i was always advising that our iron works should be extended and new developments made in connection with the manufacture of iron and steel, which i saw was only in its infancy. all apprehension of its future development was dispelled by the action of america with regard to the tariff upon foreign imports. it was clear to my mind that the civil war had resulted in a fixed determination upon the part of the american people to build a nation within itself, independent of europe in all things essential to its safety. america had been obliged to import all her steel of every form and most of the iron needed, britain being the chief seller. the people demanded a home supply and congress granted the manufacturers a tariff of twenty-eight per cent _ad valorem_ on steel rails--the tariff then being equal to about twenty-eight dollars per ton. rails were selling at about a hundred dollars per ton, and other rates in proportion. protection has played a great part in the development of manufacturing in the united states. previous to the civil war it was a party question, the south standing for free trade and regarding a tariff as favorable only to the north. the sympathy shown by the british government for the confederacy, culminating in the escape of the alabama and other privateers to prey upon american commerce, aroused hostility against that government, notwithstanding the majority of her common people favored the united states. the tariff became no longer a party question, but a national policy, approved by both parties. it had become a patriotic duty to develop vital resources. no less than ninety northern democrats in congress, including the speaker of the house, agreed upon that point. capital no longer hesitated to embark in manufacturing, confident as it was that the nation would protect it as long as necessary. years after the war, demands for a reduction of the tariff arose and it was my lot to be drawn into the controversy. it was often charged that bribery of congressmen by manufacturers was common. so far as i know there was no foundation for this. certainly the manufacturers never raised any sums beyond those needed to maintain the iron and steel association, a matter of a few thousand dollars per year. they did, however, subscribe freely to a campaign when the issue was protection _versus_ free trade. the duties upon steel were successively reduced, with my cordial support, until the twenty-eight dollars duty on rails became only one fourth or seven dollars per ton. [to-day ( ) the duty is only about one half of that, and even that should go in the next revision.] the effort of president cleveland to pass a more drastic new tariff was interesting. it cut too deep in many places and its passage would have injured more than one manufacture. i was called to washington, and tried to modify and, as i believe, improve, the wilson bill. senator gorman, democratic leader of the senate, governor flower of new york, and a number of the ablest democrats were as sound protectionists in moderation as i was. several of these were disposed to oppose the wilson bill as being unnecessarily severe and certain to cripple some of our domestic industries. senator gorman said to me he wished as little as i did to injure any home producer, and he thought his colleagues had confidence in and would be guided by me as to iron and steel rates, provided that large reductions were made and that the republican senators would stand unitedly for a bill of that character. i remember his words, "i can afford to fight the president and beat him, but i can't afford to fight him and be beaten." governor flower shared these views. there was little trouble in getting our party to agree to the large reductions i proposed. the wilson-gorman tariff bill was adopted. meeting senator gorman later, he explained that he had to give way on cotton ties to secure several southern senators. cotton ties had to be free. so tariff legislation goes. i was not sufficiently prominent in manufacturing to take part in getting the tariff established immediately after the war, so it happened that my part has always been to favor reduction of duties, opposing extremes--the unreasonable protectionists who consider the higher the duties the better and declaim against any reduction, and the other extremists who denounce all duties and would adopt unrestrained free trade. we could now ( ) abolish all duties upon steel and iron without injury, essential as these duties were at the beginning. europe has not much surplus production, so that should prices rise exorbitantly here only a small amount could be drawn from there and this would instantly raise prices in europe, so that our home manufacturers could not be seriously affected. free trade would only tend to prevent exorbitant prices here for a time when the demand was excessive. home iron and steel manufacturers have nothing to fear from free trade. [i recently ( ) stated this in evidence before the tariff commission at washington.] chapter xi new york as headquarters our business continued to expand and required frequent visits on my part to the east, especially to new york, which is as london to britain--the headquarters of all really important enterprises in america. no large concern could very well get on without being represented there. my brother and mr. phipps had full grasp of the business at pittsburgh. my field appeared to be to direct the general policy of the companies and negotiate the important contracts. my brother had been so fortunate as to marry miss lucy coleman, daughter of one of our most valued partners and friends. our family residence at homewood was given over to him, and i was once more compelled to break old associations and leave pittsburgh in to take up my residence in new york. the change was hard enough for me, but much harder for my mother; but she was still in the prime of life and we could be happy anywhere so long as we were together. still she did feel the leaving of our home very much. we were perfect strangers in new york, and at first took up our quarters in the st. nicholas hotel, then in its glory. i opened an office in broad street. for some time the pittsburgh friends who came to new york were our chief source of happiness, and the pittsburgh papers seemed necessary to our existence. i made frequent visits there and my mother often accompanied me, so that our connection with the old home was still maintained. but after a time new friendships were formed and new interests awakened and new york began to be called home. when the proprietors of the st. nicholas opened the windsor hotel uptown, we took up our residence there and up to the year that was our new york home. mr. hawk, the proprietor, became one of our valued friends and his nephew and namesake still remains so. among the educative influences from which i derived great advantage in new york, none ranks higher than the nineteenth century club organized by mr. and mrs. courtlandt palmer. the club met at their house once a month for the discussion of various topics and soon attracted many able men and women. it was to madame botta i owed my election to membership--a remarkable woman, wife of professor botta, whose drawing-room became more of a salon than any in the city, if indeed it were not the only one resembling a salon at that time. i was honored by an invitation one day to dine at the bottas' and there met for the first time several distinguished people, among them one who became my lifelong friend and wise counselor, andrew d. white, then president of cornell university, afterwards ambassador to russia and germany, and our chief delegate to the hague conference. here in the nineteenth century club was an arena, indeed. able men and women discussed the leading topics of the day in due form, addressing the audience one after another. the gatherings soon became too large for a private room. the monthly meetings were then held in the american art galleries. i remember the first evening i took part as one of the speakers the subject was "the aristocracy of the dollar." colonel thomas wentworth higginson was the first speaker. this was my introduction to a new york audience. thereafter i spoke now and then. it was excellent training, for one had to read and study for each appearance. i had lived long enough in pittsburgh to acquire the manufacturing, as distinguished from the speculative, spirit. my knowledge of affairs, derived from my position as telegraph operator, had enabled me to know the few pittsburgh men or firms which then had dealings upon the new york stock exchange, and i watched their careers with deep interest. to me their operations seemed simply a species of gambling. i did not then know that the credit of all these men or firms was seriously impaired by the knowledge (which it is almost impossible to conceal) that they were given to speculation. but the firms were then so few that i could have counted them on the fingers of one hand. the oil and stock exchanges in pittsburgh had not as yet been founded and brokers' offices with wires in connection with the stock exchanges of the east were unnecessary. pittsburgh was emphatically a manufacturing town. i was surprised to find how very different was the state of affairs in new york. there were few even of the business men who had not their ventures in wall street to a greater or less extent. i was besieged with inquiries from all quarters in regard to the various railway enterprises with which i was connected. offers were made to me by persons who were willing to furnish capital for investment and allow me to manage it--the supposition being that from the inside view which i was enabled to obtain i could invest for them successfully. invitations were extended to me to join parties who intended quietly to buy up the control of certain properties. in fact the whole speculative field was laid out before me in its most seductive guise. all these allurements i declined. the most notable offer of this kind i ever received was one morning in the windsor hotel soon after my removal to new york. jay gould, then in the height of his career, approached me and said he had heard of me and he would purchase control of the pennsylvania railroad company and give me one half of all profits if i would agree to devote myself to its management. i thanked him and said that, although mr. scott and i had parted company in business matters, i would never raise my hand against him. subsequently mr. scott told me he had heard i had been selected by new york interests to succeed him. i do not know how he had learned this, as i had never mentioned it. i was able to reassure him by saying that the only railroad company i would be president of would be one i owned. strange what changes the whirligig of time brings in. it was my part one morning in , some thirty years afterwards, to tell the son of mr. gould of his father's offer and to say to him: "your father offered me control of the great pennsylvania system. now i offer his son in return the control of an international line from ocean to ocean." the son and i agreed upon the first step--that was the bringing of his wabash line to pittsburgh. this was successfully done under a contract given the wabash of one third of the traffic of our steel company. we were about to take up the eastern extension from pittsburgh to the atlantic when mr. morgan approached me in march, , through mr. schwab, and asked if i really wished to retire from business. i answered in the affirmative and that put an end to our railway operations. i have never bought or sold a share of stock speculatively in my life, except one small lot of pennsylvania railroad shares that i bought early in life for investment and for which i did not pay at the time because bankers offered to carry it for me at a low rate. i have adhered to the rule never to purchase what i did not pay for, and never to sell what i did not own. in those early days, however, i had several interests that were taken over in the course of business. they included some stocks and securities that were quoted on the new york stock exchange, and i found that when i opened my paper in the morning i was tempted to look first at the quotations of the stock market. as i had determined to sell all my interests in every outside concern and concentrate my attention upon our manufacturing concerns in pittsburgh, i further resolved not even to own any stock that was bought and sold upon any stock exchange. with the exception of trifling amounts which came to me in various ways i have adhered strictly to this rule. such a course should commend itself to every man in the manufacturing business and to all professional men. for the manufacturing man especially the rule would seem all-important. his mind must be kept calm and free if he is to decide wisely the problems which are continually coming before him. nothing tells in the long run like good judgment, and no sound judgment can remain with the man whose mind is disturbed by the mercurial changes of the stock exchange. it places him under an influence akin to intoxication. what is not, he sees, and what he sees, is not. he cannot judge of relative values or get the true perspective of things. the molehill seems to him a mountain and the mountain a molehill, and he jumps at conclusions which he should arrive at by reason. his mind is upon the stock quotations and not upon the points that require calm thought. speculation is a parasite feeding upon values, creating none. my first important enterprise after settling in new york was undertaking to build a bridge across the mississippi at keokuk.[ ] mr. thomson, president of the pennsylvania railroad, and i contracted for the whole structure, foundation, masonry, and superstructure, taking bonds and stocks in payment. the undertaking was a splendid success in every respect, except financially. a panic threw the connecting railways into bankruptcy. they were unable to pay the stipulated sums. rival systems built a bridge across the mississippi at burlington and a railway down the west side of the mississippi to keokuk. the handsome profits which we saw in prospect were never realized. mr. thomson and myself, however, escaped loss, although there was little margin left. [footnote : it was an iron bridge feet in length with a -foot span.] the superstructure for this bridge was built at our keystone works in pittsburgh. the undertaking required me to visit keokuk occasionally, and there i made the acquaintance of clever and delightful people, among them general and mrs. reid, and mr. and mrs. leighton. visiting keokuk with some english friends at a later date, the impression they received of society in the far west, on what to them seemed the very outskirts of civilization, was surprising. a reception given to us one evening by general reid brought together an assembly creditable to any town in britain. more than one of the guests had distinguished himself during the war and had risen to prominence in the national councils. the reputation obtained in the building of the keokuk bridge led to my being applied to by those who were in charge of the scheme for bridging the mississippi at st. louis, to which i have already referred. this was connected with my first large financial transaction. one day in the gentleman in charge of the enterprise, mr. macpherson (he was very scotch), called at my new york office and said they were trying to raise capital to build the bridge. he wished to know if i could not enlist some of the eastern railroad companies in the scheme. after careful examination of the project i made the contract for the construction of the bridge on behalf of the keystone bridge works. i also obtained an option upon four million dollars of first mortgage bonds of the bridge company and set out for london in march, , to negotiate their sale. during the voyage i prepared a prospectus which i had printed upon my arrival in london, and, having upon my previous visit made the acquaintance of junius s. morgan, the great banker, i called upon him one morning and opened negotiations. i left with him a copy of the prospectus, and upon calling next day was delighted to find that mr. morgan viewed the matter favorably. i sold him part of the bonds with the option to take the remainder; but when his lawyers were called in for advice a score of changes were required in the wording of the bonds. mr. morgan said to me that as i was going to scotland i had better go now; i could write the parties in st. louis and ascertain whether they would agree to the changes proposed. it would be time enough, he said, to close the matter upon my return three weeks hence. but i had no idea of allowing the fish to play so long, and informed him that i would have a telegram in the morning agreeing to all the changes. the atlantic cable had been open for some time, but it is doubtful if it had yet carried so long a private cable as i sent that day. it was an easy matter to number the lines of the bond and then going carefully over them to state what changes, omissions, or additions were required in each line. i showed mr. morgan the message before sending it and he said: "well, young man, if you succeed in that you deserve a red mark." when i entered the office next morning, i found on the desk that had been appropriated to my use in mr. morgan's private office the colored envelope which contained the answer. there it was: "board meeting last night; changes all approved." "now, mr. morgan," i said, "we can proceed, assuming that the bond is as your lawyers desire." the papers were soon closed. [illustration: junius spencer morgan] while i was in the office mr. sampson, the financial editor of "the times," came in. i had an interview with him, well knowing that a few words from him would go far in lifting the price of the bonds on the exchange. american securities had recently been fiercely attacked, owing to the proceedings of fisk and gould in connection with the erie railway company, and their control of the judges in new york, who seemed to do their bidding. i knew this would be handed out as an objection, and therefore i met it at once. i called mr. sampson's attention to the fact that the charter of the st. louis bridge company was from the national government. in case of necessity appeal lay directly to the supreme court of the united states, a body vying with their own high tribunals. he said he would be delighted to give prominence to this commendable feature. i described the bridge as a toll-gate on the continental highway and this appeared to please him. it was all plain and easy sailing, and when he left the office, mr. morgan clapped me on the shoulder and said: "thank you, young man; you have raised the price of those bonds five per cent this morning." "all right, mr. morgan," i replied; "now show me how i can raise them five per cent more for you." the issue was a great success, and the money for the st. louis bridge was obtained. i had a considerable margin of profit upon the negotiation. this was my first financial negotiation with the bankers of europe. mr. pullman told me a few days later that mr. morgan at a dinner party had told the telegraphic incident and predicted, "that young man will be heard from." after closing with mr. morgan, i visited my native town, dunfermline, and at that time made the town a gift of public baths. it is notable largely because it was the first considerable gift i had ever made. long before that i had, at my uncle lauder's suggestion, sent a subscription to the fund for the wallace monument on stirling heights overlooking bannockburn. it was not much, but i was then in the telegraph office and it was considerable out of a revenue of thirty dollars per month with family expenses staring us in the face. mother did not grudge it; on the contrary, she was a very proud woman that her son's name was seen on the list of contributors, and her son felt he was really beginning to be something of a man. years afterward my mother and i visited stirling, and there unveiled, in the wallace tower, a bust of sir walter scott, which she had presented to the monument committee. we had then made great progress, at least financially, since the early subscription. but distribution had not yet begun.[ ] so far with me it had been the age of accumulation. [footnote : the ambitions of mr. carnegie at this time ( ) are set forth in the following memorandum made by him. it has only recently come to light: _st. nicholas hotel, new york, december, _ thirty-three and an income of $ , per annum! by this time two years i can so arrange all my business as to secure at least $ , per annum. beyond this never earn--make no effort to increase fortune, but spend the surplus each year for benevolent purposes. cast aside business forever, except for others. settle in oxford and get a thorough education, making the acquaintance of literary men--this will take three years' active work--pay especial attention to speaking in public. settle then in london and purchase a controlling interest in some newspaper or live review and give the general management of it attention, taking a part in public matters, especially those connected with education and improvement of the poorer classes. man must have an idol--the amassing of wealth is one of the worst species of idolatry--no idol more debasing than the worship of money. whatever i engage in i must push inordinately; therefore should i be careful to choose that life which will be the most elevating in its character. to continue much longer overwhelmed by business cares and with most of my thoughts wholly upon the way to make more money in the shortest time, must degrade me beyond hope of permanent recovery. i will resign business at thirty-five, but during the ensuing two years i wish to spend the afternoons in receiving instruction and in reading systematically.] while visiting the continent of europe in and deeply interested in what i saw, it must not be thought that my mind was not upon affairs at home. frequent letters kept me advised of business matters. the question of railway communication with the pacific had been brought to the front by the civil war, and congress had passed an act to encourage the construction of a line. the first sod had just been cut at omaha and it was intended that the line should ultimately be pushed through to san francisco. one day while in rome it struck me that this might be done much sooner than was then anticipated. the nation, having made up its mind that its territory must be bound together, might be trusted to see that no time was lost in accomplishing it. i wrote my friend mr. scott, suggesting that we should obtain the contract to place sleeping-cars upon the great california line. his reply contained these words: "well, young man, you do take time by the forelock." nevertheless, upon my return to america. i pursued the idea. the sleeping-car business, in which i was interested, had gone on increasing so rapidly that it was impossible to obtain cars enough to supply the demand. this very fact led to the forming of the present pullman company. the central transportation company was simply unable to cover the territory with sufficient rapidity, and mr. pullman beginning at the greatest of all railway centers in the world--chicago--soon rivaled the parent concern. he had also seen that the pacific railroad would be the great sleeping-car line of the world, and i found him working for what i had started after. he was, indeed, a lion in the path. again, one may learn, from an incident which i had from mr. pullman himself, by what trifles important matters are sometimes determined. the president of the union pacific railway was passing through chicago. mr. pullman called upon him and was shown into his room. lying upon the table was a telegram addressed to mr. scott, saying, "your proposition for sleeping-cars is accepted." mr. pullman read this involuntarily and before he had time to refrain. he could not help seeing it where it lay. when president durrant entered the room he explained this to him and said: "i trust you will not decide this matter until i have made a proposition to you." mr. durrant promised to wait. a meeting of the board of directors of the union pacific company was held soon after this in new york. mr. pullman and myself were in attendance, both striving to obtain the prize which neither he nor i undervalued. one evening we began to mount the broad staircase in the st. nicholas hotel at the same time. we had met before, but were not well acquainted. i said, however, as we walked up the stairs: "good-evening, mr. pullman! here we are together, and are we not making a nice couple of fools of ourselves?" he was not disposed to admit anything and said: "what do you mean?" i explained the situation to him. we were destroying by our rival propositions the very advantages we desired to obtain. "well," he said, "what do you propose to do about it?" "unite," i said. "make a joint proposition to the union pacific, your party and mine, and organize a company." "what would you call it?" he asked. "the pullman palace car company," i replied. this suited him exactly; and it suited me equally well. "come into my room and talk it over," said the great sleeping-car man. i did so, and the result was that we obtained the contract jointly. our company was subsequently merged in the general pullman company and we took stock in that company for our pacific interests. until compelled to sell my shares during the subsequent financial panic of to protect our iron and steel interests, i was, i believe, the largest shareholder in the pullman company. this man pullman and his career are so thoroughly american that a few words about him will not be out of place. mr. pullman was at first a working carpenter, but when chicago had to be elevated he took a contract on his own account to move or elevate houses for a stipulated sum. of course he was successful, and from this small beginning he became one of the principal and best-known contractors in that line. if a great hotel was to be raised ten feet without disturbing its hundreds of guests or interfering in any way with its business, mr. pullman was the man. he was one of those rare characters who can see the drift of things, and was always to be found, so to speak, swimming in the main current where movement was the fastest. he soon saw, as i did, that the sleeping-car was a positive necessity upon the american continent. he began to construct a few cars at chicago and to obtain contracts upon the lines centering there. the eastern concern was in no condition to cope with that of an extraordinary man like mr. pullman. i soon recognized this, and although the original patents were with the eastern company and mr. woodruff himself, the original patentee, was a large shareholder, and although we might have obtained damages for infringement of patent after some years of litigation, yet the time lost before this could be done would have been sufficient to make pullman's the great company of the country. i therefore earnestly advocated that we should unite with mr. pullman, as i had united with him before in the union pacific contract. as the personal relations between mr. pullman and some members of the eastern company were unsatisfactory, it was deemed best that i should undertake the negotiations, being upon friendly footing with both parties. we soon agreed that the pullman company should absorb our company, the central transportation company, and by this means mr. pullman, instead of being confined to the west, obtained control of the rights on the great pennsylvania trunk line to the atlantic seaboard. this placed his company beyond all possible rivals. mr. pullman was one of the ablest men of affairs i have ever known, and i am indebted to him, among other things, for one story which carried a moral. mr. pullman, like every other man, had his difficulties and disappointments, and did not hit the mark every time. no one does. indeed, i do not know any one but himself who could have surmounted the difficulties surrounding the business of running sleeping-cars in a satisfactory manner and still retained some rights which the railway companies were bound to respect. railway companies should, of course, operate their own sleeping-cars. on one occasion when we were comparing notes he told me that he always found comfort in this story. an old man in a western county having suffered from all the ills that flesh is heir to, and a great many more than it usually encounters, and being commiserated by his neighbors, replied: "yes, my friends, all that you say is true. i have had a long, long life full of troubles, but there is one curious fact about them--nine tenths of them never happened." true indeed; most of the troubles of humanity are imaginary and should be laughed out of court. it is folly to cross a bridge until you come to it, or to bid the devil good-morning until you meet him--perfect folly. all is well until the stroke falls, and even then nine times out of ten it is not so bad as anticipated. a wise man is the confirmed optimist. success in these various negotiations had brought me into some notice in new york, and my next large operation was in connection with the union pacific railway in . one of its directors came to me saying that they must raise in some way a sum of six hundred thousand dollars (equal to many millions to-day) to carry them through a crisis; and some friends who knew me and were on the executive committee of that road had suggested that i might be able to obtain the money and at the same time get for the pennsylvania railroad company virtual control of that important western line. i believe mr. pullman came with the director, or perhaps it was mr. pullman himself who first came to me on the subject. i took up the matter, and it occurred to me that if the directors of the union pacific railway would be willing to elect to its board of directors a few such men as the pennsylvania railroad would nominate, the traffic to be thus obtained for the pennsylvania would justify that company in helping the union pacific. i went to philadelphia and laid the subject before president thomson. i suggested that if the pennsylvania railroad company would trust me with securities upon which the union pacific could borrow money in new york, we could control the union pacific in the interests of the pennsylvania. among many marks of mr. thomson's confidence this was up to that time the greatest. he was much more conservative when handling the money of the railroad company than his own, but the prize offered was too great to be missed. even if the six hundred thousand dollars had been lost, it would not have been a losing investment for his company, and there was little danger of this because we were ready to hand over to him the securities which we obtained in return for the loan to the union pacific. my interview with mr. thomson took place at his house in philadelphia, and as i rose to go he laid his hand upon my shoulder, saying: "remember, andy, i look to you in this matter. it is you i trust, and i depend on your holding all the securities you obtain and seeing that the pennsylvania railroad is never in a position where it can lose a dollar." i accepted the responsibility, and the result was a triumphant success. the union pacific company was exceedingly anxious that mr. thomson himself should take the presidency, but this he said was out of the question. he nominated mr. thomas a. scott, vice-president of the pennsylvania railroad, for the position. mr. scott, mr. pullman, and myself were accordingly elected directors of the union pacific railway company in . the securities obtained for the loan consisted of three millions of the shares of the union pacific, which were locked in my safe, with the option of taking them at a price. as was to be expected, the accession of the pennsylvania railroad party rendered the stock of the union pacific infinitely more valuable. the shares advanced enormously. at this time i undertook to negotiate bonds in london for a bridge to cross the missouri at omaha, and while i was absent upon this business mr. scott decided to sell our union pacific shares. i had left instructions with my secretary that mr. scott, as one of the partners in the venture, should have access to the vault, as it might be necessary in my absence that the securities should be within reach of some one; but the idea that these should be sold, or that our party should lose the splendid position we had acquired in connection with the union pacific, never entered my brain. i returned to find that, instead of being a trusted colleague of the union pacific directors, i was regarded as having used them for speculative purposes. no quartet of men ever had a finer opportunity for identifying themselves with a great work than we had; and never was an opportunity more recklessly thrown away. mr. pullman was ignorant of the matter and as indignant as myself, and i believe that he at once re-invested his profits in the shares of the union pacific. i felt that much as i wished to do this and to repudiate what had been done, it would be unbecoming and perhaps ungrateful in me to separate myself so distinctly from my first of friends, mr. scott. at the first opportunity we were ignominiously but deservedly expelled from the union pacific board. it was a bitter dose for a young man to swallow. and the transaction marked my first serious difference with a man who up to that time had the greatest influence with me, the kind and affectionate employer of my boyhood, thomas a. scott. mr. thomson regretted the matter, but, as he said, having paid no attention to it and having left the whole control of it in the hands of mr. scott and myself, he presumed that i had thought best to sell out. for a time i feared i had lost a valued friend in levi p. morton, of morton, bliss & co., who was interested in union pacific, but at last he found out that i was innocent. the negotiations concerning two and a half millions of bonds for the construction of the omaha bridge were successful, and as these bonds had been purchased by persons connected with the union pacific before i had anything to do with the company, it was for them and not for the union pacific company that the negotiations were conducted. this was not explained to me by the director who talked with me before i left for london. unfortunately, when i returned to new york i found that the entire proceeds of the bonds, including my profit, had been appropriated by the parties to pay their own debts, and i was thus beaten out of a handsome sum, and had to credit to profit and loss my expenses and time. i had never before been cheated and found it out so positively and so clearly. i saw that i was still young and had a good deal to learn. many men can be trusted, but a few need watching. chapter xii business negotiations complete success attended a negotiation which i conducted about this time for colonel william phillips, president of the allegheny valley railway at pittsburgh. one day the colonel entered my new york office and told me that he needed money badly, but that he could get no house in america to entertain the idea of purchasing five millions of bonds of his company although they were to be guaranteed by the pennsylvania railroad company. the old gentleman felt sure that he was being driven from pillar to post by the bankers because they had agreed among themselves to purchase the bonds only upon their own terms. he asked ninety cents on the dollar for them, but this the bankers considered preposterously high. those were the days when western railway bonds were often sold to the bankers at eighty cents on the dollar. colonel phillips said he had come to see whether i could not suggest some way out of his difficulty. he had pressing need for two hundred and fifty thousand dollars, and this mr. thomson, of the pennsylvania railroad, could not give him. the allegheny bonds were seven per cents, but they were payable, not in gold, but in currency, in america. they were therefore wholly unsuited for the foreign market. but i knew that the pennsylvania railroad company had a large amount of philadelphia and erie railroad six per cent gold bonds in its treasury. it would be a most desirable exchange on its part, i thought, to give these bonds for the seven per cent allegheny bonds which bore its guarantee. i telegraphed mr. thomson, asking if the pennsylvania railroad company would take two hundred and fifty thousand dollars at interest and lend it to the allegheny railway company. mr. thomson replied, "certainly." colonel phillips was happy. he agreed, in consideration of my services, to give me a sixty-days option to take his five millions of bonds at the desired ninety cents on the dollar. i laid the matter before mr. thomson and suggested an exchange, which that company was only too glad to make, as it saved one per cent interest on the bonds. i sailed at once for london with the control of five millions of first mortgage philadelphia and erie bonds, guaranteed by the pennsylvania railroad company--a magnificent security for which i wanted a high price. and here comes in one of the greatest of the hits and misses of my financial life. i wrote the barings from queenstown that i had for sale a security which even their house might unhesitatingly consider. on my arrival in london i found at the hotel a note from them requesting me to call. i did so the next morning, and before i had left their banking house i had closed an agreement by which they were to bring out this loan, and that until they sold the bonds at par, less their two and a half per cent commission, they would advance the pennsylvania railroad company four millions of dollars at five per cent interest. the sale left me a clear profit of more than half a million dollars. the papers were ordered to be drawn up, but as i was leaving mr. russell sturgis said they had just heard that mr. baring himself was coming up to town in the morning. they had arranged to hold a "court," and as it would be fitting to lay the transaction before him as a matter of courtesy they would postpone the signing of the papers until the morrow. if i would call at two o'clock the transaction would be closed. never shall i forget the oppressed feeling which overcame me as i stepped out and proceeded to the telegraph office to wire president thomson. something told me that i ought not to do so. i would wait till to-morrow when i had the contract in my pocket. i walked from the banking house to the langham hotel--four long miles. when i reached there i found a messenger waiting breathless to hand me a sealed note from the barings. bismarck had locked up a hundred millions in magdeburg. the financial world was panic-stricken, and the barings begged to say that under the circumstances they could not propose to mr. baring to go on with the matter. there was as much chance that i should be struck by lightning on my way home as that an arrangement agreed to by the barings should be broken. and yet it was. it was too great a blow to produce anything like irritation or indignation. i was meek enough to be quite resigned, and merely congratulated myself that i had not telegraphed mr. thomson. i decided not to return to the barings, and although j.s. morgan & co. had been bringing out a great many american securities i subsequently sold the bonds to them at a reduced price as compared with that agreed to by the barings. i thought it best not to go to morgan & co. at first, because i had understood from colonel phillips that the bonds had been unsuccessfully offered by him to their house in america and i supposed that the morgans in london might consider themselves connected with the negotiations through their house in new york. but in all subsequent negotiations i made it a rule to give the first offer to junius s. morgan, who seldom permitted me to leave his banking house without taking what i had to offer. if he could not buy for his own house, he placed me in communication with a friendly house that did, he taking an interest in the issue. it is a great satisfaction to reflect that i never negotiated a security which did not to the end command a premium. of course in this case i made a mistake in not returning to the barings, giving them time and letting the panic subside, which it soon did. when one party to a bargain becomes excited, the other should keep cool and patient. as an incident of my financial operations i remember saying to mr. morgan one day: "mr. morgan, i will give you an idea and help you to carry it forward if you will give me one quarter of all the money you make by acting upon it." he laughingly said: "that seems fair, and as i have the option to act upon it, or not, certainly we ought to be willing to pay you a quarter of the profit." i called attention to the fact that the allegheny valley railway bonds which i had exchanged for the philadelphia and erie bonds bore the guarantee of the pennsylvania railroad company, and that that great company was always in need of money for essential extensions. a price might be offered for these bonds which might tempt the company to sell them, and that at the moment there appeared to be such a demand for american securities that no doubt they could be floated. i would write a prospectus which i thought would float the bonds. after examining the matter with his usual care he decided that he would act upon my suggestion. mr. thomson was then in paris and i ran over there to see him. knowing that the pennsylvania railroad had need for money i told him that i had recommended these securities to mr. morgan and if he would give me a price for them i would see if i could not sell them. he named a price which was then very high, but less than the price which these bonds have since reached. mr. morgan purchased part of them with the right to buy others, and in this way the whole nine or ten millions of allegheny bonds were marketed and the pennsylvania railroad company placed in funds. the sale of the bonds had not gone very far when the panic of was upon us. one of the sources of revenue which i then had was mr. pierpont morgan. he said to me one day: "my father has cabled to ask whether you wish to sell out your interest in that idea you gave him." i said: "yes, i do. in these days i will sell anything for money." "well," he said, "what would you take?" i said i believed that a statement recently rendered to me showed that there were already fifty thousand dollars to my credit, and i would take sixty thousand. next morning when i called mr. morgan handed me checks for seventy thousand dollars. "mr. carnegie," he said, "you were mistaken. you sold out for ten thousand dollars less than the statement showed to your credit. it now shows not fifty but sixty thousand to your credit, and the additional ten makes seventy." the payments were in two checks, one for sixty thousand dollars and the other for the additional ten thousand. i handed him back the ten-thousand-dollar check, saying: "well, that is something worthy of you. will you please accept these ten thousand with my best wishes?" "no, thank you," he said, "i cannot do that." such acts, showing a nice sense of honorable understanding as against mere legal rights, are not so uncommon in business as the uninitiated might believe. and, after that, it is not to be wondered at if i determined that so far as lay in my power neither morgan, father or son, nor their house, should suffer through me. they had in me henceforth a firm friend. [illustration: john pierpont morgan] a great business is seldom if ever built up, except on lines of the strictest integrity. a reputation for "cuteness" and sharp dealing is fatal in great affairs. not the letter of the law, but the spirit, must be the rule. the standard of commercial morality is now very high. a mistake made by any one in favor of the firm is corrected as promptly as if the error were in favor of the other party. it is essential to permanent success that a house should obtain a reputation for being governed by what is fair rather than what is merely legal. a rule which we adopted and adhered to has given greater returns than one would believe possible, namely: always give the other party the benefit of the doubt. this, of course, does not apply to the speculative class. an entirely different atmosphere pervades that world. men are only gamblers there. stock gambling and honorable business are incompatible. in recent years it must be admitted that the old-fashioned "banker," like junius s. morgan of london, has become rare. soon after being deposed as president of the union pacific, mr. scott[ ] resolved upon the construction of the texas pacific railway. he telegraphed me one day in new york to meet him at philadelphia without fail. i met him there with several other friends, among them mr. j.n. mccullough, vice-president of the pennsylvania railroad company at pittsburgh. a large loan for the texas pacific had fallen due in london and its renewal was agreed to by morgan & co., provided i would join the other parties to the loan. i declined. i was then asked whether i would bring them all to ruin by refusing to stand by my friends. it was one of the most trying moments of my whole life. yet i was not tempted for a moment to entertain the idea of involving myself. the question of what was my duty came first and prevented that. all my capital was in manufacturing and every dollar of it was required. i was the capitalist (then a modest one, indeed) of our concern. all depended upon me. my brother with his wife and family, mr. phipps and his family, mr. kloman and his family, all rose up before me and claimed protection. [footnote : colonel thomas a. scott left the union pacific in . the same year he became president of the texas pacific, and in president of the pennsylvania.] i told mr. scott that i had done my best to prevent him from beginning to construct a great railway before he had secured the necessary capital. i had insisted that thousands of miles of railway lines could not be constructed by means of temporary loans. besides, i had paid two hundred and fifty thousand dollars cash for an interest in it, which he told me upon my return from europe he had reserved for me, although i had never approved the scheme. but nothing in the world would ever induce me to be guilty of endorsing the paper of that construction company or of any other concern than our own firm. i knew that it would be impossible for me to pay the morgan loan in sixty days, or even to pay my proportion of it. besides, it was not that loan by itself, but the half-dozen other loans that would be required thereafter that had to be considered. this marked another step in the total business separation which had to come between mr. scott and myself. it gave more pain than all the financial trials to which i had been subjected up to that time. it was not long after this meeting that the disaster came and the country was startled by the failure of those whom it had regarded as its strongest men. i fear mr. scott's premature death[ ] can measurably be attributed to the humiliation which he had to bear. he was a sensitive rather than a proud man, and his seemingly impending failure cut him to the quick. mr. mcmanus and mr. baird, partners in the enterprise, also soon passed away. these two men were manufacturers like myself and in no position to engage in railway construction. [footnote : died may , .] the business man has no rock more dangerous to encounter in his career than this very one of endorsing commercial paper. it can easily be avoided if he asks himself two questions: have i surplus means for all possible requirements which will enable me to pay without inconvenience the utmost sum for which i am liable under this endorsement? secondly: am i willing to lose this sum for the friend for whom i endorse? if these two questions can be answered in the affirmative he may be permitted to oblige his friend, but not otherwise, if he be a wise man. and if he can answer the first question in the affirmative it will be well for him to consider whether it would not be better then and there to pay the entire sum for which his name is asked. i am sure it would be. a man's means are a trust to be sacredly held for his own creditors as long as he has debts and obligations. notwithstanding my refusal to endorse the morgan renewal, i was invited to accompany the parties to new york next morning in their special car for the purpose of consultation. this i was only too glad to do. anthony drexel was also called in to accompany us. during the journey mr. mccullough remarked that he had been looking around the car and had made up his mind that there was only one sensible man in it; the rest had all been "fools." here was "andy" who had paid for his shares and did not owe a dollar or have any responsibility in the matter, and that was the position they all ought to have been in. mr. drexel said he would like me to explain how i had been able to steer clear of these unfortunate troubles. i answered: by strict adherence to what i believed to be my duty never to put my name to anything which i knew i could not pay at maturity; or, to recall the familiar saying of a western friend, never to go in where you couldn't wade. this water was altogether too deep for me. regard for this rule has kept not only myself but my partners out of trouble. indeed, we had gone so far in our partnership agreement as to prevent ourselves from endorsing or committing ourselves in any way beyond trifling sums, except for the firm. this i also gave as a reason why i could not endorse. during the period which these events cover i had made repeated journeys to europe to negotiate various securities, and in all i sold some thirty millions of dollars worth. this was at a time when the atlantic cable had not yet made new york a part of london financially considered, and when london bankers would lend their balances to paris, vienna, or berlin for a shadow of difference in the rate of interest rather than to the united states at a higher rate. the republic was considered less safe than the continent by these good people. my brother and mr. phipps conducted the iron business so successfully that i could leave for weeks at a time without anxiety. there was danger lest i should drift away from the manufacturing to the financial and banking business. my successes abroad brought me tempting opportunities, but my preference was always for manufacturing. i wished to make something tangible and sell it and i continued to invest my profits in extending the works at pittsburgh. the small shops put up originally for the keystone bridge company had been leased for other purposes and ten acres of ground had been secured in lawrenceville on which new and extensive shops were erected. repeated additions to the union iron mills had made them the leading mills in the united states for all sorts of structural shapes. business was promising and all the surplus earnings i was making in other fields were required to expand the iron business. i had become interested, with my friends of the pennsylvania railroad company, in building some railways in the western states, but gradually withdrew from all such enterprises and made up my mind to go entirely contrary to the adage not to put all one's eggs in one basket. i determined that the proper policy was "to put all good eggs in one basket and then watch that basket." i believe the true road to preëminent success in any line is to make yourself master in that line. i have no faith in the policy of scattering one's resources, and in my experience i have rarely if ever met a man who achieved preëminence in money-making--certainly never one in manufacturing--who was interested in many concerns. the men who have succeeded are men who have chosen one line and stuck to it. it is surprising how few men appreciate the enormous dividends derivable from investment in their own business. there is scarcely a manufacturer in the world who has not in his works some machinery that should be thrown out and replaced by improved appliances; or who does not for the want of additional machinery or new methods lose more than sufficient to pay the largest dividend obtainable by investment beyond his own domain. and yet most business men whom i have known invest in bank shares and in far-away enterprises, while the true gold mine lies right in their own factories. i have tried always to hold fast to this important fact. it has been with me a cardinal doctrine that i could manage my own capital better than any other person, much better than any board of directors. the losses men encounter during a business life which seriously embarrass them are rarely in their own business, but in enterprises of which the investor is not master. my advice to young men would be not only to concentrate their whole time and attention on the one business in life in which they engage, but to put every dollar of their capital into it. if there be any business that will not bear extension, the true policy is to invest the surplus in first-class securities which will yield a moderate but certain revenue if some other growing business cannot be found. as for myself my decision was taken early. i would concentrate upon the manufacture of iron and steel and be master in that. my visits to britain gave me excellent opportunities to renew and make acquaintance with those prominent in the iron and steel business--bessemer in the front, sir lothian bell, sir bernard samuelson, sir windsor richards, edward martin, bingley, evans, and the whole host of captains in that industry. my election to the council, and finally to the presidency of the british iron and steel institute soon followed, i being the first president who was not a british subject. that honor was highly appreciated, although at first declined, because i feared that i could not give sufficient time to its duties, owing to my residence in america. as we had been compelled to engage in the manufacture of wrought-iron in order to make bridges and other structures, so now we thought it desirable to manufacture our own pig iron. and this led to the erection of the lucy furnace in the year --a venture which would have been postponed had we fully appreciated its magnitude. we heard from time to time the ominous predictions made by our older brethren in the manufacturing business with regard to the rapid growth and extension of our young concern, but we were not deterred. we thought we had sufficient capital and credit to justify the building of one blast furnace. the estimates made of its cost, however, did not cover more than half the expenditure. it was an experiment with us. mr. kloman knew nothing about blast-furnace operations. but even without exact knowledge no serious blunder was made. the yield of the lucy furnace (named after my bright sister-in-law) exceeded our most sanguine expectations and the then unprecedented output of a hundred tons per day was made from one blast furnace, for one week--an output that the world had never heard of before. we held the record and many visitors came to marvel at the marvel. it was not, however, all smooth sailing with our iron business. years of panic came at intervals. we had passed safely through the fall in values following the war, when iron from nine cents per pound dropped to three. many failures occurred and our financial manager had his time fully occupied in providing funds to meet emergencies. among many wrecks our firm stood with credit unimpaired. but the manufacture of pig iron gave us more anxiety than any other department of our business so far. the greatest service rendered us in this branch of manufacturing was by mr. whitwell, of the celebrated whitwell brothers of england, whose blast-furnace stoves were so generally used. mr. whitwell was one of the best-known of the visitors who came to marvel at the lucy furnace, and i laid the difficulty we then were experiencing before him. he said immediately: "that comes from the angle of the bell being wrong." he explained how it should be changed. our mr. kloman was slow to believe this, but i urged that a small glass-model furnace and two bells be made, one as the lucy was and the other as mr. whitwell advised it should be. this was done, and upon my next visit experiments were made with each, the result being just as mr. whitwell had foretold. our bell distributed the large pieces to the sides of the furnace, leaving the center a dense mass through which the blast could only partially penetrate. the whitwell bell threw the pieces to the center leaving the circumference dense. this made all the difference in the world. the lucy's troubles were over. what a kind, big, broad man was mr. whitwell, with no narrow jealousy, no withholding his knowledge! we had in some departments learned new things and were able to be of service to his firm in return. at all events, after that everything we had was open to the whitwells. [to-day, as i write, i rejoice that one of the two still is with us and that our friendship is still warm. he was my predecessor in the presidency of the british iron and steel institute.] chapter xiii the age of steel looking back to-day it seems incredible that only forty years ago ( ) chemistry in the united states was an almost unknown agent in connection with the manufacture of pig iron. it was the agency, above all others, most needful in the manufacture of iron and steel. the blast-furnace manager of that day was usually a rude bully, generally a foreigner, who in addition to his other acquirements was able to knock down a man now and then as a lesson to the other unruly spirits under him. he was supposed to diagnose the condition of the furnace by instinct, to possess some almost supernatural power of divination, like his congener in the country districts who was reputed to be able to locate an oil well or water supply by means of a hazel rod. he was a veritable quack doctor who applied whatever remedies occurred to him for the troubles of his patient. the lucy furnace was out of one trouble and into another, owing to the great variety of ores, limestone, and coke which were then supplied with little or no regard to their component parts. this state of affairs became intolerable to us. we finally decided to dispense with the rule-of-thumb-and-intuition manager, and to place a young man in charge of the furnace. we had a young shipping clerk, henry m. curry, who had distinguished himself, and it was resolved to make him manager. mr. phipps had the lucy furnace under his special charge. his daily visits to it saved us from failure there. not that the furnace was not doing as well as other furnaces in the west as to money-making, but being so much larger than other furnaces its variations entailed much more serious results. i am afraid my partner had something to answer for in his sunday morning visits to the lucy furnace when his good father and sister left the house for more devotional duties. but even if he had gone with them his real earnest prayer could not but have had reference at times to the precarious condition of the lucy furnace then absorbing his thoughts. the next step taken was to find a chemist as mr. curry's assistant and guide. we found the man in a learned german, dr. fricke, and great secrets did the doctor open up to us. iron stone from mines that had a high reputation was now found to contain ten, fifteen, and even twenty per cent less iron than it had been credited with. mines that hitherto had a poor reputation we found to be now yielding superior ore. the good was bad and the bad was good, and everything was topsy-turvy. nine tenths of all the uncertainties of pig-iron making were dispelled under the burning sun of chemical knowledge. at a most critical period when it was necessary for the credit of the firm that the blast furnace should make its best product, it had been stopped because an exceedingly rich and pure ore had been substituted for an inferior ore--an ore which did not yield more than two thirds of the quantity of iron of the other. the furnace had met with disaster because too much lime had been used to flux this exceptionally pure ironstone. the very superiority of the materials had involved us in serious losses. what fools we had been! but then there was this consolation: we were not as great fools as our competitors. it was years after we had taken chemistry to guide us that it was said by the proprietors of some other furnaces that they could not afford to employ a chemist. had they known the truth then, they would have known that they could not afford to be without one. looking back it seems pardonable to record that we were the first to employ a chemist at blast furnaces--something our competitors pronounced extravagant. the lucy furnace became the most profitable branch of our business, because we had almost the entire monopoly of scientific management. having discovered the secret, it was not long ( ) before we decided to erect an additional furnace. this was done with great economy as compared with our first experiment. the mines which had no reputation and the products of which many firms would not permit to be used in their blast furnaces found a purchaser in us. those mines which were able to obtain an enormous price for their products, owing to a reputation for quality, we quietly ignored. a curious illustration of this was the celebrated pilot knob mine in missouri. its product was, so to speak, under a cloud. a small portion of it only could be used, it was said, without obstructing the furnace. chemistry told us that it was low in phosphorus, but very high in silicon. there was no better ore and scarcely any as rich, if it were properly fluxed. we therefore bought heavily of this and received the thanks of the proprietors for rendering their property valuable. it is hardly believable that for several years we were able to dispose of the highly phosphoric cinder from the puddling furnaces at a higher price than we had to pay for the pure cinder from the heating furnaces of our competitors--a cinder which was richer in iron than the puddled cinder and much freer from phosphorus. upon some occasion a blast furnace had attempted to smelt the flue cinder, and from its greater purity the furnace did not work well with a mixture intended for an impurer article; hence for years it was thrown over the banks of the river at pittsburgh by our competitors as worthless. in some cases we were even able to exchange a poor article for a good one and obtain a bonus. but it is still more unbelievable that a prejudice, equally unfounded, existed against putting into the blast furnaces the roll-scale from the mills which was pure oxide of iron. this reminds me of my dear friend and fellow-dunfermline townsman, mr. chisholm, of cleveland. we had many pranks together. one day, when i was visiting his works at cleveland, i saw men wheeling this valuable roll-scale into the yard. i asked mr. chisholm where they were going with it, and he said: "to throw it over the bank. our managers have always complained that they had bad luck when they attempted to remelt it in the blast furnace." i said nothing, but upon my return to pittsburgh i set about having a joke at his expense. we had then a young man in our service named du puy, whose father was known as the inventor of a direct process in iron-making with which he was then experimenting in pittsburgh. i recommended our people to send du puy to cleveland to contract for all the roll-scale of my friend's establishment. he did so, buying it for fifty cents per ton and having it shipped to him direct. this continued for some time. i expected always to hear of the joke being discovered. the premature death of mr. chisholm occurred before i could apprise him of it. his successors soon, however, followed our example. i had not failed to notice the growth of the bessemer process. if this proved successful i knew that iron was destined to give place to steel; that the iron age would pass away and the steel age take its place. my friend, john a. wright, president of the freedom iron works at lewiston, pennsylvania, had visited england purposely to investigate the new process. he was one of our best and most experienced manufacturers, and his decision was so strongly in its favor that he induced his company to erect bessemer works. he was quite right, but just a little in advance of his time. the capital required was greater than he estimated. more than this, it was not to be expected that a process which was even then in somewhat of an experimental stage in britain could be transplanted to the new country and operated successfully from the start. the experiment was certain to be long and costly, and for this my friend had not made sufficient allowance. at a later date, when the process had become established in england, capitalists began to erect the present pennsylvania steel works at harrisburg. these also had to pass through an experimental stage and at a critical moment would probably have been wrecked but for the timely assistance of the pennsylvania railroad company. it required a broad and able man like president thomson, of the pennsylvania railroad, to recommend to his board of directors that so large a sum as six hundred thousand dollars should be advanced to a manufacturing concern on his road, that steel rails might be secured for the line. the result fully justified his action. the question of a substitute for iron rails upon the pennsylvania railroad and other leading lines had become a very serious one. upon certain curves at pittsburgh, on the road connecting the pennsylvania with the fort wayne, i had seen new iron rails placed every six weeks or two months. before the bessemer process was known i had called president thomson's attention to the efforts of mr. dodds in england, who had carbonized the heads of iron rails with good results. i went to england and obtained control of the dodds patents and recommended president thomson to appropriate twenty thousand dollars for experiments at pittsburgh, which he did. we built a furnace on our grounds at the upper mill and treated several hundred tons of rails for the pennsylvania railroad company and with remarkably good results as compared with iron rails. these were the first hard-headed rails used in america. we placed them on some of the sharpest curves and their superior service far more than compensated for the advance made by mr. thomson. had the bessemer process not been successfully developed, i verily believe that we should ultimately have been able to improve the dodds process sufficiently to make its adoption general. but there was nothing to be compared with the solid steel article which the bessemer process produced. our friends of the cambria iron company at johnstown, near pittsburgh--the principal manufacturers of rails in america--decided to erect a bessemer plant. in england i had seen it demonstrated, at least to my satisfaction, that the process could be made a grand success without undue expenditure of capital or great risk. mr. william coleman, who was ever alive to new methods, arrived at the same conclusion. it was agreed we should enter upon the manufacture of steel rails at pittsburgh. he became a partner and also my dear friend mr. david mccandless, who had so kindly offered aid to my mother at my father's death. the latter was not forgotten. mr. john scott and mr. david a. stewart, and others joined me; mr. edgar thomson and mr. thomas a. scott, president and vice-president of the pennsylvania railroad, also became stockholders, anxious to encourage the development of steel. the steel-rail company was organized january , . the question of location was the first to engage our serious attention. i could not reconcile myself to any location that was proposed, and finally went to pittsburgh to consult with my partners about it. the subject was constantly in my mind and in bed sunday morning the site suddenly appeared to me. i rose and called to my brother: "tom, you and mr. coleman are right about the location; right at braddock's, between the pennsylvania, the baltimore and ohio, and the river, is the best situation in america; and let's call the works after our dear friend edgar thomson. let us go over to mr. coleman's and drive out to braddock's." we did so that day, and the next morning mr. coleman was at work trying to secure the property. mr. mckinney, the owner, had a high idea of the value of his farm. what we had expected to purchase for five or six hundred dollars an acre cost us two thousand. but since then we have been compelled to add to our original purchase at a cost of five thousand dollars per acre. there, on the very field of braddock's defeat, we began the erection of our steel-rail mills. in excavating for the foundations many relics of the battle were found--bayonets, swords, and the like. it was there that the then provost of dunfermline, sir arthur halkett, and his son were slain. how did they come to be there will very naturally be asked. it must not be forgotten that, in those days, the provosts of the cities of britain were members of the aristocracy--the great men of the district who condescended to enjoy the honor of the position without performing the duties. no one in trade was considered good enough for the provostship. we have remnants of this aristocratic notion throughout britain to-day. there is scarcely any life assurance or railway company, or in some cases manufacturing company but must have at its head, to enjoy the honors of the presidency, some titled person totally ignorant of the duties of the position. so it was that sir arthur halkett, as a gentleman, was provost of dunfermline, but by calling he followed the profession of arms and was killed on this spot. it was a coincidence that what had been the field of death to two native-born citizens of dunfermline should be turned into an industrial hive by two others. another curious fact has recently been discovered. mr. john morley's address, in on founder's day at the carnegie institute, pittsburgh, referred to the capture of fort duquesne by general forbes and his writing prime minister pitt that he had rechristened it "pittsburgh" for him. this general forbes was then laird of pittencrieff and was born in the glen which i purchased in and presented to dunfermline for a public park. so that two dunfermline men have been lairds of pittencrieff whose chief work was in pittsburgh. one named pittsburgh and the other labored for its development. in naming the steel mills as we did the desire was to honor my friend edgar thomson, but when i asked permission to use his name his reply was significant. he said that as far as american steel rails were concerned, he did not feel that he wished to connect his name with them, for they had proved to be far from creditable. uncertainty was, of course, inseparable from the experimental stage; but, when i assured him that it was now possible to make steel rails in america as good in every particular as the foreign article, and that we intended to obtain for our rails the reputation enjoyed by the keystone bridges and the kloman axles, he consented. he was very anxious to have us purchase land upon the pennsylvania railroad, as his first thought was always for that company. this would have given the pennsylvania a monopoly of our traffic. when he visited pittsburgh a few months later and mr. robert pitcairn, my successor as superintendent of the pittsburgh division of the pennsylvania, pointed out to him the situation of the new works at braddock's station, which gave us not only a connection with his own line, but also with the rival baltimore and ohio line, and with a rival in one respect greater than either--the ohio river--he said, with a twinkle of his eye to robert, as robert told me: "andy should have located his works a few miles farther east." but mr. thomson knew the good and sufficient reasons which determined the selection of the unrivaled site. the works were well advanced when the financial panic of september, , came upon us. i then entered upon the most anxious period of my business life. all was going well when one morning in our summer cottage, in the allegheny mountains at cresson, a telegram came announcing the failure of jay cooke & co. almost every hour after brought news of some fresh disaster. house after house failed. the question every morning was which would go next. every failure depleted the resources of other concerns. loss after loss ensued, until a total paralysis of business set in. every weak spot was discovered and houses that otherwise would have been strong were borne down largely because our country lacked a proper banking system. we had not much reason to be anxious about our debts. not what we had to pay of our own debts could give us much trouble, but rather what we might have to pay for our debtors. it was not our bills payable but our bills receivable which required attention, for we soon had to begin meeting both. even our own banks had to beg us not to draw upon our balances. one incident will shed some light upon the currency situation. one of our pay-days was approaching. one hundred thousand dollars in small notes were absolutely necessary, and to obtain these we paid a premium of twenty-four hundred dollars in new york and had them expressed to pittsburgh. it was impossible to borrow money, even upon the best collaterals; but by selling securities, which i had in reserve, considerable sums were realized--the company undertaking to replace them later. it happened that some of the railway companies whose lines centered in pittsburgh owed us large sums for material furnished--the fort wayne road being the largest debtor. i remember calling upon mr. thaw, the vice-president of the fort wayne, and telling him we must have our money. he replied: "you ought to have your money, but we are not paying anything these days that is not protestable." "very good," i said, "your freight bills are in that category and we shall follow your excellent example. now i am going to order that we do not pay you one dollar for freight." "well, if you do that," he said, "we will stop your freight." i said we would risk that. the railway company could not proceed to that extremity. and as a matter of fact we ran for some time without paying the freight bills. it was simply impossible for the manufacturers of pittsburgh to pay their accruing liabilities when their customers stopped payment. the banks were forced to renew maturing paper. they behaved splendidly to us, as they always have done, and we steered safely through. but in a critical period like this there was one thought uppermost with me, to gather more capital and keep it in our business so that come what would we should never again be called upon to endure such nights and days of racking anxiety. speaking for myself in this great crisis, i was at first the most excited and anxious of the partners. i could scarcely control myself. but when i finally saw the strength of our financial position i became philosophically cool and found myself quite prepared, if necessary, to enter the directors' rooms of the various banks with which we dealt, and lay our entire position before their boards. i felt that this could result in nothing discreditable to us. no one interested in our business had lived extravagantly. our manner of life had been the very reverse of this. no money had been withdrawn from the business to build costly homes, and, above all, not one of us had made speculative ventures upon the stock exchange, or invested in any other enterprises than those connected with the main business. neither had we exchanged endorsements with others. besides this we could show a prosperous business that was making money every year. i was thus enabled to laugh away the fears of my partners, but none of them rejoiced more than i did that the necessity for opening our lips to anybody about our finances did not arise. mr. coleman, good friend and true, with plentiful means and splendid credit, did not fail to volunteer to give us his endorsements. in this we stood alone; william coleman's name, a tower of strength, was for us only. how the grand old man comes before me as i write. his patriotism knew no bounds. once when visiting his mills, stopped for the fourth of july, as they always were, he found a corps of men at work repairing the boilers. he called the manager to him and asked what this meant. he ordered all work suspended. "work on the fourth of july!" he exclaimed, "when there's plenty of sundays for repairs!" he was furious. when the cyclone of struck us we at once began to reef sail in every quarter. very reluctantly did we decide that the construction of the new steel works must cease for a time. several prominent persons, who had invested in them, became unable to meet their payments and i was compelled to take over their interests, repaying the full cost to all. in that way control of the company came into my hands. the first outburst of the storm had affected the financial world connected with the stock exchange. it was some time before it reached the commercial and manufacturing world. but the situation grew worse and worse and finally led to the crash which involved my friends in the texas pacific enterprise, of which i have already spoken. this was to me the severest blow of all. people could, with difficulty, believe that occupying such intimate relations as i did with the texas group, i could by any possibility have kept myself clear of their financial obligations. mr. schoenberger, president of the exchange bank at pittsburgh, with which we conducted a large business, was in new york when the news reached him of the embarrassment of mr. scott and mr. thomson. he hastened to pittsburgh, and at a meeting of his board next morning said it was simply impossible that i was not involved with them. he suggested that the bank should refuse to discount more of our bills receivable. he was alarmed to find that the amount of these bearing our endorsement and under discount, was so large. prompt action on my part was necessary to prevent serious trouble. i took the first train for pittsburgh, and was able to announce there to all concerned that, although i was a shareholder in the texas enterprise, my interest was paid for. my name was not upon one dollar of their paper or of any other outstanding paper. i stood clear and clean without a financial obligation or property which i did not own and which was not fully paid for. my only obligations were those connected with our business; and i was prepared to pledge for it every dollar i owned, and to endorse every obligation the firm had outstanding. up to this time i had the reputation in business of being a bold, fearless, and perhaps a somewhat reckless young man. our operations had been extensive, our growth rapid and, although still young, i had been handling millions. my own career was thought by the elderly ones of pittsburgh to have been rather more brilliant than substantial. i know of an experienced one who declared that if "andrew carnegie's brains did not carry him through his luck would." but i think nothing could be farther from the truth than the estimate thus suggested. i am sure that any competent judge would be surprised to find how little i ever risked for myself or my partners. when i did big things, some large corporation like the pennsylvania railroad company was behind me and the responsible party. my supply of scotch caution never has been small; but i was apparently something of a dare-devil now and then to the manufacturing fathers of pittsburgh. they were old and i was young, which made all the difference. the fright which pittsburgh financial institutions had with regard to myself and our enterprises rapidly gave place to perhaps somewhat unreasoning confidence. our credit became unassailable, and thereafter in times of financial pressure the offerings of money to us increased rather than diminished, just as the deposits of the old bank of pittsburgh were never so great as when the deposits in other banks ran low. it was the only bank in america which redeemed its circulation in gold, disdaining to take refuge under the law and pay its obligations in greenbacks. it had few notes, and i doubt not the decision paid as an advertisement. in addition to the embarrassment of my friends mr. scott, mr. thomson, and others, there came upon us later an even severer trial in the discovery that our partner, mr. andrew kloman, had been led by a party of speculative people into the escanaba iron company. he was assured that the concern was to be made a stock company, but before this was done his colleagues had succeeded in creating an enormous amount of liabilities--about seven hundred thousand dollars. there was nothing but bankruptcy as a means of reinstating mr. kloman. this gave us more of a shock than all that had preceded, because mr. kloman, being a partner, had no right to invest in another iron company, or in any other company involving personal debt, without informing his partners. there is one imperative rule for men in business--no secrets from partners. disregard of this rule involved not only mr. kloman himself, but our company, in peril, coming, as it did, atop of the difficulties of my texas pacific friends with whom i had been intimately associated. the question for a time was whether there was anything really sound. where could we find bedrock upon which we could stand? had mr. kloman been a business man it would have been impossible ever to allow him to be a partner with us again after this discovery. he was not such, however, but the ablest of practical mechanics with some business ability. mr. kloman's ambition had been to be in the office, where he was worse than useless, rather than in the mill devising and running new machinery, where he was without a peer. we had some difficulty in placing him in his proper position and keeping him there, which may have led him to seek an outlet elsewhere. he was perhaps flattered by men who were well known in the community; and in this case he was led by persons who knew how to reach him by extolling his wonderful business abilities in addition to his mechanical genius--abilities which his own partners, as already suggested, but faintly recognized. after mr. kloman had passed through the bankruptcy court and was again free, we offered him a ten per cent interest in our business, charging for it only the actual capital invested, with nothing whatever for good-will. this we were to carry for him until the profits paid for it. we were to charge interest only on the cost, and he was to assume no responsibility. the offer was accompanied by the condition that he should not enter into any other business or endorse for others, but give his whole time and attention to the mechanical and not the business management of the mills. could he have been persuaded to accept this, he would have been a multimillionaire; but his pride, and more particularly that of his family, perhaps, would not permit this. he would go into business on his own account, and, notwithstanding the most urgent appeals on my part, and that of my colleagues, he persisted in the determination to start a new rival concern with his sons as business managers. the result was failure and premature death. how foolish we are not to recognize what we are best fitted for and can perform, not only with ease but with pleasure, as masters of the craft. more than one able man i have known has persisted in blundering in an office when he had great talent for the mill, and has worn himself out, oppressed with cares and anxieties, his life a continual round of misery, and the result at last failure. i never regretted parting with any man so much as mr. kloman. his was a good heart, a great mechanical brain, and had he been left to himself i believe he would have been glad to remain with us. offers of capital from others--offers which failed when needed--turned his head, and the great mechanic soon proved the poor man of affairs.[ ] [footnote : long after the circumstances here recited, mr. isidor straus called upon mr. henry phipps and asked him if two statements which had been publicly made about mr. carnegie and his partners in the steel company were true. mr. phipps replied they were not. then said mr. straus: "mr. phipps, you owe it to yourself and also to mr. carnegie to say so publicly." this mr. phipps did in the _new york herald_, january , , in the following handsome manner and without mr. carnegie's knowledge: _question:_ "in a recent publication mention was made of mr. carnegie's not having treated mr. miller, mr. kloman, and yourself properly during your early partnership, and at its termination. can you tell me anything about this?" _answer:_ "mr. miller has already spoken for himself in this matter, and i can say that the treatment received from mr. carnegie during our partnership, so far as i was concerned, was always fair and liberal. "my association with mr. kloman in business goes back forty-three years. everything in connection with mr. carnegie's partnership with mr. kloman was of a pleasant nature. "at a much more recent date, when the firm of carnegie, kloman and company was formed, the partners were andrew carnegie, thomas m. carnegie, andrew kloman, and myself. the carnegies held the controlling interest. "after the partnership agreement was signed, mr. kloman said to me that the carnegies, owning the larger interest, might be too enterprising in making improvements, which might lead us into serious trouble; and he thought that they should consent to an article in the partnership agreement requiring the consent of three partners to make effective any vote for improvements. i told him that we could not exact what he asked, as their larger interest assured them control, but i would speak to them. when the subject was broached, mr. carnegie promptly said that if he could not carry mr. kloman or myself with his brother in any improvements he would not wish them made. other matters were arranged by courtesy during our partnership in the same manner." _question:_ "what you have told me suggests the question, why did mr. kloman leave the firm?" _answer:_ "during the great depression which followed the panic of , mr. kloman, through an unfortunate partnership in the escanaba furnace company, lost his means, and his interest in our firm had to be disposed of. we bought it at book value at a time when manufacturing properties were selling at ruinous prices, often as low as one third or one half their cost. "after the settlement had been made with the creditors of the escanaba company, mr. kloman was offered an interest by mr. carnegie of $ , in our firm, to be paid only from future profits. this mr. kloman declined, as he did not feel like taking an interest which formerly had been much larger. mr. carnegie gave him $ , from the firm to make a new start. this amount was invested in a rival concern, which soon closed. "i knew of no disagreement during this early period with mr. carnegie, and their relations continued pleasant as long as mr. kloman lived. harmony always marked their intercourse, and they had the kindliest feeling one for the other."] chapter xiv partners, books, and travel when mr. kloman had severed his connection with us there was no hesitation in placing william borntraeger in charge of the mills. it has always been with especial pleasure that i have pointed to the career of william. he came direct from germany--a young man who could not speak english, but being distantly connected with mr. kloman was employed in the mills, at first in a minor capacity. he promptly learned english and became a shipping clerk at six dollars per week. he had not a particle of mechanical knowledge, and yet such was his unflagging zeal and industry for the interests of his employer that he soon became marked for being everywhere about the mill, knowing everything, and attending to everything. william was a character. he never got over his german idioms and his inverted english made his remarks very effective. under his superintendence the union iron mills became a most profitable branch of our business. he had overworked himself after a few years' application and we decided to give him a trip to europe. he came to new york by way of washington. when he called upon me in new york he expressed himself as more anxious to return to pittsburgh than to revisit germany. in ascending the washington monument he had seen the carnegie beams in the stairway and also at other points in public buildings, and as he expressed it: "it yust make me so broud dat i want to go right back and see dat everyting is going right at de mill." early hours in the morning and late in the dark hours at night william was in the mills. his life was there. he was among the first of the young men we admitted to partnership, and the poor german lad at his death was in receipt of an income, as i remember, of about $ , a year, every cent of which was deserved. stories about him are many. at a dinner of our partners to celebrate the year's business, short speeches were in order from every one. william summed up his speech thus: "what we haf to do, shentlemens, is to get brices up and costs down and efery man _stand on his own bottom_." there was loud, prolonged, and repeated laughter. captain evans ("fighting bob") was at one time government inspector at our mills. he was a severe one. william was sorely troubled at times and finally offended the captain, who complained of his behavior. we tried to get william to realize the importance of pleasing a government official. william's reply was: "but he gomes in and smokes my cigars" (bold captain! william reveled in one-cent wheeling tobies) "and then he goes and contems my iron. what does you tinks of a man like dat? but i apologize and dreat him right to-morrow." the captain was assured william had agreed to make due amends, but he laughingly told us afterward that william's apology was: "vell, captain, i hope you vas all right dis morning. i haf noting against you, captain," holding out his hand, which the captain finally took and all was well. william once sold to our neighbor, the pioneer steel-maker of pittsburgh, james park, a large lot of old rails which we could not use. mr. park found them of a very bad quality. he made claims for damages and william was told that he must go with mr. phipps to meet mr. park and settle. mr. phipps went into mr. park's office, while william took a look around the works in search of the condemned material, which was nowhere to be seen. well did william know where to look. he finally entered the office, and before mr. park had time to say a word william began: "mr. park, i vas glad to hear dat de old rails what i sell you don't suit for steel. i will buy dem all from you back, five dollars ton profit for you." well did william know that they had all been used. mr. park was non-plussed, and the affair ended. william had triumphed. upon one of my visits to pittsburgh william told me he had something "particular" he wished to tell me--something he couldn't tell any one else. this was upon his return from the trip to germany. there he had been asked to visit for a few days a former schoolfellow, who had risen to be a professor: "well, mr. carnegie, his sister who kept his house was very kind to me, and ven i got to hamburg i tought i sent her yust a little present. she write me a letter, then i write her a letter. she write me and i write her, and den i ask her would she marry me. she was very educated, but she write yes. den i ask her to come to new york, and i meet her dere, but, mr. carnegie, dem people don't know noting about business and de mills. her bruder write me dey want me to go dere again and marry her in chairmany, and i can go away not again from de mills. i tought i yust ask you aboud it." "of course you can go again. quite right, william, you should go. i think the better of her people for feeling so. you go over at once and bring her home. i'll arrange it." then, when parting, i said: "william, i suppose your sweetheart is a beautiful, tall, 'peaches-and-cream' kind of german young lady." "vell, mr. carnegie, she is a leetle stout. if _i had the rolling of her i give her yust one more pass_." all william's illustrations were founded on mill practice. [i find myself bursting into fits of laughter this morning (june, ) as i re-read this story. but i did this also when reading that "every man must stand on his own bottom."] mr. phipps had been head of the commercial department of the mills, but when our business was enlarged, he was required for the steel business. another young man, william l. abbott, took his place. mr. abbott's history is somewhat akin to borntraeger's. he came to us as a clerk upon a small salary and was soon assigned to the front in charge of the business of the iron mills. he was no less successful than was william. he became a partner with an interest equal to william's, and finally was promoted to the presidency of the company. mr. curry had distinguished himself by this time in his management of the lucy furnaces, and he took his place among the partners, sharing equally with the others. there is no way of making a business successful that can vie with the policy of promoting those who render exceptional service. we finally converted the firm of carnegie, mccandless & co. into the edgar thomson steel company, and included my brother and mr. phipps, both of whom had declined at first to go into the steel business with their too enterprising senior. but when i showed them the earnings for the first year and told them if they did not get into steel they would find themselves in the wrong boat, they both reconsidered and came with us. it was fortunate for them as for us. my experience has been that no partnership of new men gathered promiscuously from various fields can prove a good working organization as at first constituted. changes are required. our edgar thomson steel company was no exception to this rule. even before we began to make rails, mr. coleman became dissatisfied with the management of a railway official who had come to us with a great and deserved reputation for method and ability. i had, therefore, to take over mr. coleman's interest. it was not long, however, before we found that his judgment was correct. the new man had been a railway auditor, and was excellent in accounts, but it was unjust to expect him, or any other office man, to be able to step into manufacturing and be successful from the start. he had neither the knowledge nor the training for this new work. this does not mean that he was not a splendid auditor. it was our own blunder in expecting the impossible. the mills were at last about ready to begin[ ] and an organization the auditor proposed was laid before me for approval. i found he had divided the works into two departments and had given control of one to mr. stevenson, a scotsman who afterwards made a fine record as a manufacturer, and control of the other to a mr. jones. nothing, i am certain, ever affected the success of the steel company more than the decision which i gave upon that proposal. upon no account could two men be in the same works with equal authority. an army with two commanders-in-chief, a ship with two captains, could not fare more disastrously than a manufacturing concern with two men in command upon the same ground, even though in two different departments. i said: "this will not do. i do not know mr. stevenson, nor do i know mr. jones, but one or the other must be made captain and he alone must report to you." [footnote : the steel-rail mills were ready and rails were rolled in .] the decision fell upon mr. jones and in this way we obtained "the captain," who afterward made his name famous wherever the manufacture of bessemer steel is known. the captain was then quite young, spare and active, bearing traces of his welsh descent even in his stature, for he was quite short. he came to us as a two-dollar-a-day mechanic from the neighboring works at johnstown. we soon saw that he was a character. every movement told it. he had volunteered as a private during the civil war and carried himself so finely that he became captain of a company which was never known to flinch. much of the success of the edgar thomson works belongs to this man. in later years he declined an interest in the firm which would have made him a millionaire. i told him one day that some of the young men who had been given an interest were now making much more than he was and we had voted to make him a partner. this entailed no financial responsibility, as we always provided that the cost of the interest given was payable only out of profits. "no," he said, "i don't want to have my thoughts running on business. i have enough trouble looking after these works. just give me a h--l of a salary if you think i'm worth it." "all right, captain, the salary of the president of the united states is yours." "that's the talk," said the little welshman.[ ] [footnote : the story is told that when mr. carnegie was selecting his younger partners he one day sent for a young scotsman, alexander r. peacock, and asked him rather abruptly: "peacock, what would you give to be made a millionaire?" "a liberal discount for cash, sir," was the answer. he was a partner owning a two per cent interest when the carnegie steel company was merged into the united states steel corporation.] our competitors in steel were at first disposed to ignore us. knowing the difficulties they had in starting their own steel works, they could not believe we would be ready to deliver rails for another year and declined to recognize us as competitors. the price of steel rails when we began was about seventy dollars per ton. we sent our agent through the country with instructions to take orders at the best prices he could obtain; and before our competitors knew it, we had obtained a large number--quite sufficient to justify us in making a start. so perfect was the machinery, so admirable the plans, so skillful were the men selected by captain jones, and so great a manager was he himself, that our success was phenomenal. i think i place a unique statement on record when i say that the result of the first month's operations left a margin of profit of $ , . it is also remarkable that so perfect was our system of accounts that we knew the exact amount of the profit. we had learned from experience in our iron works what exact accounting meant. there is nothing more profitable than clerks to check up each transfer of material from one department to another in process of manufacture. the new venture in steel having started off so promisingly, i began to think of taking a holiday, and my long-cherished purpose of going around the world came to the front. mr. j.w. vandevort ("vandy") and i accordingly set out in the autumn of . i took with me several pads suitable for penciling and began to make a few notes day by day, not with any intention of publishing a book; but thinking, perhaps, i might print a few copies of my notes for private circulation. the sensation which one has when he first sees his remarks in the form of a printed book is great. when the package came from the printers i re-read the book trying to decide whether it was worth while to send copies to my friends. i came to the conclusion that upon the whole it was best to do so and await the verdict. the writer of a book designed for his friends has no reason to anticipate an unkind reception, but there is always some danger of its being damned with faint praise. the responses in my case, however, exceeded expectations, and were of such a character as to satisfy me that the writers really had enjoyed the book, or meant at least a part of what they said about it. every author is prone to believe sweet words. among the first that came were in a letter from anthony drexel, philadelphia's great banker, complaining that i had robbed him of several hours of sleep. having begun the book he could not lay it down and retired at two o'clock in the morning after finishing. several similar letters were received. i remember mr. huntington, president of the central pacific railway, meeting me one morning and saying he was going to pay me a great compliment. "what is it?" tasked. "oh, i read your book from end to end." "well," i said, "that is not such a great compliment. others of our mutual friends have done that." "oh, yes, but probably none of your friends are like me. i have not read a book for years except my ledger and i did not intend to read yours, but when i began it i could not lay it down. my ledger is the only book i have gone through for five years." i was not disposed to credit all that my friends said, but others who had obtained the book from them were pleased with it and i lived for some months under intoxicating, but i trust not perilously pernicious, flattery. several editions of the book were printed to meet the request for copies. some notices of it and extracts got into the papers, and finally charles scribner's sons asked to publish it for the market. so "round the world"[ ] came before the public and i was at last "an author." [footnote : _round the world_, by andrew carnegie. new york and london, .] a new horizon was opened up to me by this voyage. it quite changed my intellectual outlook. spencer and darwin were then high in the zenith, and i had become deeply interested in their work. i began to view the various phases of human life from the standpoint of the evolutionist. in china i read confucius; in india, buddha and the sacred books of the hindoos; among the parsees, in bombay, i studied zoroaster. the result of my journey was to bring a certain mental peace. where there had been chaos there was now order. my mind was at rest. i had a philosophy at last. the words of christ "the kingdom of heaven is within you," had a new meaning for me. not in the past or in the future, but now and here is heaven within us. all our duties lie in this world and in the present, and trying impatiently to peer into that which lies beyond is as vain as fruitless. all the remnants of theology in which i had been born and bred, all the impressions that swedenborg had made upon me, now ceased to influence me or to occupy my thoughts. i found that no nation had all the truth in the revelation it regards as divine, and no tribe is so low as to be left without some truth; that every people has had its great teacher; buddha for one; confucius for another; zoroaster for a third; christ for a fourth. the teachings of all these i found ethically akin so that i could say with matthew arnold, one i was so proud to call friend: "children of men! the unseen power, whose eye for ever doth accompany mankind hath looked on no religion scornfully that men did ever find. which has not taught weak wills how much they can? which has not fall'n in the dry heart like rain? which has not cried to sunk, self-weary man, _thou must be born again_." "the light of asia," by edwin arnold, came out at this time and gave me greater delight than any similar poetical work i had recently read. i had just been in india and the book took me there again. my appreciation of it reached the author's ears and later having made his acquaintance in london, he presented me with the original manuscript of the book. it is one of my most precious treasures. every person who can, even at a sacrifice, make the voyage around the world should do so. all other travel compared to it seems incomplete, gives us merely vague impressions of parts of the whole. when the circle has been completed, you feel on your return that you have seen (of course only in the mass) all there is to be seen. the parts fit into one symmetrical whole and you see humanity wherever it is placed working out a destiny tending to one definite end. the world traveler who gives careful study to the bibles of the various religions of the east will be well repaid. the conclusion reached will be that the inhabitants of each country consider their own religion the best of all. they rejoice that their lot has been cast where it is, and are disposed to pity the less fortunate condemned to live beyond their sacred limits. the masses of all nations are usually happy, each mass certain that: "east or west home is best." two illustrations of this from our "round the world" trip may be noted: visiting the tapioca workers in the woods near singapore, we found them busily engaged, the children running about stark naked, the parents clothed in the usual loose rags. our party attracted great attention. we asked our guide to tell the people that we came from a country where the water in such a pond as that before us would become solid at this season of the year and we could walk upon it and that sometimes it would be so hard horses and wagons crossed wide rivers on the ice. they wondered and asked why we didn't come and live among them. they really were very happy. again: on the way to the north cape we visited a reindeer camp of the laplanders. a sailor from the ship was deputed to go with the party. i walked homeward with him, and as we approached the fiord looking down and over to the opposite shore we saw a few straggling huts and one two-story house under construction. what is that new building for? we asked. "that is to be the home of a man born in tromso who has made a great deal of money and has now come back to spend his days there. he is very rich." "you told me you had travelled all over the world. you have seen london, new york, calcutta, melbourne, and other places. if you made a fortune like that man what place would you make your home in old age?" his eye glistened as he said: "ah, there's no place like tromso." this is in the arctic circle, six months of night, but he had been born in tromso. home, sweet, sweet home! among the conditions of life or the laws of nature, some of which seem to us faulty, some apparently unjust and merciless, there are many that amaze us by their beauty and sweetness. love of home, regardless of its character or location, certainly is one of these. and what a pleasure it is to find that, instead of the supreme being confining revelation to one race or nation, every race has the message best adapted for it in its present stage of development. the unknown power has neglected none. chapter xv coaching trip and marriage the freedom of my native town (dunfermline) was conferred upon me july , , the first freedom and the greatest honor i ever received. i was overwhelmed. only two signatures upon the roll came between mine and sir walter scott's, who had been made a burgess. my parents had seen him one day sketching dunfermline abbey and often told me about his appearance. my speech in reply to the freedom was the subject of much concern. i spoke to my uncle bailie morrison, telling him i just felt like saying so and so, as this really was in my heart. he was an orator himself and he spoke words of wisdom to me then. "just say that, andra; nothing like saying just what you really feel." it was a lesson in public speaking which i took to heart. there is one rule i might suggest for youthful orators. when you stand up before an audience reflect that there are before you only men and women. you should speak to them as you speak to other men and women in daily intercourse. if you are not trying to be something different from yourself, there is no more occasion for embarrassment than if you were talking in your office to a party of your own people--none whatever. it is trying to be other than one's self that unmans one. be your own natural self and go ahead. i once asked colonel ingersoll, the most effective public speaker i ever heard, to what he attributed his power. "avoid elocutionists like snakes," he said, "and be yourself." [illustration: an american four-in-hand in britain] i spoke again at dunfermline, july , , when my mother laid the foundation stone there of the first free library building i ever gave. my father was one of five weavers who founded the earliest library in the town by opening their own books to their neighbors. dunfermline named the building i gave "carnegie library." the architect asked for my coat of arms. i informed him i had none, but suggested that above the door there might be carved a rising sun shedding its rays with the motto: "let there be light." this he adopted. we had come up to dunfermline with a coaching party. when walking through england in the year with george lauder and harry phipps i had formed the idea of coaching from brighton to inverness with a party of my dearest friends. the time had come for the long-promised trip, and in the spring of we sailed from new york, a party of eleven, to enjoy one of the happiest excursions of my life. it was one of the holidays from business that kept me young and happy--worth all the medicine in the world. all the notes i made of the coaching trip were a few lines a day in twopenny pass-books bought before we started. as with "round the world," i thought that i might some day write a magazine article, or give some account of my excursion for those who accompanied me; but one wintry day i decided that it was scarcely worth while to go down to the new york office, three miles distant, and the question was how i should occupy the spare time. i thought of the coaching trip, and decided to write a few lines just to see how i should get on. the narrative flowed freely, and before the day was over i had written between three and four thousand words. i took up the pleasing task every stormy day when it was unnecessary for me to visit the office, and in exactly twenty sittings i had finished a book. i handed the notes to scribner's people and asked them to print a few hundred copies for private circulation. the volume pleased my friends, as "round the world" had done. mr. champlin one day told me that mr. scribner had read the book and would like very much to publish it for general circulation upon his own account, subject to a royalty. the vain author is easily persuaded that what he has done is meritorious, and i consented. [every year this still nets me a small sum in royalties. and thirty years have gone by, .] the letters i received upon the publication[ ] of it were so numerous and some so gushing that my people saved them and they are now bound together in scrapbook form, to which additions are made from time to time. the number of invalids who have been pleased to write me, stating that the book had brightened their lives, has been gratifying. its reception in britain was cordial; the "spectator" gave it a favorable review. but any merit that the book has comes, i am sure, from the total absence of effort on my part to make an impression. i wrote for my friends; and what one does easily, one does well. i reveled in the writing of the book, as i had in the journey itself. [footnote : published privately in under the title _our coaching trip, brighton to inverness_. published by the scribners in under the title of _an american four-in-hand in britain_.] the year ended in deep gloom for me. my life as a happy careless young man, with every want looked after, was over. i was left alone in the world. my mother and brother passed away in november, within a few days of each other, while i lay in bed under a severe attack of typhoid fever, unable to move and, perhaps fortunately, unable to feel the full weight of the catastrophe, being myself face to face with death. i was the first stricken, upon returning from a visit in the east to our cottage at cresson springs on top of the alleghanies where my mother and i spent our happy summers. i had been quite unwell for a day or two before leaving new york. a physician being summoned, my trouble was pronounced typhoid fever. professor dennis was called from new york and he corroborated the diagnosis. an attendant physician and trained nurse were provided at once. soon after my mother broke down and my brother in pittsburgh also was reported ill. i was despaired of, i was so low, and then my whole nature seemed to change. i became reconciled, indulged in pleasing meditations, was without the slightest pain. my mother's and brother's serious condition had not been revealed to me, and when i was informed that both had left me forever it seemed only natural that i should follow them. we had never been separated; why should we be now? but it was decreed otherwise. i recovered slowly and the future began to occupy my thoughts. there was only one ray of hope and comfort in it. toward that my thoughts always turned. for several years i had known miss louise whitfield. her mother permitted her to ride with me in the central park. we were both very fond of riding. other young ladies were on my list. i had fine horses and often rode in the park and around new york with one or the other of the circle. in the end the others all faded into ordinary beings. miss whitfield remained alone as the perfect one beyond any i had met. finally i began to find and admit to myself that she stood the supreme test i had applied to several fair ones in my time. she alone did so of all i had ever known. i could recommend young men to apply this test before offering themselves. if they can honestly believe the following lines, as i did, then all is well: "full many a lady i've eyed with best regard: for several virtues have i liked several women, never any with so full soul, but some defect in her did quarrel with the noblest grace she owed, and put it to the foil; but you, o you, so perfect and so peerless are created of every creature's best."[ ] [footnote : ferdinand to miranda in _the tempest_.] in my soul i could echo those very words. to-day, after twenty years of life with her, if i could find stronger words i could truthfully use them. my advances met with indifferent success. she was not without other and younger admirers. my wealth and future plans were against me. i was rich and had everything and she felt she could be of little use or benefit to me. her ideal was to be the real helpmeet of a young, struggling man to whom she could and would be indispensable, as her mother had been to her father. the care of her own family had largely fallen upon her after her father's death when she was twenty-one. she was now twenty-eight; her views of life were formed. at times she seemed more favorable and we corresponded. once, however, she returned my letters saying she felt she must put aside all thought of accepting me. professor and mrs. dennis took me from cresson to their own home in new york, as soon as i could be removed, and i lay there some time under the former's personal supervision. miss whitfield called to see me, for i had written her the first words from cresson i was able to write. she saw now that i needed her. i was left alone in the world. now she could be in every sense the "helpmeet." both her heart and head were now willing and the day was fixed. we were married in new york april , , and sailed for our honeymoon which was passed on the isle of wight. [illustration: andrew carnegie (about )] her delight was intense in finding the wild flowers. she had read of wandering willie, heartsease, forget-me-nots, the primrose, wild thyme, and the whole list of homely names that had been to her only names till now. everything charmed her. uncle lauder and one of my cousins came down from scotland and visited us, and then we soon followed to the residence at kilgraston they had selected for us in which to spend the summer. scotland captured her. there was no doubt about that. her girlish reading had been of scotland--scott's novels and "scottish chiefs" being her favorites. she soon became more scotch than i. all this was fulfilling my fondest dreams. we spent some days in dunfermline and enjoyed them much. the haunts and incidents of my boyhood were visited and recited to her by all and sundry. she got nothing but flattering accounts of her husband which gave me a good start with her. i was presented with the freedom of edinburgh as we passed northward--lord rosebery making the speech. the crowd in edinburgh was great. i addressed the working-men in the largest hall and received a present from them as did mrs. carnegie also--a brooch she values highly. she heard and saw the pipers in all their glory and begged there should be one at our home--a piper to walk around and waken us in the morning and also to play us in to dinner. american as she is to the core, and connecticut puritan at that, she declared that if condemned to live upon a lonely island and allowed to choose only one musical instrument, it would be the pipes. the piper was secured quickly enough. one called and presented credentials from cluny mcpherson. we engaged him and were preceded by him playing the pipes as we entered our kilgraston house. we enjoyed kilgraston, although mrs. carnegie still longed for a wilder and more highland home. matthew arnold visited us, as did mr. and mrs. blaine, senator and mrs. eugene hale, and many friends.[ ] mrs. carnegie would have my relatives up from dunfermline, especially the older uncles and aunties. she charmed every one. they expressed their surprise to me that she ever married me, but i told them i was equally surprised. the match had evidently been predestined. [footnote : john hay, writing to his friend henry adams under date of london, august , , has the following to say about the party at kilgraston: "after that we went to andy carnegie in perthshire, who is keeping his honeymoon, having just married a pretty girl.... the house is thronged with visitors--sixteen when we came away--we merely stayed three days: the others were there for a fortnight. among them were your friends blaine and hale of maine. carnegie likes it so well he is going to do it every summer and is looking at all the great estates in the county with a view of renting or purchasing. we went with him one day to dupplin castle, where i saw the most beautiful trees i ever beheld in my wandering life. the old earl of ---- is miserably poor--not able to buy a bottle of seltzer--with an estate worth millions in the hands of his creditors, and sure to be sold one of these days to some enterprising yankee or british buttonmaker. i wish you or carnegie would buy it. i would visit you frequently." (thayer, _life and letters of john hay_, vol. ii, p. .)] we took our piper with us when we returned to new york, and also our housekeeper and some of the servants. mrs. nicoll remains with us still and is now, after twenty years' faithful service, as a member of the family. george irvine, our butler, came to us a year later and is also as one of us. maggie anderson, one of the servants, is the same. they are devoted people, of high character and true loyalty.[ ] [footnote : "no man is a true gentleman who does not inspire the affection and devotion of his servants." (_problems of to-day_, by andrew carnegie. new york, , p. .)] the next year we were offered and took cluny castle. our piper was just the man to tell us all about it. he had been born and bred there and perhaps influenced our selection of that residence where we spent several summers. on march , , there came to us our daughter. as i first gazed upon her mrs. carnegie said, "her name is margaret after your mother. now one request i have to make." "what is it, lou?" "we must get a summer home since this little one has been given us. we cannot rent one and be obliged to go in and go out at a certain date. it should be our home." "yes," i agreed. "i make only one condition." "what is that?" i asked. "it must be in the highlands of scotland." "bless you," was my reply. "that suits me. you know i have to keep out of the sun's rays, and where can we do that so surely as among the heather? i'll be a committee of one to inquire and report." skibo castle was the result. it is now twenty years since mrs. carnegie entered and changed my life, a few months after the passing of my mother and only brother left me alone in the world. my life has been made so happy by her that i cannot imagine myself living without her guardianship. i thought i knew her when she stood ferdinand's test,[ ] but it was only the surface of her qualities i had seen and felt. of their purity, holiness, wisdom, i had not sounded the depth. in every emergency of our active, changing, and in later years somewhat public life, in all her relations with others, including my family and her own, she has proved the diplomat and peace-maker. peace and good-will attend her footsteps wherever her blessed influence extends. in the rare instances demanding heroic action it is she who first realizes this and plays the part. [footnote : the reference is to the quotation from _the tempest_ on page .] the peace-maker has never had a quarrel in all her life, not even with a schoolmate, and there does not live a soul upon the earth who has met her who has the slightest cause to complain of neglect. not that she does not welcome the best and gently avoid the undesirable--none is more fastidious than she--but neither rank, wealth, nor social position affects her one iota. she is incapable of acting or speaking rudely; all is in perfect good taste. still, she never lowers the standard. her intimates are only of the best. she is always thinking how she can do good to those around her--planning for this one and that in case of need and making such judicious arrangements or presents as surprise those coöperating with her. i cannot imagine myself going through these twenty years without her. nor can i endure the thought of living after her. in the course of nature i have not that to meet; but then the thought of what will be cast upon her, a woman left alone with so much requiring attention and needing a man to decide, gives me intense pain and i sometimes wish i had this to endure for her. but then she will have our blessed daughter in her life and perhaps that will keep her patient. besides, margaret needs her more than she does her father. [illustration: mrs. andrew carnegie] [illustration: margaret carnegie at fifteen] why, oh, why, are we compelled to leave the heaven we have found on earth and go we know not where! for i can say with jessica: "it is very meet the lord bassanio live an upright life; for, having such a blessing in his lady, he finds the joys of heaven here on earth." chapter xvi mills and the men the one vital lesson in iron and steel that i learned in britain was the necessity for owning raw materials and finishing the completed article ready for its purpose. having solved the steel-rail problem at the edgar thomson works, we soon proceeded to the next step. the difficulties and uncertainties of obtaining regular supplies of pig iron compelled us to begin the erection of blast furnaces. three of these were built, one, however, being a reconstructed blast furnace purchased from the escanaba iron company, with which mr. kloman had been connected. as is usual in such cases, the furnace cost us as much as a new one, and it never was as good. there is nothing so unsatisfactory as purchases of inferior plants. but although this purchase was a mistake, directly considered, it proved, at a subsequent date, a source of great profit because it gave us a furnace small enough for the manufacture of spiegel and, at a later date, of ferro-manganese. we were the second firm in the united states to manufacture our own spiegel, and the first, and for years the only, firm in america that made ferro-manganese. we had been dependent upon foreigners for a supply of this indispensable article, paying as high as eighty dollars a ton for it. the manager of our blast furnaces, mr. julian kennedy, is entitled to the credit of suggesting that with the ores within reach we could make ferro-manganese in our small furnace. the experiment was worth trying and the result was a great success. we were able to supply the entire american demand and prices fell from eighty to fifty dollars per ton as a consequence. while testing the ores of virginia we found that these were being quietly purchased by europeans for ferro-manganese, the owners of the mine being led to believe that they were used for other purposes. our mr. phipps at once set about purchasing that mine. he obtained an option from the owners, who had neither capital nor skill to work it efficiently. a high price was paid to them for their interests, and (with one of them, mr. davis, a very able young man) we became the owners, but not until a thorough investigation of the mine had proved that there was enough of manganese ore in sight to repay us. all this was done with speed; not a day was lost when the discovery was made. and here lies the great advantage of a partnership over a corporation. the president of the latter would have had to consult a board of directors and wait several weeks and perhaps months for their decision. by that time the mine would probably have become the property of others. we continued to develop our blast-furnace plant, every new one being a great improvement upon the preceding, until at last we thought we had arrived at a standard furnace. minor improvements would no doubt be made, but so far as we could see we had a perfect plant and our capacity was then fifty thousand tons per month of pig iron. the blast-furnace department was no sooner added than another step was seen to be essential to our independence and success. the supply of superior coke was a fixed quantity--the connellsville field being defined. we found that we could not get on without a supply of the fuel essential to the smelting of pig iron; and a very thorough investigation of the question led us to the conclusion that the frick coke company had not only the best coal and coke property, but that it had in mr. frick himself a man with a positive genius for its management. he had proved his ability by starting as a poor railway clerk and succeeding. in we purchased one half of the stock of this company, and by subsequent purchases from other holders we became owners of the great bulk of the shares. there now remained to be acquired only the supply of iron stone. if we could obtain this we should be in the position occupied by only two or three of the european concerns. we thought at one time we had succeeded in discovering in pennsylvania this last remaining link in the chain. we were misled, however, in our investment in the tyrone region, and lost considerable sums as the result of our attempts to mine and use the ores of that section. they promised well at the edges of the mines, where the action of the weather for ages had washed away impurities and enriched the ore, but when we penetrated a small distance they proved too "lean" to work. our chemist, mr. prousser, was then sent to a pennsylvania furnace among the hills which we had leased, with instructions to analyze all the materials brought to him from the district, and to encourage people to bring him specimens of minerals. a striking example of the awe inspired by the chemist in those days was that only with great difficulty could he obtain a man or a boy to assist him in the laboratory. he was suspected of illicit intercourse with the powers of evil when he undertook to tell by his suspicious-looking apparatus what a stone contained. i believe that at last we had to send him a man from our office at pittsburgh. one day he sent us a report of analyses of ore remarkable for the absence of phosphorus. it was really an ore suitable for making bessemer steel. such a discovery attracted our attention at once. the owner of the property was moses thompson, a rich farmer, proprietor of seven thousand acres of the most beautiful agricultural land in center county, pennsylvania. an appointment was made to meet him upon the ground from which the ore had been obtained. we found the mine had been worked for a charcoal blast furnace fifty or sixty years before, but it had not borne a good reputation then, the reason no doubt being that its product was so much purer than other ores that the same amount of flux used caused trouble in smelting. it was so good it was good for nothing in those days of old. we finally obtained the right to take the mine over at any time within six months, and we therefore began the work of examination, which every purchaser of mineral property should make most carefully. we ran lines across the hillside fifty feet apart, with cross-lines at distances of a hundred feet apart, and at each point of intersection we put a shaft down through the ore. i believe there were eighty such shafts in all and the ore was analyzed at every few feet of depth, so that before we paid over the hundred thousand dollars asked we knew exactly what there was of ore. the result hoped for was more than realized. through the ability of my cousin and partner, mr. lauder, the cost of mining and washing was reduced to a low figure, and the scotia ore made good all the losses we had incurred in the other mines, paid for itself, and left a profit besides. in this case, at least, we snatched victory from the jaws of defeat. we trod upon sure ground with the chemist as our guide. it will be seen that we were determined to get raw materials and were active in the pursuit. we had lost and won, but the escapes in business affairs are sometimes very narrow. driving with mr. phipps from the mills one day we passed the national trust company office on penn street, pittsburgh. i noticed the large gilt letters across the window, "stockholders individually liable." that very morning in looking over a statement of our affairs i had noticed twenty shares "national trust company" on the list of assets. i said to harry: "if this is the concern we own shares in, won't you please sell them before you return to the office this afternoon?" he saw no need for haste. it would be done in good time. "no, harry, oblige me by doing it instantly." he did so and had it transferred. fortunate, indeed, was this, for in a short time the bank failed with an enormous deficit. my cousin, mr. morris, was among the ruined shareholders. many others met the same fate. times were panicky, and had we been individually liable for all the debts of the national trust company our credit would inevitably have been seriously imperiled. it was a narrow escape. and with only twenty shares (two thousand dollars' worth of stock), taken to oblige friends who wished our name on their list of shareholders! the lesson was not lost. the sound rule in business is that you may give money freely when you have a surplus, but your name never--neither as endorser nor as member of a corporation with individual liability. a trifling investment of a few thousand dollars, a mere trifle--yes, but a trifle possessed of deadly explosive power. the rapid substitution of steel for iron in the immediate future had become obvious to us. even in our keystone bridge works, steel was being used more and more in place of iron. king iron was about to be deposed by the new king steel, and we were becoming more and more dependent upon it. we had about concluded in to build alongside of the edgar thomson mills new works for the manufacture of miscellaneous shapes of steel when it was suggested to us that the five or six leading manufacturers of pittsburgh, who had combined to build steel mills at homestead, were willing to sell their mills to us. these works had been built originally by a syndicate of manufacturers, with the view of obtaining the necessary supplies of steel which they required in their various concerns, but the steel-rail business, being then in one of its booms, they had been tempted to change plans and construct a steel-rail mill. they had been able to make rails as long as prices remained high, but, as the mills had not been specially designed for this purpose, they were without the indispensable blast furnaces for the supply of pig iron, and had no coke lands for the supply of fuel. they were in no condition to compete with us. it was advantageous for us to purchase these works. i felt there was only one way we could deal with their owners, and that was to propose a consolidation with carnegie brothers & co. we offered to do so on equal terms, every dollar they had invested to rank against our dollars. upon this basis the negotiation was promptly concluded. we, however, gave to all parties the option to take cash, and most fortunately for us, all elected to do so except mr. george singer, who continued with us to his and our entire satisfaction. mr. singer told us afterwards that his associates had been greatly exercised as to how they could meet the proposition i was to lay before them. they were much afraid of being overreached but when i proposed equality all around, dollar for dollar, they were speechless. this purchase led to the reconstruction of all our firms. the new firm of carnegie, phipps & co. was organized in to run the homestead mills. the firm of wilson, walker & co. was embraced in the firm of carnegie, phipps & co., mr. walker being elected chairman. my brother was chairman of carnegie brothers & co. and at the head of all. a further extension of our business was the establishing of the hartman steel works at beaver falls, designed to work into a hundred various forms the product of the homestead mills. so now we made almost everything in steel from a wire nail up to a twenty-inch steel girder, and it was then not thought probable that we should enter into any new field. it may be interesting here to note the progress of our works during the decade to . in we had twenty millions of dollars invested; in more than double or over forty-five millions. the , tons of pig iron we made per annum in was trebled; we made nearly , , . our product of iron and steel was in , say, tons per day; it grew to exceed tons. our coke works then embraced about ovens; they were trebled in number, and our capacity, then tons, became , tons per day. our frick coke company in had , acres of coal land, more than two thirds of the true connellsville vein. ten years hence increased production may be found to have been equally rapid. it may be accepted as an axiom that a manufacturing concern in a growing country like ours begins to decay when it stops extending. to make a ton of steel one and a half tons of iron stone has to be mined, transported by rail a hundred miles to the lakes, carried by boat hundreds of miles, transferred to cars, transported by rail one hundred and fifty miles to pittsburgh; one and a half tons of coal must be mined and manufactured into coke and carried fifty-odd miles by rail; and one ton of limestone mined and carried one hundred and fifty miles to pittsburgh. how then could steel be manufactured and sold without loss at three pounds for two cents? this, i confess, seemed to me incredible, and little less than miraculous, but it was so. america is soon to change from being the dearest steel manufacturing country to the cheapest. already the shipyards of belfast are our customers. this is but the beginning. under present conditions america can produce steel as cheaply as any other land, notwithstanding its higher-priced labor. there is no labor so cheap as the dearest in the mechanical field, provided it is free, contented, zealous, and reaping reward as it renders service. and here america leads. one great advantage which america will have in competing in the markets of the world is that her manufacturers will have the best home market. upon this they can depend for a return upon capital, and the surplus product can be exported with advantage, even when the prices received for it do not more than cover actual cost, provided the exports be charged with their proportion of all expenses. the nation that has the best home market, especially if products are standardized, as ours are, can soon outsell the foreign producer. the phrase i used in britain in this connection was: "the law of the surplus." it afterward came into general use in commercial discussions. chapter xvii the homestead strike while upon the subject of our manufacturing interests, i may record that on july , , during my absence in the highlands of scotland, there occurred the one really serious quarrel with our workmen in our whole history. for twenty-six years i had been actively in charge of the relations between ourselves and our men, and it was the pride of my life to think how delightfully satisfactory these had been and were. i hope i fully deserved what my chief partner, mr. phipps, said in his letter to the "new york herald," january , , in reply to one who had declared i had remained abroad during the homestead strike, instead of flying back to support my partners. it was to the effect that "i was always disposed to yield to the demands of the men, however unreasonable"; hence one or two of my partners did not wish me to return.[ ] taking no account of the reward that comes from feeling that you and your employees are friends and judging only from economical results, i believe that higher wages to men who respect their employers and are happy and contented are a good investment, yielding, indeed, big dividends. [footnote : the full statement of mr. phipps is as follows: _question:_ "it was stated that mr. carnegie acted in a cowardly manner in not returning to america from scotland and being present when the strike was in progress at homestead." _answer:_ "when mr. carnegie heard of the trouble at homestead he immediately wired that he would take the first ship for america, but his partners begged him not to appear, as they were of the opinion that the welfare of the company required that he should not be in this country at the time. they knew of his extreme disposition to always grant the demands of labor, however unreasonable. "i have never known of any one interested in the business to make any complaint about mr. carnegie's absence at that time, but all the partners rejoiced that they were permitted to manage the affair in their own way." (henry phipps in the _new york herald_, january , .)] the manufacture of steel was revolutionized by the bessemer open-hearth and basic inventions. the machinery hitherto employed had become obsolete, and our firm, recognizing this, spent several millions at homestead reconstructing and enlarging the works. the new machinery made about sixty per cent more steel than the old. two hundred and eighteen tonnage men (that is, men who were paid by the ton of steel produced) were working under a three years' contract, part of the last year being with the new machinery. thus their earnings had increased almost sixty per cent before the end of the contract. the firm offered to divide this sixty per cent with them in the new scale to be made thereafter. that is to say, the earnings of the men would have been thirty per cent greater than under the old scale and the other thirty per cent would have gone to the firm to recompense it for its outlay. the work of the men would not have been much harder than it had been hitherto, as the improved machinery did the work. this was not only fair and liberal, it was generous, and under ordinary circumstances would have been accepted by the men with thanks. but the firm was then engaged in making armor for the united states government, which we had declined twice to manufacture and which was urgently needed. it had also the contract to furnish material for the chicago exhibition. some of the leaders of the men, knowing these conditions, insisted upon demanding the whole sixty per cent, thinking the firm would be compelled to give it. the firm could not agree, nor should it have agreed to such an attempt as this to take it by the throat and say, "stand and deliver." it very rightly declined. had i been at home nothing would have induced me to yield to this unfair attempt to extort. up to this point all had been right enough. the policy i had pursued in cases of difference with our men was that of patiently waiting, reasoning with them, and showing them that their demands were unfair; but never attempting to employ new men in their places--never. the superintendent of homestead, however, was assured by the three thousand men who were not concerned in the dispute that they could run the works, and were anxious to rid themselves of the two hundred and eighteen men who had banded themselves into a union and into which they had hitherto refused to admit those in other departments--only the "heaters" and "rollers" of steel being eligible. my partners were misled by this superintendent, who was himself misled. he had not had great experience in such affairs, having recently been promoted from a subordinate position. the unjust demands of the few union men, and the opinion of the three thousand non-union men that they were unjust, very naturally led him into thinking there would be no trouble and that the workmen would do as they had promised. there were many men among the three thousand who could take, and wished to take, the places of the two hundred and eighteen--at least so it was reported to me. it is easy to look back and say that the vital step of opening the works should never have been taken. all the firm had to do was to say to the men: "there is a labor dispute here and you must settle it between yourselves. the firm has made you a most liberal offer. the works will run when the dispute is adjusted, and not till then. meanwhile your places remain open to you." or, it might have been well if the superintendent had said to the three thousand men, "all right, if you will come and run the works without protection," thus throwing upon them the responsibility of protecting themselves--three thousand men as against two hundred and eighteen. instead of this it was thought advisable (as an additional precaution by the state officials, i understand) to have the sheriff with guards to protect the thousands against the hundreds. the leaders of the latter were violent and aggressive men; they had guns and pistols, and, as was soon proved, were able to intimidate the thousands. i quote what i once laid down in writing as our rule: "my idea is that the company should be known as determined to let the men at any works stop work; that it will confer freely with them and wait patiently until they decide to return to work, never thinking of trying new men--never." the best men as men, and the best workmen, are not walking the streets looking for work. only the inferior class as a rule is idle. the kind of men we desired are rarely allowed to lose their jobs, even in dull times. it is impossible to get new men to run successfully the complicated machinery of a modern steel plant. the attempt to put in new men converted the thousands of old men who desired to work, into lukewarm supporters of our policy, for workmen can always be relied upon to resent the employment of new men. who can blame them? if i had been at home, however, i might have been persuaded to open the works, as the superintendent desired, to test whether our old men would go to work as they had promised. but it should be noted that the works were not opened at first by my partners for new men. on the contrary, it was, as i was informed upon my return, at the wish of the thousands of our old men that they were opened. this is a vital point. my partners were in no way blamable for making the trial so recommended by the superintendent. our rule never to employ new men, but to wait for the old to return, had not been violated so far. in regard to the second opening of the works, after the strikers had shot the sheriff's officers, it is also easy to look back and say, "how much better had the works been closed until the old men voted to return"; but the governor of pennsylvania, with eight thousand troops, had meanwhile taken charge of the situation. i was traveling in the highlands of scotland when the trouble arose, and did not hear of it until two days after. nothing i have ever had to meet in all my life, before or since, wounded me so deeply. no pangs remain of any wound received in my business career save that of homestead. it was so unnecessary. the men were outrageously wrong. the strikers, with the new machinery, would have made from four to nine dollars a day under the new scale--thirty per cent more than they were making with the old machinery. while in scotland i received the following cable from the officers of the union of our workmen: "kind master, tell us what you wish us to do and we shall do it for you." this was most touching, but, alas, too late. the mischief was done, the works were in the hands of the governor; it was too late. i received, while abroad, numerous kind messages from friends conversant with the circumstances, who imagined my unhappiness. the following from mr. gladstone was greatly appreciated: my dear mr. carnegie, my wife has long ago offered her thanks, with my own, for your most kind congratulations. but i do not forget that you have been suffering yourself from anxieties, and have been exposed to imputations in connection with your gallant efforts to direct rich men into a course of action more enlightened than that which they usually follow. i wish i could relieve you from these imputations of journalists, too often rash, conceited or censorious, rancorous, ill-natured. i wish to do the little, the very little, that is in my power, which is simply to say how sure i am that no one who knows you will be prompted by the unfortunate occurrences across the water (of which manifestly we cannot know the exact merits) to qualify in the slightest degree either his confidence in your generous views or his admiration of the good and great work you have already done. wealth is at present like a monster threatening to swallow up the moral life of man; you by precept and by example have been teaching him to disgorge. i for one thank you. believe me very faithfully yours (signed) w.e. gladstone i insert this as giving proof, if proof were needed, of mr. gladstone's large, sympathetic nature, alive and sensitive to everything transpiring of a nature to arouse sympathy--neapolitans, greeks, and bulgarians one day, or a stricken friend the next. the general public, of course, did not know that i was in scotland and knew nothing of the initial trouble at homestead. workmen had been killed at the carnegie works, of which i was the controlling owner. that was sufficient to make my name a by-word for years. but at last some satisfaction came. senator hanna was president of the national civic federation, a body composed of capitalists and workmen which exerted a benign influence over both employers and employed, and the honorable oscar straus, who was then vice-president, invited me to dine at his house and meet the officials of the federation. before the date appointed mark hanna, its president, my lifelong friend and former agent at cleveland, had suddenly passed away. i attended the dinner. at its close mr. straus arose and said that the question of a successor to mr. hanna had been considered, and he had to report that every labor organization heard from had favored me for the position. there were present several of the labor leaders who, one after another, arose and corroborated mr. straus. i do not remember so complete a surprise and, i shall confess, one so grateful to me. that i deserved well from labor i felt. i knew myself to be warmly sympathetic with the working-man, and also that i had the regard of our own workmen; but throughout the country it was naturally the reverse, owing to the homestead riot. the carnegie works meant to the public mr. carnegie's war upon labor's just earnings. i arose to explain to the officials at the straus dinner that i could not possibly accept the great honor, because i had to escape the heat of summer and the head of the federation must be on hand at all seasons ready to grapple with an outbreak, should one occur. my embarrassment was great, but i managed to let all understand that this was felt to be the most welcome tribute i could have received--a balm to the hurt mind. i closed by saying that if elected to my lamented friend's place upon the executive committee i should esteem it an honor to serve. to this position i was elected by unanimous vote. i was thus relieved from the feeling that i was considered responsible by labor generally, for the homestead riot and the killing of workmen. i owe this vindication to mr. oscar straus, who had read my articles and speeches of early days upon labor questions, and who had quoted these frequently to workmen. the two labor leaders of the amalgamated union, white and schaeffer from pittsburgh, who were at this dinner, were also able and anxious to enlighten their fellow-workmen members of the board as to my record with labor, and did not fail to do so. a mass meeting of the workmen and their wives was afterwards held in the library hall at pittsburgh to greet me, and i addressed them from both my head and my heart. the one sentence i remember, and always shall, was to the effect that capital, labor, and employer were a three-legged stool, none before or after the others, all equally indispensable. then came the cordial hand-shaking and all was well. having thus rejoined hands and hearts with our employees and their wives, i felt that a great weight had been effectually lifted, but i had had a terrible experience although thousands of miles from the scene. an incident flowing from the homestead trouble is told by my friend, professor john c. van dyke, of rutgers college. in the spring of , i went up from guaymas, on the gulf of california, to the ranch of a friend at la noria verde, thinking to have a week's shooting in the mountains of sonora. the ranch was far enough removed from civilization, and i had expected meeting there only a few mexicans and many yaqui indians, but much to my surprise i found an english-speaking man, who proved to be an american. i did not have long to wait in order to find out what brought him there, for he was very lonesome and disposed to talk. his name was mcluckie, and up to he had been a skilled mechanic in the employ of the carnegie steel works at homestead. he was what was called a "top hand," received large wages, was married, and at that time had a home and considerable property. in addition, he had been honored by his fellow-townsmen and had been made burgomaster of homestead. when the strike of came mcluckie naturally sided with the strikers, and in his capacity as burgomaster gave the order to arrest the pinkerton detectives who had come to homestead by steamer to protect the works and preserve order. he believed he was fully justified in doing this. as he explained it to me, the detectives were an armed force invading his bailiwick, and he had a right to arrest and disarm them. the order led to bloodshed, and the conflict was begun in real earnest. the story of the strike is, of course, well known to all. the strikers were finally defeated. as for mcluckie, he was indicted for murder, riot, treason, and i know not what other offenses. he was compelled to flee from the state, was wounded, starved, pursued by the officers of the law, and obliged to go into hiding until the storm blew over. then he found that he was blacklisted by all the steel men in the united states and could not get employment anywhere. his money was gone, and, as a final blow, his wife died and his home was broken up. after many vicissitudes he resolved to go to mexico, and at the time i met him he was trying to get employment in the mines about fifteen miles from la noria verde. but he was too good a mechanic for the mexicans, who required in mining the cheapest kind of unskilled peon labor. he could get nothing to do and had no money. he was literally down to his last copper. naturally, as he told the story of his misfortunes, i felt very sorry for him, especially as he was a most intelligent person and did no unnecessary whining about his troubles. i do not think i told him at the time that i knew mr. carnegie and had been with him at cluny in scotland shortly after the homestead strike, nor that i knew from mr. carnegie the other side of the story. but mcluckie was rather careful not to blame mr. carnegie, saying to me several times that if "andy" had been there the trouble would never have arisen. he seemed to think "the boys" could get on very well with "andy" but not so well with some of his partners. i was at the ranch for a week and saw a good deal of mcluckie in the evenings. when i left there, i went directly to tucson, arizona, and from there i had occasion to write to mr. carnegie, and in the letter i told him about meeting with mcluckie. i added that i felt very sorry for the man and thought he had been treated rather badly. mr. carnegie answered at once, and on the margin of the letter wrote in lead pencil: "give mcluckie all the money he wants, but don't mention my name." i wrote to mcluckie immediately, offering him what money he needed, mentioning no sum, but giving him to understand that it would be sufficient to put him on his feet again. he declined it. he said he would fight it out and make his own way, which was the right-enough american spirit. i could not help but admire it in him. as i remember now, i spoke about him later to a friend, mr. j.a. naugle, the general manager of the sonora railway. at any rate, mcluckie got a job with the railway at driving wells, and made a great success of it. a year later, or perhaps it was in the autumn of the same year, i again met him at guaymas, where he was superintending some repairs on his machinery at the railway shops. he was much changed for the better, seemed happy, and to add to his contentment, had taken unto himself a mexican wife. and now that his sky was cleared, i was anxious to tell him the truth about my offer that he might not think unjustly of those who had been compelled to fight him. so before i left him, i said, "mcluckie, i want you to know now that the money i offered you was not mine. that was andrew carnegie's money. it was his offer, made through me." mcluckie was fairly stunned, and all he could say was: "well, that was damned white of andy, wasn't it?" i would rather risk that verdict of mcluckie's as a passport to paradise than all the theological dogmas invented by man. i knew mcluckie well as a good fellow. it was said his property in homestead was worth thirty thousand dollars. he was under arrest for the shooting of the police officers because he was the burgomaster, and also the chairman of the men's committee of homestead. he had to fly, leaving all behind him. after this story got into print, the following skit appeared in the newspapers because i had declared i'd rather have mcluckie's few words on my tombstone than any other inscription, for it indicated i had been kind to one of our workmen: "just by the way" sandy on andy oh! hae ye heared what andy's spiered to hae upo' his tomb, when a' his gowd is gie'n awa an' death has sealed his doom! nae scriptur' line wi' tribute fine that dealers aye keep handy, but juist this irreleegious screed--"that's damned white of andy!" the gude scot laughs at epitaphs that are but meant to flatter, but never are was sae profane, an' that's nae laughin' matter. yet, gin he gies his siller all awa, mon, he's a dandy, an' we'll admit his right to it, for "that's damned white of andy!" there's not to be a "big, big d," an' then a dash thereafter, for andy would na spoil the word by trying to make it safter; he's not the lad to juggle terms, or soothing speech to bandy. a blunt, straightforward mon is he--an' "that's damned white of andy!" sae when he's deid, we'll gie good heed, an' write it as he askit; we'll carve it on his headstone an' we'll stamp it on his casket: "wha dees rich, dees disgraced," says he, an' sure's my name is sandy, 't wull be nae rich man that he'll dee--an' "that's damned white of andy!"[ ] [footnote : mr. carnegie was very fond of this story because, being human, he was fond of applause and, being a robert burns radical, he preferred the applause of labor to that of rank. that one of his men thought he had acted "white" pleased him beyond measure. he stopped short with that tribute and never asked, never knew, why or how the story happened to be told. perhaps this is the time and place to tell the story of the story. sometime in over a dinner table in new york, i heard a statement regarding mr. carnegie that he never gave anything without the requirement that his name be attached to the gift. the remark came from a prominent man who should have known he was talking nonsense. it rather angered me. i denied the statement, saying that i, personally, had given away money for mr. carnegie that only he and i knew about, and that he had given many thousands in this way through others. by way of illustration i told the story about mcluckie. a pittsburgh man at the table carried the story back to pittsburgh, told it there, and it finally got into the newspapers. of course the argument of the story, namely, that mr. carnegie sometimes gave without publicity, was lost sight of and only the refrain, "it was damned white of andy," remained. mr. carnegie never knew that there was an argument. he liked the refrain. some years afterward at skibo ( ), when he was writing this autobiography, he asked me if i would not write out the story for him. i did so. i am now glad of the chance to write an explanatory note about it.... _john c. van dyke._] chapter xviii problems of labor i should like to record here some of the labor disputes i have had to deal with, as these may point a moral to both capital and labor. the workers at the blast furnaces in our steel-rail works once sent in a "round-robin" stating that unless the firm gave them an advance of wages by monday afternoon at four o'clock they would leave the furnaces. now, the scale upon which these men had agreed to work did not lapse until the end of the year, several months off. i felt if men would break an agreement there was no use in making a second agreement with them, but nevertheless i took the night train from new york and was at the works early in the morning. i asked the superintendent to call together the three committees which governed the works--not only the blast-furnace committee that was alone involved, but the mill and the converting works committees as well. they appeared and, of course, were received by me with great courtesy, not because it was good policy to be courteous, but because i have always enjoyed meeting our men. i am bound to say that the more i know of working-men the higher i rate their virtues. but it is with them as barrie says with women: "dootless the lord made a' things weel, but he left some michty queer kinks in women." they have their prejudices and "red rags," which have to be respected, for the main root of trouble is ignorance, not hostility. the committee sat in a semicircle before me, all with their hats off, of course, as mine was also; and really there was the appearance of a model assembly. addressing the chairman of the mill committee, i said: "mr. mackay" (he was an old gentleman and wore spectacles), "have we an agreement with you covering the remainder of the year?" taking the spectacles off slowly, and holding them in his hand, he said: "yes, sir, you have, mr. carnegie, and you haven't got enough money to make us break it either." "there spoke the true american workman," i said. "i am proud of you." "mr. johnson" (who was chairman of the rail converters' committee), "have we a similar agreement with you?" mr. johnson was a small, spare man; he spoke very deliberately: "mr. carnegie, when an agreement is presented to me to sign, i read it carefully, and if it don't suit me, i don't sign it, and if it does suit me, i do sign it, and when i sign it i keep it." "there again speaks the self-respecting american workman," i said. turning now to the chairman of the blast-furnaces committee, an irishman named kelly, i addressed the same question to him: "mr. kelly, have we an agreement with you covering the remainder of this year?" mr. kelly answered that he couldn't say exactly. there was a paper sent round and he signed it, but didn't read it over carefully, and didn't understand just what was in it. at this moment our superintendent, captain jones, excellent manager, but impulsive, exclaimed abruptly: "now, mr. kelly, you know i read that over twice and discussed it with you!" "order, order, captain! mr. kelly is entitled to give his explanation. i sign many a paper that i do not read--documents our lawyers and partners present to me to sign. mr. kelly states that he signed this document under such circumstances and his statement must be received. but, mr. kelly, i have always found that the best way is to carry out the provisions of the agreement one signs carelessly and resolve to be more careful next time. would it not be better for you to continue four months longer under this agreement, and then, when you sign the next one, see that you understand it?" there was no answer to this, and i arose and said: "gentlemen of the blast-furnace committee, you have threatened our firm that you will break your agreement and that you will leave these blast furnaces (which means disaster) unless you get a favorable answer to your threat by four o'clock to-day. it is not yet three, but your answer is ready. you may leave the blast furnaces. the grass will grow around them before we yield to your threat. the worst day that labor has ever seen in this world is that day in which it dishonors itself by breaking its agreement. you have your answer." the committee filed out slowly and there was silence among the partners. a stranger who was coming in on business met the committee in the passage and he reported: "as i came in, a man wearing spectacles pushed up alongside of an irishman he called kelly, and he said: 'you fellows might just as well understand it now as later. there's to be no d----d monkeying round these works.'" that meant business. later we heard from one of our clerks what took place at the furnaces. kelly and his committee marched down to them. of course, the men were waiting and watching for the committee and a crowd had gathered. when the furnaces were reached, kelly called out to them: "get to work, you spalpeens, what are you doing here? begorra, the little boss just hit from the shoulder. he won't fight, but he says he has sat down, and begorra, we all know he'll be a skeleton afore he rises. get to work, ye spalpeens." the irish and scotch-irish are queer, but the easiest and best fellows to get on with, if you only know how. that man kelly was my stanch friend and admirer ever afterward, and he was before that one of our most violent men. my experience is that you can always rely upon the great body of working-men to do what is right, provided they have not taken up a position and promised their leaders to stand by them. but their loyalty to their leaders even when mistaken, is something to make us proud of them. anything can be done with men who have this feeling of loyalty within them. they only need to be treated fairly. the way a strike was once broken at our steel-rail mills is interesting. here again, i am sorry to say, one hundred and thirty-four men in one department had bound themselves under secret oath to demand increased wages at the end of the year, several months away. the new year proved very unfavorable for business, and other iron and steel manufacturers throughout the country had effected reductions in wages. nevertheless, these men, having secretly sworn months previously that they would not work unless they got increased wages, thought themselves bound to insist upon their demands. we could not advance wages when our competitors were reducing them, and the works were stopped in consequence. every department of the works was brought to a stand by these strikers. the blast furnaces were abandoned a day or two before the time agreed upon, and we were greatly troubled in consequence. i went to pittsburgh and was surprised to find the furnaces had been banked, contrary to agreement. i was to meet the men in the morning upon arrival at pittsburgh, but a message was sent to me from the works stating that the men had "left the furnaces and would meet me to-morrow." here was a nice reception! my reply was: "no they won't. tell them i shall not be here to-morrow. anybody can stop work; the trick is to start it again. some fine day these men will want the works started and will be looking around for somebody who can start them, and i will tell them then just what i do now: that the works will never start except upon a sliding scale based upon the prices we get for our products. that scale will last three years and it will not be submitted by the men. they have submitted many scales to us. it is our turn now, and we are going to submit a scale to them. "now," i said to my partners, "i am going back to new york in the afternoon. nothing more is to be done." a short time after my message was received by the men they asked if they could come in and see me that afternoon before i left. i answered: "certainly!" they came in and i said to them: "gentlemen, your chairman here, mr. bennett, assured you that i would make my appearance and settle with you in some way or other, as i always have settled. that is true. and he told you that i would not fight, which is also true. he is a true prophet. but he told you something else in which he was slightly mistaken. he said i _could_ not fight. gentlemen," looking mr. bennett straight in the eye and closing and raising my fist, "he forgot that i was scotch. but i will tell you something; i will never fight you. i know better than to fight labor. i will not fight, but i can beat any committee that was ever made at sitting down, and i have sat down. these works will never start until the men vote by a two-thirds majority to start them, and then, as i told you this morning, they will start on our sliding scale. i have nothing more to say." they retired. it was about two weeks afterwards that one of the house servants came to my library in new york with a card, and i found upon it the names of two of our workmen, and also the name of a reverend gentleman. the men said they were from the works at pittsburgh and would like to see me. "ask if either of these gentlemen belongs to the blast-furnace workers who banked the furnaces contrary to agreement." the man returned and said "no." i replied: "in that case go down and tell them that i shall be pleased to have them come up." of course they were received with genuine warmth and cordiality and we sat and talked about new york, for some time, this being their first visit. "mr. carnegie, we really came to talk about the trouble at the works," the minister said at last. "oh, indeed!" i answered. "have the men voted?" "no," he said. my rejoinder was: "you will have to excuse me from entering upon that subject; i said i never would discuss it until they voted by a two-thirds majority to start the mills. gentlemen, you have never seen new york. let me take you out and show you fifth avenue and the park, and we shall come back here to lunch at half-past one." this we did, talking about everything except the one thing that they wished to talk about. we had a good time, and i know they enjoyed their lunch. there is one great difference between the american working-man and the foreigner. the american is a man; he sits down at lunch with people as if he were (as he generally is) a gentleman born. it is splendid. they returned to pittsburgh, not another word having been said about the works. but the men soon voted (there were very few votes against starting) and i went again to pittsburgh. i laid before the committee the scale under which they were to work. it was a sliding scale based on the price of the product. such a scale really makes capital and labor partners, sharing prosperous and disastrous times together. of course it has a minimum, so that the men are always sure of living wages. as the men had seen these scales, it was unnecessary to go over them. the chairman said: "mr. carnegie, we will agree to everything. and now," he said hesitatingly, "we have one favor to ask of you, and we hope you will not refuse it." "well, gentlemen, if it be reasonable i shall surely grant it." "well, it is this: that you permit the officers of the union to sign these papers for the men." "why, certainly, gentlemen! with the greatest pleasure! and then i have a small favor to ask of you, which i hope you will not refuse, as i have granted yours. just to please me, after the officers have signed, let every workman sign also for himself. you see, mr. bennett, this scale lasts for three years, and some man, or body of men, might dispute whether your president of the union had authority to bind them for so long, but if we have his signature also, there cannot be any misunderstanding." there was a pause; then one man at his side whispered to mr. bennett (but i heard him perfectly): "by golly, the jig's up!" so it was, but it was not by direct attack, but by a flank movement. had i not allowed the union officers to sign, they would have had a grievance and an excuse for war. as it was, having allowed them to do so, how could they refuse so simple a request as mine, that each free and independent american citizen should also sign for himself. my recollection is that as a matter of fact the officers of the union never signed, but they may have done so. why should they, if every man's signature was required? besides this, the workmen, knowing that the union could do nothing for them when the scale was adopted, neglected to pay dues and the union was deserted. we never heard of it again. [that was in , now twenty-seven years ago. the scale has never been changed. the men would not change it if they could; it works for their benefit, as i told them it would.] of all my services rendered to labor the introduction of the sliding scale is chief. it is the solution of the capital and labor problem, because it really makes them partners--alike in prosperity and adversity. there was a yearly scale in operation in the pittsburgh district in the early years, but it is not a good plan because men and employers at once begin preparing for a struggle which is almost certain to come. it is far better for both employers and employed to set no date for an agreed-upon scale to end. it should be subject to six months' or a year's notice on either side, and in that way might and probably would run on for years. to show upon what trifles a contest between capital and labor may turn, let me tell of two instances which were amicably settled by mere incidents of seemingly little consequence. once when i went out to meet a men's committee, which had in our opinion made unfair demands, i was informed that they were influenced by a man who secretly owned a drinking saloon, although working in the mills. he was a great bully. the sober, quiet workmen were afraid of him, and the drinking men were his debtors. he was the real instigator of the movement. we met in the usual friendly fashion. i was glad to see the men, many of whom i had long known and could call by name. when we sat down at the table the leader's seat was at one end and mine at the other. we therefore faced each other. after i had laid our proposition before the meeting, i saw the leader pick up his hat from the floor and slowly put it on his head, intimating that he was about to depart. here was my chance. "sir, you are in the presence of gentlemen! please be so good as to take your hat off or leave the room!" my eyes were kept full upon him. there was a silence that could be felt. the great bully hesitated, but i knew whatever he did, he was beaten. if he left it was because he had treated the meeting discourteously by keeping his hat on, he was no gentleman; if he remained and took off his hat, he had been crushed by the rebuke. i didn't care which course he took. he had only two and either of them was fatal. he had delivered himself into my hands. he very slowly took off the hat and put it on the floor. not a word did he speak thereafter in that conference. i was told afterward that he had to leave the place. the men rejoiced in the episode and a settlement was harmoniously effected. when the three years' scale was proposed to the men, a committee of sixteen was chosen by them to confer with us. little progress was made at first, and i announced my engagements compelled me to return the next day to new york. inquiry was made as to whether we would meet a committee of thirty-two, as the men wished others added to the committee--a sure sign of division in their ranks. of course we agreed. the committee came from the works to meet me at the office in pittsburgh. the proceedings were opened by one of our best men, billy edwards (i remember him well; he rose to high position afterwards), who thought that the total offered was fair, but that the scale was not equable. some departments were all right, others were not fairly dealt with. most of the men were naturally of this opinion, but when they came to indicate the underpaid, there was a difference, as was to be expected. no two men in the different departments could agree. billy began: "mr. carnegie, we agree that the total sum per ton to be paid is fair, but we think it is not properly distributed among us. now, mr. carnegie, you take my job--" "order, order!" i cried. "none of that, billy. mr. carnegie 'takes no man's job.' taking another's job is an unpardonable offense among high-classed workmen." there was loud laughter, followed by applause, and then more laughter. i laughed with them. we had scored on billy. of course the dispute was soon settled. it is not solely, often it is not chiefly, a matter of dollars with workmen. appreciation, kind treatment, a fair deal--these are often the potent forces with the american workmen. employers can do so many desirable things for their men at little cost. at one meeting when i asked what we could do for them, i remember this same billy edwards rose and said that most of the men had to run in debt to the storekeepers because they were paid monthly. well i remember his words: "i have a good woman for wife who manages well. we go into pittsburgh every fourth saturday afternoon and buy our supplies wholesale for the next month and save one third. not many of your men can do this. shopkeepers here charge so much. and another thing, they charge very high for coal. if you paid your men every two weeks, instead of monthly, it would be as good for the careful men as a raise in wages of ten per cent or more." "mr. edwards, that shall be done," i replied. it involved increased labor and a few more clerks, but that was a small matter. the remark about high prices charged set me to thinking why the men could not open a coöperative store. this was also arranged--the firm agreeing to pay the rent of the building, but insisting that the men themselves take the stock and manage it. out of that came the braddock's coöperative society, a valuable institution for many reasons, not the least of them that it taught the men that business had its difficulties. the coal trouble was cured effectively by our agreeing that the company sell all its men coal at the net cost price to us (about half of what had been charged by coal dealers, so i was told) and arranging to deliver it at the men's houses--the buyer paying only actual cost of cartage. there was another matter. we found that the men's savings caused them anxiety, for little faith have the prudent, saving men in banks and, unfortunately, our government at that time did not follow the british in having post-office deposit banks. we offered to take the actual savings of each workman, up to two thousand dollars, and pay six per cent interest upon them, to encourage thrift. their money was kept separate from the business, in a trust fund, and lent to such as wished to build homes for themselves. i consider this one of the best things that can be done for the saving workman. it was such concessions as these that proved the most profitable investments ever made by the company, even from an economical standpoint. it pays to go beyond the letter of the bond with your men. two of my partners, as mr. phipps has put it, "knew my extreme disposition to always grant the demands of labor, however unreasonable," but looking back upon my failing in this respect, i wish it had been greater--much greater. no expenditure returned such dividends as the friendship of our workmen. we soon had a body of workmen, i truly believe, wholly unequaled--the best workmen and the best men ever drawn together. quarrels and strikes became things of the past. had the homestead men been our own old men, instead of men we had to pick up, it is scarcely possible that the trouble there in could have arisen. the scale at the steel-rail mills, introduced in , has been running up to the present time ( ), and i think there never has been a labor grievance at the works since. the men, as i have already stated, dissolved their old union because there was no use paying dues to a union when the men themselves had a three years' contract. although their labor union is dissolved another and a better one has taken its place--a cordial union between the employers and their men, the best union of all for both parties. it is for the interest of the employer that his men shall make good earnings and have steady work. the sliding scale enables the company to meet the market; and sometimes to take orders and keep the works running, which is the main thing for the working-men. high wages are well enough, but they are not to be compared with steady employment. the edgar thomson mills are, in my opinion, the ideal works in respect to the relations of capital and labor. i am told the men in our day, and even to this day ( ) prefer two to three turns, but three turns are sure to come. labor's hours are to be shortened as we progress. eight hours will be the rule--eight for work, eight for sleep, and eight for rest and recreation. there have been many incidents in my business life proving that labor troubles are not solely founded upon wages. i believe the best preventive of quarrels to be recognition of, and sincere interest in, the men, satisfying them that you really care for them and that you rejoice in their success. this i can sincerely say--that i always enjoyed my conferences with our workmen, which were not always in regard to wages, and that the better i knew the men the more i liked them. they have usually two virtues to the employer's one, and they are certainly more generous to each other. labor is usually helpless against capital. the employer, perhaps, decides to shut up the shops; he ceases to make profits for a short time. there is no change in his habits, food, clothing, pleasures--no agonizing fear of want. contrast this with his workman whose lessening means of subsistence torment him. he has few comforts, scarcely the necessities for his wife and children in health, and for the sick little ones no proper treatment. it is not capital we need to guard, but helpless labor. if i returned to business to-morrow, fear of labor troubles would not enter my mind, but tenderness for poor and sometimes misguided though well-meaning laborers would fill my heart and soften it; and thereby soften theirs. upon my return to pittsburgh in , after the homestead trouble, i went to the works and met many of the old men who had not been concerned in the riot. they expressed the opinion that if i had been at home the strike would never have happened. i told them that the company had offered generous terms and beyond its offer i should not have gone; that before their cable reached me in scotland, the governor of the state had appeared on the scene with troops and wished the law vindicated; that the question had then passed out of my partners' hands. i added: "you were badly advised. my partners' offer should have been accepted. it was very generous. i don't know that i would have offered so much." to this one of the rollers said to me: "oh, mr. carnegie, it wasn't a question of dollars. the boys would have let you kick 'em, but they wouldn't let that other man stroke their hair." so much does sentiment count for in the practical affairs of life, even with the laboring classes. this is not generally believed by those who do not know them, but i am certain that disputes about wages do not account for one half the disagreements between capital and labor. there is lack of due appreciation and of kind treatment of employees upon the part of the employers. suits had been entered against many of the strikers, but upon my return these were promptly dismissed. all the old men who remained, and had not been guilty of violence, were taken back. i had cabled from scotland urging that mr. schwab be sent back to homestead. he had been only recently promoted to the edgar thomson works. he went back, and "charlie," as he was affectionately called, soon restored order, peace, and harmony. had he remained at the homestead works, in all probability no serious trouble would have arisen. "charlie" liked his workmen and they liked him; but there still remained at homestead an unsatisfactory element in the men who had previously been discarded from our various works for good reasons and had found employment at the new works before we purchased them. chapter xix the "gospel of wealth" after my book, "the gospel of wealth,"[ ] was published, it was inevitable that i should live up to its teachings by ceasing to struggle for more wealth. i resolved to stop accumulating and begin the infinitely more serious and difficult task of wise distribution. our profits had reached forty millions of dollars per year and the prospect of increased earnings before us was amazing. our successors, the united states steel corporation, soon after the purchase, netted sixty millions in one year. had our company continued in business and adhered to our plans of extension, we figured that seventy millions in that year might have been earned. [footnote : _the gospel of wealth_ (century company, new york, ) contains various magazine articles written between and and published in the _youth's companion_, the _century magazine_, the _north american review_, the _forum_, the _contemporary review_, the _fortnightly review_, the _nineteenth century_, and the _scottish leader_. gladstone asked that the article in the _north american review_ be printed in england. it was published in the _pall mall budget_ and christened the "gospel of wealth." gladstone, cardinal manning, rev. hugh price, and rev. dr. hermann adler answered it, and mr. carnegie replied to them.] steel had ascended the throne and was driving away all inferior material. it was clearly seen that there was a great future ahead; but so far as i was concerned i knew the task of distribution before me would tax me in my old age to the utmost. as usual, shakespeare had placed his talismanic touch upon the thought and framed the sentence-- "so distribution should undo excess, and each man have enough." at this juncture--that is march, --mr. schwab told me mr. morgan had said to him he should really like to know if i wished to retire from business; if so he thought he could arrange it. he also said he had consulted our partners and that they were disposed to sell, being attracted by the terms mr. morgan had offered. i told mr. schwab that if my partners were desirous to sell i would concur, and we finally sold. [illustration: charles m. schwab] there had been so much deception by speculators buying old iron and steel mills and foisting them upon innocent purchasers at inflated values--hundred-dollar shares in some cases selling for a trifle--that i declined to take anything for the common stock. had i done so, it would have given me just about one hundred millions more of five per cent bonds, which mr. morgan said afterwards i could have obtained. such was the prosperity and such the money value of our steel business. events proved i should have been quite justified in asking the additional sum named, for the common stock has paid five per cent continuously since.[ ] but i had enough, as has been proved, to keep me busier than ever before, trying to distribute it. [footnote : the carnegie steel company was bought by mr. morgan at mr. carnegie's own price. there was some talk at the time of his holding out for a higher price than he received, but testifying before a committee of the house of representatives in january, , mr. carnegie said: "i considered what was fair: and that is the option morgan got. schwab went down and arranged it. i never saw morgan on the subject or any man connected with him. never a word passed between him and me. i gave my memorandum and morgan saw it was eminently fair. i have been told many times since by insiders that i should have asked $ , , more and could have got it easily. once for all, i want to put a stop to all this talk about mr. carnegie 'forcing high prices for anything.'"] my first distribution was to the men in the mills. the following letters and papers will explain the gift: _new york, n.y., march , _ i make this first use of surplus wealth, four millions of first mortgage % bonds, upon retiring from business, as an acknowledgment of the deep debt which i owe to the workmen who have contributed so greatly to my success. it is designed to relieve those who may suffer from accidents, and provide small pensions for those needing help in old age. in addition i give one million dollars of such bonds, the proceeds thereof to be used to maintain the libraries and halls i have built for our workmen. in return, the homestead workmen presented the following address: _munhall, pa., feb'y , _ mr. andrew carnegie new york, n.y. dear sir: we, the employees of the homestead steel works, desire by this means to express to you through our committee our great appreciation of your benevolence in establishing the "andrew carnegie relief fund," the first annual report of its operation having been placed before us during the past month. the interest which you have always shown in your workmen has won for you an appreciation which cannot be expressed by mere words. of the many channels through which you have sought to do good, we believe that the "andrew carnegie relief fund" stands first. we have personal knowledge of cares lightened and of hope and strength renewed in homes where human prospects seemed dark and discouraging. respectfully yours { harry f. rose, _roller_ { john bell, jr., _blacksmith_ committee { j.a. horton, _timekeeper_ { walter a. greig, _electric foreman_ { harry cusack, _yardmaster_ the lucy furnace men presented me with a beautiful silver plate and inscribed upon it the following address: andrew carnegie relief fund lucy furnaces _whereas_, mr. andrew carnegie, in his munificent philanthropy, has endowed the "andrew carnegie relief fund" for the benefit of employees of the carnegie company, therefore be it _resolved_, that the employees of the lucy furnaces, in special meeting assembled, do convey to mr. andrew carnegie their sincere thanks for and appreciation of his unexcelled and bounteous endowment, and furthermore be it _resolved_, that it is their earnest wish and prayer that his life may be long spared to enjoy the fruits of his works. { james scott, _chairman_ { louis a. hutchison, _secretary_ { james daly committee { r.c. taylor { john v. ward { frederick voelker { john m. veigh i sailed soon for europe, and as usual some of my partners did not fail to accompany me to the steamer and bade me good-bye. but, oh! the difference to me! say what we would, do what we would, the solemn change had come. this i could not fail to realize. the wrench was indeed severe and there was pain in the good-bye which was also a farewell. upon my return to new york some months later, i felt myself entirely out of place, but was much cheered by seeing several of "the boys" on the pier to welcome me--the same dear friends, but so different. i had lost my partners, but not my friends. this was something; it was much. still a vacancy was left. i had now to take up my self-appointed task of wisely disposing of surplus wealth. that would keep me deeply interested. one day my eyes happened to see a line in that most valuable paper, the "scottish american," in which i had found many gems. this was the line: "the gods send thread for a web begun." it seemed almost as if it had been sent directly to me. this sank into my heart, and i resolved to begin at once my first web. true enough, the gods sent thread in the proper form. dr. j.s. billings, of the new york public libraries, came as their agent, and of dollars, five and a quarter millions went at one stroke for sixty-eight branch libraries, promised for new york city. twenty more libraries for brooklyn followed. my father, as i have stated, had been one of the five pioneers in dunfermline who combined and gave access to their few books to their less fortunate neighbors. i had followed in his footsteps by giving my native town a library--its foundation stone laid by my mother--so that this public library was really my first gift. it was followed by giving a public library and hall to allegheny city--our first home in america. president harrison kindly accompanied me from washington and opened these buildings. soon after this, pittsburgh asked for a library, which was given. this developed, in due course, into a group of buildings embracing a museum, a picture gallery, technical schools, and the margaret morrison school for young women. this group of buildings i opened to the public november , . in pittsburgh i had made my fortune and in the twenty-four millions already spent on this group,[ ] she gets back only a small part of what she gave, and to which she is richly entitled. [footnote : the total gifts to the carnegie institute at pittsburgh amounted to about twenty-eight million dollars.] the second large gift was to found the carnegie institution of washington. the th of january, , i gave ten million dollars in five per cent bonds, to which there has been added sufficient to make the total cash value twenty-five millions of dollars, the additions being made upon record of results obtained. i naturally wished to consult president roosevelt upon the matter, and if possible to induce the secretary of state, mr. john hay, to serve as chairman, which he readily agreed to do. with him were associated as directors my old friend abram s. hewitt, dr. billings, william e. dodge, elihu root, colonel higginson, d.o. mills, dr. s. weir mitchell, and others. when i showed president roosevelt the list of the distinguished men who had agreed to serve, he remarked: "you could not duplicate it." he strongly favored the foundation, which was incorporated by an act of congress april , , as follows: to encourage in the broadest and most liberal manner investigations, research and discovery, and the application of knowledge to the improvement of mankind; and, in particular, to conduct, endow and assist investigation in any department of science, literature or art, and to this end to coöperate with governments, universities, colleges, technical schools, learned societies, and individuals. [illustration: the carnegie institute at pittsburgh] i was indebted to dr. billings as my guide, in selecting dr. daniel c. gilman as the first president. he passed away some years later. dr. billings then recommended the present highly successful president, dr. robert s. woodward. long may he continue to guide the affairs of the institution! the history of its achievements is so well known through its publications that details here are unnecessary. i may, however, refer to two of its undertakings that are somewhat unique. it is doing a world-wide service with the wood-and-bronze yacht, "carnegie," which is voyaging around the world correcting the errors of the earlier surveys. many of these ocean surveys have been found misleading, owing to variations of the compass. bronze being non-magnetic, while iron and steel are highly so, previous observations have proved liable to error. a notable instance is that of the stranding of a cunard steamship near the azores. captain peters, of the "carnegie," thought it advisable to test this case and found that the captain of the ill-fated steamer was sailing on the course laid down upon the admiralty map, and was not to blame. the original observation was wrong. the error caused by variation was promptly corrected. this is only one of numerous corrections reported to the nations who go down to the sea in ships. their thanks are our ample reward. in the deed of gift i expressed the hope that our young republic might some day be able to repay, at least in some degree, the great debt it owes to the older lands. nothing gives me deeper satisfaction than the knowledge that it has to some extent already begun to do so. with the unique service rendered by the wandering "carnegie," we may rank that of the fixed observatory upon mount wilson, california, at an altitude of feet. professor hale is in charge of it. he attended the gathering of leading astronomers in rome one year, and such were his revelations there that these savants resolved their next meeting should be on top of mount wilson. and so it was. there is but one mount wilson. from a depth seventy-two feet down in the earth photographs have been taken of new stars. on the first of these plates many new worlds--i believe sixteen--were discovered. on the second i think it was sixty new worlds which had come into our ken, and on the third plate there were estimated to be more than a hundred--several of them said to be twenty times the size of our sun. some of them were so distant as to require eight years for their light to reach us, which inclines us to bow our heads whispering to ourselves, "all we know is as nothing to the unknown." when the monster new glass, three times larger than any existing, is in operation, what revelations are to come! i am assured if a race inhabits the moon they will be clearly seen. the third delightful task was founding the hero fund, in which my whole heart was concerned. i had heard of a serious accident in a coal pit near pittsburgh, and how the former superintendent, mr. taylor, although then engaged in other pursuits, had instantly driven to the scene, hoping to be of use in the crisis. rallying volunteers, who responded eagerly, he led them down the pit to rescue those below. alas, alas, he the heroic leader lost his own life. i could not get the thought of this out of my mind. my dear, dear friend, mr. richard watson gilder, had sent me the following true and beautiful poem, and i re-read it the morning after the accident, and resolved then to establish the hero fund. in the time of peace 'twas said: "when roll of drum and battle's roar shall cease upon the earth, o, then no more the deed--the race--of heroes in the land." but scarce that word was breathed when one small hand lifted victorious o'er a giant wrong that had its victims crushed through ages long; some woman set her pale and quivering face firm as a rock against a man's disgrace; a little child suffered in silence lest his savage pain should wound a mother's breast; some quiet scholar flung his gauntlet down and risked, in truth's great name, the synod's frown; a civic hero, in the calm realm of laws, did that which suddenly drew a world's applause; and one to the pest his lithe young body gave that he a thousand thousand lives might save. hence arose the five-million-dollar fund to reward heroes, or to support the families of heroes, who perish in the effort to serve or save their fellows, and to supplement what employers or others do in contributing to the support of the families of those left destitute through accidents. this fund, established april , , has proved from every point of view a decided success. i cherish a fatherly regard for it since no one suggested it to me. as far as i know, it never had been thought of; hence it is emphatically "my ain bairn." later i extended it to my native land, great britain, with headquarters at dunfermline--the trustees of the carnegie dunfermline trust undertaking its administration, and splendidly have they succeeded. in due time it was extended to france, germany, italy, belgium, holland, norway, sweden, switzerland, and denmark. regarding its workings in germany, i received a letter from david jayne hill, our american ambassador at berlin, from which i quote: my main object in writing now is to tell you how pleased his majesty is with the working of the german hero fund. he is enthusiastic about it and spoke in most complimentary terms of your discernment, as well as your generosity in founding it. he did not believe it would fill so important a place as it is doing. he told me of several cases that are really touching, and which would otherwise have been wholly unprovided for. one was that of a young man who saved a boy from drowning and just as they were about to lift him out of the water, after passing up the child into a boat, his heart failed, and he sank. he left a lovely young wife and a little boy. she has already been helped by the hero fund to establish a little business from which she can make a living, and the education of the boy, who is very bright, will be looked after. this is but one example. valentini (chief of the civil cabinet), who was somewhat skeptical at first regarding the need of such a fund, is now glowing with enthusiasm about it, and he tells me the whole commission, which is composed of carefully chosen men, is earnestly devoted to the work of making the very best and wisest use of their means and has devoted much time to their decisions. they have corresponded with the english and french commission, arranged to exchange reports, and made plans to keep in touch with one another in their work. they were deeply interested in the american report and have learned much from it. king edward of britain was deeply impressed by the provisions of the fund, and wrote me an autograph letter of appreciation of this and other gifts to my native land, which i deeply value, and hence insert. _windsor castle, november , _ dear mr. carnegie: i have for some time past been anxious to express to you my sense of your generosity for the great public objects which you have presented to this country, the land of your birth. scarcely less admirable than the gifts themselves is the great care and thought you have taken in guarding against their misuse. i am anxious to tell you how warmly i recognize your most generous benefactions and the great services they are likely to confer upon the country. as a mark of recognition, i hope you will accept the portrait of myself which i am sending to you. believe me, dear mr. carnegie, sincerely yours edward r. & i. some of the newspapers in america were doubtful of the merits of the hero fund and the first annual report was criticized, but all this has passed away and the action of the fund is now warmly extolled. it has conquered, and long will it be before the trust is allowed to perish! the heroes of the barbarian past wounded or killed their fellows; the heroes of our civilized day serve or save theirs. such the difference between physical and moral courage, between barbarism and civilization. those who belong to the first class are soon to pass away, for we are finally to regard men who slay each other as we now do cannibals who eat each other; but those in the latter class will not die as long as man exists upon the earth, for such heroism as they display is god-like. the hero fund will prove chiefly a pension fund. already it has many pensioners, heroes or the widows or children of heroes. a strange misconception arose at first about it. many thought that its purpose was to stimulate heroic action, that heroes were to be induced to play their parts for the sake of reward. this never entered my mind. it is absurd. true heroes think not of reward. they are inspired and think only of their fellows endangered; never of themselves. the fund is intended to pension or provide in the most suitable manner for the hero should he be disabled, or for those dependent upon him should he perish in his attempt to save others. it has made a fine start and will grow in popularity year after year as its aims and services are better understood. to-day we have in america hero pensioners or their families on our list. i found the president for the hero fund in a carnegie veteran, one of the original boys, charlie taylor. no salary for charlie--not a cent would he ever take. he loves the work so much that i believe he would pay highly for permission to live with it. he is the right man in the right place. he has charge also, with mr. wilmot's able assistance, of the pensions for carnegie workmen (carnegie relief fund[ ]); also the pensions for railway employees of my old division. three relief funds and all of them benefiting others. [footnote : this fund is now managed separately.] i got my revenge one day upon charlie, who was always urging me to do for others. he is a graduate of lehigh university and one of her most loyal sons. lehigh wished a building and charlie was her chief advocate. i said nothing, but wrote president drinker offering the funds for the building conditioned upon my naming it. he agreed, and i called it "taylor hall." when charlie discovered this, he came and protested that it would make him ridiculous, that he had only been a modest graduate, and was not entitled to have his name publicly honored, and so on. i enjoyed his plight immensely, waiting until he had finished, and then said that it would probably make him somewhat ridiculous if i insisted upon "taylor hall," but he ought to be willing to sacrifice himself somewhat for lehigh. if he wasn't consumed with vanity he would not care much how his name was used if it helped his alma mater. taylor was not much of a name anyhow. it was his insufferable vanity that made such a fuss. he should conquer it. he could make his decision. he could sacrifice the name of taylor or sacrifice lehigh, just as he liked, but: "no taylor, no hall." i had him! visitors who may look upon that structure in after days and wonder who taylor was may rest assured that he was a loyal son of lehigh, a working, not merely a preaching, apostle of the gospel of service to his fellow-men, and one of the best men that ever lived. such is our lord high commissioner of pensions. chapter xx educational and pension funds the fifteen-million-dollar pension fund for aged university professors (the carnegie endowment for the advancement of learning), the fourth important gift, given in june, , required the selection of twenty-five trustees from among the presidents of educational institutions in the united states. when twenty-four of these--president harper, of chicago university, being absent through illness--honored me by meeting at our house for organization, i obtained an important accession of those who were to become more intimate friends. mr. frank a. vanderlip proved of great service at the start--his washington experience being most valuable--and in our president, dr. henry s. pritchett, we found the indispensable man. this fund is very near and dear to me--knowing, as i do, many who are soon to become beneficiaries, and convinced as i am of their worth and the value of the service already rendered by them. of all professions, that of teaching is probably the most unfairly, yes, most meanly paid, though it should rank with the highest. educated men, devoting their lives to teaching the young, receive mere pittances. when i first took my seat as a trustee of cornell university, i was shocked to find how small were the salaries of the professors, as a rule ranking below the salaries of some of our clerks. to save for old age with these men is impossible. hence the universities without pension funds are compelled to retain men who are no longer able, should no longer be required, to perform their duties. of the usefulness of the fund no doubt can be entertained.[ ] the first list of beneficiaries published was conclusive upon this point, containing as it did several names of world-wide reputation, so great had been their contributions to the stock of human knowledge. many of these beneficiaries and their widows have written me most affecting letters. these i can never destroy, for if i ever have a fit of melancholy, i know the cure lies in re-reading these letters. [footnote : the total amount of this fund in was $ , , .] my friend, mr. thomas shaw (now lord shaw), of dunfermline had written an article for one of the english reviews showing that many poor people in scotland were unable to pay the fees required to give their children a university education, although some had deprived themselves of comforts in order to do so. after reading mr. shaw's article the idea came to me to give ten millions in five per cent bonds, one half of the £ , yearly revenue from it to be used to pay the fees of the deserving poor students and the other half to improve the universities. the first meeting of the trustees of this fund (the carnegie trust for the universities of scotland) was held in the edinburgh office of the secretary of state for scotland in , lord balfour of burleigh presiding. it was a notable body of men--prime minister balfour, sir henry campbell-bannerman (afterwards prime minister), john morley (now viscount morley), james bryce (now viscount bryce), the earl of elgin, lord rosebery, lord reay, mr. shaw (now lord shaw), dr. john ross of dunfermline, "the man-of-all-work" that makes for the happiness or instruction of his fellow-man, and others. i explained that i had asked them to act because i could not entrust funds to the faculties of the scottish universities after reading the report of a recent commission. mr. balfour promptly exclaimed: "not a penny, not a penny!" the earl of elgin, who had been a member of the commission, fully concurred. [illustration: andrew carnegie and viscount bryce] the details of the proposed fund being read, the earl of elgin was not sure about accepting a trust which was not strict and specific. he wished to know just what his duties were. i had given a majority of the trustees the right to change the objects of beneficence and modes of applying funds, should they in after days decide that the purposes and modes prescribed for education in scotland had become unsuitable or unnecessary for the advanced times. balfour of burleigh agreed with the earl and so did prime minister balfour, who said he had never heard of a testator before who was willing to give such powers. he questioned the propriety of doing so. "well," i said, "mr. balfour, i have never known of a body of men capable of legislating for the generation ahead, and in some cases those who attempt to legislate even for their own generation are not thought to be eminently successful." there was a ripple of laughter in which the prime minister himself heartily joined, and he then said: "you are right, quite right; but you are, i think, the first great giver who has been wise enough to take this view." i had proposed that a majority should have the power, but lord balfour suggested not less than two thirds. this was accepted by the earl of elgin and approved by all. i am very sure it is a wise provision, as after days will prove. it is incorporated in all my large gifts, and i rest assured that this feature will in future times prove valuable. the earl of elgin, of dunfermline, did not hesitate to become chairman of this trust. when i told premier balfour that i hoped elgin could be induced to assume this duty, he said promptly, "you could not get a better man in great britain." we are all entirely satisfied now upon that point. the query is: where could we get his equal? it is an odd coincidence that there are only four living men who have been made burgesses and received the freedom of dunfermline, and all are connected with the trust for the universities of scotland, sir henry campbell-bannerman, the earl of elgin, dr. john ross, and myself. but there is a lady in the circle to-day, the only one ever so greatly honored with the freedom of dunfermline, mrs. carnegie, whose devotion to the town, like my own, is intense. my election to the lord rectorship of st. andrews in proved a very important event in my life. it admitted me to the university world, to which i had been a stranger. few incidents in my life have so deeply impressed me as the first meeting of the faculty, when i took my seat in the old chair occupied successively by so many distinguished lord rectors during the nearly five hundred years which have elapsed since st. andrews was founded. i read the collection of rectorial speeches as a preparation for the one i was soon to make. the most remarkable paragraph i met with in any of them was dean stanley's advice to the students to "go to burns for your theology." that a high dignitary of the church and a favorite of queen victoria should venture to say this to the students of john knox's university is most suggestive as showing how even theology improves with the years. the best rules of conduct are in burns. first there is: "thine own reproach alone do fear." i took it as a motto early in life. and secondly: "the fear o' hell's a hangman's whip to haud the wretch in order; but where ye feel your honor grip, let that aye be your border." john stuart mill's rectorial address to the st. andrews students is remarkable. he evidently wished to give them of his best. the prominence he assigns to music as an aid to high living and pure refined enjoyment is notable. such is my own experience. an invitation given to the principals of the four scotch universities and their wives or daughters to spend a week at skibo resulted in much joy to mrs. carnegie and myself. the first meeting was attended by the earl of elgin, chairman of the trust for the universities of scotland, and lord balfour of burleigh, secretary for scotland, and lady balfour. after that "principals' week" each year became an established custom. they as well as we became friends, and thereby, they all agree, great good results to the universities. a spirit of coöperation is stimulated. taking my hand upon leaving after the first yearly visit, principal lang said: "it has taken the principals of the scotch universities five hundred years to learn how to begin our sessions. spending a week together is the solution." one of the memorable results of the gathering at skibo in was that miss agnes irwin, dean of radcliffe college, and great-granddaughter of benjamin franklin, spent the principals' week with us and all were charmed with her. franklin received his first doctor's degree from st. andrews university, nearly one hundred and fifty years ago. the second centenary of his birth was finely celebrated in philadelphia, and st. andrews, with numerous other universities throughout the world, sent addresses. st. andrews also sent a degree to the great-granddaughter. as lord rector, i was deputed to confer it and place the mantle upon her. this was done the first evening before a large audience, when more than two hundred addresses were presented. the audience was deeply impressed, as well it might be. st. andrews university, the first to confer the degree upon the great-grandfather, conferred the same degree upon the great-grandchild one hundred and forty-seven years later (and this upon her own merits as dean of radcliffe college); sent it across the atlantic to be bestowed by the hands of its lord rector, the first who was not a british subject, but who was born one as franklin was, and who became an american citizen as franklin did; the ceremony performed in philadelphia where franklin rests, in the presence of a brilliant assembly met to honor his memory. it was all very beautiful, and i esteemed myself favored, indeed, to be the medium of such a graceful and appropriate ceremony. principal donaldson of st. andrews was surely inspired when he thought of it! my unanimous reëlection by the students of st. andrews, without a contest for a second term, was deeply appreciated. and i liked the rector's nights, when the students claim him for themselves, no member of the faculty being invited. we always had a good time. after the first one, principal donaldson gave me the verdict of the secretary as rendered to him: "rector so-and-so talked _to_ us, rector thus-and-so talked _at_ us, both from the platform; mr. carnegie sat down in our circle and talked _with_ us." the question of aid to our own higher educational institutions often intruded itself upon me, but my belief was that our chief universities, such as harvard and columbia, with five to ten thousand students,[ ] were large enough; that further growth was undesirable; that the smaller institutions (the colleges especially) were in greater need of help and that it would be a better use of surplus wealth to aid them. accordingly, i afterwards confined myself to these and am satisfied that this was wise. at a later date we found mr. rockefeller's splendid educational fund, the general education board, and ourselves were working in this fruitful field without consultation, with sometimes undesirable results. mr. rockefeller wished me to join his board and this i did. coöperation was soon found to be much to our mutual advantage, and we now work in unison. [footnote : columbia university in numbered all told some , students in the various departments.] in giving to colleges quite a number of my friends have been honored as was my partner charlie taylor. conway hall at dickinson college, was named for moncure d. conway, whose autobiography, recently published, is pronounced "literature" by the "athenæum." it says: "these two volumes lie on the table glistening like gems 'midst the piles of autobiographical rubbish by which they are surrounded." that is rather suggestive for one who is adding to the pile. the last chapter in mr. conway's autobiography ends with the following paragraph: implore peace, o my reader, from whom i now part. implore peace not of deified thunder clouds but of every man, woman, child thou shalt meet. do not merely offer the prayer, "give peace in our time," but do thy part to answer it! then, at least, though the world be at strife, there shall be peace in thee. my friend has put his finger upon our deepest disgrace. it surely must soon be abolished between civilized nations. the stanton chair of economics at kenyon college, ohio, was founded in memory of edwin m. stanton, who kindly greeted me as a boy in pittsburgh when i delivered telegrams to him, and was ever cordial to me in washington, when i was an assistant to secretary scott. the hanna chair in western reserve university, cleveland; the john hay library at brown university; the second elihu root fund for hamilton, the mrs. cleveland library for wellesley, gave me pleasure to christen after these friends. i hope more are to follow, commemorating those i have known, liked, and honored. i also wished a general dodge library and a gayley library to be erected from my gifts, but these friends had already obtained such honor from their respective alma maters. my first gift to hamilton college was to be named the elihu root foundation, but that ablest of all our secretaries of state, and in the opinion of president roosevelt, "the wisest man he ever knew," took care, it seems, not to mention the fact to the college authorities. when i reproached him with this dereliction, he laughingly replied: "well, i promise not to cheat you the next gift you give us." and by a second gift this lapse was repaired after all, but i took care not to entrust the matter directly to him. the root fund of hamilton[ ] is now established beyond his power to destroy. root is a great man, and, as the greatest only are he is, in his simplicity, sublime. president roosevelt declared he would crawl on his hands and knees from the white house to the capitol if this would insure root's nomination to the presidency with a prospect of success. he was considered vulnerable because he had been counsel for corporations and was too little of the spouter and the demagogue, too much of the modest, retiring statesman to split the ears of the groundlings.[ ] the party foolishly decided not to risk root. [footnote : it amounts to $ , .] [footnote : at the meeting in memory of the life and work of andrew carnegie held on april , , in the engineering societies building in new york, mr. root made an address in the course of which, speaking of mr. carnegie, he said: "he belonged to that great race of nation-builders who have made the development of america the wonder of the world.... he was the kindliest man i ever knew. wealth had brought to him no hardening of the heart, nor made him forget the dreams of his youth. kindly, affectionate, charitable in his judgments, unrestrained in his sympathies, noble in his impulses, i wish that all the people who think of him as a rich man giving away money he did not need could know of the hundreds of kindly things he did unknown to the world."] my connection with hampton and tuskegee institutes, which promote the elevation of the colored race we formerly kept in slavery, has been a source of satisfaction and pleasure, and to know booker washington is a rare privilege. we should all take our hats off to the man who not only raised himself from slavery, but helped raise millions of his race to a higher stage of civilization. mr. washington called upon me a few days after my gift of six hundred thousand dollars was made to tuskegee and asked if he might be allowed to make one suggestion. i said: "certainly." "you have kindly specified that a sum from that fund be set aside for the future support of myself and wife during our lives, and we are very grateful, but, mr. carnegie, the sum is far beyond our needs and will seem to my race a fortune. some might feel that i was no longer a poor man giving my services without thought of saving money. would you have any objection to changing that clause, striking out the sum, and substituting 'only suitable provision'? i'll trust the trustees. mrs. washington and myself need very little." i did so, and the deed now stands, but when mr. baldwin asked for the original letter to exchange it for the substitute, he told me that the noble soul objected. that document addressed to him was to be preserved forever, and handed down; but he would put it aside and let the substitute go on file. this is an indication of the character of the leader of his race. no truer, more self-sacrificing hero ever lived: a man compounded of all the virtues. it makes one better just to know such pure and noble souls--human nature in its highest types is already divine here on earth. if it be asked which man of our age, or even of the past ages, has risen from the lowest to the highest, the answer must be booker washington. he rose from slavery to the leadership of his people--a modern moses and joshua combined, leading his people both onward and upward. in connection with these institutions i came in contact with their officers and trustees--men like principal hollis b. frissell of hampton, robert c. ogden, george foster peabody, v. everit macy, george mcaneny and william h. baldwin--recently lost to us, alas!--men who labor for others. it was a blessing to know them intimately. the cooper union, the mechanics and tradesmen's society, indeed every institution[ ] in which i became interested, revealed many men and women devoting their time and thought, not to "miserable aims that end with self," but to high ideals which mean the relief and uplift of their less fortunate brethren. [footnote : the universities, colleges, and educational institutions to which mr. carnegie gave either endowment funds or buildings number five hundred. all told his gifts to them amounted to $ , , .] my giving of organs to churches came very early in my career, i having presented to less than a hundred members of the swedenborgian church in allegheny which my father favored, an organ, after declining to contribute to the building of a new church for so few. applications from other churches soon began to pour in, from the grand catholic cathedral of pittsburgh down to the small church in the country village, and i was kept busy. every church seemed to need a better organ than it had, and as the full price for the new instrument was paid, what the old one brought was clear profit. some ordered organs for very small churches which would almost split the rafters, as was the case with the first organ given the swedenborgians; others had bought organs before applying but our check to cover the amount was welcome. finally, however, a rigid system of giving was developed. a printed schedule requiring answers to many questions has now to be filled and returned before action is taken. the department is now perfectly systematized and works admirably because we graduate the gift according to the size of the church. charges were made in the rigid scottish highlands that i was demoralizing christian worship by giving organs to churches. the very strict presbyterians there still denounce as wicked an attempt "to worship god with a kist fu' o' whistles," instead of using the human god-given voice. after that i decided that i should require a partner in my sin, and therefore asked each congregation to pay one half of the desired new organ. upon this basis the organ department still operates and continues to do a thriving business, the demand for improved organs still being great. besides, many new churches are required for increasing populations and for these organs are essential. i see no end to it. in requiring the congregation to pay one half the cost of better instruments, there is assurance of needed and reasonable expenditure. believing from my own experience that it is salutary for the congregation to hear sacred music at intervals in the service and then slowly to disperse to the strains of the reverence-compelling organ after such sermons as often show us little of a heavenly father, i feel the money spent for organs is well spent. so we continue the organ department.[ ] [footnote : the "organ department" up to had given organs to as many different churches at a cost of over six million dollars.] of all my work of a philanthropic character, my private pension fund gives me the highest and noblest return. no satisfaction equals that of feeling you have been permitted to place in comfortable circumstances, in their old age, people whom you have long known to be kind and good and in every way deserving, but who from no fault of their own, have not sufficient means to live respectably, free from solicitude as to their mere maintenance. modest sums insure this freedom. it surprised me to find how numerous were those who needed some aid to make the difference between an old age of happiness and one of misery. some such cases had arisen before my retirement from business, and i had sweet satisfaction from this source. not one person have i ever placed upon the pension list[ ] that did not fully deserve assistance. it is a real roll of honor and mutual affection. all are worthy. there is no publicity about it. no one knows who is embraced. not a word is ever breathed to others. [footnote : this amounted to over $ , a year.] this is my favorite and best answer to the question which will never down in my thoughts: "what good am i doing in the world to deserve all my mercies?" well, the dear friends of the pension list give me a satisfactory reply, and this always comes to me in need. i have had far beyond my just share of life's blessings; therefore i never ask the unknown for anything. we are in the presence of universal law and should bow our heads in silence and obey the judge within, asking nothing, fearing nothing, just doing our duty right along, seeking no reward here or hereafter. it is, indeed, more blessed to give than to receive. these dear good friends would do for me and mine as i do for them were positions reversed. i am sure of this. many precious acknowledgments have i received. some venture to tell me they remember me every night in their prayers and ask for me every blessing. often i cannot refrain from giving expression to my real feelings in return. "pray, don't," i say. "don't ask anything more for me. i've got far beyond my just share already. any fair committee sitting upon my case would take away more than half the blessings already bestowed." these are not mere words, i feel their truth. the railroad pension fund is of a similar nature. many of the old boys of the pittsburgh division (or their widows) are taken care of by it. it began years ago and grew to its present proportions. it now benefits the worthy railroad men who served under me when i was superintendent on the pennsylvania, or their widows, who need help. i was only a boy when i first went among these trainmen and got to know them by name. they were very kind to me. most of the men beneficiaries of the fund i have known personally. they are dear friends. although the four-million-dollar fund i gave for workmen in the mills (steel workers' pensions) embraces hundreds that i never saw, there are still a sufficient number upon it that i do remember to give that fund also a strong hold upon me. chapter xxi the peace palace and pittencrieff peace, at least as between english-speaking peoples,[ ] must have been early in my thoughts. in , when britain launched the monster monarch, then the largest warship known, there was, for some now-forgotten reason, talk of how she could easily compel tribute from our american cities one after the other. nothing could resist her. i cabled john bright, then in the british cabinet (the cable had recently been opened): "first and best service possible for monarch, bringing home body peabody."[ ] [footnote : "let men say what they will, i say that as surely as the sun in the heavens once shone upon britain and america united, so surely it is one morning to rise, shine upon, and greet again the reunited states--the british-american union." (quoted in alderson's _andrew carnegie, the man and his work_, p. . new york, .)] [footnote : george peabody, the american merchant and philanthropist, who died in london in .] no signature was given. strange to say, this was done, and thus the monarch became the messenger of peace, not of destruction. many years afterwards i met mr. bright at a small dinner party in birmingham and told him i was his young anonymous correspondent. he was surprised that no signature was attached and said his heart was in the act. i am sure it was. he is entitled to all credit. he was the friend of the republic when she needed friends during the civil war. he had always been my favorite living hero in public life as he had been my father's. denounced as a wild radical at first, he kept steadily on until the nation came to his point of view. always for peace he would have avoided the crimean war, in which britain backed the wrong horse, as lord salisbury afterwards acknowledged. it was a great privilege that the bright family accorded me, as a friend, to place a replica of the manchester bright statue in parliament, in the stead of a poor one removed. i became interested in the peace society of great britain upon one of my early visits and attended many of its meetings, and in later days i was especially drawn to the parliamentary union established by mr. cremer, the famous working-man's representative in parliament. few men living can be compared to mr. cremer. when he received the nobel prize of £ as the one who had done the most that year for peace, he promptly gave all but £ , needed for pressing wants, to the arbitration committee. it was a noble sacrifice. what is money but dross to the true hero! mr. cremer is paid a few dollars a week by his trade to enable him to exist in london as their member of parliament, and here was fortune thrown in his lap only to be devoted by him to the cause of peace. this is the heroic in its finest form. i had the great pleasure of presenting the committee to president cleveland at washington in , who received the members cordially and assured them of his hearty coöperation. from that day the abolition of war grew in importance with me until it finally overshadowed all other issues. the surprising action of the first hague conference gave me intense joy. called primarily to consider disarmament (which proved a dream), it created the commanding reality of a permanent tribunal to settle international disputes. i saw in this the greatest step toward peace that humanity had ever taken, and taken as if by inspiration, without much previous discussion. no wonder the sublime idea captivated the conference. if mr. holls, whose death i so deeply deplored, were alive to-day and a delegate to the forthcoming second conference with his chief, andrew d. white, i feel that these two might possibly bring about the creation of the needed international court for the abolition of war. he it was who started from the hague at night for germany, upon request of his chief, and saw the german minister of foreign affairs, and the emperor and finally prevailed upon them to approve of the high court, and not to withdraw their delegates as threatened--a service for which mr. holls deserves to be enrolled among the greatest servants of mankind. alas, death came to him while still in his prime. the day that international court is established will become one of the most memorable days in the world's history.[ ] it will ring the knell of man killing man--the deepest and blackest of crimes. it should be celebrated in every land as i believe it will be some day, and that time, perchance, not so remote as expected. in that era not a few of those hitherto extolled as heroes will have found oblivion because they failed to promote peace and good-will instead of war. [footnote : "i submit that the only measure required to-day for the maintenance of world peace is an agreement between three or four of the leading civilized powers (and as many more as desire to join--the more the better) pledged to coöperate against disturbers of world peace, should such arise." (andrew carnegie, in address at unveiling of a bust of william randall cremer at the peace palace of the hague, august , .)] when andrew d. white and mr. holls, upon their return from the hague, suggested that i offer the funds needed for a temple of peace at the hague, i informed them that i never could be so presumptuous; that if the government of the netherlands informed me of its desire to have such a temple and hoped i would furnish the means, the request would be favorably considered. they demurred, saying this could hardly be expected from any government. then i said i could never act in the matter. finally the dutch government did make application, through its minister, baron gevers in washington, and i rejoiced. still, in writing him, i was careful to say that the drafts of his government would be duly honored. i did not send the money. the government drew upon me for it, and the draft for a million and a half is kept as a memento. it seems to me almost too much that any individual should be permitted to perform so noble a duty as that of providing means for this temple of peace--the most holy building in the world because it has the holiest end in view. i do not even except st. peter's, or any building erected to the glory of god, whom, as luther says, "we cannot serve or aid; he needs no help from us." this temple is to bring peace, which is so greatly needed among his erring creatures. "the highest worship of god is service to man." at least, i feel so with luther and franklin. when in friends came and asked me to accept the presidency of the peace society of new york, which they had determined to organize, i declined, alleging that i was kept very busy with many affairs, which was true; but my conscience troubled me afterwards for declining. if i were not willing to sacrifice myself for the cause of peace what should i sacrifice for? what was i good for? fortunately, in a few days, the reverend lyman abbott, the reverend mr. lynch, and some other notable laborers for good causes called to urge my reconsideration. i divined their errand and frankly told them they need not speak. my conscience had been tormenting me for declining and i would accept the presidency and do my duty. after that came the great national gathering (the following april) when for the first time in the history of peace society meetings, there attended delegates from thirty-five of the states of the union, besides many foreigners of distinction.[ ] [footnote : mr. carnegie does not mention the fact that in december, , he gave to a board of trustees $ , , , the revenue of which was to be administered for "the abolition of international war, the foulest blot upon our civilization." this is known as the carnegie endowment for international peace. the honorable elihu root is president of the board of trustees.] my first decoration then came unexpectedly. the french government had made me knight commander of the legion of honor, and at the peace banquet in new york, over which i presided, baron d'estournelles de constant appeared upon the stage and in a compelling speech invested me with the regalia amid the cheers of the company. it was a great honor, indeed, and appreciated by me because given for my services to the cause of international peace. such honors humble, they do not exalt; so let them come.[ ] they serve also to remind me that i must strive harder than ever, and watch every act and word more closely, that i may reach just a little nearer the standard the givers--deluded souls--mistakenly assume in their speeches, that i have already attained. [footnote : mr. carnegie received also the grand cross order of orange-nassau from holland, the grand cross order of danebrog from denmark, a gold medal from twenty-one american republics and had doctors' degrees from innumerable universities and colleges. he was also a member of many institutes, learned societies and clubs--over in number.] * * * * * no gift i have made or can ever make can possibly approach that of pittencrieff glen, dunfermline. it is saturated with childish sentiment--all of the purest and sweetest. i must tell that story: among my earliest recollections are the struggles of dunfermline to obtain the rights of the town to part of the abbey grounds and the palace ruins. my grandfather morrison began the campaign, or, at least, was one of those who did. the struggle was continued by my uncles lauder and morrison, the latter honored by being charged with having incited and led a band of men to tear down a certain wall. the citizens won a victory in the highest court and the then laird ordered that thereafter "no morrison be admitted to the glen." i, being a morrison like my brother-cousin, dod, was debarred. the lairds of pittencrieff for generations had been at variance with the inhabitants. the glen is unique, as far as i know. it adjoins the abbey and palace grounds, and on the west and north it lies along two of the main streets of the town. its area (between sixty and seventy acres) is finely sheltered, its high hills grandly wooded. it always meant paradise to the child of dunfermline. it certainly did to me. when i heard of paradise, i translated the word into pittencrieff glen, believing it to be as near to paradise as anything i could think of. happy were we if through an open lodge gate, or over the wall or under the iron grill over the burn, now and then we caught a glimpse inside. almost every sunday uncle lauder took "dod" and "naig" for a walk around the abbey to a part that overlooked the glen--the busy crows fluttering around in the big trees below. its laird was to us children the embodiment of rank and wealth. the queen, we knew, lived in windsor castle, but she didn't own pittencrieff, not she! hunt of pittencrieff wouldn't exchange with her or with any one. of this we were sure, because certainly neither of us would. in all my childhood's--yes and in my early manhood's--air-castle building (which was not small), nothing comparable in grandeur approached pittencrieff. my uncle lauder predicted many things for me when i became a man, but had he foretold that some day i should be rich enough, and so supremely fortunate as to become laird of pittencrieff, he might have turned my head. and then to be able to hand it over to dunfermline as a public park--my paradise of childhood! not for a crown would i barter that privilege. when dr. ross whispered to me that colonel hunt might be induced to sell, my ears cocked themselves instantly. he wished an extortionate price, the doctor thought, and i heard nothing further for some time. when indisposed in london in the autumn of , my mind ran upon the subject, and i intended to wire dr. ross to come up and see me. one morning, mrs. carnegie came into my room and asked me to guess who had arrived and i guessed dr. ross. sure enough, there he was. we talked over pittencrieff. i suggested that if our mutual friend and fellow-townsman, mr. shaw in edinburgh (lord shaw of dunfermline) ever met colonel hunt's agents he could intimate that their client might some day regret not closing with me as another purchaser equally anxious to buy might not be met with, and i might change my mind or pass away. mr. shaw told the doctor when he mentioned this that he had an appointment to meet with hunt's lawyer on other business the next morning and would certainly say so. i sailed shortly after for new york and received there one day a cable from mr. shaw stating that the laird would accept forty-five thousand pounds. should he close? i wired: "yes, provided it is under ross's conditions"; and on christmas eve, i received shaw's reply: "hail, laird of pittencrieff!" so i was the happy possessor of the grandest title on earth in my estimation. the king--well, he was only the king. he didn't own king malcolm's tower nor st. margaret's shrine, nor pittencrieff glen. not he, poor man. i did, and i shall be glad to condescendingly show the king those treasures should he ever visit dunfermline. as the possessor of the park and the glen i had a chance to find out what, if anything, money could do for the good of the masses of a community, if placed in the hands of a body of public-spirited citizens. dr. ross was taken into my confidence so far as pittencrieff park was concerned, and with his advice certain men intended for a body of trustees were agreed upon and invited to skibo to organize. they imagined it was in regard to transferring the park to the town; not even to dr. ross was any other subject mentioned. when they heard that half a million sterling in bonds, bearing five per cent interest, was also to go to them for the benefit of dunfermline, they were surprised.[ ] [footnote : additional gifts, made later, brought this gift up to $ , , .] it is twelve years since the glen was handed over to the trustees and certainly no public park was ever dearer to a people. the children's yearly gala day, the flower shows and the daily use of the park by the people are surprising. the glen now attracts people from neighboring towns. in numerous ways the trustees have succeeded finely in the direction indicated in the trust deed, namely: to bring into the monotonous lives of the toiling masses of dunfermline, more "of sweetness and light," to give to them--especially the young--some charm, some happiness, some elevating conditions of life which residence elsewhere would have denied, that the child of my native town, looking back in after years, however far from home it may have roamed, will feel that simply by virtue of being such, life has been made happier and better. if this be the fruit of your labors, you will have succeeded; if not, you will have failed. to this paragraph i owe the friendship of earl grey, formerly governor-general of canada. he wrote dr. ross: "i must know the man who wrote that document in the 'times' this morning." we met in london and became instantly sympathetic. he is a great soul who passes instantly into the heart and stays there. lord grey is also to-day a member (trustee) of the ten-million-dollar fund for the united kingdom.[ ] [footnote : mr. carnegie refers to the gift of ten million dollars to the carnegie united kingdom trust merely in connection with earl grey. his references to his gifts are casual, in that he refers only to the ones in which he happens for the moment to be interested. those he mentions are merely a part of the whole. he gave to the church peace union over $ , , , to the united engineering society $ , , , to the international bureau of american republics $ , , and to a score or more of research, hospital, and educational boards sums ranging from $ , to $ , . he gave to various towns and cities over twenty-eight hundred library buildings at a cost of over $ , , . the largest of his gifts he does not mention at all. this was made in to the carnegie corporation of new york and was $ , , . the corporation is the residuary legatee under mr. carnegie's will and it is not yet known what further sum may come to it through that instrument. the object of the corporation, as defined by mr. carnegie himself in a letter to the trustees, is: "to promote the advancement and diffusion of knowledge and understanding among the people of the united states by aiding technical schools, institutions of higher learning, libraries, scientific research, hero funds, useful publications and by such other agencies and means as shall from time to time be found appropriate therefor." the carnegie benefactions, all told, amount to something over $ , , --surely a huge sum to have been brought together and then distributed by one man.] thus, pittencrieff glen is the most soul-satisfying public gift i ever made, or ever can make. it is poetic justice that the grandson of thomas morrison, radical leader in his day, nephew of bailie morrison, his son and successor, and above all son of my sainted father and my most heroic mother, should arise and dispossess the lairds, should become the agent for conveying the glen and park to the people of dunfermline forever. it is a true romance, which no air-castle can quite equal or fiction conceive. the hand of destiny seems to hover over it, and i hear something whispering: "not altogether in vain have you lived--not altogether in vain." this is the crowning mercy of my career! i set it apart from all my other public gifts. truly the whirligig of time brings in some strange revenges. it is now thirteen years since i ceased to accumulate wealth and began to distribute it. i could never have succeeded in either had i stopped with having enough to retire upon, but nothing to retire to. but there was the habit and the love of reading, writing and speaking upon occasion, and also the acquaintance and friendship of educated men which i had made before i gave up business. for some years after retiring i could not force myself to visit the works. this, alas, would recall so many who had gone before. scarcely one of my early friends would remain to give me the hand-clasp of the days of old. only one or two of these old men would call me "andy." do not let it be thought, however, that my younger partners were forgotten, or that they have not played a very important part in sustaining me in the effort of reconciling myself to the new conditions. far otherwise! the most soothing influence of all was their prompt organization of the carnegie veteran association, to expire only when the last member dies. our yearly dinner together, in our own home in new york, is a source of the greatest pleasure,--so great that it lasts from one year to the other. some of the veterans travel far to be present, and what occurs between us constitutes one of the dearest joys of my life. i carry with me the affection of "my boys." i am certain i do. there is no possible mistake about that because my heart goes out to them. this i number among my many blessings and in many a brooding hour this fact comes to me, and i say to myself: "rather this, minus fortune, than multi-millionairedom without it--yes, a thousand times, yes." many friends, great and good men and women, mrs. carnegie and i are favored to know, but not one whit shall these ever change our joint love for the "boys." for to my infinite delight her heart goes out to them as does mine. she it was who christened our new new york home with the first veteran dinner. "the partners first" was her word. it was no mere idle form when they elected mrs. carnegie the first honorary member, and our daughter the second. their place in our hearts is secure. although i was the senior, still we were "boys together." perfect trust and common aims, not for self only, but for each other, and deep affection, moulded us into a brotherhood. we were friends first and partners afterwards. forty-three out of forty-five partners are thus bound together for life. another yearly event that brings forth many choice spirits is our literary dinner, at home, our dear friend mr. richard watson gilder, editor of the "century," being the manager.[ ] his devices and quotations from the writings of the guest of the year, placed upon the cards of the guests, are so appropriate, as to cause much hilarity. then the speeches of the novitiates give zest to the occasion. john morley was the guest of honor when with us in and a quotation from his works was upon the card at each plate. [footnote : "yesterday we had a busy day in toronto. the grand event was a dinner at six o'clock where we all spoke, a.c. making a remarkable address.... i can't tell you how i am enjoying this. not only seeing new places, but the talks with our own party. it is, indeed, a liberal education. a.c. is truly a 'great' man; that is, a man of enormous faculty and a great imagination. i don't remember any friend who has such a range of poetical quotation, unless it is stedman. (not so much _range_ as numerous quotations from shakespeare, burns, byron, etc.) his views are truly large and prophetic. and, unless i am mistaken, he has a genuine ethical character. he is not perfect, but he is most interesting and remarkable; a true democrat; his benevolent actions having a root in principle and character. he is not accidentally the intimate friend of such high natures as arnold and morley." (_letters of richard watson gilder_, edited by his daughter rosamond gilder, p. . new york, .)] one year gilder appeared early in the evening of the dinner as he wished to seat the guests. this had been done, but he came to me saying it was well he had looked them over. he had found john burroughs and ernest thompson seton were side by side, and as they were then engaged in a heated controversy upon the habits of beasts and birds, in which both had gone too far in their criticisms, they were at dagger's points. gilder said it would never do to seat them together. he had separated them. i said nothing, but slipped into the dining-room unobserved and replaced the cards as before. gilder's surprise was great when he saw the men next each other, but the result was just as i had expected. a reconciliation took place and they parted good friends. moral: if you wish to play peace-maker, seat adversaries next each other where they must begin by being civil. burroughs and seton both enjoyed the trap i set for them. true it is, we only hate those whom we do not know. it certainly is often the way to peace to invite your adversary to dinner and even beseech him to come, taking no refusal. most quarrels become acute from the parties not seeing and communicating with each other and hearing too much of their disagreement from others. they do not fully understand the other's point of view and all that can be said for it. wise is he who offers the hand of reconciliation should a difference with a friend arise. unhappy he to the end of his days who refuses it. no possible gain atones for the loss of one who has been a friend even if that friend has become somewhat less dear to you than before. he is still one with whom you have been intimate, and as age comes on friends pass rapidly away and leave you. he is the happy man who feels there is not a human being to whom he does not wish happiness, long life, and deserved success, not one in whose path he would cast an obstacle nor to whom he would not do a service if in his power. all this he can feel without being called upon to retain as a friend one who has proved unworthy beyond question by dishonorable conduct. for such there should be nothing felt but pity, infinite pity. and pity for your own loss also, for true friendship can only feed and grow upon the virtues. "when love begins to sicken and decay it useth an enforced ceremony." the former geniality may be gone forever, but each can wish the other nothing but happiness. none of my friends hailed my retirement from business more warmly than mark twain. i received from him the following note, at a time when the newspapers were talking much about my wealth. dear sir and friend: you seem to be prosperous these days. could you lend an admirer a dollar and a half to buy a hymn-book with? god will bless you if you do; i feel it, i know it. so will i. if there should be other applications this one not to count. yours mark p.s. don't send the hymn-book, send the money. i want to make the selection myself. m. when he was lying ill in new york i went to see him frequently, and we had great times together, for even lying in bed he was as bright as ever. one call was to say good-bye, before my sailing for scotland. the pension fund for university professors was announced in new york soon after i sailed. a letter about it from mark, addressed to "saint andrew," reached me in scotland, from which i quote the following: you can take my halo. if you had told me what you had done when at my bedside you would have got it there and then. it is pure tin and paid "the duty" when it came down. those intimate with mr. clemens (mark twain) will certify that he was one of the charmers. joe jefferson is the only man who can be conceded his twin brother in manner and speech, their charm being of the same kind. "uncle remus" (joel chandler harris) is another who has charm, and so has george w. cable; yes, and josh billings also had it. such people brighten the lives of their friends, regardless of themselves. they make sunshine wherever they go. in rip van winkle's words: "all pretty much alike, dem fellers." every one of them is unselfish and warm of heart. the public only knows one side of mr. clemens--the amusing part. little does it suspect that he was a man of strong convictions upon political and social questions and a moralist of no mean order. for instance, upon the capture of aguinaldo by deception, his pen was the most trenchant of all. junius was weak in comparison. the gathering to celebrate his seventieth birthday was unique. the literary element was there in force, but mark had not forgotten to ask to have placed near him the multi-millionaire, mr. h.h. rogers, one who had been his friend in need. just like mark. without exception, the leading literary men dwelt in their speeches exclusively upon the guest's literary work. when my turn came, i referred to this and asked them to note that what our friend had done as a man would live as long as what he had written. sir walter scott and he were linked indissolubly together. our friend, like scott, was ruined by the mistakes of partners, who had become hopelessly bankrupt. two courses lay before him. one the smooth, easy, and short way--the legal path. surrender all your property, go through bankruptcy, and start afresh. this was all he owed to creditors. the other path, long, thorny, and dreary, a life struggle, with everything sacrificed. there lay the two paths and this was his decision: "not what i owe to my creditors, but what i owe to myself is the issue." there are times in most men's lives that test whether they be dross or pure gold. it is the decision made in the crisis which proves the man. our friend entered the fiery furnace a man and emerged a hero. he paid his debts to the utmost farthing by lecturing around the world. "an amusing cuss, mark twain," is all very well as a popular verdict, but what of mr. clemens the man and the hero, for he is both and in the front rank, too, with sir walter. he had a heroine in his wife. she it was who sustained him and traveled the world round with him as his guardian angel, and enabled him to conquer as sir walter did. this he never failed to tell to his intimates. never in my life did three words leave so keen a pang as those uttered upon my first call after mrs. clemens passed away. i fortunately found him alone and while my hand was still in his, and before one word had been spoken by either, there came from him, with a stronger pressure of my hand, these words: "a ruined home, a ruined home." the silence was unbroken. i write this years after, but still i hear the words again and my heart responds. one mercy, denied to our forefathers, comes to us of to-day. if the judge within give us a verdict of acquittal as having lived this life well, we have no other judge to fear. "to thine own self be true, and it must follow, as the night the day, thou canst not then be false to any man." eternal punishment, because of a few years' shortcomings here on earth, would be the reverse of godlike. satan himself would recoil from it. chapter xxii mathew arnold and others the most charming man, john morley and i agree, that we ever knew was matthew arnold. he had, indeed, "a charm"--that is the only word which expresses the effect of his presence and his conversation. even his look and grave silences charmed. [illustration: _photograph from underwood & underwood, n.y._ matthew arnold] he coached with us in , i think, through southern england--william black and edwin a. abbey being of the party. approaching a pretty village he asked me if the coach might stop there a few minutes. he explained that this was the resting-place of his godfather, bishop keble, and he should like to visit his grave. he continued: "ah, dear, dear keble! i caused him much sorrow by my views upon theological subjects, which caused me sorrow also, but notwithstanding he was deeply grieved, dear friend as he was, he traveled to oxford and voted for me for professor of english poetry." we walked to the quiet churchyard together. matthew arnold in silent thought at the grave of keble made upon me a lasting impression. later the subject of his theological views was referred to. he said they had caused sorrow to his best friends. "mr. gladstone once gave expression to his deep disappointment, or to something like displeasure, saying i ought to have been a bishop. no doubt my writings prevented my promotion, as well as grieved my friends, but i could not help it. i had to express my views." i remember well the sadness of tone with which these last words were spoken, and how very slowly. they came as from the deep. he had his message to deliver. steadily has the age advanced to receive it. his teachings pass almost uncensured to-day. if ever there was a seriously religious man it was matthew arnold. no irreverent word ever escaped his lips. in this he and gladstone were equally above reproach, and yet he had in one short sentence slain the supernatural. "the case against miracles is closed. they do not happen." he and his daughter, now mrs. whitridge, were our guests when in new york in , and also at our mountain home in the alleghanies, so that i saw a great deal, but not enough, of him. my mother and myself drove him to the hall upon his first public appearance in new york. never was there a finer audience gathered. the lecture was not a success, owing solely to his inability to speak well in public. he was not heard. when we returned home his first words were: "well, what have you all to say? tell me! will i do as a lecturer?" i was so keenly interested in his success that i did not hesitate to tell him it would never do for him to go on unless he fitted himself for public speaking. he must get an elocutionist to give him lessons upon two or three points. i urged this so strongly that he consented to do so. after we all had our say, he turned to my mother, saying: "now, dear mrs. carnegie, they have all given me their opinions, but i wish to know what you have to say about my first night as a lecturer in america." "too ministerial, mr. arnold, too ministerial," was the reply slowly and softly delivered. and to the last mr. arnold would occasionally refer to that, saying he felt it hit the nail on the head. when he returned to new york from his western tour, he had so much improved that his voice completely filled the brooklyn academy of music. he had taken a few lessons from a professor of elocution in boston, as advised, and all went well thereafter. he expressed a desire to hear the noted preacher, mr. beecher; and we started for brooklyn one sunday morning. mr. beecher had been apprized of our coming so that after the services he might remain to meet mr. arnold. when i presented mr. arnold he was greeted warmly. mr. beecher expressed his delight at meeting one in the flesh whom he had long known so well in the spirit, and, grasping his hand, he said: "there is nothing you have written, mr. arnold, which i have not carefully read at least once and a great deal many times, and always with profit, always with profit!" "ah, then, i fear, mr. beecher," replied arnold, "you may have found some references to yourself which would better have been omitted." "oh, no, no, those did me the most good of all," said the smiling beecher, and they both laughed. mr. beecher was never at a loss. after presenting matthew arnold to him, i had the pleasure of presenting the daughter of colonel ingersoll, saying, as i did so: "mr. beecher, this is the first time miss ingersoll has ever been in a christian church." he held out both hands and grasped hers, and looking straight at her and speaking slowly, said: "well, well, you are the most beautiful heathen i ever saw." those who remember miss ingersoll in her youth will not differ greatly with mr. beecher. then: "how's your father, miss ingersoll? i hope he's well. many a time he and i have stood together on the platform, and wasn't it lucky for me we were on the same side!" beecher was, indeed, a great, broad, generous man, who absorbed what was good wherever found. spencer's philosophy, arnold's insight tempered with sound sense, ingersoll's staunch support of high political ends were powers for good in the republic. mr. beecher was great enough to appreciate and hail as helpful friends all of these men. arnold visited us in scotland in , and talking one day of sport he said he did not shoot, he could not kill anything that had wings and could soar in the clear blue sky; but, he added, he could not give up fishing--"the accessories are so delightful." he told of his happiness when a certain duke gave him a day's fishing twice or three times a year. i forget who the kind duke was, but there was something unsavory about him and mention was made of this. he was asked how he came to be upon intimate terms with such a man. "ah!" he said, "a duke is always a personage with us, always a personage, independent of brains or conduct. we are all snobs. hundreds of years have made us so, all snobs. we can't help it. it is in the blood." this was smilingly said, and i take it he made some mental reservations. he was no snob himself, but one who naturally "smiled at the claims of long descent," for generally the "descent" cannot be questioned. he was interested, however, in men of rank and wealth, and i remember when in new york he wished particularly to meet mr. vanderbilt. i ventured to say he would not find him different from other men. "no, but it is something to know the richest man in the world," he replied. "certainly the man who makes his own wealth eclipses those who inherit rank from others." i asked him one day why he had never written critically upon shakespeare and assigned him his place upon the throne among the poets. he said that thoughts of doing so had arisen, but reflection always satisfied him that he was incompetent to write upon, much less to criticize, shakespeare. he believed it could not be successfully done. shakespeare was above all, could be measured by no rules of criticism; and much as he should have liked to dwell upon his transcendent genius, he had always recoiled from touching the subject. i said that i was prepared for this, after his tribute which stands to-day unequaled, and i recalled his own lines from his sonnet: shakespeare others abide our question. thou art free. we ask and ask--thou smilest and art still, out-topping knowledge. for the loftiest hill who to the stars uncrowns his majesty, planting his steadfast footsteps in the sea, making the heaven of heavens his dwelling-place, spares but the cloudy border of his base to the foil'd searching of mortality; and thou, who didst the stars and sunbeams know, self-school'd, self-scann'd, self-honour'd, self-secure, didst stand on earth unguess'd at--better so! all pains the immortal spirit must endure, all weakness which impairs, all griefs which bow, find their sole voice in that victorious brow. i knew mr. shaw (josh billings) and wished mr. arnold, the apostle of sweetness and light, to meet that rough diamond--rough, but still a diamond. fortunately one morning josh came to see me in the windsor hotel, where we were then living, and referred to our guest, expressing his admiration for him. i replied: "you are going to dine with him to-night. the ladies are going out and arnold and myself are to dine alone; you complete the trinity." to this he demurred, being a modest man, but i was inexorable. no excuse would be taken; he must come to oblige me. he did. i sat between them at dinner and enjoyed this meeting of extremes. mr. arnold became deeply interested in mr. shaw's way of putting things and liked his western anecdotes, laughing more heartily than i had ever seen him do before. one incident after another was told from the experience of the lecturer, for mr. shaw had lectured for fifteen years in every place of ten thousand inhabitants or more in the united states. mr. arnold was desirous of hearing how the lecturer held his audiences. "well," he said, "you mustn't keep them laughing too long, or they will think you are laughing at them. after giving the audience amusement you must become earnest and play the serious rôle. for instance, 'there are two things in this life for which no man is ever prepared. who will tell me what these are?' finally some one cries out 'death.' 'well, who gives me the other?' many respond--wealth, happiness, strength, marriage, taxes. at last josh begins, solemnly: 'none of you has given the second. there are two things on earth for which no man is ever prepared, and them's twins,' and the house shakes." mr. arnold did also. "do you keep on inventing new stories?" was asked. "yes, always. you can't lecture year after year unless you find new stories, and sometimes these fail to crack. i had one nut which i felt sure would crack and bring down the house, but try as i would it never did itself justice, all because i could not find the indispensable word, just one word. i was sitting before a roaring wood fire one night up in michigan when the word came to me which i knew would crack like a whip. i tried it on the boys and it did. it lasted longer than any one word i used. i began: 'this is a highly critical age. people won't believe until they fully understand. now there's jonah and the whale. they want to know all about it, and it's my opinion that neither jonah nor the whale fully understood it. and then they ask what jonah was doing in the whale's--the whale's society.'" mr. shaw was walking down broadway one day when accosted by a real westerner, who said: "i think you are josh billings." "well, sometimes i am called that." "i have five thousand dollars for you right here in my pocket-book." "here's delmonico's, come in and tell me all about it." after seating themselves, the stranger said he was part owner in a gold mine in california, and explained that there had been a dispute about its ownership and that the conference of partners broke up in quarreling. the stranger said he had left, threatening he would take the bull by the horns and begin legal proceedings. "the next morning i went to the meeting and told them i had turned over josh billings's almanac that morning and the lesson for the day was: 'when you take the bull by the horns, take him by the tail; you can get a better hold and let go when you're a mind to.' we laughed and laughed and felt that was good sense. we took your advice, settled, and parted good friends. some one moved that five thousand dollars be given josh, and as i was coming east they appointed me treasurer and i promised to hand it over. there it is." the evening ended by mr. arnold saying: "well, mr. shaw, if ever you come to lecture in england, i shall be glad to welcome and introduce you to your first audience. any foolish man called a lord could do you more good than i by introducing you, but i should so much like to do it." imagine matthew arnold, the apostle of sweetness and light, introducing josh billings, the foremost of jesters, to a select london audience. in after years he never failed to ask after "our leonine friend, mr. shaw." meeting josh at the windsor one morning after the notable dinner i sat down with him in the rotunda and he pulled out a small memorandum book, saying as he did so: "where's arnold? i wonder what he would say to this. the 'century' gives me $ a week, i agreeing to send them any trifle that occurs to me. i try to give it something. here's this from uncle zekiel, my weekly budget: 'of course the critic is a greater man than the author. any fellow who can point out the mistakes another fellow has made is a darned sight smarter fellow than the fellow who made them.'" i told mr. arnold a chicago story, or rather a story about chicago. a society lady of boston visiting her schoolmate friend in chicago, who was about to be married, was overwhelmed with attention. asked by a noted citizen one evening what had charmed her most in chicago, she graciously replied: "what surprises me most isn't the bustle of business, or your remarkable development materially, or your grand residences; it is the degree of culture and refinement i find here." the response promptly came: "oh, we are just dizzy on cult out here, you bet." mr. arnold was not prepared to enjoy chicago, which had impressed him as the headquarters of philistinism. he was, however, surprised and gratified at meeting with so much "culture and refinement." before he started he was curious to know what he should find most interesting. i laughingly said that he would probably first be taken to see the most wonderful sight there, which was said to be the slaughter houses, with new machines so perfected that the hog driven in at one end came out hams at the other before its squeal was out of one's ears. then after a pause he asked reflectively: "but why should one go to slaughter houses, why should one hear hogs squeal?" i could give no reason, so the matter rested. mr. arnold's old testament favorite was certainly isaiah: at least his frequent quotations from that great poet, as he called him, led one to this conclusion. i found in my tour around the world that the sacred books of other religions had been stripped of the dross that had necessarily accumulated around their legends. i remembered mr. arnold saying that the scriptures should be so dealt with. the gems from confucius and others which delight the world have been selected with much care and appear as "collects." the disciple has not the objectionable accretions of the ignorant past presented to him. the more one thinks over the matter, the stronger one's opinion becomes that the christian will have to follow the eastern example and winnow the wheat from the chaff--worse than chaff, sometimes the positively pernicious and even poisonous refuse. burns, in the "cotter's saturday night," pictures the good man taking down the big bible for the evening service: "he wales a portion with judicious care." we should have those portions selected and use the selections only. in this, and much besides, the man whom i am so thankful for having known and am so favored as to call friend, has proved the true teacher in advance of his age, the greatest poetic teacher in the domain of "the future and its viewless things." i took arnold down from our summer home at cresson in the alleghanies to see black, smoky pittsburgh. in the path from the edgar thomson steel works to the railway station there are two flights of steps to the bridge across the railway, the second rather steep. when we had ascended about three quarters of it he suddenly stopped to gain breath. leaning upon the rail and putting his hand upon his heart, he said to me: "ah, this will some day do for me, as it did for my father." i did not know then of the weakness of his heart, but i never forgot this incident, and when not long after the sad news came of his sudden death, after exertion in england endeavoring to evade an obstacle, it came back to me with a great pang that our friend had foretold his fate. our loss was great. to no man i have known could burns's epitaph upon tam samson be more appropriately applied: "tam samson's weel-worn clay here lies: ye canting zealots, spare him! if honest worth in heaven rise, ye'll mend or ye win near him." the name of a dear man comes to me just here, dr. oliver wendell holmes, of boston, everybody's doctor, whose only ailment toward the end was being eighty years of age. he was a boy to the last. when matthew arnold died a few friends could not resist taking steps toward a suitable memorial to his memory. these friends quietly provided the necessary sum, as no public appeal could be thought of. no one could be permitted to contribute to such a fund except such as had a right to the privilege, for privilege it was felt to be. double, triple the sum could readily have been obtained. i had the great satisfaction of being permitted to join the select few and to give the matter a little attention upon our side of the atlantic. of course i never thought of mentioning the matter to dear dr. holmes--not that he was not one of the elect, but that no author or professional man should be asked to contribute money to funds which, with rare exceptions, are best employed when used for themselves. one morning, however, i received a note from the doctor, saying that it had been whispered to him that there was such a movement on foot, and that i had been mentioned in connection with it, and if he were judged worthy to have his name upon the roll of honor, he would be gratified. since he had heard of it he could not rest without writing to me, and he should like to hear in reply. that he was thought worthy goes without saying. this is the kind of memorial any man might wish. i venture to say that there was not one who contributed to it who was not grateful to the kind fates for giving him the opportunity. chapter xxiii british political leaders in london, lord rosebery, then in gladstone's cabinet and a rising statesman, was good enough to invite me to dine with him to meet mr. gladstone, and i am indebted to him for meeting the world's first citizen. this was, i think, in , for my "triumphant democracy"[ ] appeared in , and i remember giving mr. gladstone, upon that occasion, some startling figures which i had prepared for it. [footnote : _triumphant democracy, or fifty years' march of the republic._ london and new york, .] i never did what i thought right in a social matter with greater self-denial, than when later the first invitation came from mr. gladstone to dine with him. i was engaged to dine elsewhere and sorely tempted to plead that an invitation from the real ruler of great britain should be considered as much of a command as that of the ornamental dignitary. but i kept my engagement and missed the man i most wished to meet. the privilege came later, fortunately, when subsequent visits to him at hawarden were made. lord rosebery opened the first library i ever gave, that of dunfermline, and he has recently ( ) opened the latest given by me--one away over in stornoway. when he last visited new york i drove him along the riverside drive, and he declared that no city in the world possessed such an attraction. he was a man of brilliant parts, but his resolutions were "sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought." had he been born to labor and entered the house of commons in youth, instead of being dropped without effort into the gilded upper chamber, he might have acquired in the rough-and-tumble of life the tougher skin, for he was highly sensitive and lacked tenacity of purpose essential to command in political life. he was a charming speaker--a eulogist with the lightest touch and the most graceful style upon certain themes of any speaker of his day. [since these lines were written he has become, perhaps, the foremost eulogist of our race. he has achieved a high place. all honor to him!] one morning i called by appointment upon him. after greetings he took up an envelope which i saw as i entered had been carefully laid on his desk, and handed it to me, saying: "i wish you to dismiss your secretary." "that is a big order, your lordship. he is indispensable, and a scotsman," i replied. "what is the matter with him?" "this isn't your handwriting; it is his. what do you think of a man who spells rosebery with two _r's_?" i said if i were sensitive on that point life would not be endurable for me. "i receive many letters daily when at home and i am sure that twenty to thirty per cent of them mis-spell my name, ranging from 'karnaghie' to 'carnagay.'" but he was in earnest. just such little matters gave him great annoyance. men of action should learn to laugh at and enjoy these small things, or they themselves may become "small." a charming personality withal, but shy, sensitive, capricious, and reserved, qualities which a few years in the commons would probably have modified. when he was, as a liberal, surprising the house of lords and creating some stir, i ventured to let off a little of my own democracy upon him. "stand for parliament boldly. throw off your hereditary rank, declaring you scorn to accept a privilege which is not the right of every citizen. thus make yourself the real leader of the people, which you never can be while a peer. you are young, brilliant, captivating, with the gift of charming speech. no question of your being prime minister if you take the plunge." to my surprise, although apparently interested, he said very quietly: "but the house of commons couldn't admit me as a peer." "that's what i should hope. if i were in your place, and rejected, i would stand again for the next vacancy and force the issue. insist that one having renounced his hereditary privileges becomes elevated to citizenship and is eligible for any position to which he is elected. victory is certain. that's playing the part of a cromwell. democracy worships a precedent-breaker or a precedent-maker." we dropped the subject. telling morley of this afterward, i shall never forget his comment: "my friend, cromwell doesn't reside at number berkeley square." slowly, solemnly spoken, but conclusive. fine fellow, rosebery, only he was handicapped by being born a peer. on the other hand, morley, rising from the ranks, his father a surgeon hard-pressed to keep his son at college, is still "honest john," unaffected in the slightest degree by the so-called elevation to the peerage and the legion of honor, both given for merit. the same with "bob" reid, m.p., who became earl loreburn and lord high chancellor, lord haldane, his successor as chancellor; asquith, prime minister, lloyd george, and others. not even the rulers of our republic to-day are more democratic or more thorough men of the people. when the world's foremost citizen passed away, the question was, who is to succeed gladstone; who can succeed him? the younger members of the cabinet agreed to leave the decision to morley. harcourt or campbell-bannerman? there was only one impediment in the path of the former, but that was fatal--inability to control his temper. the issue had unfortunately aroused him to such outbursts as really unfitted him for leadership, and so the man of calm, sober, unclouded judgment was considered indispensable. i was warmly attached to harcourt, who in turn was a devoted admirer of our republic, as became the husband of motley's daughter. our census and our printed reports, which i took care that he should receive, interested him deeply. of course, the elevation of the representative of my native town of dunfermline (campbell-bannerman)[ ] gave me unalloyed pleasure, the more so since in returning thanks from the town house to the people assembled he used these words: "i owe my election to my chairman, bailie morrison." [footnote : campbell-bannerman was chosen leader of the liberal party in december, .] the bailie, dunfermline's leading radical, was my uncle. we were radical families in those days and are so still, both carnegies and morrisons, and intense admirers of the great republic, like that one who extolled washington and his colleagues as "men who knew and dared proclaim the royalty of man"--a proclamation worth while. there is nothing more certain than that the english-speaking race in orderly, lawful development will soon establish the golden rule of citizenship through evolution, never revolution: "the rank is but the guinea's stamp, the man's the gowd for a' that." this feeling already prevails in all the british colonies. the dear old motherland hen has ducks for chickens which give her much anxiety breasting the waves, while she, alarmed, screams wildly from the shore; but she will learn to swim also by and by. in the autumn of mrs. carnegie and i attended the ceremony of giving the freedom of dunfermline to our friend, dr. john ross, chairman of the carnegie dunfermline trust, foremost and most zealous worker for the good of the town. provost macbeth in his speech informed the audience that the honor was seldom conferred, that there were only three living burgesses--one their member of parliament, h. campbell-bannerman, then prime minister; the earl of elgin of dunfermline, ex-viceroy of india, then colonial secretary; and the third myself. this seemed great company for me, so entirely out of the running was i as regards official station. the earl of elgin is the descendant of the bruce. their family vault is in dunfermline abbey, where his great ancestor lies under the abbey bell. it has been noted how secretary stanton selected general grant as the one man in the party who could not possibly be the commander. one would be very apt to make a similar mistake about the earl. when the scottish universities were to be reformed the earl was second on the committee. when the conservative government formed its committee upon the boer war, the earl, a liberal, was appointed chairman. when the decision of the house of lords brought dire confusion upon the united free church of scotland, lord elgin was called upon as the chairman of committee to settle the matter. parliament embodied his report in a bill, and again he was placed at the head to apply it. when trustees for the universities of scotland fund were to be selected, i told prime minister balfour i thought the earl of elgin as a dunfermline magnate could be induced to take the chairmanship. he said i could not get a better man in great britain. so it has proved. john morley said to me one day afterwards, but before he had, as a member of the dunfermline trust, experience of the chairman: "i used to think elgin about the most problematical public man in high position i had ever met, but i now know him one of the ablest. deeds, not words; judgment, not talk." such the descendant of the bruce to-day, the embodiment of modest worth and wisdom combined. once started upon a freedom-getting career, there seemed no end to these honors.[ ] with headquarters in london in , i received six freedoms in six consecutive days, and two the week following, going out by morning train and returning in the evening. it might be thought that the ceremony would become monotonous, but this was not so, the conditions being different in each case. i met remarkable men in the mayors and provosts and the leading citizens connected with municipal affairs, and each community had its own individual stamp and its problems, successes, and failures. there was generally one greatly desired improvement overshadowing all other questions engrossing the attention of the people. each was a little world in itself. the city council is a cabinet in miniature and the mayor the prime minister. domestic politics keep the people agog. foreign relations are not wanting. there are inter-city questions with neighboring communities, joint water or gas or electrical undertakings of mighty import, conferences deciding for or against alliances or separations. [footnote : mr. carnegie had received no less than fifty-four freedoms of cities in great britain and ireland. this was a record--mr. gladstone coming second with seventeen.] in no department is the contrast greater between the old world and the new than in municipal government. in the former the families reside for generations in the place of birth with increasing devotion to the town and all its surroundings. a father achieving the mayorship stimulates the son to aspire to it. that invaluable asset, city pride, is created, culminating in romantic attachment to native places. councilorships are sought that each in his day and generation may be of some service to the town. to the best citizens this is a creditable object of ambition. few, indeed, look beyond it--membership in parliament being practically reserved for men of fortune, involving as it does residence in london without compensation. this latter, however, is soon to be changed and britain follow the universal practice of paying legislators for service rendered. [in ; since realized; four hundred pounds is now paid.] after this she will probably follow the rest of the world by having parliament meet in the daytime, its members fresh and ready for the day's work, instead of giving all day to professional work and then with exhausted brains undertaking the work of governing the country after dinner. cavendish, the authority on whist, being asked if a man could possibly finesse a knave, second round, third player, replied, after reflecting, "yes, he might _after dinner_." the best people are on the councils of british towns, incorruptible, public-spirited men, proud of and devoted to their homes. in the united states progress is being made in this direction, but we are here still far behind britain. nevertheless, people tend to settle permanently in places as the country becomes thickly populated. we shall develop the local patriot who is anxious to leave the place of his birth a little better than he found it. it is only one generation since the provostship of scotch towns was generally reserved for one of the local landlords belonging to the upper classes. that "the briton dearly loves a lord" is still true, but the love is rapidly disappearing. in eastbourne, kings-lynn, salisbury, ilkeston, and many other ancient towns, i found the mayor had risen from the ranks, and had generally worked with his hands. the majority of the council were also of this type. all gave their time gratuitously. it was a source of much pleasure to me to know the provosts and leaders in council of so many towns in scotland and england, not forgetting ireland where my freedom tour was equally attractive. nothing could excel the reception accorded me in cork, waterford, and limerick. it was surprising to see the welcome on flags expressed in the same gaelic words, _cead mille failthe_ (meaning "a hundred thousand welcomes") as used by the tenants of skibo. nothing could have given me such insight into local public life and patriotism in britain as freedom-taking, which otherwise might have become irksome. i felt myself so much at home among the city chiefs that the embarrassment of flags and crowds and people at the windows along our route was easily met as part of the duty of the day, and even the address of the chief magistrate usually furnished new phases of life upon which i could dwell. the lady mayoresses were delightful in all their pride and glory. my conclusion is that the united kingdom is better served by the leading citizens of her municipalities, elected by popular vote, than any other country far and away can possibly be; and that all is sound to the core in that important branch of government. parliament itself could readily be constituted of a delegation of members from the town councils without impairing its efficiency. perhaps when the sufficient payment of members is established, many of these will be found at westminster and that to the advantage of the kingdom. chapter xxiv gladstone and morley mr. gladstone paid my "american four-in-hand in britain" quite a compliment when mrs. carnegie and i were his guests at hawarden in april, . he suggested one day that i should spend the morning with him in his new library, while he arranged his books (which no one except himself was ever allowed to touch), and we could converse. in prowling about the shelves i found a unique volume and called out to my host, then on top of a library ladder far from me handling heavy volumes: "mr. gladstone, i find here a book 'dunfermline worthies,' by a friend of my father's. i knew some of the worthies when a child." "yes," he replied, "and if you will pass your hand three or four books to the left i think you will find another book by a dunfermline man." i did so and saw my book "an american four-in-hand in britain." ere i had done so, however, i heard that organ voice orating in full swing from the top of the ladder: "what mecca is to the mohammedan, benares to the hindoo, jerusalem to the christian, all that dunfermline is to me." my ears heard the voice some moments before my brain realized that these were my own words called forth by the first glimpse caught of dunfermline as we approached it from the south.[ ] [footnote : the whole paragraph is as follows: "how beautiful is dunfermline seen from the ferry hills, its grand old abbey towering over all, seeming to hallow the city, and to lend a charm and dignity to the lowliest tenement! nor is there in all broad scotland, nor in many places elsewhere that i know of, a more varied and delightful view than that obtained from the park upon a fine day. what benares is to the hindoo, mecca to the mohammedan, jerusalem to the christian, all that dunfermline is to me." (_an american four-in-hand in britain_, p. .)] "how on earth did you come to get this book?" i asked. "i had not the honor of knowing you when it was written and could not have sent you a copy." "no!" he replied, "i had not then the pleasure of your acquaintance, but some one, i think rosebery, told me of the book and i sent for it and read it with delight. that tribute to dunfermline struck me as so extraordinary it lingered with me. i could never forget it." this incident occurred eight years after the "american four-in-hand" was written, and adds another to the many proofs of mr. gladstone's wonderful memory. perhaps as a vain author i may be pardoned for confessing my grateful appreciation of his no less wonderful judgment. [illustration: _photograph from underwood & underwood, n.y._ william e. gladstone] the politician who figures publicly as "reader of the lesson" on sundays, is apt to be regarded suspiciously. i confess that until i had known mr. gladstone well, i had found the thought arising now and then that the wary old gentleman might feel at least that these appearances cost him no votes. but all this vanished as i learned his true character. he was devout and sincere if ever man was. yes, even when he records in his diary (referred to by morley in his "life of gladstone") that, while addressing the house of commons on the budget for several hours with great acceptance, he was "conscious of being sustained by the divine power above." try as one may, who can deny that to one of such abounding faith this belief in the support of the unknown power must really have proved a sustaining influence, although it may shock others to think that any mortal being could be so bold as to imagine that the creator of the universe would concern himself about mr. gladstone's budget, prepared for a little speck of this little speck of earth? it seems almost sacrilegious, yet to mr. gladstone we know it was the reverse--a religious belief such as has no doubt often enabled men to accomplish wonders as direct agents of god and doing his work. on the night of the queen's jubilee in june, , mr. blaine and i were to dine at lord wolverton's in piccadilly, to meet mr. and mrs. gladstone--mr. blaine's first introduction to him. we started in a cab from the metropole hotel in good time, but the crowds were so dense that the cab had to be abandoned in the middle of st. james's street. reaching the pavement, mr. blaine following, i found a policeman and explained to him who my companion was, where we were going, and asked him if he could not undertake to get us there. he did so, pushing his way through the masses with all the authority of his office and we followed. but it was nine o'clock before we reached lord wolverton's. we separated after eleven. mr. gladstone explained that he and mrs. gladstone had been able to reach the house by coming through hyde park and around the back way. they expected to get back to their residence, then in carlton terrace, in the same way. mr. blaine and i thought we should enjoy the streets and take our chances of getting back to the hotel by pushing through the crowds. we were doing this successfully and were moving slowly with the current past the reform club when i heard a word or two spoken by a voice close to the building on my right. i said to mr. blaine: "that is mr. gladstone's voice." he said: "it is impossible. we have just left him returning to his residence." "i don't care; i recognize voices better than faces, and i am sure that is gladstone's." finally i prevailed upon him to return a few steps. we got close to the side of the house and moved back. i came to a muffled figure and whispered: "what does 'gravity' out of its bed at midnight?" mr. gladstone was discovered. i told him i recognized his voice whispering to his companion. "and so," i said, "the real ruler comes out to see the illuminations prepared for the nominal ruler!" he replied: "young man, i think it is time you were in bed." we remained a few minutes with him, he being careful not to remove from his head and face the cloak that covered them. it was then past midnight and he was eighty, but, boylike, after he got mrs. gladstone safely home he had determined to see the show. the conversation at the dinner between mr. gladstone and mr. blaine turned upon the differences in parliamentary procedure between britain and america. during the evening mr. gladstone cross-examined mr. blaine very thoroughly upon the mode of procedure of the house of representatives of which mr. blaine had been the speaker. i saw the "previous question," and summary rules with us for restricting needless debate made a deep impression upon mr. gladstone. at intervals the conversation took a wider range. mr. gladstone was interested in more subjects than perhaps any other man in britain. when i was last with him in scotland, at mr. armistead's, his mind was as clear and vigorous as ever, his interest in affairs equally strong. the topic which then interested him most, and about which he plied me with questions, was the tall steel buildings in our country, of which he had been reading. what puzzled him was how it could be that the masonry of a fifth floor or sixth story was often finished before the third or fourth. this i explained, much to his satisfaction. in getting to the bottom of things he was indefatigable. mr. morley (although a lord he still remains as an author plain john morley) became one of our british friends quite early as editor of the "fortnightly review," which published my first contribution to a british periodical.[ ] the friendship has widened and deepened in our old age until we mutually confess we are very close friends to each other.[ ] we usually exchange short notes (sometimes long ones) on sunday afternoons as the spirit moves us. we are not alike; far from it. we are drawn together because opposites are mutually beneficial to each other. i am optimistic; all my ducks being swans. he is pessimistic, looking out soberly, even darkly, upon the real dangers ahead, and sometimes imagining vain things. he is inclined to see "an officer in every bush." the world seems bright to me, and earth is often a real heaven--so happy i am and so thankful to the kind fates. morley is seldom if ever wild about anything; his judgment is always deliberate and his eyes are ever seeing the spots on the sun. [footnote : _an american four-in-hand in britain._] [footnote : "mr. carnegie had proved his originality, fullness of mind, and bold strength of character, as much or more in the distribution of wealth as he had shown skill and foresight in its acquisition. we had become known to one another more than twenty years before through matthew arnold. his extraordinary freshness of spirit easily carried arnold, herbert spencer, myself, and afterwards many others, high over an occasional crudity or haste in judgment such as befalls the best of us in ardent hours. people with a genius for picking up pins made as much as they liked of this: it was wiser to do justice to his spacious feel for the great objects of the world--for knowledge and its spread, invention, light, improvement of social relations, equal chances to the talents, the passion for peace. these are glorious things; a touch of exaggeration in expression is easy to set right.... a man of high and wide and well-earned mark in his generation." (john, viscount morley, in _recollections_, vol. ii, pp. , . new york, .)] [illustration: _photograph from underwood & underwood, n.y._ viscount morley of blackburn] i told him the story of the pessimist whom nothing ever pleased, and the optimist whom nothing ever displeased, being congratulated by the angels upon their having obtained entrance to heaven. the pessimist replied: "yes, very good place, but somehow or other this halo don't fit my head exactly." the optimist retorted by telling the story of a man being carried down to purgatory and the devil laying his victim up against a bank while he got a drink at a spring--temperature very high. an old friend accosted him: "well, jim, how's this? no remedy possible; you're a gone coon sure." the reply came: "hush, it might be worse." "how's that, when you are being carried down to the bottomless pit?" "hush"--pointing to his satanic majesty--"he might take a notion to make me carry him." morley, like myself, was very fond of music and reveled in the morning hour during which the organ was being played at skibo. he was attracted by the oratorios as also arthur balfour. i remember they got tickets together for an oratorio at the crystal palace. both are sane but philosophic, and not very far apart as philosophers, i understand; but some recent productions of balfour send him far afield speculatively--a field which morley never attempts. he keeps his foot on the firm ground and only treads where the way is cleared. no danger of his being "lost in the woods" while searching for the path. morley's most astonishing announcement of recent days was in his address to the editors of the world, assembled in london. he informed them in effect that a few lines from burns had done more to form and maintain the present improved political and social conditions of the people than all the millions of editorials ever written. this followed a remark that there were now and then a few written or spoken words which were in themselves events; they accomplished what they described. tom paine's "rights of man" was mentioned as such. upon his arrival at skibo after this address we talked it over. i referred to his tribute to burns and his six lines, and he replied that he didn't need to tell me what lines these were. "no," i said, "i know them by heart." in a subsequent address, unveiling a statue of burns in the park at montrose, i repeated the lines i supposed he referred to, and he approved them. he and i, strange to say, had received the freedom of montrose together years before, so we are fellow-freemen. at last i induced morley to visit us in america, and he made a tour through a great part of our country in . we tried to have him meet distinguished men like himself. one day senator elihu root called at my request and morley had a long interview with him. after the senator left morley remarked to me that he had enjoyed his companion greatly, as being the most satisfactory american statesman he had yet met. he was not mistaken. for sound judgment and wide knowledge of our public affairs elihu root has no superior. morley left us to pay a visit to president roosevelt at the white house, and spent several fruitful days in company with that extraordinary man. later, morley's remark was: "well, i've seen two wonders in america, roosevelt and niagara." that was clever and true to life--a great pair of roaring, tumbling, dashing and splashing wonders, knowing no rest, but both doing their appointed work, such as it is. morley was the best person to have the acton library and my gift of it to him came about in this way. when mr. gladstone told me the position lord acton was in, i agreed, at his suggestion, to buy acton's library and allow it to remain for his use during life. unfortunately, he did not live long to enjoy it--only a few years--and then i had the library upon my hands. i decided that morley could make the best use of it for himself and would certainly leave it eventually to the proper institution. i began to tell him that i owned it when he interrupted me, saying: "well, i must tell you i have known this from the day you bought it. mr. gladstone couldn't keep the secret, being so overjoyed that lord acton had it secure for life." here were he and i in close intimacy, and yet never had one mentioned the situation to the other; but it was a surprise to me that morley was not surprised. this incident proved the closeness of the bond between gladstone and morley--the only man he could not resist sharing his happiness with regarding earthly affairs. yet on theological subjects they were far apart where acton and gladstone were akin. the year after i gave the fund for the scottish universities morley went to balmoral as minister in attendance upon his majesty, and wired that he must see me before we sailed. we met and he informed me his majesty was deeply impressed with the gift to the universities and the others i had made to my native land, and wished him to ascertain whether there was anything in his power to bestow which i would appreciate. i asked: "what did you say?" morley replied: "i do not think so." i said: "you are quite right, except that if his majesty would write me a note expressing his satisfaction with what i had done, as he has to you, this would be deeply appreciated and handed down to my descendants as something they would all be proud of." this was done. the king's autograph note i have already transcribed elsewhere in these pages. that skibo has proved the best of all health resorts for morley is indeed fortunate, for he comes to us several times each summer and is one of the family, lady morley accompanying him. he is as fond of the yacht as i am myself, and, fortunately again, it is the best medicine for both of us. morley is, and must always remain, "honest john." no prevarication with him, no nonsense, firm as a rock upon all questions and in all emergencies; yet always looking around, fore and aft, right and left, with a big heart not often revealed in all its tenderness, but at rare intervals and upon fit occasion leaving no doubt of its presence and power. and after that silence. [illustration: mr. carnegie with viscount morley] [illustration: the carnegie family at skibo] chamberlain and morley were fast friends as advanced radicals, and i often met and conferred with them when in britain. when the home rule issue was raised, much interest was aroused in britain over our american federal system. i was appealed to freely and delivered public addresses in several cities, explaining and extolling our union, many in one, the freest government of the parts producing the strongest government of the whole. i sent mr. chamberlain miss anna l. dawes's "how we are governed," at his request for information, and had conversations with morley, gladstone, and many others upon the subject. i had to write mr. morley that i did not approve of the first home rule bill for reasons which i gave. when i met mr. gladstone he expressed his regret at this and a full talk ensued. i objected to the exclusion of the irish members from parliament as being a practical separation. i said we should never have allowed the southern states to cease sending representatives to washington. "what would you have done if they refused?" he asked. "employed all the resources of civilization--first, stopped the mails," i replied. he paused and repeated: "stop the mails." he felt the paralysis this involved and was silent, and changed the subject. in answer to questions as to what i should do, i always pointed out that america had many legislatures, but only one congress. britain should follow her example, one parliament and local legislatures (not parliaments) for ireland, scotland, and wales. these should be made states like new york and virginia. but as britain has no supreme court, as we have, to decide upon laws passed, not only by state legislatures but by congress, the judicial being the final authority and not the political, britain should have parliament as the one national final authority over irish measures. therefore, the acts of the local legislature of ireland should lie for three months' continuous session upon the table of the house of commons, subject to adverse action of the house, but becoming operative unless disapproved. the provision would be a dead letter unless improper legislation were enacted, but if there were improper legislation, then it would be salutary. the clause, i said, was needed to assure timid people that no secession could arise. urging this view upon mr. morley afterwards, he told me this had been proposed to parnell, but rejected. mr. gladstone might then have said: "very well, this provision is not needed for myself and others who think with me, but it is needed to enable us to carry britain with us. i am now unable to take up the question. the responsibility is yours." one morning at hawarden mrs. gladstone said: "william tells me he has such extraordinary conversations with you." these he had, no doubt. he had not often, if ever, heard the breezy talk of a genuine republican and did not understand my inability to conceive of different hereditary ranks. it seemed strange to me that men should deliberately abandon the name given them by their parents, and that name the parents' name. especially amusing were the new titles which required the old hereditary nobles much effort to refrain from smiling at as they greeted the newly made peer who had perhaps bought his title for ten thousand pounds, more or less, given to the party fund. mr. blaine was with us in london and i told mr. gladstone he had expressed to me his wonder and pain at seeing him in his old age hat in hand, cold day as it was, at a garden party doing homage to titled nobodies. union of church and state was touched upon, and also my "look ahead," which foretells the reunion of our race owing to the inability of the british islands to expand. i had held that the disestablishment of the english church was inevitable, because among other reasons it was an anomaly. no other part of the race had it. all religions were fostered, none favored, in every other english-speaking state. mr. gladstone asked: "how long do you give our established church to live?" my reply was i could not fix a date; he had had more experience than i in disestablishing churches. he nodded and smiled. when i had enlarged upon a certain relative decrease of population in britain that must come as compared with other countries of larger area, he asked: "what future do you forecast for her?" i referred to greece among ancient nations and said that it was, perhaps, not accident that chaucer, shakespeare, spenser, milton, burns, scott, stevenson, bacon, cromwell, wallace, bruce, hume, watt, spencer, darwin, and other celebrities had arisen here. genius did not depend upon material resources. long after britain could not figure prominently as an industrial nation, not by her decline, but through the greater growth of others, she might in my opinion become the modern greece and achieve among nations moral ascendancy. he caught at the words, repeating them musingly: "moral ascendancy, moral ascendancy, i like that, i like that." i had never before so thoroughly enjoyed a conference with a man. i visited him again at hawarden, but my last visit to him was at lord randall's at cannes the winter of when he was suffering keenly. he had still the old charm and was especially attentive to my sister-in-law, lucy, who saw him then for the first time and was deeply impressed. as we drove off, she murmured, "a sick eagle! a sick eagle!" nothing could better describe this wan and worn leader of men as he appeared to me that day. he was not only a great, but a truly good man, stirred by the purest impulses, a high, imperious soul always looking upward. he had, indeed, earned the title: "foremost citizen of the world." in britain, in , i had entered into business relations with samuel storey, m.p., a very able man, a stern radical, and a genuine republican. we purchased several british newspapers and began a campaign of political progress upon radical lines. passmore edwards and some others joined us, but the result was not encouraging. harmony did not prevail among my british friends and finally i decided to withdraw, which i was fortunately able to do without loss.[ ] [footnote : mr. carnegie acquired no less than eighteen british newspapers with the idea of promoting radical views. the political results were disappointing, but with his genius for making money the pecuniary results were more than satisfactory.] my third literary venture, "triumphant democracy,"[ ] had its origin in realizing how little the best-informed foreigner, or even briton, knew of america, and how distorted that little was. it was prodigious what these eminent englishmen did not then know about the republic. my first talk with mr. gladstone in can never be forgotten. when i had occasion to say that the majority of the english-speaking race was now republican and it was a minority of monarchists who were upon the defensive, he said: "why, how is that?" "well, mr. gladstone," i said, "the republic holds sway over a larger number of english-speaking people than the population of great britain and all her colonies even if the english-speaking colonies were numbered twice over." "ah! how is that? what is your population?" "sixty-six millions, and yours is not much more than half." "ah, yes, surprising!" [footnote : _triumphant democracy, or fifty years' march of the republic._ london, ; new york, .] with regard to the wealth of the nations, it was equally surprising for him to learn that the census of proved the hundred-year-old republic could purchase great britain and ireland and all their realized capital and investments and then pay off britain's debt, and yet not exhaust her fortune. but the most startling statement of all was that which i was able to make when the question of free trade was touched upon. i pointed out that america was now the greatest manufacturing nation in the world. [at a later date i remember lord chancellor haldane fell into the same error, calling britain the greatest manufacturing country in the world, and thanked me for putting him right.] i quoted mulhall's figures: british manufactures in , eight hundred and sixteen millions sterling; american manufactures eleven hundred and twenty-six millions sterling.[ ] his one word was: "incredible!" [footnote : the estimated value of manufactures in great britain in was five billions of dollars as compared to thirteen billions for the united states. in the united states had gone to over twenty-four billions.] other startling statements followed and he asked: "why does not some writer take up this subject and present the facts in a simple and direct form to the world?" i was then, as a matter of fact, gathering material for "triumphant democracy," in which i intended to perform the very service which he indicated, as i informed him. "round the world" and the "american four-in-hand" gave me not the slightest effort but the preparation of "triumphant democracy," which i began in , was altogether another matter. it required steady, laborious work. figures had to be examined and arranged, but as i went forward the study became fascinating. for some months i seemed to have my head filled with statistics. the hours passed away unheeded. it was evening when i supposed it was midday. the second serious illness of my life dates from the strain brought upon me by this work, for i had to attend to business as well. i shall think twice before i trust myself again with anything so fascinating as figures. chapter xxv herbert spencer and his disciple herbert spencer, with his friend mr. lott and myself, were fellow travelers on the servia from liverpool to new york in . i bore a note of introduction to him from mr. morley, but i had met the philosopher in london before that. i was one of his disciples. as an older traveler, i took mr. lott and him in charge. we sat at the same table during the voyage. one day the conversation fell upon the impression made upon us by great men at first meeting. did they, or did they not, prove to be as we had imagined them? each gave his experience. mine was that nothing could be more different than the being imagined and that being beheld in the flesh. "oh!" said mr. spencer, "in my case, for instance, was this so?" "yes," i replied, "you more than any. i had imagined my teacher, the great calm philosopher brooding, buddha-like, over all things, unmoved; never did i dream of seeing him excited over the question of cheshire or cheddar cheese." the day before he had peevishly pushed away the former when presented by the steward, exclaiming "cheddar, cheddar, not cheshire; i said _cheddar_." there was a roar in which none joined more heartily than the sage himself. he refers to this incident of the voyage in his autobiography.[ ] [footnote : _an autobiography_, by herbert spencer, vol. i, p. . new york, .] spencer liked stories and was a good laugher. american stories seemed to please him more than others, and of those i was able to tell him not a few, which were usually followed by explosive laughter. he was anxious to learn about our western territories, which were then attracting attention in europe, and a story i told him about texas struck him as amusing. when a returning disappointed emigrant from that state was asked about the then barren country, he said: "stranger, all that i have to say about texas is that if i owned texas and h--l, i would sell texas." what a change from those early days! texas has now over four millions of population and is said to have the soil to produce more cotton than the whole world did in . the walk up to the house, when i had the philosopher out at pittsburgh, reminded me of another american story of the visitor who started to come up the garden walk. when he opened the gate a big dog from the house rushed down upon him. he retreated and closed the garden gate just in time, the host calling out: "he won't touch you, you know barking dogs never bite." "yes," exclaimed the visitor, tremblingly, "i know that and you know it, but does the dog know it?" one day my eldest nephew was seen to open the door quietly and peep in where we were seated. his mother afterwards asked him why he had done so and the boy of eleven replied: "mamma, i wanted to see the man who wrote in a book that there was no use studying grammar." spencer was greatly pleased when he heard the story and often referred to it. he had faith in that nephew. [illustration: herbert spencer at seventy-eight] speaking to him one day about his having signed a remonstrance against a tunnel between calais and dover as having surprised me, he explained that for himself he was as anxious to have the tunnel as any one and that he did not believe in any of the objections raised against it, but signed the remonstrance because he knew his countrymen were such fools that the military and naval element in britain could stampede the masses, frighten them, and stimulate militarism. an increased army and navy would then be demanded. he referred to a scare which had once arisen and involved the outlay of many millions in fortifications which had proved useless. one day we were sitting in our rooms in the grand hotel looking out over trafalgar square. the life guards passed and the following took place: "mr. spencer, i never see men dressed up like merry andrews without being saddened and indignant that in the nineteenth century the most civilized race, as we consider ourselves, still finds men willing to adopt as a profession--until lately the only profession for gentlemen--the study of the surest means of killing other men." mr. spencer said: "i feel just so myself, but i will tell you how i curb my indignation. whenever i feel it rising i am calmed by this story of emerson's: he had been hooted and hustled from the platform in faneuil hall for daring to speak against slavery. he describes himself walking home in violent anger, until opening his garden gate and looking up through the branches of the tall elms that grew between the gate and his modest home, he saw the stars shining through. they said to him: 'what, so hot, my little sir?'" i laughed and he laughed, and i thanked him for that story. not seldom i have to repeat to myself, "what, so hot, my little sir?" and it suffices. mr. spencer's visit to america had its climax in the banquet given for him at delmonico's. i drove him to it and saw the great man there in a funk. he could think of nothing but the address he was to deliver.[ ] i believe he had rarely before spoken in public. his great fear was that he should be unable to say anything that would be of advantage to the american people, who had been the first to appreciate his works. he may have attended many banquets, but never one comprised of more distinguished people than this one. it was a remarkable gathering. the tributes paid spencer by the ablest men were unique. the climax was reached when henry ward beecher, concluding his address, turned round and addressed mr. spencer in these words: "to my father and my mother i owe my physical being; to you, sir, i owe my intellectual being. at a critical moment you provided the safe paths through the bogs and morasses; you were my teacher." [footnote : "an occasion, on which more, perhaps, than any other in my life, i ought to have been in good condition, bodily and mentally, came when i was in a condition worse than i had been for six and twenty years. 'wretched night; no sleep at all; kept in my room all day' says my diary, and i entertained 'great fear i should collapse.' when the hour came for making my appearance at delmonico's, where the dinner was given, i got my friends to secrete me in an anteroom until the last moment, so that i might avoid all excitements of introductions and congratulations; and as mr. evarts, who presided, handed me on the dais, i begged him to limit his conversation with me as much as possible, and to expect very meagre responses. the event proved that, trying though the tax was, there did not result the disaster i feared; and when mr. evarts had duly uttered the compliments of the occasion, i was able to get through my prepared speech without difficulty, though not with much effect." (spencer's _autobiography_, vol. ii, p. .)] these words were spoken in slow, solemn tones. i do not remember ever having noticed more depth of feeling; evidently they came from a grateful debtor. mr. spencer was touched by the words. they gave rise to considerable remark, and shortly afterwards mr. beecher preached a course of sermons, giving his views upon evolution. the conclusion of the series was anxiously looked for, because his acknowledgment of debt to spencer as his teacher had created alarm in church circles. in the concluding article, as in his speech, if i remember rightly, mr. beecher said that, although he believed in evolution (darwinism) up to a certain point, yet when man had reached his highest human level his creator then invested him (and man alone of all living things) with the holy spirit, thereby bringing him into the circle of the godlike. thus he answered his critics. mr. spencer took intense interest in mechanical devices. when he visited our works with me the new appliances impressed him, and in after years he sometimes referred to these and said his estimate of american invention and push had been fully realized. he was naturally pleased with the deference and attention paid him in america. i seldom if ever visited england without going to see him, even after he had removed to brighton that he might live looking out upon the sea, which appealed to and soothed him. i never met a man who seemed to weigh so carefully every action, every word--even the pettiest--and so completely to find guidance through his own conscience. he was no scoffer in religious matters. in the domain of theology, however, he had little regard for decorum. it was to him a very faulty system hindering true growth, and the idea of rewards and punishments struck him as an appeal to very low natures indeed. still he never went to such lengths as tennyson did upon an occasion when some of the old ideas were under discussion. knowles[ ] told me that tennyson lost control of himself. knowles said he was greatly disappointed with the son's life of the poet as giving no true picture of his father in his revolt against stern theology. [footnote : james knowles, founder of _nineteenth century_.] spencer was always the calm philosopher. i believe that from childhood to old age--when the race was run--he never was guilty of an immoral act or did an injustice to any human being. he was certainly one of the most conscientious men in all his doings that ever was born. few men have wished to know another man more strongly than i to know herbert spencer, for seldom has one been more deeply indebted than i to him and to darwin. reaction against the theology of past days comes to many who have been surrounded in youth by church people entirely satisfied that the truth and faith indispensable to future happiness were derived only through strictest calvinistic creeds. the thoughtful youth is naturally carried along and disposed to concur in this. he cannot but think, up to a certain period of development, that what is believed by the best and the highest educated around him--those to whom he looks for example and instruction--must be true. he resists doubt as inspired by the evil one seeking his soul, and sure to get it unless faith comes to the rescue. unfortunately he soon finds that faith is not exactly at his beck and call. original sin he thinks must be at the root of this inability to see as he wishes to see, to believe as he wishes to believe. it seems clear to him that already he is little better than one of the lost. of the elect he surely cannot be, for these must be ministers, elders, and strictly orthodox men. the young man is soon in chronic rebellion, trying to assume godliness with the others, acquiescing outwardly in the creed and all its teachings, and yet at heart totally unable to reconcile his outward accordance with his inward doubt. if there be intellect and virtue in the man but one result is possible; that is, carlyle's position after his terrible struggle when after weeks of torment he came forth: "if it be incredible, in god's name, then, let it be discredited." with that the load of doubt and fear fell from him forever. when i, along with three or four of my boon companions, was in this stage of doubt about theology, including the supernatural element, and indeed the whole scheme of salvation through vicarious atonement and all the fabric built upon it, i came fortunately upon darwin's and spencer's works "the data of ethics," "first principles," "social statics," "the descent of man." reaching the pages which explain how man has absorbed such mental foods as were favorable to him, retaining what was salutary, rejecting what was deleterious, i remember that light came as in a flood and all was clear. not only had i got rid of theology and the supernatural, but i had found the truth of evolution. "all is well since all grows better" became my motto, my true source of comfort. man was not created with an instinct for his own degradation, but from the lower he had risen to the higher forms. nor is there any conceivable end to his march to perfection. his face is turned to the light; he stands in the sun and looks upward. humanity is an organism, inherently rejecting all that is deleterious, that is, wrong, and absorbing after trial what is beneficial, that is, right. if so disposed, the architect of the universe, we must assume, might have made the world and man perfect, free from evil and from pain, as angels in heaven are thought to be; but although this was not done, man has been given the power of advancement rather than of retrogression. the old and new testaments remain, like other sacred writings of other lands, of value as records of the past and for such good lessons as they inculcate. like the ancient writers of the bible our thoughts should rest upon this life and our duties here. "to perform the duties of this world well, troubling not about another, is the prime wisdom," says confucius, great sage and teacher. the next world and its duties we shall consider when we are placed in it. i am as a speck of dust in the sun, and not even so much, in this solemn, mysterious, unknowable universe. i shrink back. one truth i see. franklin was right. "the highest worship of god is service to man." all this, however, does not prevent everlasting hope of immortality. it would be no greater miracle to be born to a future life than to have been born to live in this present life. the one has been created, why not the other? therefore there is reason to hope for immortality. let us hope.[ ] [footnote : "a.c. is really a tremendous personality--dramatic, wilful, generous, whimsical, at times almost cruel in pressing his own conviction upon others, and then again tender, affectionate, emotional, always imaginative, unusual and wide-visioned in his views. he is well worth boswellizing, but i am urging him to be 'his own boswell.'... he is inconsistent in many ways, but with a passion for lofty views; the brotherhood of man, peace among nations, religious purity--i mean the purification of religion from gross superstition--the substitution for a westminster-catechism god, of a righteous, a just god." (_letters of richard watson gilder_, p. .)] chapter xxvi blaine and harrison while one is known by the company he keeps, it is equally true that one is known by the stories he tells. mr. blaine was one of the best story-tellers i ever met. his was a bright sunny nature with a witty, pointed story for every occasion. mr. blaine's address at yorktown (i had accompanied him there) was greatly admired. it directed special attention to the cordial friendship which had grown up between the two branches of the english-speaking race, and ended with the hope that the prevailing peace and good-will between the two nations would exist for many centuries to come. when he read this to me, i remember that the word "many" jarred, and i said: "mr. secretary, might i suggest the change of one word? i don't like 'many'; why not 'all' the centuries to come?" "good, that is perfect!" and so it was given in the address: "for _all_ the centuries to come." we had a beautiful night returning from yorktown, and, sitting in the stern of the ship in the moonlight, the military band playing forward, we spoke of the effect of music. mr. blaine said that his favorite just then was the "sweet by and by," which he had heard played last by the same band at president garfield's funeral, and he thought upon that occasion he was more deeply moved by sweet sounds than he had ever been in his life. he requested that it should be the last piece played that night. both he and gladstone were fond of simple music. they could enjoy beethoven and the classic masters, but wagner was as yet a sealed book to them. in answer to my inquiry as to the most successful speech he ever heard in congress, he replied it was that of the german, ex-governor ritter of pennsylvania. the first bill appropriating money for inland _fresh_ waters was under consideration. the house was divided. strict constructionists held this to be unconstitutional; only harbors upon the salt sea were under the federal government. the contest was keen and the result doubtful, when to the astonishment of the house, governor ritter slowly arose for the first time. silence at once reigned. what was the old german ex-governor going to say--he who had never said anything at all? only this: "mr. speaker, i don't know much particulars about de constitution, but i know dis; i wouldn't gif a d----d cent for a constitution dat didn't wash in fresh water as well as in salt." the house burst into an uproar of uncontrollable laughter, and the bill passed. so came about this new departure and one of the most beneficent ways of spending government money, and of employing army and navy engineers. little of the money spent by the government yields so great a return. so expands our flexible constitution to meet the new wants of an expanding population. let who will make the constitution if we of to-day are permitted to interpret it. [illustration: _photograph from underwood & underwood, n.y._ james g. blaine] mr. blaine's best story, if one can be selected from so many that were excellent, i think was the following: in the days of slavery and the underground railroads, there lived on the banks of the ohio river near gallipolis, a noted democrat named judge french, who said to some anti-slavery friends that he should like them to bring to his office the first runaway negro that crossed the river, bound northward by the underground. he couldn't understand why they wished to run away. this was done, and the following conversation took place: _judge:_ "so you have run away from kentucky. bad master, i suppose?" _slave:_ "oh, no, judge; very good, kind massa." _judge:_ "he worked you too hard?" _slave:_ "no, sah, never overworked myself all my life." _judge, hesitatingly:_ "he did not give you enough to eat?" _slave:_ "not enough to eat down in kaintuck? oh, lor', plenty to eat." _judge:_ "he did not clothe you well?" _slave:_ "good enough clothes for me, judge." _judge:_ "you hadn't a comfortable home?" _slave:_ "oh, lor', makes me cry to think of my pretty little cabin down dar in old kaintuck." _judge, after a pause:_ "you had a good, kind master, you were not overworked, plenty to eat, good clothes, fine home. i don't see why the devil you wished to run away." _slave:_ "well, judge, i lef de situation down dar open. you kin go rite down and git it." the judge had seen a great light. "freedom has a thousand charms to show, that slaves, howe'er contented, never know." that the colored people in such numbers risked all for liberty is the best possible proof that they will steadily approach and finally reach the full stature of citizenship in the republic. i never saw mr. blaine so happy as while with us at cluny. he was a boy again and we were a rollicking party together. he had never fished with a fly. i took him out on loch laggan and he began awkwardly, as all do, but he soon caught the swing. i shall never forget his first capture: "my friend, you have taught me a new pleasure in life. there are a hundred fishing lochs in maine, and i'll spend my holidays in future upon them trout-fishing." at cluny there is no night in june and we danced on the lawn in the bright twilight until late. mrs. blaine, miss dodge, mr. blaine, and other guests were trying to do the scotch reel, and "whooping" like highlanders. we were gay revelers during those two weeks. one night afterwards, at a dinner in our home in new york, chiefly made up of our cluny visitors, mr. blaine told the company that he had discovered at cluny what a real holiday was. "it is when the merest trifles become the most serious events of life." president harrison's nomination for the presidency in came to mr. blaine while on a coaching trip with us. mr. and mrs. blaine, miss margaret blaine, senator and mrs. hale, miss dodge, and walter damrosch were on the coach with us from london to cluny castle. in approaching linlithgow from edinburgh, we found the provost and magistrates in their gorgeous robes at the hotel to receive us. i was with them when mr. blaine came into the room with a cablegram in his hand which he showed to me, asking what it meant. it read: "use cipher." it was from senator elkins at the chicago convention. mr. blaine had cabled the previous day, declining to accept the nomination for the presidency unless secretary sherman of ohio agreed, and senator elkins no doubt wished to be certain that he was in correspondence with mr. blaine and not with some interloper. i said to mr. blaine that the senator had called to see me before sailing, and suggested we should have cipher words for the prominent candidates. i gave him a few and kept a copy upon a slip, which i put in my pocket-book. i looked and fortunately found it. blaine was "victor"; harrison, "trump"; phelps of new jersey, "star"; and so on. i wired "trump" and "star."[ ] this was in the evening. [footnote : "a code had been agreed upon between his friends in the united states and himself, and when a deadlock or a long contest seemed inevitable, the following dispatch was sent from mr. carnegie's estate in scotland, where blaine was staying, to a prominent republican leader: "'june . too late victor immovable take trump and star.' whip. interpreted, it reads: 'too late. blaine immovable. take harrison and phelps. carnegie.'" (_james g. blaine_, by edward stanwood, p. . boston, .)] we retired for the night, and next day the whole party was paraded by the city authorities in their robes up the main street to the palace grounds which were finely decorated with flags. speeches of welcome were made and replied to. mr. blaine was called upon by the people, and responded in a short address. just then a cablegram was handed to him: "harrison and morton nominated." phelps had declined. so passed forever mr. blaine's chance of holding the highest of all political offices--the elected of the majority of the english-speaking race. but he was once fairly elected to the presidency and done out of new york state, as was at last clearly proven, the perpetrators having been punished for an attempted repetition of the same fraud at a subsequent election. mr. blaine, as secretary of state in harrison's cabinet, was a decided success and the pan-american congress his most brilliant triumph. my only political appointment came at this time and was that of a united states delegate to the congress. it gave me a most interesting view of the south american republics and their various problems. we sat down together, representatives of all the republics but brazil. one morning the announcement was made that a new constitution had been ratified. brazil had become a member of the sisterhood, making seventeen republics in all--now twenty-one. there was great applause and cordial greeting of the representatives of brazil thus suddenly elevated. i found the south american representatives rather suspicious of their big brother's intentions. a sensitive spirit of independence was manifest, which it became our duty to recognize. in this i think we succeeded, but it will behoove subsequent governments to scrupulously respect the national feeling of our southern neighbors. it is not control, but friendly coöperation upon terms of perfect equality we should seek. i sat next to manuel quintana who afterwards became president of argentina. he took a deep interest in the proceedings, and one day became rather critical upon a trifling issue, which led to an excited colloquy between him and chairman blaine. i believe it had its origin in a false translation from one language to another. i rose, slipped behind the chairman on the platform, whispering to him as i passed that if an adjournment was moved i was certain the differences could be adjusted. he nodded assent. i returned to my seat and moved adjournment, and during the interval all was satisfactorily arranged. passing the delegates, as we were about to leave the hall, an incident occurred which comes back to me as i write. a delegate threw one arm around me and with the other hand patting me on the breast, exclaimed: "mr. carnegie, you have more here than here"--pointing to his pocket. our southern brethren are so lovingly demonstrative. warm climes and warm hearts. in president harrison went with me from washington to pittsburgh, as i have already stated, to open the carnegie hall and library, which i had presented to allegheny city. we traveled over the baltimore and ohio railroad by daylight, and enjoyed the trip, the president being especially pleased with the scenery. reaching pittsburgh at dark, the flaming coke ovens and dense pillars of smoke and fire amazed him. the well-known description of pittsburgh, seen from the hilltops, as "h--l with the lid off," seemed to him most appropriate. he was the first president who ever visited pittsburgh. president harrison, his grandfather, had, however, passed from steamboat to canal-boat there, on his way to washington after election. the opening ceremony was largely attended owing to the presence of the president and all passed off well. next morning the president wished to see our steel works, and he was escorted there, receiving a cordial welcome from the workmen. i called up each successive manager of department as we passed and presented him. finally, when mr. schwab was presented, the president turned to me and said, "how is this, mr. carnegie? you present only boys to me." "yes, mr. president, but do you notice what kind of boys they are?" "yes, hustlers, every one of them," was his comment. he was right. no such young men could have been found for such work elsewhere in this world. they had been promoted to partnership without cost or risk. if the profits did not pay for their shares, no responsibility remained upon the young men. a giving thus to "partners" is very different from paying wages to "employees" in corporations. the president's visit, not to pittsburgh, but to allegheny over the river, had one beneficial result. members of the city council of pittsburgh reminded me that i had first offered pittsburgh money for a library and hall, which it declined, and that then allegheny city had asked if i would give them to her, which i did. the president visiting allegheny to open the library and hall there, and the ignoring of pittsburgh, was too much. her authorities came to me again the morning after the allegheny city opening, asking if i would renew my offer to pittsburgh. if so, the city would accept and agree to expend upon maintenance a larger percentage than i had previously asked. i was only too happy to do this and, instead of two hundred and fifty thousand, i offered a million dollars. my ideas had expanded. thus was started the carnegie institute. pittsburgh's leading citizens are spending freely upon artistic things. this center of manufacturing has had its permanent orchestra for some years--boston and chicago being the only other cities in america that can boast of one. a naturalist club and a school of painting have sprung up. the success of library, art gallery, museum, and music hall--a noble quartet in an immense building--is one of the chief satisfactions of my life. this is my monument, because here i lived my early life and made my start, and i am to-day in heart a devoted son of dear old smoky pittsburgh. herbert spencer heard, while with us in pittsburgh, some account of the rejection of my first offer of a library to pittsburgh. when the second offer was made, he wrote me that he did not understand how i could renew it; he never could have done so; they did not deserve it. i wrote the philosopher that if i had made the first offer to pittsburgh that i might receive her thanks and gratitude, i deserved the personal arrows shot at me and the accusations made that only my own glorification and a monument to my memory were sought. i should then probably have felt as he did. but, as it was the good of the people of pittsburgh i had in view, among whom i had made my fortune, the unfounded suspicions of some natures only quickened my desire to work their good by planting in their midst a potent influence for higher things. this the institute, thank the kind fates, has done. pittsburgh has played her part nobly. chapter xxvii washington diplomacy president harrison had been a soldier and as president was a little disposed to fight. his attitude gave some of his friends concern. he was opposed to arbitrating the behring sea question when lord salisbury, at the dictation of canada, had to repudiate the blaine agreement for its settlement, and was disposed to proceed to extreme measures. but calmer counsels prevailed. he was determined also to uphold the force bill against the south. when the quarrel arose with chili, there was a time when it seemed almost impossible to keep the president from taking action which would have resulted in war. he had great personal provocation because the chilian authorities had been most indiscreet in their statements in regard to his action. i went to washington to see whether i could not do something toward reconciling the belligerents, because, having been a member of the first pan-american conference, i had become acquainted with the representatives from our southern sister-republics and was on good terms with them. as luck would have it, i was just entering the shoreham hotel when i saw senator henderson of missouri, who had been my fellow-delegate to the conference. he stopped and greeted me, and looking across the street he said: "there's the president beckoning to you." i crossed the street. "hello, carnegie, when did you arrive?" "just arrived, mr. president; i was entering the hotel." "what are you here for?" "to have a talk with you." "well, come along and talk as we walk." the president took my arm and we promenaded the streets of washington in the dusk for more than an hour, during which time the discussion was lively. i told him that he had appointed me a delegate to the pan-american conference, that he had assured the south-american delegates when they parted that he had given a military review in their honor to show them, not that we had an army, but rather that we had none and needed none, that we were the big brother in the family of republics, and that all disputes, if any arose, would be settled by peaceful arbitration. i was therefore surprised and grieved to find that he was now apparently taking a different course, threatening to resort to war in a paltry dispute with little chili. "you're a new yorker and think of nothing but business and dollars. that is the way with new yorkers; they care nothing for the dignity and honor of the republic," said his excellency. "mr. president, i am one of the men in the united states who would profit most by war; it might throw millions into my pockets as the largest manufacturer of steel." "well, that is probably true in your case; i had forgotten." "mr. president, if i were going to fight, i would take some one of my size." "well, would you let any nation insult and dishonor you because of its size?" "mr. president, no man can dishonor me except myself. honor wounds must be self-inflicted." "you see our sailors were attacked on shore and two of them killed, and you would stand that?" he asked. "mr. president, i do not think the united states dishonored every time a row among drunken sailors takes place; besides, these were not american sailors at all; they were foreigners, as you see by their names. i would be disposed to cashier the captain of that ship for allowing the sailors to go on shore when there was rioting in the town and the public peace had been already disturbed." the discussion continued until we had finally reached the door of the white house in the dark. the president told me he had an engagement to dine out that night, but invited me to dine with him the next evening, when, as he said, there would be only the family and we could talk. "i am greatly honored and shall be with you to-morrow evening," i said. and so we parted. the next morning i went over to see mr. blaine, then secretary of state. he rose from his seat and held out both hands. "oh, why weren't you dining with us last night? when the president told mrs. blaine that you were in town, she said: 'just think, mr. carnegie is in town and i had a vacant seat here he could have occupied.'" "well, mr. blaine, i think it is rather fortunate that i have not seen you," i replied; and i then told him what had occurred with the president. "yes," he said, "it really was fortunate. the president might have thought you and i were in collusion." senator elkins, of west virginia, a bosom friend of mr. blaine, and also a very good friend of the president, happened to come in, and he said he had seen the president, who told him that he had had a talk with me upon the chilian affair last evening and that i had come down hot upon the subject. "well, mr. president," said senator elkins, "it is not probable that mr. carnegie would speak as plainly to you as he would to me. he feels very keenly, but he would naturally be somewhat reserved in talking to you." the president replied: "i didn't see the slightest indication of reserve, i assure you." the matter was adjusted, thanks to the peace policy characteristic of mr. blaine. more than once he kept the united states out of foreign trouble as i personally knew. the reputation that he had of being an aggressive american really enabled that great man to make concessions which, made by another, might not have been readily accepted by the people. i had a long and friendly talk with the president that evening at dinner, but he was not looking at all well. i ventured to say to him he needed a rest. by all means he should get away. he said he had intended going off on a revenue cutter for a few days, but judge bradley of the supreme court had died and he must find a worthy successor. i said there was one i could not recommend because we had fished together and were such intimate friends that we could not judge each other disinterestedly, but he might inquire about him--mr. shiras, of pittsburgh. he did so and appointed him. mr. shiras received the strong support of the best elements everywhere. neither my recommendation, nor that of any one else, would have weighed with president harrison one particle in making the appointment if he had not found mr. shiras the very man he wanted. in the behring sea dispute the president was incensed at lord salisbury's repudiation of the stipulations for settling the question which had been agreed to. the president had determined to reject the counter-proposition to submit it to arbitration. mr. blaine was with the president in this and naturally indignant that his plan, which salisbury had extolled through his ambassador, had been discarded. i found both of them in no compromising mood. the president was much the more excited of the two, however. talking it over with mr. blaine alone, i explained to him that salisbury was powerless. against canada's protest he could not force acceptance of the stipulations to which he had hastily agreed. there was another element. he had a dispute with newfoundland on hand, which the latter was insisting must be settled to her advantage. no government in britain could add canadian dissatisfaction to that of newfoundland. salisbury had done the best he could. after a while blaine was convinced of this and succeeded in bringing the president into line. the behring sea troubles brought about some rather amusing situations. one day sir john macdonald, canadian premier, and his party reached washington and asked mr. blaine to arrange an interview with the president upon this subject. mr. blaine replied that he would see the president and inform sir john the next morning. "of course," said mr. blaine, telling me the story in washington just after the incident occurred, "i knew very well that the president could not meet sir john and his friends officially, and when they called i told them so." sir john said that canada was independent, "as sovereign as the state of new york was in the union." mr. blaine replied he was afraid that if he ever obtained an interview as premier of canada with the state authorities of new york he would soon hear something on the subject from washington; and so would the new york state authorities. it was because the president and mr. blaine were convinced that the british government at home could not fulfill the stipulations agreed upon that they accepted salisbury's proposal for arbitration, believing he had done his best. that was a very sore disappointment to mr. blaine. he had suggested that britain and america should each place two small vessels on behring sea with equal rights to board or arrest fishing vessels under either flag--in fact, a joint police force. to give salisbury due credit, he cabled the british ambassador, sir julian pauncefote, to congratulate mr. blaine upon this "brilliant suggestion." it would have given equal rights to each and under either or both flags for the first time in history--a just and brotherly compact. sir julian had shown this cable to mr. blaine. i mention this here to suggest that able and willing statesmen, anxious to coöperate, are sometimes unable to do so. mr. blaine was indeed a great statesman, a man of wide views, sound judgment, and always for peace. upon war with chili, upon the force bill, and the behring sea question, he was calm, wise, and peace-pursuing. especially was he favorable to drawing closer and closer to our own english-speaking race. for france he had gratitude unbounded for the part she had played in our revolutionary war, but this did not cause him to lose his head. one night at dinner in london mr. blaine was at close quarters for a moment. the clayton-bulwer treaty came up. a leading statesman present said that the impression they had was that mr. blaine had always been inimical to the mother country. mr. blaine disclaimed this, and justly so, as far as i knew his sentiments. his correspondence upon the clayton-bulwer treaty was instanced. mr. blaine replied: "when i became secretary of state and had to take up that subject i was surprised to find that your secretary for foreign affairs was always informing us what her majesty 'expected,' while our secretary of state was telling you what our president 'ventured to hope.' when i received a dispatch telling us what her majesty expected, i replied, telling you what our president 'expected.'" "well, you admit you changed the character of the correspondence?" was shot at him. quick as a flash came the response: "not more than conditions had changed. the united states had passed the stage of 'venturing to hope' with any power that 'expects.' i only followed your example, and should ever her majesty 'venture to hope,' the president will always be found doing the same. i am afraid that as long as you 'expect' the united states will also 'expect' in return." one night there was a dinner, where mr. joseph chamberlain and sir charles tennant, president of the scotland steel company, were guests. during the evening the former said that his friend carnegie was a good fellow and they all delighted to see him succeeding, but he didn't know why the united states should give him protection worth a million sterling per year or more, for condescending to manufacture steel rails. "well," said mr. blaine, "we don't look at it in that light. i am interested in railroads, and we formerly used to pay you for steel rails ninety dollars per ton for every ton we got--nothing less. now, just before i sailed from home our people made a large contract with our friend carnegie at thirty dollars per ton. i am somewhat under the impression that if carnegie and others had not risked their capital in developing their manufacture on our side of the atlantic, we would still be paying you ninety dollars per ton to-day." here sir charles broke in: "you may be sure you would. ninety dollars was our agreed-upon price for you foreigners." mr. blaine smilingly remarked: "mr. chamberlain, i don't think you have made a very good case against our friend carnegie." "no," he replied; "how could i, with sir charles giving me away like that?"--and there was general laughter. blaine was a rare raconteur and his talk had this great merit: never did i hear him tell a story or speak a word unsuitable for any, even the most fastidious company to hear. he was as quick as a steel trap, a delightful companion, and he would have made an excellent and yet safe president. i found him truly conservative, and strong for peace upon all international questions. [illustration: skibo castle] chapter xxviii hay and mckinley john hay was our frequent guest in england and scotland, and was on the eve of coming to us at skibo in when called home by president mckinley to become secretary of state. few have made such a record in that office. he inspired men with absolute confidence in his sincerity, and his aspirations were always high. war he detested, and meant what he said when he pronounced it "the most ferocious and yet the most futile folly of man." the philippines annexation was a burning question when i met him and henry white (secretary of legation and later ambassador to france) in london, on my way to new york. it gratified me to find our views were similar upon that proposed serious departure from our traditional policy of avoiding distant and disconnected possessions and keeping our empire within the continent, especially keeping it out of the vortex of militarism. hay, white, and i clasped hands together in hay's office in london, and agreed upon this. before that he had written me the following note: _london, august , _ my dear carnegie: i thank you for the skibo grouse and also for your kind letter. it is a solemn and absorbing thing to hear so many kind and unmerited words as i have heard and read this last week. it seems to me another man they are talking about, while i am expected to do the work. i wish a little of the kindness could be saved till i leave office finally. i have read with the keenest interest your article in the "north american."[ ] i am not allowed to say in my present fix how much i agree with you. the only question on my mind is how far it is now _possible_ for us to withdraw from the philippines. i am rather thankful it is not given to me to solve that momentous question.[ ] [footnote : the reference is to an article by mr. carnegie in the _north american review_, august, , entitled: "distant possessions--the parting of the ways."] [footnote : published in thayer, _life and letters of john hay_, vol. ii, p. . boston and new york, .] it was a strange fate that placed upon him the very task he had congratulated himself was never to be his. he stood alone at first as friendly to china in the boxer troubles and succeeded in securing for her fair terms of peace. his regard for britain, as part of our own race, was deep, and here the president was thoroughly with him, and grateful beyond measure to britain for standing against other european powers disposed to favor spain in the cuban war. the hay-pauncefote treaty concerning the panama canal seemed to many of us unsatisfactory. senator elkins told me my objections, given in the "new york tribune," reached him the day he was to speak upon it, and were useful. visiting washington soon after the article appeared, i went with senator hanna to the white house early in the morning and found the president much exercised over the senate's amendment to the treaty. i had no doubt of britain's prompt acquiescence in the senate's requirements, and said so. anything in reason she would give, since it was we who had to furnish the funds for the work from which she would be, next to ourselves, the greatest gainer. senator hanna asked if i had seen "john," as he and president mckinley always called mr. hay. i said i had not. then he asked me to go over and cheer him up, for he was disconsolate about the amendments. i did so. i pointed out to mr. hay that the clayton-bulwer treaty had been amended by the senate and scarcely any one knew this now and no one cared. the hay-pauncefote treaty would be executed as amended and no one would care a fig whether it was in its original form or not. he doubted this and thought britain would be indisposed to recede. a short time after this, dining with him, he said i had proved a true prophet and all was well. of course it was. britain had practically told us she wished the canal built and would act in any way desired. the canal is now as it should be--that is, all american, with no international complications possible. it was perhaps not worth building at that time, but it was better to spend three or four hundred millions upon it than in building sea monsters of destruction to fight imaginary foes. one may be a loss and there an end; the other might be a source of war, for "oft the sight of means to do ill deeds make deeds ill done." mr. hay's _bête noire_ was the senate. upon this, and this only, was he disregardful of the proprieties. when it presumed to alter one word, substituting "treaty" for "agreement," which occurred in one place only in the proposed arbitration treaty of , he became unduly excited. i believe this was owing in great degree to poor health, for it was clear by that time to intimate friends that his health was seriously impaired. the last time i saw him was at lunch at his house, when the arbitration treaty, as amended by the senate, was under the consideration of president roosevelt. the arbitrationists, headed by ex-secretary of state foster, urged the president's acceptance of the amended treaty. we thought he was favorable to this, but from my subsequent talk with secretary hay, i saw that the president's agreeing would be keenly felt. i should not be surprised if roosevelt's rejection of the treaty was resolved upon chiefly to soothe his dear friend john hay in his illness. i am sure i felt that i could be brought to do, only with the greatest difficulty, anything that would annoy that noble soul. but upon this point hay was obdurate; no surrender to the senate. leaving his house i said to mrs. carnegie that i doubted if ever we should meet our friend again. we never did. the carnegie institution of washington, of which hay was the chairman and a trustee from the start, received his endorsement and close attention, and much were we indebted to him for wise counsel. as a statesman he made his reputation in shorter time and with a surer touch than any one i know of. and it may be doubted if any public man ever had more deeply attached friends. one of his notes i have long kept. it would have been the most flattering of any to my literary vanity but for my knowledge of his most lovable nature and undue warmth for his friends. the world is poorer to me to-day as i write, since he has left it. the spanish war was the result of a wave of passion started by the reports of the horrors of the cuban revolution. president mckinley tried hard to avoid it. when the spanish minister left washington, the french ambassador became spain's agent, and peaceful negotiations were continued. spain offered autonomy for cuba. the president replied that he did not know exactly what "autonomy" meant. what he wished for cuba was the rights that canada possessed. he understood these. a cable was shown to the president by the french minister stating that spain granted this and he, dear man, supposed all was settled. so it was, apparently. speaker reed usually came to see me sunday mornings when in new york, and it was immediately after my return from europe that year that he called and said he had never lost control of the house before. for one moment he thought of leaving the chair and going on the floor to address the house and try to quiet it. in vain it was explained that the president had received from spain the guarantee of self-government for cuba. alas! it was too late, too late! "what is spain doing over here, anyhow?" was the imperious inquiry of congress. a sufficient number of republicans had agreed to vote with the democrats in congress for war. a whirlwind of passion swept over the house, intensified, no doubt, by the unfortunate explosion of the warship maine in havana harbor, supposed by some to be spanish work. the supposition gave spain far too much credit for skill and activity. war was declared--the senate being shocked by senator proctor's statement of the concentration camps he had seen in cuba. the country responded to the cry, "what is spain doing over here anyhow?" president mckinley and his peace policy were left high and dry, and nothing remained for him but to go with the country. the government then announced that war was not undertaken for territorial aggrandizement, and cuba was promised independence--a promise faithfully kept. we should not fail to remember this, for it is the one cheering feature of the war. the possession of the philippines left a stain. they were not only territorial acquisition; they were dragged from reluctant spain and twenty million dollars paid for them. the filipinos had been our allies in fighting spain. the cabinet, under the lead of the president, had agreed that only a coaling station in the philippines should be asked for, and it is said such were the instructions given by cable at first to the peace commissioners at paris. president mckinley then made a tour through the west and, of course, was cheered when he spoke of the flag and dewey's victory. he returned, impressed with the idea that withdrawal would be unpopular, and reversed his former policy. i was told by one of his cabinet that every member was opposed to the reversal. a senator told me judge day, one of the peace commissioners, wrote a remonstrance from paris, which if ever published, would rank next to washington's farewell address, so fine was it. at this stage an important member of the cabinet, my friend cornelius n. bliss, called and asked me to visit washington and see the president on the subject. he said: "you have influence with him. none of us have been able to move him since he returned from the west." i went to washington and had an interview with him. but he was obdurate. withdrawal would create a revolution at home, he said. finally, by persuading his secretaries that he had to bend to the blast, and always holding that it would be only a temporary occupation and that a way out would be found, the cabinet yielded. he sent for president schurman, of cornell university, who had opposed annexation and made him chairman of the committee to visit the filipinos; and later for judge taft, who had been prominent against such a violation of american policy, to go as governor. when the judge stated that it seemed strange to send for one, who had publicly denounced annexation, the president said that was the very reason why he wished him for the place. this was all very well, but to refrain from annexing and to relinquish territory once purchased are different propositions. this was soon seen. mr. bryan had it in his power at one time to defeat in the senate this feature of the treaty of peace with spain. i went to washington to try to effect this, and remained there until the vote was taken. i was told that when mr. bryan was in washington he had advised his friends that it would be good party policy to allow the treaty to pass. this would discredit the republican party before the people; that "paying twenty millions for a revolution" would defeat any party. there were seven staunch bryan men anxious to vote against philippine annexation. mr. bryan had called to see me in new york upon the subject, because my opposition to the purchase had been so pronounced, and i now wired him at omaha explaining the situation and begging him to wire me that his friends could use their own judgment. his reply was what i have stated--better have the republicans pass it and let it then go before the people. i thought it unworthy of him to subordinate such an issue, fraught with deplorable consequences, to mere party politics. it required the casting vote of the speaker to carry the measure. one word from mr. bryan would have saved the country from the disaster. i could not be cordial to him for years afterwards. he had seemed to me a man who was willing to sacrifice his country and his personal convictions for party advantage. when i called upon president mckinley immediately after the vote, i condoled with him upon being dependent for support upon his leading opponent. i explained just how his victory had been won and suggested that he should send his grateful acknowledgments to mr. bryan. a colonial possession thousands of miles away was a novel problem to president mckinley, and indeed to all american statesmen. nothing did they know of the troubles and dangers it would involve. here the republic made its first grievous international mistake--a mistake which dragged it into the vortex of international militarism and a great navy. what a change has come over statesmen since! at supper with president roosevelt at the white house a few weeks ago ( ), he said: "if you wish to see the two men in the united states who are the most anxious to get out of the philippines, here they are," pointing to secretary taft and himself. "then why don't you?" i responded. "the american people would be glad indeed." but both the president and judge taft believed our duty required us to prepare the islands for self-government first. this is the policy of "don't go into the water until you learn to swim." but the plunge has to be and will be taken some day. it was urged that if we did not occupy the philippines, germany would. it never occurred to the urgers that this would mean britain agreeing that germany should establish a naval base at macao, a short sail from britain's naval base in the east. britain would as soon permit her to establish a base at kingston, ireland, eighty miles from liverpool. i was surprised to hear men--men like judge taft, although he was opposed at first to the annexation--give this reason when we were discussing the question after the fatal step had been taken. but we know little of foreign relations. we have hitherto been a consolidated country. it will be a sad day if we ever become anything otherwise. chapter xxix meeting the german emperor my first rectorial address to the students of st. andrews university attracted the attention of the german emperor, who sent word to me in new york by herr ballin that he had read every word of it. he also sent me by him a copy of his address upon his eldest son's consecration. invitations to meet him followed; but it was not until june, , that i could leave, owing to other engagements. mrs. carnegie and i went to kiel. mr. tower, our american ambassador to germany, and mrs. tower met us there and were very kind in their attentions. through them we met many of the distinguished public men during our three days' stay there. the first morning, mr. tower took me to register on the emperor's yacht. i had no expectation of seeing the emperor, but he happened to come on deck, and seeing mr. tower he asked what had brought him on the yacht so early. mr. tower explained he had brought me over to register, and that mr. carnegie was on board. he asked: "why not present him now? i wish to see him." i was talking to the admirals who were assembling for a conference, and did not see mr. tower and the emperor approaching from behind. a touch on my shoulder and i turned around. "mr. carnegie, the emperor." it was a moment before i realized that the emperor was before me. i raised both hands, and exclaimed: "this has happened just as i could have wished, with no ceremony, and the man of destiny dropped from the clouds." then i continued: "your majesty, i have traveled two nights to accept your generous invitation, and never did so before to meet a crowned head." then the emperor, smiling--and such a captivating smile: "oh! yes, yes, i have read your books. you do not like kings." "no, your majesty, i do not like kings, but i do like a man behind a king when i find him." "ah! there is one king you like, i know, a scottish king, robert the bruce. he was my hero in my youth. i was brought up on him." "yes, your majesty, so was i, and he lies buried in dunfermline abbey, in my native town. when a boy, i used to walk often around the towering square monument on the abbey--one word on each block in big stone letters 'king robert the bruce'--with all the fervor of a catholic counting his beads. but bruce was much more than a king, your majesty, he was the leader of his people. and not the first; wallace the man of the people comes first. your majesty, i now own king malcolm's tower in dunfermline[ ]--he from whom you derive your precious heritage of scottish blood. perhaps you know the fine old ballad, 'sir patrick spens.' [footnote : in the deed of trust conveying pittencrieff park and glen to dunfermline an unspecified reservation of property was made. the "with certain exceptions" related to king malcolm's tower. for reasons best known to himself mr. carnegie retained the ownership of this relic of the past.] "'the king sits in dunfermline tower drinking the bluid red wine.' i should like to escort you some day to the tower of your scottish ancestor, that you may do homage to his memory." he exclaimed: "that would be very fine. the scotch are much quicker and cleverer than the germans. the germans are too slow." "your majesty, where anything scotch is concerned, i must decline to accept you as an impartial judge." he laughed and waved adieu, calling out: "you are to dine with me this evening"--and excusing himself went to greet the arriving admirals. about sixty were present at the dinner and we had a pleasant time, indeed. his majesty, opposite whom i sat, was good enough to raise his glass and invite me to drink with him. after he had done so with mr. tower, our ambassador, who sat at his right, he asked across the table--heard by those near--whether i had told prince von bülow, next whom i sat, that his (the emperor's) hero, bruce, rested in my native town of dunfermline, and his ancestor's tower in pittencrieff glen, was in my possession. "no," i replied; "with your majesty i am led into such frivolities, but my intercourse with your lord high chancellor, i assure you, will always be of a serious import." we dined with mrs. goelet upon her yacht, one evening, and his majesty being present, i told him president roosevelt had said recently to me that he wished custom permitted him to leave the country so he could run over and see him (the emperor). he thought a substantial talk would result in something good being accomplished. i believed that also. the emperor agreed and said he wished greatly to see him and hoped he would some day come to germany. i suggested that he (the emperor) was free from constitutional barriers and could sail over and see the president. "ah, but my country needs me here! how can i leave?" i replied: "before leaving home one year, when i went to our mills to bid the officials good-bye and expressed regret at leaving them all hard at work, sweltering in the hot sun, but that i found i had now every year to rest and yet no matter how tired i might be one half-hour on the bow of the steamer, cutting the atlantic waves, gave me perfect relief, my clever manager, captain jones, retorted: 'and, oh, lord! think of the relief we all get.' it might be the same with your people, your majesty." he laughed heartily over and over again. it opened a new train of thought. he repeated his desire to meet president roosevelt, and i said: "well, your majesty, when you two do get together, i think i shall have to be with you. you and he, i fear, might get into mischief." he laughed and said: "oh, i see! you wish to drive us together. well, i agree if you make roosevelt first horse, i shall follow." "ah, no, your majesty, i know horse-flesh better than to attempt to drive two such gay colts tandem. you never get proper purchase on the first horse. i must yoke you both in the shafts, neck and neck, so i can hold you in." i never met a man who enjoyed stories more keenly than the emperor. he is fine company, and i believe an earnest man, anxious for the peace and progress of the world. suffice it to say he insists that he is, and always has been, for peace. [ .] he cherishes the fact that he has reigned for twenty-four years and has never shed human blood. he considers that the german navy is too small to affect the british and was never intended to be a rival. nevertheless, it is in my opinion very unwise, because unnecessary, to enlarge it. prince von bülow holds these sentiments and i believe the peace of the world has little to fear from germany. her interests are all favorable to peace, industrial development being her aim; and in this desirable field she is certainly making great strides. i sent the emperor by his ambassador, baron von sternberg, the book, "the roosevelt policy,"[ ] to which i had written an introduction that pleased the president, and i rejoice in having received from him a fine bronze of himself with a valued letter. he is not only an emperor, but something much higher--a man anxious to improve existing conditions, untiring in his efforts to promote temperance, prevent dueling, and, i believe, to secure international peace. [footnote : _the roosevelt policy: speeches, letters and state papers relating to corporate wealth and closely allied topics._ new york, .] i have for some time been haunted with the feeling that the emperor was indeed a man of destiny. my interviews with him have strengthened that feeling. i have great hopes of him in the future doing something really great and good. he may yet have a part to play that will give him a place among the immortals. he has ruled germany in peace for twenty-seven years, but something beyond even this record is due from one who has the power to establish peace among civilized nations through positive action. maintaining peace in his own land is not sufficient from one whose invitation to other leading civilized nations to combine and establish arbitration of all international disputes would be gladly responded to. whether he is to pass into history as only the preserver of internal peace at home or is to rise to his appointed mission as the apostle of peace among leading civilized nations, the future has still to reveal. the year before last ( ) i stood before him in the grand palace in berlin and presented the american address of congratulation upon his peaceful reign of twenty-five years, his hand unstained by human blood. as i approached to hand to him the casket containing the address, he recognized me and with outstretched arms, exclaimed: "carnegie, twenty-five years of peace, and we hope for many more." i could not help responding: "and in this noblest of all missions you are our chief ally." he had hitherto sat silent and motionless, taking the successive addresses from one officer and handing them to another to be placed upon the table. the chief subject under discussion had been world peace, which he could have, and in my opinion, would have secured, had he not been surrounded by the military caste which inevitably gathers about one born to the throne--a caste which usually becomes as permanent as the potentate himself, and which has so far in germany proved its power of control whenever the war issue has been presented. until militarism is subordinated, there can be no world peace. * * * * * as i read this to-day [ ], what a change! the world convulsed by war as never before! men slaying each other like wild beasts! i dare not relinquish all hope. in recent days i see another ruler coming forward upon the world stage, who may prove himself the immortal one. the man who vindicated his country's honor in the panama canal toll dispute is now president. he has the indomitable will of genius, and true hope which we are told, "kings it makes gods, and meaner creatures kings." nothing is impossible to genius! watch president wilson! he has scotch blood in his veins. [here the manuscript ends abruptly.] [illustration: andrew carnegie at skibo ( )] bibliography and index bibliography mr. carnegie's chief publications are as follows: _an american four-in-hand in britain._ new york, . _round the world._ new york, . _triumphant democracy, or fifty years' march of the republic._ new york, . _the gospel of wealth and other timely essays._ new york, . _the empire of business._ new york, . _james watt._ new york, . _problems of to-day. wealth--labor--socialism._ new york, . he was a contributor to english and american magazines and newspapers, and many of the articles as well as many of his speeches have been published in pamphlet form. among the latter are the addresses on edwin m. stanton, ezra cornell, william chambers, his pleas for international peace, his numerous dedicatory and founders day addresses. a fuller list of these publications is given in margaret barclay wilson's _a carnegie anthology_, privately printed in new york, . a great many articles have been written about mr. carnegie, but the chief sources of information are: alderson (bernard). _andrew carnegie. the man and his work._ new york, . berglund (abraham). _the united states steel corporation._ new york, . carnegie (andrew). _how i served my apprenticeship as a business man._ reprint from _youth's companion_. april , . cotter (arundel). _authentic history of the united states steel corporation._ new york, . hubbard (elbert). _andrew carnegie_. new york, . (amusing, but inaccurate.) mackie (j.b.). _andrew carnegie. his dunfermline ties and benefactions._ dunfermline, n.d. _manual of the public benefactions of andrew carnegie._ published by the carnegie endowment for international peace. washington, . _memorial addresses on the life and work of andrew carnegie._ new york, . _memorial service in honor of andrew carnegie on his birthday, tuesday, november , ._ carnegie music hall, pittsburgh, pennsylvania. _pittencrieff glen: its antiquities, history and legends._ dunfermline, . poynton (john a.). _a millionaire's mail bag._ new york, . (mr. poynton was mr. carnegie's secretary.) pritchett (henry s.). _andrew carnegie._ anniversary address before carnegie institute, november , . schwab (charles m.). _andrew carnegie. his methods with his men._ address at memorial service, carnegie music hall, pittsburgh, november , . wilson (margaret barclay). _a carnegie anthology._ privately printed. new york, . index abbey, edwin a., . abbott, rev. lyman, . abbott, william l., becomes partner of mr. carnegie, . accounting system, importance of, , , . acton, lord, library bought by mr. carnegie, . adams, edwin, tragedian, . adams express company, investment in, . addison, leila, friend and critic of young carnegie, . aitken, aunt, , , , , , , . alderson, barnard, _andrew carnegie_, quoted, _n._ allegheny city, the carnegies in, , , ; public library and hall, . allegheny valley railway, bonds marketed by mr. carnegie, - . allison, senator w.b., , . altoona, beginnings of, . _american four-in-hand in britain, an_, mr. carnegie's first book, ; quoted, , _n._; published, , . anderson, col. james, and his library, - . arnold, edwin, gives mr. carnegie the ms. of _the light of asia_, . arnold, matthew, quoted, , , ; visits mr. carnegie, , , ; a charming man, ; seriously religious, ; as a lecturer, , ; and henry ward beecher, ; on shakespeare, ; and josh billings, - ; in chicago, , ; memorial to, . baldwin, william h., . balfour, prime minister, - ; as a philosopher, , . balfour of burleigh, lord, and trust for the universities of scotland, , , . baltimore and ohio railroad, mr. carnegie's relations with, - . baring brother, dealings with, , . barryman, robert, an ideal tom bowling, , . bates, david homer, quoted, , , . beecher, henry ward, and matthew arnold, ; and robert g. ingersoll, , ; on herbert spencer, , . behring sea question, , - . bessemer steel process, revolutionized steel manufacture, , , . billings, dr. j.s., of the new york public libraries, ; director of the carnegie institution, . billings, josh, ; and matthew arnold, - ; anecdotes, , . bismarck, prince, disturbs the financial world, . black, william, . blaine, james g., visits mr. carnegie, ; and mr. gladstone, , , ; a good story-teller, - , ; his yorktown address, ; at cluny castle, ; misses the presidency, ; as secretary of state, , - ; at the pan-american congress, . bliss, cornelius n., . borntraeger, william, ; put in charge of the union iron mills, ; anecdotes of, - . botta, professor and madame, . braddock's coöperative society, . bridge-building, of iron, - ; at steubenville, , ; at keokuk, iowa, ; at st. louis, . bright, john, ; and george peabody, . british iron and steel institute, , . brooks, david, manager of the pittsburgh telegraph office, - , - . brown university, john hay library at, . bruce, king robert, , . bryan, william j., and the treaty with spain, . bull run, battle of, . bülow, prince von, , . burns, robert, quoted, , , , , ; dean stanley on, ; rules of conduct, , . burroughs, john, and ernest thompson seton, . butler, gen. b.f., . cable, george w., . calvinism, revolt from, , , , . cambria iron company, . cameron, simon, in lincoln's cabinet, , ; a man of sentiment, ; anecdote of, , . campbell-bannerman, sir henry, ; and trust for the universities of scotland, , ; prime minister, , . carnegie, andrew, grandfather of a.c., , . carnegie, andrew, birth, ; ancestry, - ; fortunate in his birthplace, - ; childhood in dunfermline, - ; a violent young republican, - ; goes to school, - , ; early usefulness to his parents, ; learns history from his uncle lauder, , ; intensely scottish, , ; trained in recitation, ; power to memorize, ; animal pets, ; early evidence of organizing power, , ; leaves dunfermline, ; sails for america, ; on the erie canal, , ; in allegheny city, ; becomes a bobbin boy, ; works in a bobbin factory, , ; telegraph messenger, - ; first real start in life, , ; first communication to the press, ; cultivates taste for literature, , ; love for shakespeare stimulated, , ; swedenborgian influence, ; taste for music aroused, ; first wage raise, ; learns to telegraph, , , ; becomes a telegraph operator, . _railroad experience:_ clerk and operator for thomas a. scott, division superintendent of pennsylvania railroad, ; loses pay-rolls, ; an anti-slavery partisan, , ; employs women as telegraph operators, ; takes unauthorized responsibility, , ; in temporary charge of division, ; theological discussions, - ; first investment, ; transferred to altoona, ; invests in building of sleeping-cars, ; made division superintendent on the pennsylvania railroad, ; returns to pittsburgh, ; gets a house at homewood, ; civil war service, - ; gift to kenyon college, ; first serious illness, ; first return to scotland, - ; organizes rail-making and locomotive works, ; also a company to build iron bridges, - ; bridge-building, - ; begins making iron, - ; introduces cost accounting system, , , ; becomes interested in oil wells, - ; mistaken for a noted exhorter, ; leaves the railroad company, , . _period of acquisition:_ travels extensively in europe, , ; deepening appreciation of art and music, ; builds coke works, , ; attitude toward protective tariff, - ; opens an office in new york, ; joins the nineteenth century club, ; opposed to speculation, - ; builds bridge at keokuk, ; and another at st. louis, - ; dealings with the morgans, - , - ; gives public baths to dunfermline, ; his ambitions at thirty-three, , ; rivalry with pullman, ; proposes forming pullman palace car company, ; helps the union pacific railway through a crisis, , ; becomes a director of that company, ; but is forced out, ; friction with mr. scott, , ; floats bonds of the allegheny valley railway, - ; negotiations with baring brothers, , ; some business rules, - , , , ; concentrates on manufacturing, , ; president of the british iron and steel institute, ; begins making pig iron, , ; proves the value of chemistry at a blast furnace, - ; making steel rails, - ; in the panic of , - ; parts with mr. kloman, - ; some of his partners, - ; goes around the world, - ; his philosophy of life, , ; dunfermline confers the freedom of the town, ; coaching in great britain, , ; dangerously ill, , ; death of his mother and brother, , ; courtship, , ; marriage, ; presented with the freedom of edinburgh, ; birth of his daughter, ; buys skibo castle, ; manufactures spiegel and ferro-manganese, , ; buys mines, - ; acquires the frick coke company, ; buys the homestead steel mills, ; progress between and , ; the homestead strike, - ; succeeds mark hanna on executive committee of the national civic federation, ; incident of burgomaster mcluckie, - ; some labor disputes, - ; dealing with a mill committee, , ; breaking a strike, - ; a sliding scale of wages, - ; beating a bully, ; settling differences by conference, , , ; workmen's savings, . _period of distribution:_ carnegie steel company sells out to united states steel corporation, , ; andrew carnegie relief fund established for men in the mills, , , ; libraries built, ; carnegie institution founded, - ; hero funds established for several countries, - ; pension fund for aged professors, - ; trustee of cornell university, ; lord rector of st. andrews, - ; aid to american colleges, , , _n._; connection with hampton and tuskegee institutes, , ; gives organs to many churches, , ; private pension fund, , ; railroad pension fund, ; early interested in peace movements, , ; on a league of nations, _n._; provides funds for temple of peace at the hague, , ; president of the peace society of new york, , ; decorated by several governments, ; buys pittencrieff glen and gives it to dunfermline, - ; friendship with earl grey, ; other trusts established, _n._; dinners of the carnegie veteran association, , ; the literary dinner, , ; relations with mark twain, - ; with matthew arnold, - ; with josh billings, - ; first meets mr. gladstone, , , ; estimate of lord rosebery, - ; his own name often misspelled, ; attachment to harcourt and campbell-bannerman, ; and the earl of elgin, , ; his freedom-getting career, , ; opinion on british municipal government, - ; visits mr. gladstone at hawarden, , , , ; incident of the queen's jubilee, , ; relations with j.g. blaine, , , , - ; friendship with john morley, - ; estimate of elihu root, ; buys lord acton's library, ; on irish home rule, ; attempts newspaper campaign of political progress, ; writes _triumphant democracy_, - ; a disciple of herbert spencer, - ; delegate to the pan-american congress, , ; entertains president harrison, , ; founds carnegie institute at pittsburgh, ; influence in the chilian quarrel, - ; suggests mr. shiras for the supreme court, ; on the behring sea dispute, , ; opinion of mr. blaine, , ; relations with john hay, - ; and with president mckinley, , ; on annexation of the philippines, - ; criticism of w.j. bryan, ; impressions of the german emperor, - ; hopeful of president wilson, , . carnegie, louise whitfield, wife of a.c., - ; charmed by scotland, ; her enjoyment of the pipers, ; the peace-maker, ; honored with freedom of dunfermline, ; first honorary member of carnegie veteran association, . carnegie, margaret morrison, mother of a.c., , ; reticent on religious subjects, , ; a wonderful woman, , , , - ; gives bust of sir walter scott to stirling, ; lays corner stone of carnegie library in dunfermline, ; death of, , ; advice to matthew arnold, . carnegie, margaret, daughter of a.c., born, . carnegie, thomas morrison, brother of a.c., ; a favorite of col. piper, , ; interested in iron-making, ; friendship with henry phipps, ; marries lucy coleman, ; death of, , . carnegie, william, father of a.c., ; a damask weaver, , , , , ; a radical republican, ; liberal in theology, , ; works in a cotton factory in allegheny city, ; one of the founders of a library in dunfermline, ; a sweet singer, ; shy and reserved, ; one of the most lovable of men, ; death of, , . "carnegie," the wood-and-bronze yacht, , . carnegie brothers & co., , , . carnegie corporation of new york, _n._ carnegie endowment for international peace, _n._ carnegie endowment for the advancement of learning, . carnegie hero fund, - . carnegie institute at pittsburgh, , . carnegie institution, , . carnegie, kloman & co., , . carnegie, mccandless & co., . carnegie, phipps & co., . carnegie relief fund, for carnegie workmen, . carnegie steel company, . carnegie trust for the universities of scotland, trustees of, ; duties of, , . carnegie united kingdom trust, _n._ carnegie veteran association, , . "cavendish" (henry jones), anecdote of, . central transportation company, , . chamberlain, joseph, , , . chemistry, value of, in iron manufacture, , , . chicago, "dizzy on cult," , . chili, quarrel with, - . chisholm, mr., cleveland iron manufacturer, . clayton-bulwer treaty, , , . clemens, samuel l., _see_ twain, mark. cleveland, frances, library at wellesley college, . cleveland, president, ; and tariff revision, . cluny castle, scotland, ; mr. blaine at, . coal-washing, introduced into america by george lauder, . cobbett, william, . coke, manufacture of, , , . coleman, lucy, afterwards mrs. thomas carnegie, . coleman, william, interested in oil wells, - ; and in coke, ; manufacturer of steel rails, ; anecdote of, ; sells out to mr. carnegie, . columbia university, _n._ confucius, quoted, , , . constant, baron d'estournelles de, . conway, moncure d., autobiography quoted, . coöperative store, . corn law agitation, the, . cornell university, salaries of professors, . cowley, william, . cremer, william randall, receives nobel prize for promotion of peace, , _n._ cresson springs, mr. carnegie's summer home in the alleghanies, , . cromwell, oliver, . crystal palace, london, . curry, henry m., ; becomes a partner of mr. carnegie, . cyclops mills, , . damask trade in scotland, , , , . dawes, anna l., _how we are governed_, . dennis, prof. f.s., , . dickinson college, conway hall at, . disestablishment of the english church, . dodds process, the, for carbonizing the heads of iron rails, . dodge, william e., . donaldson, principal, of st. andrews university, . douglas, euphemia (mrs. sloane), . drexel, anthony, , . dunfermline, birthplace of mr. carnegie, , ; a radical town, ; libraries in, ; revisited, - , ; gives mr. carnegie the freedom of the town, ; carnegie library in, ; confers freedom of the town on mrs. carnegie, . dunfermline abbey, , , , , , , . durrant, president, of the union pacific railway, . eads, capt. james b., , . edgar thomson steel company, , , , . education, compulsory, . edwards, "billy," , . edwards, passmore, . elgin, earl of, and trust for the universities of scotland, - , , . elkins, sen. stephen b., and mr. blaine, , , , . emerson, ralph waldo, anecdote of, . endorsing notes, , . erie canal, the, , . escanaba iron company, - , . evans, captain ("fighting bob"), as government inspector, . evarts, william m., _n._ fahnestock, mr., pittsburgh financier, . farmer, president, of cleveland and pittsburgh railroad co., . ferguson, ella (mrs. henderson), . ferro-manganese, manufacture of, . fleming, marjory, . flower, governor roswell p., and the tariff, , . forbes, gen. john, laird of pittencrieff, . franciscus, mr., freight agent at pittsburgh, . franciscus, mrs., . franklin, benjamin, and st. andrews university, ; quoted, . frick, henry c., . frick coke company, , . fricke, dr., chemist at the lucy furnace, . frissell, hollis b., of hampton institute, . garrett, john w., president of the baltimore and ohio railroad, - . general education board, . germany, and the philippines, ; emperor william, - . gilder, richard watson, poem by, , ; manager of the literary dinner, , ; on mr. carnegie, _n._, _n._ gilman, daniel c., first president of the carnegie institution, . gladstone, w.e., letter from, ; and matthew arnold, ; mr. carnegie and, , - ; his library, ; devout and sincere, ; anecdote of, ; and j.g. blaine, ; and john morley, . glass, john p., , . god, each stage of civilization creates its own, . gorman, senator arthur p., and the tariff, , . _gospel of wealth, the_, published, . gould, jay, . grant, gen. u.s., and secretary stanton, ; some characteristics of, ; unjustly suspected, . greeley, horace, , . grey, earl, trustee of carnegie united kingdom trust, and _n._ hague conference, , . haldane, lord chancellor, error as to british manufactures, . hale, eugene, visits mr. carnegie, . hale, prof. george e., of the mount wilson observatory, . halkett, sir arthur, killed at braddock's defeat, , . hamilton college, elihu root foundation at, . hampton institute, . hanna, senator mark, , , ; chair in western reserve university named for, . harcourt, sir william vernon, . harris, joel chandler, . harrison, president benjamin, opens carnegie hall at allegheny city, , ; his nomination, , ; dispute with chili, - ; the behring sea question, , - . hartman steel works, . hawk, mr., of the windsor hotel, new york, . hay, secretary john, comment on lincoln, , ; visits mr. carnegie, ; chairman of directors of carnegie institution, ; library, at brown university, ; as secretary of state, ; the hay-pauncefote treaty, ; the senate his _bête noire_, , . hay, john, of allegheny city, - . head-ication versus hand-ication, . henderson, ebenezer, . henderson, ella ferguson, , . hero fund, - . hewitt, abram s., . higginson, maj. f.l., . higginson, col. thomas wentworth, . hill, david jayne, on the german hero fund, , . hogan, maria, . hogan, uncle, , . holls, g.f.w., and the hague conference, . holmes, oliver wendell, and the matthew arnold memorial, , . homestead steel mills, consolidated with carnegie brothers & co., , ; strike at, - ; address of workmen to mr. carnegie, . hughes, courtney, . huntington, collis p., . ignorance, the main root of industrial trouble, . _in the time of peace_, by richard watson gilder, , . ingersoll, col. robert g., , . integrity, importance of, in business, . ireland, mr. carnegie's freedom tour in, _n._, . irish home rule, . irwin, agnes, receives doctor's degree from st. andrews university, , . isle of wight, . jackson, andrew, and simon cameron, , . jewett, thomas l., president of the panhandle railroad, . jones, henry ("cavendish"), anecdote of, . jones, ---- ("the captain"), , , , , ; prefers large salary to partnership, . _just by the way_, poem on mr. carnegie, . kaiser wilhelm, and mr. carnegie, - . katte, walter, . keble, bishop, godfather of matthew arnold, . kelly, mr., chairman of blast-furnaces committee, - . kennedy, julian, . kenyon college, gift to, ; stanton chair of economics, . keokuk, iowa, . keystone bridge works, , - , . keystone iron works, . kilgraston, scotland, , . kind action never lost, , . king edward vii, letter from, , , . kloman, andrew, partner with mr. carnegie, , , ; a great mechanic, , ; in bankruptcy, - . knowledge, sure to prove useful, . knowles, james, on tennyson, , . koethen, mr., choir leader, . labor, some problems of, - . lang, principal, . lauder, george, uncle of a.c., , , , ; teaches him history, - ; and recitation, . lauder, george, cousin of a.c., , ; develops coal-washing machinery, , . lauder technical college, , . lehigh university, mr. carnegie gives taylor hall, . lewis, enoch, . libraries, founded by mr. carnegie, , , . library, public, usefulness of, . lincoln, abraham, some characteristics of, ; second nomination sought, , . linville, h.j., partner of mr. carnegie, , . literature, value of a taste for, . lloyd, mr., banker at altoona, . lombaert, mr., general superintendent of the pennsylvania railroad, , , , . lucy furnace, the, erected, ; in charge of henry phipps, ; enlarged, ; gift from the workmen in, , . lynch, rev. frederick, . mabie, hamilton wright, quoted, . mcaneny, george, . mccandless, david, , . mccargo, david, , , . mccullough, j.n., , . macintosh, mr., scottish furniture manufacturer, . mckinley, president william, ; and the panama canal, ; and the spanish war, - . mcluckie, burgomaster, and mr. carnegie, - . mcmillan, rev. mr., presbyterian minister, - . macdonald, sir john, and the behring sea troubles, , . mackie, j.b., quoted, , . macy, v. everit, . martin, robert, mr. carnegie's only schoolmaster, - , . mason and slidell, . mellon, judge, of pittsburgh, . memorizing, benefit of, , . mill, john stuart, as rector of st. andrews, . miller, thomas n., , , ; on the doctrine of predestination, ; partner with mr. carnegie, , , ; death of, ; sells his interest, , . mills, d.o., . mitchell, dr. s. weir, . morgan, j. pierpont, , , . morgan, junius s., , , . morgan, j.s., & co., negotiations with, - . morland, w.c., . morley, john, and mr. carnegie, , , ; address at carnegie institute, ; on lord rosebery, ; on the earl of elgin, ; on mr. carnegie, _n._; pessimistic, , ; visits america, , ; and elihu root, ; and theodore roosevelt, ; and lord acton's library, ; and joseph chamberlain, , . morley, r.f., _n._ morris, leander, cousin of mr. carnegie, . morrison, bailie, uncle of mr. carnegie, - , , , , , . morrison, margaret, _see_ carnegie, margaret. morrison, thomas, maternal grandfather of mr. carnegie, - , . morrison, thomas, second cousin of mr. carnegie, . morton, levi p., . mount wilson observatory, , . municipal government, british and american, - . "naig," mr. carnegie's nickname, . national civic federation, . national trust company, pittsburgh, . naugle, j.a., . new york, first impressions of, ; business headquarters of america, . nineteenth century club, new york, . ocean surveys, . ogden, robert c., . oil wells, - . oliver, hon. h.w., , . omaha bridge, , . optimism, , ; optimist and pessimist, . organs, in churches, , . _our coaching trip_, quoted, , ; privately published, . palmer, courtlandt, . panama canal, , , . pan-american congress, , . panic of , the, , , - . park, james, pioneer steel-maker of pittsburgh, , . parliament, membership and meetings, . partnership better than corporation, . patiemuir college, . pauncefote, sir julian, and mr. blaine, ; the hay-pauncefote treaty, , . peabody, george, his body brought home on the warship monarch, . peabody, george foster, . peace, mr. carnegie's work for, - ; palace, at the hague, , . peace society of new york, , . peacock, alexander r., partner of mr. carnegie, . pennsylvania railroad company, builds first iron bridge, - ; aids union pacific railway, , ; aids allegheny valley railway, - ; aids pennsylvania steel works, . _see also_ carnegie, andrew, _railroad experience_. pennsylvania steel works, the, . pessimist and optimist, story of, . philadelphia and erie railroad, - . philippines, the, annexation of, , - . phillips, col. william, , , . phipps, henry, , ; advertises for work, , ; crony and partner of thomas carnegie, ; controversy over opening conservatories on sunday, , ; european tour, ; in charge of the lucy furnace, , ; statement about mr. carnegie and his partners, , ; goes into the steel business, . phipps, john, ; killed, . pig iron, manufacture of, , ; importance of chemistry in, - . pilot knob mine, . piper, col. john l., partner of mr. carnegie, , ; had a craze for horses, , ; attachment to thomas carnegie, , ; relations with james b. eads, . pitcairn, robert, division superintendent, pennsylvania railroad, , , , , . pittencrieff glen, bought and given to dunfermline, - , . pittsburgh, in , - ; some of its leading men, ; in , ; later development, . pittsburgh, bank of, . pittsburgh locomotive works, . pittsburgh theater, , , . political corruption, . predestination, doctrine of, . principals' week, . pritchett, dr. henry s., president of the carnegie endowment for the advancement of learning, . private pension fund, , . _problems of to-day_, quoted, , . protective tariffs, - . prousser, mr., chemist, . public speaking, . pullman, george m., , ; forms pullman palace car company, , ; anecdote of, ; becomes a director of the union pacific, . quality, the most important factor in success, , , . queen's jubilee, the (june, ), , . quintana, manuel, president of argentina, . railroad pension fund, . rawlins, gen. john a., and general grant, , . recitation, value of, in education, . reed, speaker thomas b., . reid, james d., and mr. carnegie, and _n._ reid, general, of keokuk, . republican party, first national meeting, . riddle, robert m., . ritchie, david, , . ritter, governor, of pennsylvania, anecdote of, . robinson, general, first white child born west of the ohio river, . rockefeller, john d., . rogers, henry h., . rolland school, . roosevelt, theodore, ; and elihu root, ; john morley on, ; rejects the arbitration treaty, , ; and the philippines, . root, elihu, , _n._; fund named for, at hamilton college, ; "ablest of all our secretaries of state," ; on mr. carnegie, ; and john morley, . rosebery, lord, presents mr. carnegie with the freedom of edinburgh, ; relations with, , ; handicapped by being born a peer, , . ross, dr. john, , ; aids in buying pittencrieff glen, , ; receives freedom of dunfermline, . _round the world_, , , . sabbath observance, , , . st. andrews university, mr. carnegie elected lord rector, , ; confers doctor's degree on benjamin franklin and on his great-granddaughter, , . st. louis bridge, - . salisbury, lord, and the behring sea troubles, - . sampson, ----, financial editor of the london _times_, . schiffler, mr., a partner of mr. carnegie in building iron bridges, , . schoenberger, mr., president of the exchange bank, pittsburgh, , . schurman, president jacob g., . schwab, charles m., , - . scott, john, . scott, thomas a., , - , ; helps carnegie to his first investment, ; made general superintendent of the pennsylvania railroad, ; breaks a strike, , ; made vice-president of the company, ; assistant secretary of war, , ; colonel, ; returns to the railroad, ; tries to get contract for sleeping-cars on the union pacific, , ; becomes president of that road, ; first serious difference with carnegie, ; president of the texas pacific railroad, and then of the pennsylvania road, ; financially embarrassed, , ; break with carnegie and premature death, . scott, sir walter, and marjory fleming, ; bust of, at stirling, ; made a burgess of dunfermline, . scott, gen. winfield, , . seneca indians, early gatherers of oil, . sentiment, in the practical affairs of life, . seton, ernest thompson, and john burroughs, . seward, william henry, . shakespeare, quoted, , , , , , ; mr. carnegie's interest in, , . shaw, henry w., _see_ billings, josh. shaw, thomas (lord shaw), of dunfermline, , , . sherman, gen. w.t., . shiras, george, jr., appointed to the supreme court, . siemens gas furnace, . singer, george, . skibo castle, scotland, , , . sleeping-car, invention of, ; on the union pacific railway, - . sliding scale of wages, solution of the capital and labor problem, , , . sloane, mr. and mrs., . smith, j.b., friend of john bright, , . smith, perry, anecdote of, . snobs, english, . spanish war, the, - . speculation, , . spencer, herbert, mr. carnegie's relations with, - ; a good laugher, , ; opposed to militarism, ; banquet to, at delmonico's, ; very conscientious, , ; his philosophy, ; on the gift of carnegie institute, , . spens, sir patrick, ballad of, , . spiegel, manufacture of, . stanley, dean a.p., on burns's theology, . stanton, edwin m., , . stanwood, edward, _james g. blaine_ quoted, _n._ steel, the age of, - ; king, , . steel workers' pension fund, . steubenville, bridge at, over the ohio river, , . stewart, d.a., freight agent of the pennsylvania railroad, , ; joins mr. carnegie in manufacture of steel rails, . stewart, rebecca, niece of thomas a. scott, . stokes, major, chief counsel of the pennsylvania railroad, - , . storey, samuel, m.p., . storey farm, oil wells on, , _n._ straus, isidor, . straus, oscar s., and the national civic federation, , . strikes: on the pennsylvania railroad, , ; at homestead, - ; at the steel-rail works, , . sturgis, russell, . success, true road to, , . sun city forge company, _n._ superior rail mill and blast furnaces, . surplus, the law of the, . swedenborgianism, , , . _sweet by and by, the_, , . taft, william h., and the philippines, , . tariff, protective, - . taylor, charles, president of the hero fund, , . taylor, joseph, . taylor hall at lehigh university, . teaching, a meanly paid profession, . temple of peace, at the hague, , . tennant, sir charles, president of the scotland steel company, , . texas, story about, . texas pacific railway, _n._, . thaw, william, vice-president of the fort wayne railroad, . thayer, william roscoe, _life and letters of john hay_, quoted, , , . thomas, gen. george h., . thompson, moses, . thomson, john edgar, president of the pennsylvania railroad, ; an evidence of his fairness, ; offers mr. carnegie promotion, ; shows confidence in him, ; steel mills named for, , ; financially embarrassed, . tower, charlemagne, ambassador to germany, , . trent affair, the, . trifles, importance of, , , , . _triumphant democracy_, published, ; origin, - . troubles, most of them imaginary, . tuskegee institute, . twain, mark, letter from, , ; man and hero, ; devotion to his wife, . union iron mills, , , ; very profitable, . union pacific railway, sleeping-cars on, - ; mr. carnegie's connection with, - . "unitawrian," prejudice against, . vanderlip, frank a., . vandevort, benjamin, . vandevort, john w., ; mr. carnegie's closest companion, ; accompanies him around the world, . van dyke, prof. john c., on the homestead strike, - , . wagner, mr., carnegie's interest in, , . walker, baillie, . wallace, william, , , . war, breeds war, ; must be abolished, , , ; "ferocious and futile folly," . washington, booker t., declines gift to himself, , . waterways, inland, improvement of, . webster literary society, . wellesley college, cleveland library at, . western reserve university, hanna chair at, . white, andrew d., , ; and the hague conference, . white, henry, . whitfield, louise, , . _see also_, carnegie, mrs. andrew. whitwell brothers, . wilkins, judge william, , . william iv, german emperor, - . wilmot, mr., of the carnegie relief fund, . wilson, james r., . wilson, woodrow, , . wilson, walker & co., . women as telegraph operators, , . woodruff, t.t., inventor of the sleeping-car, , . woodward, dr. robert s., president of the carnegie institution, . wordsworth, william, quoted, . workmen's savings, . world peace, - . wright, john a., president of the freedom iron works, . note: project gutenberg also has an html version of this file which includes the original illustrations. see -h.htm or -h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/ / / / / / -h/ -h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/ / / / / / -h.zip) the golden shoemaker: or, "cobbler" horn. by j.w. keyworth, author of "_mother freeman_," "_the churchwarden's daughter_," _&c._, _&c._ [illustration: "'come here, missy!'"--_page ._] london: j. williams butcher, & , ludgate circus buildings, farringdon street, e.c. contents. chapter page i. bereaved! ii. aunt jemima iii. how miss jemima managed her brother's house iv. "me lun away" v. "the little twin brethren" vi. the father's quest vii. what had become of the child? viii. the shoemaker becomes "golden" ix. a strange client for messrs. tongs and ball x. miss jemima is very much astonished xi. "cobbler" horn answers his letters, and receives the congratulations of his friends xii. "cobbler" horn pays a visit to his landlord xiii. free cobblery xiv. "the golden shoemaker" waits upon his minister xv. "cobbler" horn engages a secretary xvi. the attack on the correspondence xvii. a parting gift for "the little twin brethren" xviii. the new house xix. a talk with the minister about money xx. "cobbler" horn's village xxi. in need of repairs xxii. "the golden shoemaker" instructs his lawyers xxiii. memories xxiv. on the ocean xxv. cousin jack xxvi. home again xxvii. coming into collision with the proprieties xxviii. bounder gives warning xxix. vague surmisings xxx. a novel difficulty for a man of wealth xxxi. "cobbler" horn's critics xxxii. "in labours more abundant" xxxiii. tommy dudgeon on the watch xxxiv. a "father" and "mother" for the "home" xxxv. the opening of the "home" xxxvi. tommy dudgeon undertakes a delicate enterprise xxxvii. between life and death xxxviii. a little shoe xxxix. a joyous discovery xl. tommy dudgeon's contribution xli. no room for doubt! xlii. father and daughter xliii. the tramp's confession the golden shoemaker. chapter i. bereaved! in a small house, in a back street, in the large manufacturing town of cottonborough, the young wife of "cobbler" horn lay dying. it was the dusk of a wild evening in early winter; and the cruel cough, which could be heard every now and then, in the lulls of the wind, from the room upstairs, gave deepening emphasis to the sad fact that the youthful wife and mother--for such also she was--had fallen a victim to that fell disease which sweeps away so much of the fair young life of our land. "cobbler" horn himself was engaged just now in the duties of his calling, in the little workshop behind the kitchen. the house was very small. the kitchen and workshop were the only rooms downstairs, and above them were three small chambers. the one in which the dying woman lay was over the workshop, and the sound of her coughing came down with sharp distinctness through the boarded floor, which was the only ceiling of the lower room. "cobbler" horn knew that the death of his wife was probably a question of a few hours at most. but he had promised that the boots on which he was at work should be finished that night; and he had conscientiously withdrawn from his wife's bedside that he might keep his word. "cobbler" horn was a man of thirty or so. he was tall, and had somewhat rugged features and clear steadfast eyes. he had crisp black hair, and a shaven face. his complexion was dark, and his bare arms were almost as brown as his leathern apron. his firmly set lips and corrugated brow, as he bent now over his work, declared him to possess unusual power of will. indeed a strength of purpose such as belongs to few was required to hold him to his present task. meanwhile his chief misgiving was lest the noise he was compelled to make should distress his dying wife; and it was touching to see how he strove to modify, to the utmost degree which was consistent with efficient workmanship, the tapping of the hammer on the soles of the boots in hand. sorrowing without bitterness, "cobbler" horn had no rebellious thoughts. he did not think himself ill-used, or ask petulantly what he had done that such trouble should come to him. his case was very sad. five years ago he had married a beautiful young christian girl. twelve months later she had borne their little dark-eyed daughter marian. two years thereafter a baby boy had come and gone in a day; and, from that time, the mother had drooped and faded, day by day, until, at length, the end was close at hand. but "cobbler" horn was a christian, and did not repine. his task was finished at last, and, with a sigh of relief, he rose to his feet. in that moment, he became aware of a tiny figure, standing in the open doorway of the kitchen. it was that of a little four-year-old girl, clad in a ruby-coloured dress, which matched to perfection her dark skin and black hair. her crimson cheeks were dashed with tears, and she looked like a damask rose just sprinkled by a shower of rain. the light in her dark eyes, which glistened with intense excitement beneath her jet-black hair, indicated that her tears were those of indignation rather than grief. how long she had been standing there he could not tell; but, as soon as she saw that her father had finished his work, little marian--for she it was--darted forward, and throwing her arms around his neck, with a sob, let her small dusky head fall upon the polished breast-piece of his leathern apron. "what's amiss with daddy's poppet?" asked the father tenderly, as he clasped the quivering little form more closely to his breast. the only answer was a convulsive movement of the little body within his arms. "come, darling, tell daddy." strange strugglings continued within the strong, encircling arms. this little girl of four had as strong a will as her father; and she was conquering her turbulent emotions, that she might be able to answer his questions. in a moment she broke away from his clasp, and, dashing the tears from her eyes with her little brown hands, stood before him with glowing face and quivering lip. "me 'ant to see mammy!" she cried--the child was unusually slow of speech for her age. "dey 'on't 'et ma-an do upstairs." "cobbler" horn took the child upon his knee, and gently stroked the small dusky head. "mammy is very ill, marian," he said gently. "me 'ant to see mammy," was the emphatic response. "by and bye, darling," replied the father huskily. "what 'oo going to c'y for, daddy?" demanded the child, looking up hastily into her father's face. "poor daddy!" she continued, stroking his cheek with her small brown hand, "isn't 'oo very well?" "i'm not going to cry, darling," said the father, bowing his head over his child, and taking into his strong hand the little fingers which still rested against his face. "you don't understand, my poor child!" there followed a brief pause. "p'ease, daddy," pleaded marian presently, "ma-an _must_ see mammy. dere's such pitty fings in se shops, and me 'ants to do with mammy to see dem--in morning." the shops were already displaying their christmas decorations. marian's father gave a great gasp. "marian shall see mammy now," he said solemnly, as he rose from his stool still holding the child to his breast. "i'se so glad!" and she gave a little jump in his arms. "good daddy!" "but father's little poppet must be quiet, and not talk, or cry." "no," said marian with childhood's readiness to make a required promise. the child had not seen her mother since the previous day, and the altered face upon the pillow was so strange to her, that she half turned away, as though to hide her face upon her father's shoulder. the gleaming eyes of the dying mother were turned wistfully towards her child. "see, poppet; look at mammy!" urged the father, turning the little face towards the bed. "mother's darling!" there was less change in the mother's voice than in her face; and the next moment the little dark head lay on the pillow, and the tiny, nut-brown hand was stroking the hollow cheek of the dying woman. "'oo is my mammy, isn't 'oo?" "yes, darling; kiss mammy good-bye," was the heart-breaking answer. "me tiss 'oo," said the child, suiting the action to the word; "but not dood-bye. me see 'oo aden. mammy, se shops is so bootiful! will 'oo take ma-an to see dem? 'nother day, yes 'nother day." "daddy will take marian to see the shops," said the dying mother, in labouring tones. "mammy going to jesus. jesus will take care of mother's little lamb." the mother's lips were pressed in a last lingering kiss upon the face of her child, and then marian was carried downstairs. when the child was gone, "cobbler" horn sat down by the bedside, and took and held the wasted hand of his wife. it was evident that the end was coming fast; and urgent indeed must be the summons which would draw him now from the side of his dying wife. hour after hour he sat waiting for the great change. as the night crept on, he watched the deepening shadow on the beloved face, and marked the gathering signs which heralded the brief triumph of the king of terrors. there was but little talk. it could not be otherwise; for, every moment, utterance became more difficult to the dying wife. a simple, and affectionate question and answer passed now and then between the two. at infrequent intervals expressions of spiritual confidence were uttered by the dying wife; and these were varied with a few calmly-spoken directions about the child. from the husband came, now and then, words of tender encouragement, mingled with morsels of consolation from the good old book, with, ever and anon, a whispered prayer. the night had almost passed when the end came. the light of the grey december dawn was struggling feebly through the lattice, when the young wife and mother, whose days had been so few, died, with a smile upon her face; and "cobbler" horn passed out of the room and down the stairs, a wifeless husband and the father of a motherless bairn. chapter ii. aunt jemima. it was aunt jemima who stepped into the vacant place of marian's mother. she was the only sister of "cobbler" horn, and, with the exception of a rich uncle in america, from whom they never heard, and a wandering cousin, a sad scapegrace, she was her brother's only living relative. "cobbler" horn's sister was not the person to whom he would have chosen to entrust the care of his motherless child, or the management of his house. but he had no choice. he had no other relative whom he could summon to his help, and aunt jemima was upon him before he had had time to think. she was hurt that she had not been called to the death-bed of her sister-in-law. but the omission rather increased, than diminished, the promptitude with which she wrote to announce that she would come to her bereaved brother without delay, and within a week she was duly installed as mistress of his house. "i thought i had better come at once," she said, on the night of her arrival. "there's no telling what might have happened else." "very good of you, jemima," was her brother's grave response. and so it was. the woman meant well. she loved her brother sincerely enough; and she had resolved to sacrifice, for his sake and his child's, the peace and freedom of her life. but aunt jemima's love was wont to show itself in unlovely ways. the fact of meaning well, though often a good enough excuse for faulty doing, is not a satisfactory substitute for the doing of that which is well. your toleration of the rough handling inflicted by the awkwardness of inconsiderate love does not counteract its disastrous effects on the susceptible spirit and the tender heart, especially if they be those of a child. it is, therefore, not strange that, though "cobbler" horn loved his sister, he wished she had stayed away. she was his elder by ten years; and she lived by herself, on the interest of a small sum of money left to her by their father, at his death, in a far off village, which was the family home. "you'll be glad to know, thomas," she said, "that i've made arrangements to stay, now i'm here." they were sitting by the fire, towards supper-time; and the attention of "cobbler" horn was divided between what his sister was saying and certain sounds of subdued sobbing which proceeded from upstairs. very early in the evening aunt jemima had unceremoniously packed marian off to bed, and the tiny child was taking a long time to cry herself to sleep in the cold, dark room. "never mind the child," said aunt jemima sharply, as she observed her brother's restless glances towards the staircase door; "on no account must she be allowed to have her own way. it was high time she went to bed; and she'll soon be fast asleep." "yes, jemima," said the troubled father; "but i wish you had been more gentle with the child." "fiddlesticks!" was the contemptuous exclamation of aunt jemima, as she regarded her brother severely through her spectacles; and she added, "since you have wished me to take the oversight of your house and child, you must leave me to manage them as i think fit." "cobbler" horn did not venture to remind his sister that he had not expressed any such wish. being so much his senior, and having at least as strong a will as his own, jemima horn had always maintained a certain predominance over her brother, and her ascendancy still prevailed to some extent. making no further reference to the child, he sat listening by turns to a prolonged exposition of his sister's views on the management of children, and to the continued wailings which floated down from the room above, until, at length, as a more piteous cry than all frantically voiced his own name, "faver," his self-restraint gave way, and he rose hastily and went upstairs. aunt jemima watched him in grim silence to the foot of the stairs. "mind," she then called after him, "she is not to come down." "cobbler" horn did not so far set his sister at defiance as to act in flat contradiction to her decree. perhaps he himself did not think it well that the child should be brought downstairs again, after once having been put to bed. but, if marian might not come down, marian's father might stay up. as soon as his step sounded on the stairs the child's wailing ceased. "zat zoo, daddy?" and the father felt, in the darkness, that two tiny arms were stretched out towards him in piteous welcome. lighting the candle, which stood on the table by the window, he sat down on the edge of the bed, and, in a moment, marian's little brown arms were tightly clasped about his neck. for a brief space he held the child to his breast; and then he gently laid her back upon the pillow, and having tucked the bed-clothes well about her, he kissed the little tear-stained face, and sat talking in the soothing tones which a loving parent can so well employ. leaving him there, let us make a somewhat closer inspection of miss jemima, as she sits in solitary state before the fire downstairs. you observe that she is tall, angular, and rigid. her figure displays the uprightness of a telegraph pole, and her face presents a striking arrangement of straight lines and sharp points. her eyes gleam like points of fire beneath her positively shaggy brows. her complexion is dark, and her hair, though still abundant, is already turning grey. her dress is plainness itself, and she wears no jewelry, all kinds of which she regards with scorn. her old-fashioned silver watch is a family heirloom, and a broad black ribbon is her only watch-guard. yet there is nothing of malice or evil intent in aunt jemima's soul. she is no less strictly upright in character than in form. she cannot tolerate wickedness, folly, or weakness of any kind. so far well. the lack of her character is the tenderness which is woman's crowning grace. when she is kind it is in such a way that one would almost prefer for her to be unkind. such is aunt jemima, as we see her sitting in front of her brother's fire, and as we know her to be. need we wonder that, "cobbler" horn's heart misgave him as to the probable fate of his little marian in such rough, though righteous, hands? when "cobbler" horn at length came downstairs, his sister was still sitting before the fire. on his appearance, she rose from her seat. "thomas, i am ashamed of you," she said, as she began, in a masterful way, to make preparations for supper. "such weakness will utterly spoil the child. but you were always foolish." "i am afraid, sister," was the quiet reply, "that we shall hardly agree with one another--you and i--on that point." chapter iii. how miss jemima managed her brother's house. on entering upon the management of her brother's house, aunt jemima laid down two laws, which were, that the house was to be kept spotlessly clean, and that everything was always to be in its right place; and her severe, and even fierce, insistence on the minute fulfilment of these unexceptionable ordinances soon threatened utterly to banish comfort from her brother's house. the restrictions this masterful lady placed upon her patient brother constituted a state of absolute tyranny. lest her immaculate door-step should be soiled, she would rarely allow him to enter the house by the front-door. she placed a thick mat inside his workshop, at the doorway leading into the front-room; and she exercised a lynx-eyed supervision to ensure that he always wiped his feet before coming in. she would never permit him to go upstairs without putting off his boots. she removed his hat from the wall of the front-room, and hung it on a nail in a beam, which was just over his head as he sat at work in his shop; and whenever she walked, with her policeman-like tread, in the room above, the hat would fall down, and strike him on the head. he bore this annoyance for a day or two, and then quietly removed hat and nail to one of the walls. strong-natured though he was, "cobbler" horn felt it no weakness to yield to his sister in trifles; and he bore with exhaustless patience such vexations as she inflicted on him alone. but he was firm as a rock where the comfort of any one else was concerned. it was beautiful to see his meek submission to every restriction which she laid upon him; it was sublime to behold his stern resistance to such harsh requirements as she proposed to lay upon others. more than one battle was fought between the brother and sister on this latter point. but it was on marian's account that the contention was most frequent and severe. sad to say, the coming of aunt jemima seemed likely to drive all happiness from the lot of the hapless child. rigid and cruel rules were laid upon the tiny mite. requirements were made, and enforced, which bewildered and terrified the little thing beyond degree. she was made to go to bed and get up at preternaturally early hours; and her employment during the day was mapped out in obedience to similarly senseless rules. her playthings, which had all been swept into a drawer and placed under lock and key, were handed out by aunt jemima, one at a time, at the infrequent intervals, during which, for brief periods, and under strict supervision, the child was permitted to play. much of the day was occupied with the doing of a variety of tasks few of which were really within the compass of her childish powers. aunt jemima herself undertook to impart to marian elementary instruction in reading, writing, and kindred acts. occasionally also the child was taken out by her grim relative for a stately walk, during which, however, she was not permitted, on any account, to linger in front of a shop window, or stray from aunt jemima's side. and then, in the evening, after their early tea, while aunt jemima sat at her work at the table, the poor little infant was perched on a chair before the fire, and there required to sit till her bed-time, with her legs dangling till they ached again, while the tiny head became so heavy that it nodded this way and that in unconquerable drowsiness, and, on more occasions than one, the child rolled over and fell to the floor, like a ball. one lesson which aunt jemima took infinite pains to lodge in marian's dusky little head was that she must never speak unless she was first spoken to; and if, in the exuberance of child-nature, she transgressed this rule, especially at meal-times, aunt jemima's mouth would open like a pair of nut-crackers, and she would give utterance to a succession of such snappish chidings, that marian would almost be afraid she was going to be swallowed up. a hundred times a day the child incurred the righteous ire of this cast-iron aunt. from morning to night the little thing was worried almost out of her life by the grim governess of her father's house; and aunt jemima even haunted her dreams. marian had one propensity which aunt jemima early set herself to repress. the child was gifted with an innate love of rambling. more than once, when very young indeed, she had wandered far away from home, and her father and mother had thought her lost. but she had always, as by an unerring instinct, found her way back. this propensity it was, indeed, necessary to restrain; but aunt jemima adopted measures for the purpose which were the sternest of the stern. she issued a decree that marian was never to leave the house, except when accompanied by either her father or miss jemima herself. in order that the object of this restriction might be effectually secured, it became necessary that miss jemima should take the child with her on almost every occasion when she herself went out. these events were intensely dreaded by marian; and she would shrink into a corner of the room when she observed aunt jemima making preparations for leaving the house. but she made no actual show of reluctance; and it would be difficult to tell whether she was the more afraid of going out with aunt jemima, or of letting aunt jemima see that she was afraid. it was a terrible time for the poor child. on every side she was checked, frowned upon, and kept down. if she was betrayed into the utterance of a merry word she was snapped at as though she had said something bad; and ebullitions of childish spirits were checked again and again, until their occurrence became rare. and yet this woman thought herself a christian, and believed that, in subjecting to a system of such complicated tyranny the bright little child who had been committed to her charge, she was beginning to train the hapless mite in the way she should go. it was a very simple circumstance which first indicated to "cobbler" horn the kind of training his child was beginning to receive. happening to go, one morning, into the living-room, he found that his sister had gone out, and, for once, left marian a prisoner in the house. the child was seated on a chair, with her chubby legs hanging wearily down, and a woe-begone expression on her face. taking courage from the absence of her dreadful aunt, marian asked her father to give her some of her toys, and to let her play. finding, to his surprise, on questioning the child, that she had been forbidden to touch her playthings without express permission, and that they were put away in the drawer, he readily gave her such of them as she desired, and crowned her happiness by remaining to play with her till aunt jemima returned. this incident created a feeling of uneasiness in the father's mind; but it was a circumstance of another kind which fully revealed to him the actual state of things. passing through the room one evening when marian was on the point of going to bed, he paused to listen to the evening prayer of his child. she knelt, in her little night-clothes, at aunt jemima's knee. the father sighed, as he waited for the sound of the simple words which had been learnt at the dictation of the tender mother-voice which was now for ever still. what, then, were his astonishment and pain when marian, instead of repeating her mother's prayer, entered upon the recital of a string of theological declarations which aunt jemima dictated to her one by one! "cobbler" horn strode forward, and laid a strong repressive hand upon the child; and aunt jemima will never forget the flash of his eye and the stern tones of his voice, as he demanded that marian should be permitted to pray her mother's prayer. after this he noticed frequent signs of the tyranny of which marian was the victim, and interposed at many points. but it was only in part that he was able to counteract the cruel discipline to which aunt jemima was subjecting his child. chapter iv. "me lun away." winter passed drearily away--a wet one, as it happened, with never once the white gleam of snow, and scarcely a touch of the healthy sting of frost. "cobbler" horn had not ceased to sorrow for his dead wife; and, when the spring was well advanced, there befell him another, and scarcely less severe bereavement, though of a different kind. there had been no improvement in the relations between aunt jemima and the child. aunt jemima still maintained the harsh system of discipline which she had adopted at first; and the result was that the child had been led to regard her father's sister with as near an approach to hatred as was possible to her loving little heart. marian's heart was big, almost to bursting, with concealed sorrow. like her father, young as she was, she found it easier to bear grief than to tell it out. she did not want her father to know how miserable she was. her childish soul was filled with bitterness, and her young life was being spoiled. such of her pleasures as had not been taken from her were divested of all their charm. almost her sole remaining joy was to snatch, now and then, a bit of clandestine love with her father, when, on some rare occasion, aunt jemima happened to be out of the way. recognising the uselessness of resisting a hand so hard and strong as that of aunt jemima, marian had lately meditated another way of escape from the wretchedness of her lot. she contemplated an expedient which occurs more readily than any other to the youthful victim of oppression, but which had probably never before presented itself to the mind of a child so young. the expedient is one, indeed, which seldom effects its purpose, and is usually productive of a plentiful crop of troubles. but marian had no fear. she was full of one thought. she could not any longer endure aunt jemima; and she must make it impossible for aunt jemima to scold, or smack, or restrain her any more. she must escape, without delay, from the sound of aunt jemima's harsh voice, and place herself beyond the reach of aunt jemima's rough hand. true, there was her father. how could she leave him? this would have been impossible to her if she had realised what she was about to do. but it seemed so easy and pleasant to slip out into the bright spring morning, and trot away into the mysterious and delightful country, which lay outside the town. nor did she dream of the hardships and danger which might be awaiting her out in the strange, unloving world, into which she had so lightly resolved to launch her little life. so it came to pass that, on a certain bright may morning, marian took her opportunity, and went out into the world. marian's opportunity was furnished by the fact that aunt jemima had gone out, leaving marian at home, and, for once, had forgotten to lock the door. as soon as aunt jemima's back was turned, the child huddled her little pink print sun-bonnet upon her small black head, and, with one furtive glance over her shoulder towards her father's workshop, whence she could distinctly hear the quick "tap-tap" of his hammer, she opened the front-door, and slipped into the street. her first action was to shoot a keen glance, from her sharp little eyes, to right and left. there was no one to be seen but one of the funny little twin men who kept a huckster's shop across the way. this little man was a great friend of marian's, and he called to her now in joyous tones, as he stood in the doorway of his shop, to come over and see what he had in his pocket. marian gave a decided shake of her head. "no; ma-an going away. tum another time." then, murmuring to herself, "me lun away," she set off down the street, with a defiant swagger of her small person, and her bonnet-strings streaming out upon the wind; and the little huckster watched her with an admiring gaze, little thinking into what wilds of sorrow those tiny twinkling feet had set off to run. chapter v. "the little twin brethren." the name of the little hucksters across the way was dudgeon. as to age, they were on the verge of thirty--tommy having entered the world a few minutes previous to john. they were so much alike that it was difficult to distinguish them when apart. john was just a shade lighter in complexion than tommy, and tommy overtopped his brother by something like an inch. the twins were so small as to seem insignificant; but their meek amiability was an efficient set off against their physical deficiencies. if there was any measure of self-assertiveness between them, it belonged chiefly to tommy. though both the little men were kind to marian, tommy was her especial friend; and it was he who had watched her as she ran away. the twins were both bachelors; though john had kept company for several years with a young woman of exemplary patience. tommy, who was a sincere christian, was a member of the church to which "cobbler" horn belonged. john occasionally attended the services at the same place, but could not be persuaded to join the church. the close resemblance between the brothers was the cause of many ludicrous mistakes. in their boyhood, they had frequently been blamed for each other's faults and misdeeds; and it was characteristic of tommy that he had quietly suffered more than one caning which his brother ought to have received. but, when it had been proposed to administer to him a dose of medicine which had been prescribed for john, he had quietly protested and explained the mistake. when the twins grew up, similar blunders continued to occur; and the little men had frequent opportunities of unlawfully profiting by the errors in which their close resemblance to each other often involved their friends. but, to the credit of these worthy little men be it said, they conscientiously declined to avail themselves of the opportunities of illegitimate benefit thus thrown in their way. it was a curious sight to see these two queer little men standing, sitting, or walking, side by side. the minister of their chapel would often speak of the first occasion on which he had seen john dudgeon. it was one sunday evening, shortly after he had assumed the pastorate of the church. the service had just commenced, and the eye of the minister happened to rest, for a moment, on the humble figure of tommy dudgeon, who was, as usual, in his place. the minister had already made the acquaintance of tommy, but of the existence of john he was not yet aware. what, then, was his astonishment, the next moment, to see another tommy dudgeon, as it seemed, come in and take his place beside the one already in the pew! for a breathing space the new pastor imagined himself the victim of an optical illusion; and then he rubbed his eyes, and concluded that tommy dudgeon had a twin brother, and that this was he. it was not surprising that these two peculiar little men should have excited the amusement of those to whom they were known. their amazing and almost indistinguishable resemblance to each other, and the consequent unconscious mutual mimicry of tone and gesture which prevailed between them, while they were a source of frequent perplexity, were also irresistibly provocative of mirth. what wonder that those who saw the little hucksters for the first time should have felt strongly inclined to regard them in a comic light; or that the mere mention of their names should have unfailingly brought a smile to the faces of those to whom their peculiarities were known! the boys of the grammar school, which was situated in a neighbouring street, had, from time immemorial, furnished tommy and john dudgeon with an epithet accommodated from classic lore, and dubbed them, "the _little_ twin brethren." chapter vi. the father's quest. when aunt jemima came home, she was surprised, in no small degree, at the absence of marian. with gathering indignation she called up the stairs, then searched the house, and finally presented herself before her brother, who was quite alone in his workshop, and sat calmly working on his stool. "then she is not here?" "who? marian?" responded "cobbler" horn in no accent of concern, looking up for a moment from his work. "no, i thought she was with you." "no; i left her in the room for a moment, and now she is nowhere to be found." there seemed to "cobbler" horn no reason for alarm, and, as his sister returned to the kitchen, he quietly went on with his work. but aunt jemima's mind was ill at ease. once more she searched the house, and called and called again. there was no response, and the silence which followed was profound and ominous. swiftly she passed, with growing alarm, through her brother's workshop, and out into the yard. a glance around, and then a closer search; but still no sign of the missing child. the perturbed woman re-entered her brother's presence, and stood before him, erect and rigid, and with outstretched hands. "the child's gone!" was her gloomy exclamation. "gone!" echoed "cobbler" horn blankly, looking up. "where?" "i don't know; but she's gone quite away, and may never come back." then "cobbler" horn perceived that his sister was alarmed; and, notwithstanding the occasion, he was comforted by the unwonted tenderness she had expressed. as for marian, he knew her for a born rambler; and it was not the first time she had strayed from home. "perhaps," he said placidly, "she has gone to the little shop over the way." then he resumed his work, as though he had simply told his sister where she would be likely to find her spectacles. aunt jemima took the hint, as a drowning person catches at a straw. she made her way to the front-door, and having opened it, was on the point of crossing the street, when tommy dudgeon emerged from the shop, and came over towards where she stood. "good morning, ma-am," he said, halting at a respectful distance. "you are looking for little miss?" "well," snapped aunt jemima, "and if i am, what then? do you know where she is?" "no, ma-am; but i saw her go away." miss jemima seized the arm of the little man with an iron grip. "man! you saw her go away, and you let her go?" with difficulty tommy freed his arm. "well, ma-am, perhaps i ought----" "of course you ought," rapped out the lady, sharply. "you must be a gabey." "no doubt, ma-am. but little miss will come back. she knows her way about. she will be home to dinner." having spoken, tommy was turning to recross the street. "stop, man!" tommy stopped and faced around once more. "which way did she go?" "that way, ma-am," replied tommy, pointing along the street, to aunt jemima's left-hand, and his own right. the troubled lady instantly marched, in the direction indicated, to the end of the street; but, finding that five ways branched off therefrom, she returned baffled to her brother's house, and sought his presence once more. "thomas," she cried, almost fiercely, "the child has certainly run away!" still "cobbler" horn was not alarmed. "well," he said calmly, "never mind, jemima. she has a habit of going off by herself. she knows her way about, and will not stray far. she will be back by dinner-time, no doubt." though by no means satisfied, miss jemima was fain to accept this view of the case for the time. with a troubled mind, she resumed her suspended domestic duties. unlikely as it might seem, she could not banish the dread that marian had actually run away; and, as the morning passed, the fear grew stronger and stronger in the troubled lady's breast that she would see her little niece no more. accordingly when dinner-time arrived, aunt jemima was not surprised that marian did not appear. the dinner consisted of irish stew--marian's favourite dish. on the stroke of twelve it was smoking on the table. for the twentieth time the perturbed lady went to the door, and gazed wistfully up and down the street. then, with a sigh, she re-entered the house, and called her brother to dinner. "cobbler" horn, feeling sure that marian would soon return, had dismissed the fact of her disappearance from his mind; and when, on coming in to dinner, he found that she was still absent, he was taken by surprise. in reply to his inquiry, aunt jemima jerked out the opinion that the child would not come back at all. "why shouldn't she?" he asked. "i've known her stay away longer than this, and there's no occasion for alarm." so saying, he addressed himself to his dinner with his usual gusto; but miss jemima had no appetite, and the show of eating that she made was but a poor pretence. "don't be so much alarmed, jemima," said her brother, making progress with his dinner. "i've no doubt the child is amongst her friends. by and bye i'll go out and hunt her up." he still had no fear that his little daughter would not soon return. he accordingly finished his dinner with his usual deliberation; and it was not until he had completed one or two urgent pieces of work, that he, at last, put on his hat and coat, and taking his stout blackthorn stick, set out in search of his missing child. all the weary afternoon, he went from house to house, amongst friends and friendly neighbours; but no one had seen marian, or knew anything as to her whereabouts. every now and then he returned home, to see if the child had come back. but each time he found only aunt jemima, sitting before the fire like an image of grim despair. she would look up with fierce eagerness, on his entrance, and drop her gaze again with a gasp when she saw that he was alone. long before the afternoon was over the father's unconcern had given place to serious alarm. he was not greatly surprised that he had failed to find marian in the house of any of their friends; but he wondered that she had not yet come home of her own accord. while he would not, even now, believe that marian had run away, he was compelled to admit that she was lost. but what was that? he had turned once more towards home, and had entered his own street, and there was marian, playing with some other children, on the pavement, just in front. her back was towards him, as she bent down over her play. but there was no mistaking that thick, night-black hair, and the little plump brown legs which peeped out beneath the small frock. with the promptitude of absolute certainty, he put out his strong hands and lifted the child from the ground. then he uttered a cry. it was not marian after all! he put her down--he almost let her drop, and the startled child began to cry. "cobbler" horn hastily pushed a penny into her hand, and strode on. he staggered like one who has received a blow. it seemed almost as if he had actually had his little one in his arms, and she had slipped away again. when he reached home, his sister was still sitting in grim silence, before the now fireless grate. on her brother's entrance, she looked up as aforetime. "cobbler" horn sank despondently into a chair. "nowhere to be found!" he said, with a deep sigh. "we must have the tea ready," he added, as though at the dictate of a sudden thought. "ah, you are tired, and hungry." aunt jemima hesitated on the last word. could her brother be hungry? she thought she would never wish to taste food again. "no," he said quickly; "but marian will want her tea. put the dinner away. it is cold, jemima." "i put her plate in the oven," said aunt jemima, in a hollow voice, as she rose from her seat. "ah!" gasped the father. the little plate had become hot and cold again, and its contents were quite dried up. aunt jemima put the plate upon the oven-top; and then turned, and looked conscience-stricken into her brother's face. severe towards herself, as towards others, she unflinchingly acknowledged her great fault. "brother, your child is gone; and i have driven her away." she lifted her hands on either side of her head, and gently swayed herself to and fro once--a grim gesture of despair. "i do not ask you to forgive me. it is not to be expected of you--unless she comes back again. if she does not, i shall never forgive myself." "jemima," said "cobbler" horn, rising from his seat, and placing his hand lightly on her shoulder, "you are too severe with yourself. that the child is lost is evident enough; but surely she may be found! i will go to the police authorities: they will help us." he turned to the door, but paused with his hand on the latch. "jemima," he said, gently, "you must not talk about my not forgiving you. i would try to forgive my greatest enemy, much more my own sister, who has but done what she believed to be best." the authorities at the police-station did what they could. messages were sent to every police centre in the town; and very soon every policeman on his beat was on the look-out for the missing child. at the same time, an officer was told off to accompany the anxious father on a personal search for his little girl. first of all, they visited the casual ward at the workhouse, and astonished its motley and dilapidated occupants by waking them to ask if they had fallen in with a strayed child on any of the roads by which they had severally approached the town. when they had recovered from their first alarm beneath the gleam of the policeman's bulls-eye, these waifs of humanity, one and all, declared their inability to supply the desired information. the officer next conducted his companion into the courts and bye-ways of the town. many a den of infamy was filled with a quiver of alarm, and many a haunt of poverty was made to uncover its wretchedness before the horrified gaze of "cobbler" horn. but the missing child was not in any of these. next they went a little way out on one or two of the country roads. but here all was dark: and they soon retraced their steps. having ascertained that nothing had been heard at the police-station of his child, "cobbler" horn at length turned homeward, in the early morning, with a weary heart. miss jemima was still sitting where he had left her, and he sadly shook his head in response to the appeal of her dark hollow eyes. during the hour or so which remained before dawn, "cobbler" horn restlessly paced the house, pausing, now and then, to open the front-door and step out into the street, that he might listen for the returning patter of the two little feet that had wandered away. before it was fairly light, he left his sister, still distraught and rigid in her chair, and went into the streets once more. what could he do which he had not already done? from the first his heart had turned to god in prayer, and this seemed now his sole remaining resource. yes, he could still pray; and, as he did so now, his belief grew stronger and stronger that, if not now, yet sometime, he would surely find his child again. not many streets from his own he met a woman whom he knew. she lived, with her husband, in a solitary cottage on the london road--the road into which "cobbler" horn's street directly led, and she was astir thus early, she explained, to catch the first train to a place some miles away. but what had brought mr. horn out so soon? "cobbler" horn told his sorrowful story, and the woman gave a sudden start. "why," she said, "that reminds me. i saw the child yesterday morning. she passed our house, trotting at a great rate. it was washing day, and, besides, i had my husband's dinner in the oven, or i think i should have gone after her." "cobbler" horn regarded the woman with strange, wide-open eyes. "if you had only stopped her!" he cried. "but of course you didn't know." with that, he left the woman standing in the street, and hurried away. very soon he was walking swiftly along the london road. the one thought in his mind was that he was on the track of his child at last. he passed the wayside cottage where the woman lived who had seen marian go by, and went on until, moved by a sudden impulse, he paused to rest his arms upon the top of a five-barred gate, and look upon the field into which it led. then he uttered a cry, and, tearing open the gate, strode into the field. lying amidst the grass was a little shoe. it was one of marian's without a doubt. had he not made it himself? he picked it up and hid it away in the pocket of his coat. marian had evidently wandered that way, and was lost in the large wood which lay on the other side of the field. to reach the wood was the work of a few moments. plunging amongst the trees, he soon came upon a pool, near the margin of which were some prostrate tree trunks. near one of these the ground was littered with shreds of what might have been articles of clothing; and amongst them was a long strip of print, which had a familiar look. he picked it up and examined it closely. then the truth flashed upon him. it was one of the strings of marian's sun-bonnet! holding it loosely between his finger and thumb, he gazed upon the foul green waters of the pond. did they cover the body of his child? he had no further thought of searching the wood. with a shudder he turned away, and hurried home. aunt jemima had bestirred herself, and was moving listlessly about the house. "jemima, do you know this?" she took the strip of print into her hand. "yes," she said, "it is----" he finished her sentence. "----the string of her bonnet." "yes." he told her where he had found it, and showed her the shoe. the pond was dragged, but nothing was discovered. they searched the wood, and scoured the country for miles around; but they came upon no further trace of the missing child. chapter vii. what had become of the child? when marian left her father's house, she had but one idea in her mind. her sole desire was to escape from aunt jemima; and it seemed to her that the most effectual method of doing so was to get into the country as fast as she could. it was not likely, she thought, that there would be any aunt jemimas in so pleasant a region as she had always understood the country to be. she knew vaguely which direction to take, and supposed that if she kept on long enough, she would ultimately reach her destination. what she would do when she got there she had not paused to think. at present she was simply thrilling with the sweet consciousness of liberty, and enjoying her scamper in the fresh spring morning air. it was not likely, perhaps, that marian would run right away from home, and stay away. like any other little chick, she would make for home at roosting time, if hunger did not constrain her to turn her steps thitherward at a much earlier hour. marian's surmise that the way she had taken led into the country proved to be correct. the street widened out into a road, the houses became fewer and brighter till they ceased altogether; and the child realized, with a little tremor, that, at last, she was out in the country all alone. her feeling was one of timid joy. all around her were the green fields and waving trees; and the only house in sight was a little white-washed cottage far on in front. it cost marian an effort to pass a man with a coal cart who presently loomed in view; but when she found that he slouched by without taking any notice of her, she took heart again and tripped blithely on. presently she found herself opposite to the little white-washed cottage; and she remembered that she had been there once or twice with her father. she would have been better pleased, just now, if the cottage had been on some other road. how could she pass it without being seen? this was plainly impossible; for there was the woman of the house--being the same whom marian's father met the following morning--hanging out the clothes in the garden, close to the hedge. marian trotted on, pretending not to know that there was any one near. then she felt hot all over, as she became aware the woman had seen her, and was calling across the road. but she just gave her dusky little head a determined shake, and pursued her way. the woman, being weighted with an accumulation of domestic cares, without a second thought, and much to her subsequent regret, let the little runaway go by. when marian had left the cottage out of sight behind, she began to feel lonely, and to be very much afraid. there was not a human being in sight, except herself; and the only dwelling she could see was a farm-house, perched on the top of a hill, away across the fields. she slackened her pace, and looked furtively around. then she went on more quickly again; but, in a few moments, a slight bend in the road brought before her a sight at which she stopped short and uttered a cry of alarm. an exceedingly ill-favoured man, and a no more prepossessing woman, were sitting upon the bank, by the road-side, discussing a dinner of broken victuals. they were thorough-going tramps, of middle age. marian would have fled; but their evil eyes held her to the spot. "what a pretty little lady!" said the man, holding out a very dirty hand. "come here, missy!" but marian shrank back with a smothered cry. "i've finished my dinner, i have," said the man, getting up. "so have i," echoed the woman, following his example; "and we'll go for a walk with little miss." "what a precious lonely road!" she remarked, when she had glanced this way and that, to make sure that no prying eyes were near. "catch hold o' the little 'un, jake; and we'll take a stroll in the fields." there was a perfect understanding between this precious pair; and marian was promptly lifted over a five-barred gate, and led by the woman across a grass field, towards a wood on the other side, while the man followed stolidly in the rear. a few paces from the gate marian's shoe came off; but she was as much too frightened to say anything about it, as she was to ask any questions of her captors, or to resist their will. having reached the wood, they plunged into its recesses, and at length halted before a large pool, at the edge of which there lay upon the ground the trunks of some trees which had been cut down. taking her seat on one of these, the woman drew marian to her side, and, while the man stood by with an evil smile, proceeded to strip off some of the child's clothes. marian began to cry, but was silenced with a rough shake and a threat of being thrown into the pond. having divested the child of most of her garments, the woman took from a dirty bundle which she carried a draggled grey wool shawl, which she wrapped tightly, crosswise, around marian's body, and tied in a hard knot behind her back. perceiving that marian had lost one of her shoes, the hag sent her husband back to look for it, while she proceeded with the metamorphosis of the hapless infant who had fallen into her hands. she smeared the little face with muddy water from the margin of the pool; she jerked out the semi-circular comb which held back marian's cloud of dusky hair, and let the thick locks fall in disorder about her head and face; she dragged the little sun bonnet in the green slime at the margin of the pool, and, on pretence of tying it on the child's head, wrenched off one of the strings, which she heedlessly left lying on the ground. at this point the man returned without the missing shoe. "it doesn't matter," said his spouse. "lend me your knife." she then proceeded to cut and slash marian's remaining shoe in a most remorseless manner, after which she replaced it on the child's foot, and wrapped around the other foot a piece of dirty rag. "come now," said the woman, having rolled up marian's clothes with the rubbish in her bundle; "we wanted a little girl, and you'll just do." so saying, she took tight hold of the child's hand. "i want my daddy!" cried marian, finding her voice at last. "that's your daddy now," said the woman, pointing to the man: "and i'm your mammy. come along!" and, with the word, she set off at a vigorous pace, dragging the child, and, followed heavily by her husband, through the wood, and across the field, and then out upon the road, away and away, with their backs turned towards marian's home. chapter viii. the shoemaker becomes "golden." one morning, about twelve years after the disappearance of marian, there came to her father a great, and almost overwhelming surprise. it is not necessary to dwell on the manner in which the twelve years had passed. nothing had ever been heard of marian. the most thorough search was made, but without result; and at length, the stricken father was constrained to accept the conviction that his child was indeed gone from him into the great world, and, bowing his head in the presence of his god, he covered his bruised heart with the fair sheet of a dignified self-control, and settled down to his work again, like a man and a christian. yet he did not cease inwardly to grieve. if his child had gone to her dead mother, there would have been strong consolation, and, perhaps, in time, contentment might have come. but she was gone, not to her mother, but out into the cold, pitiless world; and his imagination dwelt grimly on the nameless miseries into which she might fall. miss jemima still kept her brother's house; but she had been greatly softened by her self-accusing grief. and now, as the brother and sister sat at breakfast one autumn morning, came the surprise of which we speak. it came in the form of a letter, which, before opening it, "cobbler" horn regarded, for some moments, with a dubious air. the arrival of a letter at his house was a rare event; and but for the fact that the missive bore his name and address, he would have thought there was a mistake, and, even now, the addition of the sign, "esq." to his name left the matter in some doubt. the stoutness of the blue envelope, and the bold character of the handwriting, gave the packet a business-like look. for a moment, "cobbler" horn thought of his lost child. a slight circumstance was sufficient, even yet, to re-awaken his hopes; and he still clung to the conviction that, some day, his child would return. the letter, however, contained no reference to the great sorrow of his life; and, indeed, its contents were such that he forgot, for the time being, marian, and everything else. he looked up with a gasp of astonishment; and then, turning his attention again to the letter, deliberately read it through, and, when he had finished, calmly handed it to his sister. she read a few words, and broke off with a cry. "thomas!" "yes, jemima, i am a rich man, it seems. read on, and say what you think;" and "cobbler" horn rose from his seat, and went quietly into his workshop. miss jemima devoured her brother's letter with greedy eyes. it was from a firm of london lawyers, and contained a brief announcement that the rich uncle of "cobbler" horn had died, in america, without a will; that "cobbler" horn was the lawful owner of all his wealth; and that they, the lawyers, awaited "cobbler" horn's commands. would he call upon them at their office in london, or should they attend him at his private, or any other, address? in the meantime, he would oblige by drawing upon them for any amount of money he might require. with what breath she had left miss jemima hurried into her brother's workshop. "thomas," she demanded, flourishing the letter in his face, "what are you going to do?" "think," he answered concisely, without looking up from the hob-nailed boot between his knees, "and pray, and get on with my work." "but this letter requires an answer! and," with a glance of disgust around the rough shop with its signs of toil, "you are a rich man now, thomas." "that," was the quiet reply, "does not alter the fact that i have half-a-dozen pairs of boots to mend, and two of them are promised for dinner-time. leave me, now, jemima, and we'll talk the matter over this evening. i don't suppose the gentlemen will be in a hurry." miss jemima withdrew as she was bidden, thinking that there was one gentleman, at least, who was not in a hurry. all day long "cobbler" horn quietly worked on in the usual way. he did this partly because he loved his work and was loath to give it up, partly because he had so much work on hand, and partly that he might think and pray, which he could always do best on his cobbler's stool. he found it difficult to realize what had taken place; but when, at last, he fairly grasped the fact that he was now a rich man, mingled feelings of joy and dread filled his breast. there was little taint of selfishness in "cobbler" horn's joy. it was no gratification to him to be relieved of the necessity to work. nor was he fascinated with the prospect of luxury. his joy arose chiefly from the thought of the amount of good he would now be able to do. it was impossible that he should form anything like an adequate conception of the vast power for good which had been placed in his hands. the boundless ability to benefit his fellowmen with which he had been so suddenly endowed could not be realized in the first moments of his great surprise, yet he perceived faint glimmerings of possibilities of benevolence beyond his largest-hearted dreams. thoughts of his long-lost child stole over him ever and anon. if she had been left to him, he would have rejoiced in his good fortune the more, on her account. but she was gone. the joy of "cobbler" horn was chastened by a solemn dread. a great responsibility had been laid upon him from which he would have infinitely rather been free. he prayed, with trembling, that he might prove worthy of so great a trust. at dinner-time miss jemima questioned her brother as to his intentions. his answers were brief and indefinite. the matter could not be settled in a moment. in the evening they would talk things over, and decide what to do. the evening came, and brother and sister sat before the fire. "jemima," said "cobbler" horn, "i must accept this great responsibility." "you surely did not think of doing anything else?" exclaimed the startled lady. "well--yes--i did. the burden seemed so great that, for a time, i shrank. but the lord has shown me my duty. i could have desired that we might have remained as we were. but there is much consolation in the thought of all the good we shall be able to do; and--well, the will of the lord be done!" miss jemima was astounded. her brother had become rich beyond the dreams of avarice, and he talked of resignation to the will of god! "then you will answer the letter at once?" she said. "yes, to-morrow." "and you will go to london?" "yes, next week, i think." "next week! why not this week? it's only monday." "there is no need to hurry, jemima. there might be some mistake. and it's as well to give the gentlemen time to prepare." "lawyers don't make mistakes," said miss jemima: "and as for preparing, you may be sure they have done that already." but nothing could induce "cobbler" horn to hasten his movements; and his sister was fain to content herself with his promise to write to the lawyers the next day, which he duly fulfilled. chapter ix. a strange client for messrs. tongs and ball. the day on which "cobbler" horn had proposed to the lawyers to pay them his promised visit, was the following monday, at three o'clock in the afternoon, and by return of post there came a letter from the lawyers assenting to the arrangement. during the week which intervened, "cobbler" horn did not permit either himself or his sister to mention to a third person the change his circumstances had undergone. nor did he encourage conversation between his sister and himself on the subject of his suddenly acquired wealth. and neither his manner of life nor the ordering of his house gave any indication of the altered position in which he was placed. he did not permit the astounding news he had received to interfere with the simple regularity of his life. miss jemima might have been inclined to introduce into her domestic arrangements some outward and visible sign of the altered fortunes of the house; but her brother's will prevailed, and all things continued as before. the "golden shoemaker" even continued to work at his trade in the usual way. and all the time he was thinking--thinking and praying; and many generous purposes, which afterwards bore abundant fruit, began to germinate in his mind. at length the momentous day arrived, and "cobbler" horn travelled by an early train to london, and, having dined frugally at a decent eating-house, presented himself in due time at the offices of messrs. tongs and ball. the men of law were both seated in the room into which their new client was shown. one of them was a very little, round, rosy, middle-aged man, with an expression of countenance so cherubic that no one would have suspected him of being a lawyer; and the other was a tall, large-boned, parchment-faced personage, of whom almost any degree of heartlessness might have been believed. the two lawyers rose and bowed as "cobbler" horn was shown in. "mr. horn?" "thomas horn, at your service, gentlemen." "this is mr. tongs," said the tall lawyer with a waive of his hand towards his rotund partner; "and i am mr. ball," he added, drawing himself into an attitude which caused him to look much more like a bat than a ball, and speaking in a surprisingly agreeable tone. upon this there was bowing all around, and then a pause. "pray take a seat, mr. horn," besought mr. ball. "cobbler" horn modestly obeyed. "and now, my dear sir," said mr. ball, when he himself and his partner had also resumed their seats, "let us congratulate you on your good fortune." "thank you, gentlemen," said "cobbler" horn gravely. "but the responsibility is very great. i am only reconciled to it by the thought that i shall now be able to do many things that i have long desired to do." "ah," said mr. ball, "it is one of the gratifications of wealth that a man is able to follow his bent--whether it be travelling, collecting pictures, keeping horses, or what not." "of course," echoed mr. tongs. "no, no, gentlemen," dissented "cobbler" horn, "i was thinking of the good i shall now be able to do. but let us get to business; for i should be sorry to waste your time." both lawyers protested. waste their time! they could not be better employed! "you are very kind, gentlemen." "not at all," was the candid reply. "you have come into a very large fortune, mr. horn," continued mr. ball, as he began to untie a bundle of documents. "you are worth very many thousands; in fact you are almost a millionaire. i think i am right, mr. tongs?" "yes," assented mr. tongs, "oh yes, certainly." "all the documents are here," resumed mr. ball, as he surveyed a sea of blue and white paper which covered the table; "and, with your permission, mr. horn, we will give you an account of their contents." the lawyer then proceeded to give his client a statement of the particulars of the fortune of which he had so unexpectedly become possessed. "we hope, mr. horn," he said, in conclusion, "that you may do us the honour to continue the confidence reposed in us by your late uncle." "i beg your pardon, sir?" said "cobbler" horn. "i ventured to hope that my partner and i might be so fortunate as to retain the management of your affairs. i believe you will find that since--" "oh yes, of course," "cobbler" horn hastened to interpose. he had not dreamt of making any change. the lawyers bowed their thanks. "may we now ask," said mr. ball, "whether you have any special commands?" "i think there are one or two requests i should like to make. i have a sister, and i believe my uncle left another nephew." "a sad scrapegrace, my dear sir," interposed mr. ball, whose keen legal instinct gave him some scent of what was coming next. "cobbler" horn held up his hand. "can you tell me, gentlemen, whether there are any other relatives of my uncle's who are still alive?" "we have every reason to believe that there are not." "very well, then, i wish my uncle's property to be divided into three equal portions. one third i desire to have made over to my sister, and another to be reserved for my cousin. the remaining portion i will retain myself." "but, my dear sir," cried mr. ball, "the whole of the property is legally yours!" "true," was the quiet reply; "but the law cannot make that right which is essentially wrong, and my sister and cousin are as much entitled to my uncle's money as i am myself." mr. ball was dumfounded. "my dear sir," he gasped, "this is very strange!" but "cobbler" horn was firm. "you will find this scapegrace cousin of mine?" he asked. the lawyers said they would do their best; and, when some further arrangements had been made, with regard to the property, "cobbler" horn took his departure, leaving his two legal advisers to assure one another, as they stood together on the hearthrug, that he was the strangest client they had known. chapter x. miss jemima is very much astonished. miss jemima horn was sufficiently curious as to the result of her brother's visit to the lawyers, to render her restlessly eager for his return. he came back the same night. he had work to finish in the cobbling line; and besides he had no fancy for any bed but his own. after supper, the brother and sister sat down before the fire, for the talk to which miss jemima had been looking forward all day long. "well, brother," she queried, "i suppose you've heard all about it?" "yes, in a general way." "and what is the amount?" "i'm almost afraid to say. the gentlemen said little short of a million!" miss jemima threw up her hands with a little jerk of wonder, and gazed at her brother with incredulous surprise. "where is it all?" was her next enquiry. "some in england, and some in america." "it's not all in money, of course?" she asked, in doubtful tones. "no," said her brother, opening his eyes: "it's in all sorts of ways. a great deal of it is in house property. there's one whole village--or nearly so." "a whole village!" "yes, the village of daisy lane. it was the family home at one time, you know." this was true. the village of daisy lane, in a midland county, had been the cradle of the race of horn. "cobbler" horn and his sister, however, had never visited the ancestral village. "well?" queried miss jemima. "well, uncle had a fancy for owning the village; so he bought it up bit by bit." "only to think!" exclaimed miss jemima. "and what else is there?" "well, there's money in all sorts of forms that i understand very little about." "it's simply wonderful!" declared miss jemima. "and then there's the old hall at daisy lane. uncle meant to end his days there; but god has ordered otherwise, you see." "and you will go to live there?" "no," answered her brother, slowly; "i think not, jemima." "but----" "sister, i don't think we should be happy in a grand house--at any rate not all at once. but there's something else i want to talk about." of late years the ascendancy had completely passed from miss jemima to her brother; and now, though she would fain have talked further about the old family mansion, she submissively turned her attention to what her brother was about to say. "it is probable, jemima," he begun, "that there has never been a rich man who had so few relatives to whom to leave his wealth as had our uncle." "yes: father and uncle ira were the only members of uncle jacob's family who ever married; and the brothers and sisters are all dead now. we are almost alone in the world." "except one cousin, you know," said "cobbler" horn. "you mean uncle ira's scapegrace, jack. but no one knows where he is. he may be dead for all we know." somehow miss jemima did not seem to desire that there should be any other relatives of her uncle to the front, just now, but her brother and herself. "if jack is dead," said "cobbler" horn, "there will be no more to say. but if he is alive, he must have his share of uncle's money; and i have left it with the legal gentlemen to find him if they can." "thomas," protested miss jemima, "do you think it would be right to hand over uncle's hard-earned money to that poor wastrel?" "his right to the money, jemima, is as good as ours." "perhaps so; but i feel convinced that uncle would not have wished for any part of his money to go to jack. it would be like flinging it into the sea." "yes; but that cuts both ways, jemima. uncle would never have willed his money to me, any more than to jack. but god has given it to me, and i mean to use it in the way of which i believe he will approve." "and that is not all," he hastily resumed. "i have another relative;" and he directed a look of loving significance towards his sister's face. "do you think that, if i admit the claim of our poor scapegrace cousin to a share of our uncle's money, i shall overlook the right of the dear sister who has been my stay and comfort all these sorrowing years?" "but--but----" began miss jemima, in bewildered tones. "yes, you are to have your share too, jemima." "but, brother i don't desire it. if you have the money, it's all the same as though i had it myself." with all her severity, there was not an atom of selfishness in miss jemima horn. "it's all arranged," was her brother's reply. "i instructed the lawyers to divide the property into three equal portions." miss jemima, supposing that an arrangement with the lawyers was like the laws of the medes and persians, which "altered not," felt compelled to submit; but it was with the understanding that her brother took entire management of her portion of the money, as well as his own. there was little further talk between "cobbler" horn and his sister that evening. their early bed-time had arrived; and "cobbler" horn, having read a chapter in the bible, offered a fervent prayer, in which he asked earnestly that his sister and himself might receive grace to use rightly the great wealth which had been entrusted to their charge. "if we should prove unfaithful, lord," he said, "take it from us as suddenly as thou hast given it." "oh, brother," cried miss jemima, as they were going up to bed, "some letters came for you this morning." "cobbler" horn took the four or five letters, which his sister was holding out to him, with a bewildered air. "are they really for me?" he asked. "small doubt of that," said miss jemima. the opening of letters was, as yet, to "cobbler" horn, a ceremony to be performed with care. he drew a chair to the table, and deliberately took his seat. he took up the first letter, and, having read it slowly through, placed it in miss jemima's eager hand. it was a request, from a "gentleman in distress," for a loan of twenty pounds--a "trifle" to the possessor of so much wealth, but, to the writer "a matter of life or death." "this will never do!" pronounced miss jemima; and the lady's lips emitted a gentle whistling sound. "how soon it seems to have got wind!" exclaimed "cobbler" horn. "it's been in the papers, no doubt." "so it has," he said; "i saw it myself in a newspaper that i bought this evening, to read in the train. it called me the 'golden shoemaker.'" "ah!" cried miss jemima. "i've no doubt it will go the round." the good lady was not greatly averse to such a pleasant publication of the family name. "well," she resumed, "what do the other letters say?" they were all similar to the first. one was from a man who had invented a new boot sewing-machine, and would take out a patent; another purported to came from a widow with six young children, and begged for a little--ever so little--timely help: and the other two were appeals on behalf of religious institutions. "penalty of wealth!" remarked miss jemima, as she took the letters from her brother's hand. "i suppose i must answer them to-morrow," groaned "cobbler" horn. "answer them!" exclaimed miss jemima. "if you take my advice, you'll throw them into the fire. there will be plenty more of the same sort soon. though," she added thoughtfully, "you'll have to read your letters, i suppose; for there'll be some you'll be obliged to answer." "well," said "cobbler" horn quietly, as they turned to the stairs, "we shall see." chapter xi. "cobbler" horn answers his letters, and receives the congratulations of his friends. when, after a somewhat troubled night, "cobbler" horn came down next morning, his attention was arrested by the letters lying, as he had left them, on the table, the night before. "yes," he said, in answer to his thoughts; "i think i'll deal with them straight away." so saying, he drew a chair to the table, and, having found a few sheets of time-stained note paper, together with a penny bottle of ink, and an old crippled pen, he sat down to his unwelcome task. the undertaking proved even more troublesome than he had thought it would be. the pen persisted in sputtering at almost every word; and when, at crucial points, he took special pains to make the writing legible, the too frequent result was an indecipherable blotch of ink. when the valiant scribe had wrestled with his uncongenial task for half an hour or more, his sister came upon the scene. quietly she stepped across the floor. "ah!" she exclaimed, peeping over her brother's shoulder, "so you are answering them already!" "cobbler" horn started, and a huge blot fell from his pen into the midst of his half-finished letter. "i'm afraid i shall not be able to send this, now," he said, with a patient sigh. "no," said miss jemima, laconically, "i'm afraid not. you are writing to the 'widow,' i see; and you are promising her some help. that's very well. but, in nine cases out of ten, what strangers say of themselves requires confirmation--especially if they are beggars; so don't you think that, before sending money to this 'widow,' it would be as well to ask for the name of some reliable person who will vouch for the truth of her statements? you must not forget, what you often say, you know, that you are the steward of your lord's goods." this was an argument which was sure to prevail with "cobbler" horn. "no doubt you are right, jemima," he said; "and, however reluctantly, i must take your advice." "that's right," said miss jemima. "you haven't answered the other letters?" she then asked, with a glance over the table. "no." "well, hadn't you better put them away now, and get to your work? after breakfast you must get a new pen and a fresh bottle of ink. then we'll see what we can do together." in an emergency which demanded the exercise of the practical good sense, of which she had so large a share, miss jemima regained, to some extent, her old ascendency over her brother. he quietly gathered up his letters, and, placing them on the chimney-piece, retired to his workshop. at breakfast-time miss jemima's prognostication began to receive fulfilment in the arrival of the postman with another batch of letters. this time the number had increased to something like a dozen. having received them from the hands of the postman, "cobbler" horn carried them towards his sister with a somewhat comical air of dismay. "so many!" exclaimed she. "your cares are accumulating fast. you will have to engage a secretary. well, we'll look at them by and bye." scarcely was breakfast over than there came a modest knock at the door, which, on being opened by miss jemima, revealed the presence of the elder of the little twin hucksters, who still carried on business across the way. miss jemima drew herself up like a sentry; and little tommy dudgeon, finding himself confronted by this formidable lady, would have beaten a hasty retreat. but it was too late. "i beg your pardon, ma'am," he began humbly; "i came to see your brother." "i don't know," was the lady's lofty reply. "my brother has much business on hand." "no doubt, ma'am; but--but--" at this point "cobbler" horn himself came to the door, and miss jemima retreated into the house. "good morning, tommy," said "cobbler" horn heartily, "step in." "thank you, mr. horn," was the modest reply, "i'm afraid i can't. business presses, you know. but i've just come to congratulate you if i may make so bold. brother would have come too; but he's minding the twins. it's washing day, you see. he'll pay his respects another time." john dudgeon had been married for some years, and amongst the troubles which had varied for him the joys of that blissful state, there had recently come the crowning calamity of twins--an affliction which would seem to have run in the dudgeon family. "we are glad you have inherited this vast wealth, mr. horn," said tommy dudgeon. "we think the arrangement excellent. the ways of providence are indeed wonderful." "cobbler" horn made suitable acknowledgment of the congratulations of his humble little friend. "there is only one thing we regret," resumed the little man; "and that is that your change of fortune will remove you to another sphere." "cobbler" horn smiled. "well, well," he said, "we shall see." whereupon tommy dudgeon, feeling comforted, he scarcely knew why, said "good morning" and ambled back to his shop. about the middle of the morning "cobbler" horn and his sister sat down to deal with the letters. first they glanced at those which had arrived that morning, and then laid them aside for the time, until, in fact, they had dealt with those previously received. first came that of the assumed widow, to which miss jemima induced her brother to write a cautious reply, asking for a reference. to the man who asked for the loan of twenty pounds, miss jemima would have sent no reply at all; but "cobbler" horn insisted that a brief but courteous note should be sent to him, expressing regret that the desired loan could not be furnished. it did not need the persuasion of his sister to induce "cobbler" horn to decline all dealings with the importunate inventor; but it was with great difficulty that she could dissuade him from making substantial promises to the religious institutions from which he had received appeals. "i think i shall consult the minister about such cases," he said. the investigation of the second batch of letters was postponed until the afternoon. during the morning, and at intervals throughout the day, others of "cobbler" horn's neighbours came to offer their congratulations, and were astonished to find him seated on his cobbler's stool, and quietly plying his accustomed task. to their remonstrances he would reply, "you see this work is promised; and if i am rich, i must keep my word. and then the habits of a lifetime are not to be given up in a day. and, to be honest with you, friends, i am in no haste to make the change. i love my work, and would as lief be sitting on this stool as anywhere else in the world." there came some of his poorer customers, who greatly bewailed what they regarded as his inevitable removal from their midst. they could not congratulate him as heartily as they desired. they would rather he had remained the poor, kind-hearted, christian cobbler whom they had always known. many a pair of boots had he mended free of charge for customers who could ill afford to pay; not a few were the small debts of poor but honest debtors which he had forgiven; and not seldom had clandestine gifts of money or food found their way from his hands to one or another of these regretful congratulators. perceiving the grief upon the faces of his friends, "cobbler" horn contrived, by means of various hints, to let them know that he would still be their friend, and to remind them that his enrichment would conduce to their more effectual help at his hands. on one point all his visitors were agreed. great wealth, they said, could not have come to any one by whom it was more thoroughly deserved, or who would put it to a better use. "the lord," affirmed one quaint individual, "knew what he was about this time, anyhow." in the afternoon, "cobbler" horn and his sister set about the task of answering the second batch of letters. they were all, with one exception, of a similar character to those of the first. the exception proved to be a badly-written, ill-spelled, but evidently sincere, homily on the dangers of wealth, and ended with a fierce warning of the dire consequences of disregarding its admonition. it was signed simply--"a friend." "you'll burn that, i should think!" was miss jemima's scornful comment on this ill-judged missive. "no," said "cobbler" horn, putting the letter into his breast pocket; "i shall keep it. it was well meant, and will do me good." by tea-time their task was finished; and "cobbler" horn heaved a sigh of relief as he rose from his seat. but just then the postman knocked at the door, and handed in another and still larger supply of letters, at the sight of which the "golden shoemaker" staggered back aghast. the fame of his fortune had indeed got wind. "ah," exclaimed his sister, who was setting the tea-things, "you'll have to engage a secretary, as i said." chapter xii. "cobbler" horn pays a visit to his landlord. the day following his trip to london "cobbler" horn paid a visit to his landlord. his purpose was to buy the house in which he lived. though he realized that he must now take up his actual abode in a house more suited to his altered circumstances, he wished to retain the possession and use of the one in which he had lived so long. the humble cottage was endeared to him by many ties. here the best part of his life had been passed. here his brief but blissful married life had been spent, and here his precious wife had died. of this house his darling little marian had been the light and joy; and her blithe and loving spirit seemed to haunt it still. these memories, reinforced by a generous purpose on behalf of the poor neighbours whom he had been wont to help, decided him to endeavour to make the house absolutely his own. "cobbler" horn did not tell his sister of his intention with regard to the house. he simply said, after breakfast, that he was going out for an hour; and, though miss jemima looked at him very hard, she allowed him to depart unquestioned. "cobbler" horn's landlord who was reputed to be enormously rich, lived in one of the most completely hidden parts of the town, which was approached by a labyrinth of very narrow and dirty streets. as "cobbler" horn pursued his tortuous way to this secluded abode, he pondered, with some misgiving, the chances that his errand would succeed. he knew his landlord to be a man of stubborn temper and of many whims; and he was by no means confident as to the reception with which his intended proposal would meet. it was characteristic that, as he thought of the difficulties of his enterprise, he prayed earnestly that, if god willed, he might obtain the gratification of his present desire. then, with growing confidence and quickened step, he proceeded on his way, until, at length, he stood before his landlord's house. the house was a low, dingy building of brick, which stood right across the end of a squalid street, and completely blocked the way. over the door was a grimy sign-board, on which could faintly be distinguished the vague yet comprehensive legend: "d. froud, dealer." the paint upon the crazy door was blistered and had peeled off in huge mis-shapen patches; the door-step was almost worn in two; the windows were dim with the dust of many years. the door was opened by a withered crone, who, to his question whether mr. froud was in, answered in an injured tone, "yes, he was in; he always was;" and, as she spoke, she half-pushed the visitor into a room on the left side of the entrance, and vanished from the scene. the room was very dark, and it was some time before "cobbler" horn could observe the nature of his surroundings. but, by degrees, as his eyes became accustomed to the gloom, he perceived that the centre of the apartment was occupied with an old mahogany table, covered with a litter of books and papers. there stood against the wall opposite to the window an ancient and dropsical chest of drawers. facing the door was a fire-place, brown with rust, innocent of fire-irons, and piled up with heterogeneous rubbish. the walls and chimney-piece were utterly devoid of ornaments. the paper on the walls was torn and soiled, and even hung in strips. on the chimney-piece were several empty ink and gum bottles, an old ruler, and a further assortment of similar odds and ends. the only provision for the comfort of visitors consisted of two battered wooden chairs. at first "cobbler" horn thought he was alone; but, the next moment, he heard himself sharply addressed, though not by name. "well, it's not rent day yet. what's your errand?" it was a snarling voice, and came from the corner between the window and fire-place, peering in which direction, "cobbler" horn perceived dimly the figure of the man he had come to see. mr. daniel froud had turned around from a high desk at which he had been writing in the gloom. how he contrived to see in so dark a corner was a mystery which belonged to the wider question as to the penetrating power of vision in general which he was known to possess. the small boys of the neighbourhood declared that he could see in the dark like a cat. he now moved a step nearer to "cobbler" horn, and stood revealed, an elderly, and rather undersized, grizzled, gnarled, and knotted man, dressed in shabby and antiquated clothes. "good morning, mr. froud," said "cobbler" horn, extending his hand, "i've come to see you on a little business." "of course you have," was the angry retort; and taking no notice of his visitor's proffered hand, the man stamped his foot impatiently on the uncarpeted floor. "no one ever comes to see me about anything else but business. and i don't want them to," he added with a grim chuckle. "well, let us get it done. my time is valuable, if yours is not." "my time also is not without value," was the prompt reply. "i want to ask you, mr. froud, if you will sell me the house in which i live." if daniel froud was surprised, he completely concealed the fact. "if i would sell it," was his coarse rejoinder, "you, 'cobbler' horn, would not be able to buy it." "i am well able to buy the house, mr. froud," was the quiet response. daniel froud keenly scrutinized his visitor's face. "i believe you think you are telling the truth," he said. "mending pauper's boots and shoes must be a profitable business, then?" "i have had some money left to me," said "cobbler" horn. the interest of daniel froud was awakened at once. "ah!" he exclaimed, "that is it, is it? but sit down, mr. horn," and the grizzled reprobate pushed towards his visitor, who had hitherto remained standing, one of his rickety and dust-covered chairs. "cobbler" horn looked doubtfully at the proffered seat, and said that he preferred to stand. "if you are willing to sell me the house, mr. froud," he said, "name your price. it is not my intention to waste your time." daniel froud still pondered. it was no longer a question whether he should sell "cobbler" horn the house: he was beginning already to consider how much he should ask for it. "so you really wish to buy the house, mr. horn?" he asked. "such is my desire." "and you think you can pay the price?" "i have little doubt on that point." "well"--with a sudden jerk forward of his forbidding face--"what do you say to £ ?" unsophisticated as he was, "cobbler" horn felt that the proposal was exorbitant. "you are surely joking?" he said. "you think the price too small?" "i consider it much too large." "well, perhaps i was joking, as you said. what do you think of £ ?" "i'm afraid even that is too much. i'll give you £ ." daniel froud hesitated for some minutes, but at last said, "well, i'll take your offer, mr. horn; but it's a dreadful sacrifice." a few minutes sufficed to complete the agreement; and then, in taking his departure, "cobbler" horn administered a word of admonition to his grasping landlord. "don't you know, friend," he said, "that it is a grievous sin to try to sell anything for more than it is worth? and how contemptible it is to be so greedy of money! it does not seem to me that money is to be so eagerly desired, and especially if it does one no more good than yours seems to be doing you. good morning, friend; and god give you repentance." mr. froud had listened open-mouthed to this plain-spoken homily. when he came to himself, he darted forward, and aimed a blow with his fist, which just failed to strike the back of his visitor, who was in the act of leaving the room. confronting him in the doorway was the old crone who kept his house. "was that horn, the shoemaker?" she asked. "yes, woman." "horn as has just come into the fortune?" "well--somewhat." "'somewhat!' it's said to be about a million of money! look here!" and she showed him a begrimed and crumpled scrap of newspaper, containing a full account of "cobbler" horn's fortune. with a cry, daniel froud seized the woman, and shook her till it almost seemed as though the bones rattled in her skin. "you hell-cat! why didn't you tell me that before?" the wretched creature fell back panting against the door on the opposite side of the passage. "daniel froud," she said, when she had sufficiently recovered her breath, "the next time you do that i shall give you notice." with which dreadful threat, she gathered herself together, and hobbled back to her own quarter of the dingy house, leaving mr. froud to bemoan the absurdly easy terms he had made with "the golden shoemaker." "if i had only known!" he moaned; "if i had only known!" that evening "cobbler" horn told his sister what he had done, and why he had done it; and she held up her hands in dismay. "first," she said, "i don't see why you should have bought the house at all; and, secondly, you have paid far more for it than it is worth." chapter xiii. free cobblery. "i suppose you'll be looking out for a tenant for this house, when you've found somewhere for us to go?" queried miss jemima, at breakfast the next morning. "well, no," replied her brother, "i think not." "why," cried miss jemima, "i hope we are not to go on living in this poky little place!" "no, that is not exactly my intention, either," said "cobbler" horn. "we must, i suppose, remove to another house. but i wish this one to remain very much as it is; i shall want to use it sometimes." "want to use it sometimes!" echoed miss jemima, in a mystified tone. "yes; you see i don't feel that i can give up my lifelong employment all at once. so i've been thinking that i'll come to the old workshop, now and then, and do a bit of cobbling just for a change." here he paused, and moved uneasily in his chair. "it wouldn't do to charge anything for my work now, of course," he continued; "so i've made up my mind to do little bits of jobs, now and again, without any pay, for some of the poor people round about, just for the sake of old times, you know." miss jemima's hands went up with their accustomed movement of dismay. "why, that will never do," she cried. "you'll have all the thriftless loons in the town bringing you their boots and shoes to mend." "i must guard against that," was the quiet reply. "well," continued miss jemima, in an aggrieved tone, "i altogether disapprove of your continuing to work as if you were a poor man. but you ought, at least, to make a small charge. otherwise you will be imposed upon all round." finding, however, that she could not move her brother from his purpose, miss jemima relinquished the attempt. "well, thomas," she concluded, "you can never have been intended for this world and its ways. there is probably a vacancy in some quite different one which you ought to have filled." the next few days were largely spent in house hunting; and, after careful investigation, and much discussion, they decided to take, for the present, a pleasantly situated detached villa, which stood on the road leading out past the field where, so many years ago, "cobbler" horn had found his little lost marian's shoe. the nearness of the house to this spot had induced him, in spite of his sister's protest, to prefer it to several otherwise more eligible residences; and he was confirmed in his decision by the fact that the villa was no great distance from the humble dwelling he was so reluctant to leave. they were to have possession at once; and miss jemima was permitted to plunge without delay into the delights of buying furniture, engaging servants, and such like fascinating concerns. during these busy days, "cobbler" horn himself was absorbed in the arrangements for the rehabilitation of his old workshop. he subjected it to a complete renovation, in keeping with its character and use. a new tile floor, a better window, a fresh covering of whitewash on the walls, and a new coat of paint for the wood-work, effected a transformation as agreeable as it was complete. he kept the old stool; but procured a new and modern set of tools, and furnished himself with a stock of the best leather the market could supply. he had no difficulty in letting his poor customers know of his charitable designs, and he soon had as much work as he could do. as his sister had warned him, he had many applications from those who were unworthy of his help. he did not like to turn any of the applicants away; but he did so remorselessly in every instance in which, after careful investigation, the case broke down, his chief regret being that his gratuitous services were rarely sought by those who needed them most. but this is to anticipate. it was in connection with what was regarded as the _quixotic_ undertaking of miss jemima's brother to mend, free of charge, the boots and shoes of his poor neighbours, that he soon became generally known as "cobbler" horn. chapter xiv. "the golden shoemaker" waits upon his minister. "cobbler" horn's correspondence was steadily accumulating. every day brought fresh supplies of letters; and the humble cottage was in danger of being swamped by an epistolary inundation, which was the despair of "cobbler" horn, and a growing vexation to his sister's order-loving soul. for some time "the golden shoemaker" persisted valiantly in his attempt to answer every letter he received. miss jemima's scornful disapproval was of no avail. in vain she declared her conviction that every other letter was an imposture or a hoax, and pointed out that, if people wanted their letters answered, they ought to enclose a stamp. then, for the twentieth time, she repeated her suggestion that a secretary should be engaged. at first her brother waived this proposal aside; but at length it became imperative that help should be sought. "cobbler" horn was like a man who attempts, single-handed, to cut his way through a still-accumulating snow-drift. the man must perish, if help do not come; unless "cobbler" horn secured assistance in dealing with his letters, it was impossible to tell what his fate might be. it was now simply a question by what means the needed help might best be obtained; and both "cobbler" horn and his sister agreed that the wisest thing would be to consult the minister of their church. this, accordingly, "cobbler" horn resolved to do. "cobbler" horn's minister officiated in a sanctuary such as was formerly called a "chapel," but is now, more frequently designated a "church." his name was durnford; and he was a man of strongly-marked individuality--a godly, earnest, shrewd, and somewhat eccentric, minister of the gospel. he was always accessible to his people in their trouble or perplexity, and they came to him without reserve. but surely his advice had never been sought concerning difficulties so peculiar as those which were about to be laid before him by "cobbler" horn! it was about ten o'clock on the monday morning following his visit to the lawyers, that "cobbler" horn sat in mr. durnford's study, waiting for the minister to appear. he had not long to wait. the door opened, and mr. durnford entered. he was a middle-aged man of medium height, with keen yet kindly features, and hair and beard of iron grey. he greeted his visitor with unaffected cordiality. "i've come to ask your advice, sir, under circumstances of some difficulty," said "cobbler" horn, when they were seated facing each other before a cheerful fire. this being a kind of appeal to which he was accustomed, the minister received the announcement calmly enough. "glad to help you, if i can, mr. horn," he said. there was a breeziness about mr. durnford which at once afforded preliminary refreshment to such troubled spirits as sought his counsel. "thank you, sir," said "cobbler" horn, "i'm sure you will. you have heard of the sudden and unexpected----" "to be sure!" broke in the minister, leaping to his feet, and grasping his visitor's hand, "pardon me; i quite forgot. let me congratulate you. of course it's true?" "yes, sir, thank you; it's true--too true, i'm afraid." mr. durnford laughed. "how if i were to commiserate you, then?" he said. "no, sir," said "cobbler" horn gravely, "not that either. it's the lord's will after all; and it's a great joy to me to be able to do so much that i have long wished to do. it's the responsibility that i feel." "very good," replied the minister; "such joy is the purest pleasure wealth can give. but the responsibility of such a position as yours, is, no doubt, as you say, very great." "yes, sir; i feel that i hold all this wealth in trust from god; and i want to be a faithful steward. i am resolved to use my lord's money exactly as i believe he desires that i should--in fact as he himself would use it, if he were in my place." "excellent, mr. horn!" exclaimed the minister; "you have spoken like a christian." "thank you, sir. but there's another thing; it seems so dreadful that one man should have so much money. do you know, sir, i'm almost a millionaire?" he made this announcement in very much the same tone in which he would have informed the minister that he was stricken with some dire disease. "is your trouble so great as that?" asked mr. durnford, in mock dismay. "yes, sir; and it's a very serious matter indeed. it doesn't seem right for me to be so rich, while so many have too little, and not a few nothing at all." "that can soon be rectified," said mr. durnford. "perhaps so, sir; though it may not be so easy as you suppose. but there's another matter that troubles me. i can't think that this great wealth has been all acquired by fair means. indeed i have only too much reason to suspect that it was not. i feel ashamed that some of the money which my uncle made should have become mine. i feel as though a curse were on it." "ah!" exclaimed the minister, with a long-drawn sigh, "such feelings do you credit, mr. horn; but don't you see that god means you to turn that curse into a blessing?" "yes; and yet i am almost inclined to wish my uncle had taken his money with him." "scarcely a charitable wish, from any point of view," said mr. durnford, smiling. "it seems to me that nothing could have been better than the arrangement as it stands." "well, at any rate, i wish it were possible to restore their money to any persons who may have been wronged." "a laudible, but impossible wish, my dear sir; but, though you cannot restore your uncle's wealth to those from whom it may have been wrongfully acquired, you can, in some measure, make atonement for the evil involved in its acquisition, by employing it for the benefit of those in general who suffer and are in need." "yes," assented "cobbler" horn, with emphasis; "if i thought otherwise, every coin of the money that i handled would scorch my fingers to the bone." after this there was a brief silence, and the minister sat back in his chair, with closed eyes, smiling gently. "i beg your pardon," he said, in another moment, starting forward, "i have been thinking of all the good that might be done, if every rich man were like you. but you came to ask my advice?" "yes, sir," replied "cobbler" horn; "and i am keeping you too long." "not at all, my dear sir! your visit has refreshed me greatly. your talk is like a cool breeze on a hot day. it is not often that a millionaire comes to discuss with me the responsibilities of wealth. but let me hear what the peculiar difficulty is of which you spoke." "well, sir, there is a serious inconvenience involved in my new position, with which i am quite unable to grapple." "ah," said the minister, raising his eye-brows, "what is that?" "why it is just the number of letters i receive." "of course!" cried the minister, with twinkling eyes. "the birds of prey will be upon you from every side; and your being a religious man will, by no means, mitigate the evil." "ah, i have no doubt you are right, sir! and it's a sort of compliment to religion, isn't it?" "of course it is," said mr. durnford; "and a very beautiful way of looking at it too." "thank you, sir. well, there are two sides to my difficulty. first i wish to answer every letter i receive; but i cannot possibly do it myself." "no," said the minister. "but surely many of them need not be answered at all." "yes, sir, by your leave. my sister says that many of the letters are probably impostures. but you see i cannot tell certainly which are of that kind. she also points out that very few of them contain stamps for reply. but i tell her that a few stamps, more or less, are of no moment to me now." "i don't know," broke in the minister, "which more to admire--your sister's wisdom or your own goodness." "cobbler" horn deprecatingly waved his hand. "now, sir," he resumed, "jemima advises me to engage a secretary." "obviously," assented the minister, "that is your best course." "i suppose it is, sir; but i am all at sea, and want your help." "and you shall have it," said the minister heartily. "there are scores of young men--and young women too--who would jump at the chance of such a post as that of your secretary would probably be." "thank you, sir; but you said young _women_?" "precisely. young women often accept, and very efficiently fill, such posts." "indeed? i don't know how my sister----" "of course not. but suppose we look for a moment at the other side of your difficulty." "very well, sir; the other trouble is that i find it hard to decide what answers to send to a good many of the letters. they are mostly applications for money; and it's not easy to tell whether they are genuine. then there are a great many appeals on behalf of all sorts of good objects. may i venture to hope, sir, that you will give me your advice in these matters?" "with pleasure!" replied mr. durnford, with sparkling eyes. "thank you, sir; thank you very much indeed," said "cobbler" horn, greatly relieved. "and will it be too much if i ask you to advise me, in due course, as to the best way of making this money of my uncle's do as much good as possible, in a general way?" "by no means," protested mr. durnford, "i am entirely at your service, my dear sir. but now," he added, after a pause, "i've been considering, and i think i can find you a secretary." "ah! who is he, sir?" "it is she, not he." "but, sir!" "yes, i know; but this is an exceptional young lady." "a _young_ lady?" "yes, a capable, well-behaved, christian young lady. i have known her for a good many years, and would recommend her to anybody. i know she is looking out for such a situation as this. she would serve you well--better than any young man, i know--and would be a most agreeable addition to your family circle. besides, by engaging my friend, miss owen, you would be affording help in a case of real need and sterling merit. the girl has no parents, and has been brought up by some kind friends. but they are not rich, and she will have to make her own way. now, look here; suppose the young lady were to run down and see you? she lives in birmingham." "do you really think it would be advisable?" "indeed i do. she'll disarm miss horn at once. it'll be a case of love at first sight." "well, sir, let it be as you say." "then i may write to her without delay?" "if you please, sir." "pray for me, mr. durnford," said "cobbler" horn, as he took his leave. "i will, my friend," was the hearty response. "it's not often," resumed "cobbler" horn, "that a christian man is placed in circumstances of such difficulty as mine." the minister laughed heartily and long. "i really mean it, sir," persisted "cobbler" horn, with a deprecatory smile. "when i think of all that my having this money involves, i almost wish the lord had been pleased to leave me in my contented poverty." "my dear friend," said the minister, "that will not do at all. depend upon it, the joy of using your wealth for the lord, and for his 'little ones,' will far more than make up for the vanished delights of your departed poverty." chapter xv. "cobbler" horn engages a secretary. on his way home from the minister's house, "cobbler" horn was somewhat exercised in his mind as to how he should tell his sister what he had done. he could inform her, without hesitation, that the minister had recommended a secretary; but how should he make known the fact that the commended secretary was a lady? he was not afraid of his sister; but he preferred that she should approve of his doings, and he wished to render his approaching announcement as little distasteful to her as might be. but the difficulty of doing this would be great. it would have been hard to imagine a communication likely to prove more unwelcome to miss jemima than the announcement that her brother contemplated the employment of a lady secretary. nor was the difficulty of the situation relieved by the fact that the lady was young, and possibly attractive. it would have been as easy to impart a delectable flavour to a dose of castor-oil, as to render agreeable to his sister the announcement he must immediately make. long before he reached home, he relinquished all attempt to settle the difficulty which was agitating his mind. he would begin by telling his sister that the minister had recommended a secretary, and then trust to the inspiration of the moment for the rest. miss jemima, encompassed with a comprehensive brown apron, stood at the table peeling the potatoes for dinner. "you've been a long time gone, thomas," she said complacently--for miss jemima was in one of her most amiable moods. "yes; we found many things to talk about." "well, what did he say on the secretary question?" "oh, he has recommended one to me who, he thinks, will do first-rate." "ah! and who is the young man? for of course he is young; all secretaries are." "the person lives in birmingham," was the guarded reply, "and goes by the name of owen." miss jemima felt by instinct that her brother was keeping something back. she shot at him a keen, swift glance, and then resumed the peeling of the potato just then in hand, which operation she effected with such extreme care, that it was a very attenuated strip of peeling which fell curling from her knife into the brown water in the bowl beneath. "what is this young man's other name?" she calmly asked. "well, now, i don't know," said "cobbler" horn, with a shrewd smile. "just like you men!" whipped out miss jemima, pausing in her work; "but i suppose, as the minister recommends him, it will be all right." there was nothing for it now but a straightforward declaration of the dreadful truth. "jemima," said "cobbler" horn, "i mustn't mislead you. it's not a young man at all." miss jemima let fall into the water, with a sudden flop, the potato she was peeling, and faced her brother, knife in hand, with a look of wild astonishment in her eyes. "not a young man!" she almost shrieked, "what then?" her brother's emphasis had been on the word _man_, and not on the word _young_. "well, my dear," he replied, "a young----in fact, a young lady." up went miss jemima's hands. "thomas!" "yes, jemima; such is the minister's suggestion." miss jemima, who had resumed her work, proceeded to dig out the eye of a potato with unwonted prodigality. "mr. durnford," resumed "cobbler" horn, "tells me it is a common thing for young ladies to be secretaries now-a-days; and he very highly recommended this one in particular." miss jemima knew, that if her brother's mind was made up, it would be useless to withstand his will. "when is she coming?" was all she said. "i don't know. mr. durnford promised to write and ask her to come and see us first. you shall talk with her yourself, jemima; and, believe me, if there is any good reason to object to the arrangement, she shall not be engaged." miss jemima permitted herself just one other word. "i am surprised at mr. durnford!" she said; and then the matter dropped. two days later, in prompt response to the minister's letter, miss owen duly arrived. mr. durnford met her at the station, and conducted her to the house of "cobbler" horn. he had sent her, in his letter, all needful information concerning "cobbler" horn, and the circumstances which rendered it necessary for him to engage a secretary. "they reside at present," he said during the walk from the station, "in a small house, but will soon remove to a larger one." "cobbler" horn was busy in his workshop when they arrived; but miss jemima was awaiting them in solitary state, in the front-room. the good lady had meant to be forbidding and severe in her reception of the "forward minx," whom she had settled it in her mind the prospective secretary would prove to be. but the moment her eyes beheld miss owen she was disarmed. the dark-eyed, black-haired, modestly-attired, and even sober-looking girl, who put out her hand with a very simple movement, and spoke, with considerable self-possession truly, but certainly not with an impudent air, bore but scant resemblance to the "brazen hussey" who had haunted miss jemima's mind for the past two days. "cobbler" horn came in from his workshop, and greeted the young girl with an honest heartiness which placed her at her ease at once. with almost a cordial air, miss jemima invited the visitors to sit down. as miss owen glanced a second time around the room, a look of perplexity came into her face. "do you know, miss horn," she said, "your house seems quite familiar to me. i almost feel as if i had been here before. of course i never have. it's just one of those queer feelings everybody has sometimes, as if what you are going through at the time had all taken place before." she spoke out the thought of her mind with a simple impulsiveness which had its own charm. "no doubt," said miss jemima, with a start; but she was deterred from further remark by mr. durnford's rising from his seat. "i think i'll leave you," he said, "and call for miss owen in--say a quarter of an hour. with your permission, mr. horn, she will sleep at our house to-night." "don't go, sir," said "cobbler" horn. "your presence will be a help to us on both sides." it needed no further pursuasion to induce the minister to remain: with his assistance, "cobbler" horn soon came to terms with the young lady; and, as, upon a hint conveyed in the letter she had received from the minister, she had come to cottonborough prepared, if necessary, to remain, it was arranged that she should commence her duties on the following day. "and would it not be as well for her to come to us to-night?" asked "cobbler" horn. "the sooner she begins to get used to us the better. and she can still spend the evening with you, mr. durnford." the minister looked enquiringly at miss owen, "what do you say, my dear?" "i am entirely in your hands, sir, and those of mr. horn." "well," said mr. durnford, "if you really wish it. mr. horn, miss owen shall come to you to-night." and thus it was arranged. chapter xvi. the attack on the correspondence. when "cobbler" horn's secretary awoke next morning, she experienced a return of the feeling of familiarity with her surroundings of which she had been conscious on first entering the house. the little white-washed bedroom, with its simple furniture, seemed like a vision of the past. she had a dreamy impression that she had slept in this little white room many times before. there was, in particular, a startling appearance of familiarity in a certain picture which hung upon the wall, beyond the foot of the bed. it was an old-fashioned coloured print, in a black frame, and represented jacob's dream. for a long time she gazed at the picture. then she gave herself a shake, and sighed, and laughed a low, pathetic little laugh. "what nonsense!" she thought. "as if i could ever have been here before, or set eyes on the picture! though i may have seen one like it somewhere else, to be sure." then she roused herself, and got out of bed. but when, having dressed, she went downstairs, the same sense of familiarity with her surroundings surged over her again. the boxed-up staircase seemed to her a not untrodden way; and when she emerged in the kitchen at its foot, and saw the round deal table spread for breakfast with its humble array, she almost staggered at the familiarity of the scene. "cobbler" horn was in his workshop, and miss jemima had gone into the yard; and, as the young girl gazed around the humble room it seemed, in some strange fashion, to have belonged to her past life. the very tap-tap of "cobbler" horn's hammer, coming cheerily from the workshop behind, awoke weird echoes in her brain, and helped to render her illusion complete. all breakfast-time she felt like one in a dream. she seemed to be drifting into a new life, which was not new but old; and she almost felt as if she had _come home_. she was utterly unable to imagine what might be the explanation of this strange experience. she had not a glimmering of the actual truth. she struggled against the feeling which possessed her, and partly overcame it; but it returned again and again during her stay in the house, though with diminished force. after breakfast, "cobbler" horn invited his secretary to attack the accumulated mass of letters which waited for despatch. "you see, miss owen," he said in half-apology for asking her to begin work so soon, "the pile gets larger every day; and, if we don't do something to reduce it at once, it will get altogether beyond bounds." miss owen turned her sparkling dark eyes upon her employer. "oh, mr. horn," she exclaimed, as she took her seat at the table, "the sooner we get to work the better! i did not come here to play, you know." "cobbler" horn poured an armful of unanswered letters down upon the table, in front of his ardent young secretary. "there's a snow-drift for you, miss owen!" he said. "thank you, sir," was the cheery response, "we must do our best to clear it away." miss owen was already beginning to feel quite at home with "cobbler" horn; and she even ventured at this point, to rally him on the dismay with which he regarded his piles of letters. "don't you think, sir," she asked, with a radiant smile, "that a little sunshine might help us?" "cobbler" horn started, and glanced towards the window. the morning was dull. "yes," he said; "but we can't command----" then he perceived her meaning, and broke off with a smile. "to be sure; you are right, miss owen. it is wrong of me to be wearing such a gloomy face. but you see this kind of thing is all so new and strange to me; and you need not wonder that i am dismayed." "no," replied the secretary, with just the faintest little touch of patronage in her tone; "it's not surprising in your case. but i am not dismayed. answering letters has always been my delight." "that's well," said "cobbler" horn, gravely; "and i think you will have to supply a large share of the 'sunshine' too, miss owen." "i'll try," she replied, simply, with a beaming smile; and she squared her shapely arms, and bent her dusky head, and set to work with a will, while "cobbler" horn, regarding her from the opposite side of the table, was divided between two mysteries, which were, how she could write so fast and well, and what it was which made him feel as if he had known her all his life? most of the letters contained applications for money. some few were from the representatives of well-known philanthropic societies; many others were appeals on behalf of local charities or associations; and no small proportion were the applications of individuals, who either had great need, or were very cunning, or both. the private appeals were of great variety. "cobbler" horn was amazed to find how many people were at the point of despair for want of just the help that he was able to give. it was past belief how large a number of persons he had the opportunity of saving from ruin, and with how small a sum of money, in each case, it might be done. what a manifold disclosure of human misery and despair those letters were, or seemed to be! some of them, doubtless, had been written with breaking hearts, and punctuated with tears; but which? "i had no idea there was so much trouble in the world!" cried "cobbler" horn, in dismay. "perhaps there is not quite so much as your letters seem to imply, sir," suggested the secretary. "you think not?" queried "cobbler" horn. "i feel sure of it," said the young girl, with a knowing shake of her head. "but we must do our best to discriminate. i should throw some of these letters into the fire at once, if i were you, mr. horn." "but they must be answered first!" "must they, sir? every one?" enquired the secretary, arching her dark eye-brows. "why it will cost you a small fortune in stamps, mr. horn!" "but you forget how rich i am, miss owen. and i would rather be cheated a thousand times, than withhold, in a single instance, the help i ought to give." "well, mr. horn, i'm your secretary, and must obey your commands, whether i approve of them or not." she spoke with a merry trill of laughter; and "cobbler" horn, far from being offended, shot back upon her a beaming smile. they took the letters as they came. concerning some of the applications, "cobbler" horn felt quite able to decide himself. appeals from duly-accredited philanthropic institutions received from him a liberal response, and so large were some of the amounts that the young secretary felt constrained to remonstrate. "you forget," he replied, "how much money i've got." "but--excuse me, sir--you seem resolved to give it all away!" "yes, almost," was the calm reply. there was but little difficulty, moreover, in dealing with the applications on behalf of local interests. it was the private appeals which afforded most trouble. every case had to be strenuously debated with miss owen, who maintained that not one of these importunate correspondents ought to be assisted, until "cobbler" horn had satisfied himself that the case was one of actual necessity, and real merit. by dint of great persistency, she succeeded in convincing her employer that many of these private appeals were not worthy of a moment's consideration. to each of the writers of these a polite note of refusal was to be despatched. with regard to the rest, it was decided that an application for references should be made. "i shall have to be your _woman_ of business, mr. horn," said miss owen, "as well as your secretary; and, between us, i think we can manage." she felt that there was a true christian work for her in doing what she could to help this poor embarrassed christian man of wealth. "cobbler" horn was enraptured with his secretary. she seemed to be fitting herself into a vacant place in his life. it appeared the most natural thing in the world that she should be there writing his letters. if his little marian had not gone from him years ago, she might have been his secretary now. he sighed at the thought; and then, as he looked across at the animated face of miss owen, as she bent over her work, and swept the table with her abundant tresses, he was comforted in no small degree. miss jemima's respect for the proprieties, rendered her reluctant to absent herself much from the room where her brother and his engaging young secretary sat together at their interesting work; and she manifested, from time to time, a lively interest in the progress of their task. chapter xvii. a parting gift for "the little twin brethren." the honest joy of "the little twin brethren" at the sudden enrichment of their friend, "cobbler" horn, was dashed with a deep regret. it was excellent that he had been made a wealthy man. as tommy dudgeon expressed it, "providence had not made a mistake this time, anyhow." but, in common with the rest of "cobbler" horn's neighbours, the two worthy little men bitterly deplored the inevitable departure of their friend from their midst. it was "not to be supposed," said tommy again--it was always tommy who said things; to john had been assigned the honour of perpetuating the family name--it was "not to be supposed that a millionaire would live in a small house, in a narrow street, remain at the cobbler's bench, or continue to associate with poor folks like themselves." the little hucksters considered it a matter of course that "cobbler" horn would shortly remove to another and very different abode, and they mourned over the prospect with sincere and bitter grief. the little men had good reason for their sorrow, for to none of all his poor neighbours had "cobbler" horn been a better friend. and their regret in view of his approaching removal was fully reciprocated by "cobbler" horn himself. of all the friends, in the network of streets surrounding his humble abode, whom he had fastened to his heart with the golden hooks of love, there were none whom he held more closely there than the two little tradesmen across the way. his intercourse with them had been one of the chief refreshments of his life; and he knew that he would sadly miss his humble little friends. and now the time had come for the removal, and the evening previous to the departure from the old home, "the golden shoemaker" paid his last visit, in the capacity of neighbour, to the worthy little twins. he had long known that they had a constant struggle to make their way. he had often assisted them as far as his own hitherto humble means would allow; and now, he had resolved that before leaving the neighbourhood, he would make them such a present as would lift them, once for all, out of the quagmire of adversity in which they had floundered so long. at six o'clock, on that autumn evening, it being already dusk, "cobbler" horn opened his front door, and stood for a moment on the step. miss jemima and the young secretary were both out of the way. if miss jemima had known where her brother was going and for what purpose, she would have held up her hands in horror and dismay, and might even, had she been present, have tried to detain him in the house by main force. "cobbler" horn lingered a moment on the door-step, with the instinctive hesitation of one who is about to perform an act of unaccustomed magnitude; but his soul revelled in the thought of what he was going to do. he was about to exercise the gracious privilege of the wealthy christian man; and, as he handled a bundle of crisp bank-notes which he held in the side pocket of his coat, his fingers positively tingled with rapture. the street was very quiet. a milk girl was going from door to door, and the lamplighter was vanishing in the distance. yet "cobbler" horn flitted furtively across the way, as though he were afraid of being seen; and, having glided with the stealth of a burglar through the doorway of the little shop, found himself face to face with tommy dudgeon. the smile of commercial satisfaction, which had been summoned to the face of the little man by the consciousness that some one was coming into the shop, resolved itself into an air of respectful yet genial greeting when he recognised "cobbler" horn. "ah, good evening, mr. horn! you said you would pay us a farewell visit, and we were expecting you. come in, sir." "cobbler" horn followed his humble conductor into the small but cosy living-room behind, which the large number of its occupants caused to appear even smaller than it was. john dudgeon was there, and mrs. john, and several offshoots of the dudgeon tree. mrs. dudgeon was ironing at a table beneath the one small window, in the fading light. she was a staid and dapper matron, with here and there the faintest line of care upon her comely face. a couple of the children were rolling upon the hearthrug in the ruddy glow of the fire, and two or three others were doing their home-lessons by the aid of the same unsteady gleam. the father, swept to one side by the surges of his superabundant family, sat on a chair at the extreme corner of the hearthrug, with both the twins upon his knees. "cobbler" horn was greeted with the cordiality due to an old family friend. even the children clustered around him and clung to his arms and legs. mrs. john, as she was invariably called--possibly on the assumption that tommy dudgeon also would, in due time, take a wife, cleared the children away from the side of the hearth opposite to her husband, and placed a chair for the ever-welcome guest. tommy dudgeon, who had slipped into the shop to adjust the door-bell, so that he might have timely notice of the entrance of a customer, soon returned, and placing a chair for himself between his brother and "cobbler" horn, sat down with his feet amongst the children, and his gaze fixed on the fire. for a time there was no sound in the room but the click of mrs. john's iron, as it travelled swiftly to and fro. even the children were preternaturally quiet. at length tommy spoke, in sepulchral tones, with his eyes still on the fire. "only to think that it's the last time!" "what's the last time, friend?" asked "cobbler" horn, with a start. "why this--that we shall see you sitting there so sociable like, mr. horn." "indeed, i hope not," was the hearty response. "you're not going to get rid of me so easily as that, old friend." "why," exclaimed tommy, "i thought you were going to remove; and i'm sure no one could find fault with it." "yes: but you surely don't suppose i'm going to turn my back on my old neighbours altogether?" "what you say is very kind," replied tommy; "but, mr. horn, we can't expect to see you very often after this." "well, friend, perhaps oftener than you think." then he told them that he had bought the house in which he had lived amongst them, and meant to keep it up, and come there almost every day to mend boots and shoes, without charge for his poor customers. "well, to be sure!" exclaimed tommy dudgeon, while john chuckled exultantly to the twins, and mrs. john moved her iron more vigorously to and fro, and hastily raised her hand to brush away a grateful and admiring tear. meanwhile "cobbler" horn was considering how he might most delicately disclose the special purpose of his visit. "but after all," he said at length, "this is a farewell visit. i'm going away, and, after to-morrow, i shall not be your neighbour any more." for some moments his hand had been once more in his pocket, fingering the bank-notes. he now drew them forth very much in the way in which a man entrapped into a den of robbers might draw a pocket-pistol, and smoothed them out upon his knee. "i thought, old friend," he said, turning to tommy dudgeon, "that perhaps you might be willing to accept a trifling memento of our long acquaintance. and, indeed, you mustn't say no." john dudgeon was too deeply engaged with the twins to note what was said; tommy but dimly perceived the drift of his friend; but upon mrs. john the full truth flashed with the clearness of noon. the next moment the notes were being transferred to the hands of the astonished tommy. john was still absorbed with his couple of babies. mrs. john was ironing more furiously than ever. tommy felt, with his finger and thumb, that there were many of the notes; and he perceived that he and his were being made the recipients of an act of stupendous generosity. tears trickled down his cheeks; his throat and tongue were parched. he tried to thrust the bank-notes back into the hand of his friend. "mr. horn, you must not beggar yourself on our account." "cobbler" laughed. in truth, he was much relieved. it seemed that his humble friend objected to his gift only because he thought it was too large. "'beggar' myself, tommy?" he cried. "i should have to be a very reckless spendthrift indeed to do that. you forget how dreadfully rich i am. why these paltry notes are a mere nothing to such a wealth-encumbered unfortunate as i. but i thought the money would be a help to you. and you must take it, tommy, you must indeed. the lord told me to give it to you; and what shall i say to him, if i allow you to refuse his gift?" and so the generous will of "the golden shoemaker" prevailed; and if he could have heard and seen all that took place by that humble fireside, after he was gone, he would have been assured that at least one small portion of his uncle's wealth had been well-bestowed. chapter xviii. the new house. "cobbler" horn's new house, which was situated, as we have seen, on one of the chief roads leading out of the town, marked almost the verge, in that direction, of the straggling fringe of urban outskirts. beyond it there was only the small cottage in which had lived, and still resided, the woman who had seen marian as she trotted so eagerly away into the great pitiless world. "cobbler" horn had not deliberately set himself to seek a house upon this road. but, when he found there a residence to let which seemed to be almost exactly the kind of dwelling he required, the fact that it was situated in a locality so tenderly associated with the memory of his lost child, in no degree diminished his desire to make it his abode. "it was here that she went by," he said softly to himself, at the close of their visit of inspection, as he stood with miss jemima at the gate; "and it was yonder that she was last seen." what were miss jemima's thoughts, as she followed, with her eyes, the direction of her brother's gaze, may not be known; for an unwonted silence had fallen on her usually ready tongue. it was a good house, with a pleasant lawn in front, and a yard, containing coach-house and stables, behind. the house itself was well-built, commodious, and fitted with all the conveniences of the day. as most of the furniture was new, the removal of the family was not a very elaborate process. in this, as in all other things, "cobbler" horn found that his money secured him the minimum of trouble. he had simply given a few orders--which his sister, it is true, had supplemented with a great many more--; and, when the day of removal came, they found themselves duly installed in a house furnished with a completeness which left nothing to be desired. on their arrival, they were received in the hall by three smiling maids, a coachman, and a boy in buttons. "the golden shoemaker" almost staggered, as the members of his domestic staff paid due homage to their master. he half-turned to his sister, and saw that, she, unlike himself, was not taken by surprise. then he hastily returned the respectful salutations of the beaming group, and passed into the house. it was afternoon when the removal took place, and the remainder of the day was spent in inspecting the premises, and settling down. with the aid of his indefatigable secretary, "cobbler" horn had disposed of his morning's letters before leaving the old house, and, as it happened, the later mails were small that day. miss jemima stepped into her new position as mistress of a large establishment with ease and grace; and, assisted by the young secretary, who was fast gaining the goodwill of her employer's sister, was already giving to the house, by means of a few slight touches here and there, that indescribable air of homeliness which money cannot buy, and no skill of builder or upholsterer can impart. to "cobbler" horn himself that evening was a restless time. he felt himself to be strangely out of place; and he was almost afraid to tread upon the thick soft carpets, or to sit upon the luxurious chairs. and yet he smiled to himself, as he contrasted his own uneasiness with the complacency with which his sister was fitting herself into her place in their new sphere. under the guidance of the coachman, "cobbler" horn inspected the horses and carriages. the coachman, who was the most highly-finished specimen of his kind who could be obtained for money, treated his new master with an oppressive air of respect. "cobbler" horn would have preferred a more familiar bearing on the part of his gorgeously-attired servant; but bounder was obdurate, for he knew his place. his only recognition of the somewhat unusual sociability of his master, was to touch his hat with a more impressive action, and to impart a still deeper note of respect to the tones of his voice. his bearing implied a solemn rebuke. it was as though he said, "if you, sir, don't know your place, i know mine." "the golden shoemaker," having completed his survey of his new abode and its surroundings, realized more fuller than hitherto the change his circumstances had undergone. the old life was now indeed past, and he was fairly launched upon the new. well, by the help of god, he had tried to do his duty in the humble sphere of poverty; and he would attempt the same in the infinitely more difficult position in which he was now placed. entering the house by the back way, he paused and lingered regretfully for a moment at the kitchen door. one of the maids perceived his hesitation, and wondered if master was of the interfering kind. he dispelled her alarm by passing slowly on. after supper, in the dining-room, miss jemima handed the old family bible to her brother, and he took it with a loving grasp. here, at least, was a part of the old life still. "shall i ring for the servants?" asked miss jemima. "by all means," said her brother, with a slight start. miss jemima touched the electric bell, with the air of one who had been in the habit of ringing for servants all her life. in quick response, the door was opened; and the maids, the coachman, and the boy, who had all been well schooled by miss jemima, filed gravely in. the ordeal through which "cobbler" horn had now to pass was very unlike the homely family prayer of the old life. he performed his task, however, with a simplicity and fervour with which the domestics were duly impressed; and when it was over he made them a genial yet dignified little speech, and wished them all a hearty good night. "brother," miss jemima ventured to remark, when the servants were gone, "i am afraid you lean too much to the side of familiarity with the servants." "sister," was the mildly sarcastic response, "you are quite able to adjust the balance." amongst the few things which were transferred from the old house to the new, was a small tin trunk, the conveyance of which miss jemima was at great pains personally to superintend. it contained the tiny wardrobe of the long lost child, which the sorrowing, and still self-accusing, lady had continued to preserve. it is doubtful whether "cobbler" horn was aware of his sister's pathetic hoard; but there were two mementos of his lost darling which he himself preserved. for the custody of papers, deeds, and other valuables, he had placed in the room set apart as his office, a brand new safe. in one of its most secure recesses he deposited, with gentle care, a tiny parcel done up in much soft paper. it contained a mud-soiled print bonnet-string, and a little dust-stained shoe. "they will never be of any more use to her," he had said to himself; "but they may help to find her some day." chapter xix. a talk with the minister about money. "cobbler" horn knew his minister to be a man of strict integrity and sound judgment; and it was with complete confidence that he sought mr. durnford's advice with regard to those of his letters with which his secretary and himself were unable satisfactorily to deal. the morning after the removal to the new house, he hastened to the residence of the minister with a bundle of such letters in his pocket. mr. durnford read the letters carefully through, and gave him in each case suitable advice; and then "cobbler" horn had a question to ask. "will you tell me, sir, why you have not yet asked me for anything towards any of our own church funds?" "well," replied the minister, with a shrewd twinkle in his eye, "you see, mr. horn, i thought i might safely leave the matter to your generosity and good sense." "thank you, sir. well, i am anxious that my own church should have its full share of what i have to give. will you, sir," he added diffidently, "kindly tell me what funds there are, and how much i ought to give to each." as he spoke, he extracted from his pocket, with some difficulty, a bulky cheque-book, and flattened it out on the table with almost reverent fingers; for he had not yet come to regard the possession of a cheque-book as a commonplace circumstance of his life. "that's just like you, mr. horn," said the minister, with glistening eyes. he was a straightforward man, and transparent as glass. he would not manifest false delicacy, or make an insincere demur. "there are plenty of ways for your money, with us, mr. horn," he added. "but what is your wish? shall i make a list of the various funds?" mr. durnford drew his chair to his writing-table, as he spoke, and took up his pen. "if you please, sir," said "cobbler" horn. no sooner said than done; and in a few moments the half-sheet of large manuscript paper which the minister had placed before him was filled from top to bottom with a list of the designations of various religious funds. "thank you, sir," said "cobbler" horn, glancing at the paper. "will you, now, kindly set down in order how much you think i ought to give in each case." with the very slightest hesitation, and in perfect silence, mr. durnford undertook this second task; and, in a few minutes, having jotted down a specific amount opposite to each of the lines in the list, he handed the paper again to "cobbler" horn. mr. durnford's estimate of his visitor's liberality had not erred by excess of modesty; and he was startled when he mentally reckoned up the sum of the various amounts he had set down. but "cobbler" horn's reception of the list startled him still more. "my dear sir," said "the golden shoemaker," with a smile, "i'm afraid you do not realize how very rich i am. this list will not help me much in getting rid of the amount of money of which i shall have to dispose, for the lord, every year. try your hand again." mr. durnford asked pardon for the modesty of his suggestions, and promptly revised the list. "ah, that is better," said "cobbler" horn. "the subscriptions you have set down may stand, as far as the ordinary funds are concerned; but now about the debt fund? what is the amount of the debt?" "two thousand pounds." "well, i will pay off half of it at once; and, when you have raised two-thirds of the rest, let me know." "thank you, sir, indeed!" exclaimed the minister, almost smacking his lips, as he dipped his pen in the ink, and added this munificent promise to the already long list. "it is a mere nothing," said "cobbler" horn. "it is but a trifling instalment of the debt i owe to god on account of this church, and its minister. but you are beginning to find, mr. durnford, that i am rather eccentric in money matters?" "delightfully so!" exclaimed the minister. "well, the right use of money has always been a point with me. even in the days when i had very little money through my hands, i tried to remember that i was the steward of my lord. it was difficult, then, to carry out the idea, because it often seemed as though i could not spare what i really thought i ought to give. my present difficulty is to dispose of even a small part of what i can easily spare." "ah!" exclaimed the minister, in whose face there was an expression of deep interest. "now," resumed "cobbler" horn, "will you, mr. durnford, help me in this matter? will you let me know of any suitable channels for my money of which you may, from time to time, be aware?" "you may depend upon me in that, my dear sir," said the minister, with gusto. "thank you, sir!" exclaimed "the golden shoemaker," as fervently as though his minister had promised to make him acquainted with chances of gaining money, instead of letting him know of opportunities of giving it away. "and now i think of it, mr. durnford, i should like to place in your hands a sum for use at your own discretion. you must meet with many cases of necessity which you would not care to mention to the authorities of the church; and it would be a distinct advantage to you to have a sum of money for use in such instances absolutely at your own command. now i am going to write you a cheque for fifty pounds to be used as you think fit; and when it is done, you shall have more." "mr. horn!" exclaimed the startled minister. "yes, yes, it's all right. all the money i've promised you this morning is a mere trifle to me. and now, with your permission, i'll write the cheques." why "cobbler" horn should not have included the whole amount of his gifts in one cheque it is difficult to say. perhaps he thought that, by writing a separate cheque for the last fifty pounds, he would more effectually ensure mr. durnford's having the absolute disposal of that amount. the writing of the cheques was a work of time. "there, sir," said "cobbler" horn, at last, as he handed the two precious slips of paper across the table, "i hope you will find them all right." "thank you, mr. horn, again and again," said the minister, as he folded up the cheques and placed them in his pocket-book; "they are perfectly right, i am sure." "has it occurred to you," he continued, "that it would be well if you were systematic in your giving?" "yes; and i intend systematically to give away as much as i can." "but have you thought of fixing what proportion of your income you will give? not," added the minister, laughing, "that i am afraid lest you should not give away enough." "oh yes," responded "cobbler" horn, laughing in his turn; "i have decided to give proportionately; and the proportion i mean to give is almost all i've got." "i see you are incorrigible," laughed mr. durnford. "you'll find that i am. but now--" and "cobbler" horn regarded his minister with an expression of modest, friendly interest in his face--"i'm going to write another cheque." "you must be fond of the occupation, mr. horn." "cobbler" horn's enrichment had not, in any degree, caused the cordiality of his relations with his minister to decline. there was nothing in "cobbler" horn to encourage sycophancy; and there was not in mr. durnford a particle of the sycophant. "i believe i don't altogether dislike it, sir," assented "cobbler" horn in response to the minister's last remark. "but," he added, handing to him the cheque he had now finished writing, "will you, my dear sir, accept that for yourself? your stipend is far too small; and i know mrs. durnford's illness in the spring must have been very expensive. don't say no, i beg of you; but take it----as a favour to me." he had risen from his seat, and the next moment, with a hurried "good morning," he was gone, leaving the astonished minister in possession of a cheque for one hundred pounds! chapter xx. "cobbler" horn's village. it was the custom of "cobbler" horn to spend the first hour of every morning, after breakfast, in the office, with his secretary. they would go through the letters which required attention; and, after he had given miss owen specific directions with regard to some of them, he would leave her to use her own discretion with reference to the rest. amongst the former, there were frequently a few which he reserved for the judgment of mr. durnford. it was the duty of the young secretary to scan the letters which came by the later posts; but none of them were to be submitted to "cobbler" horn until the next morning, unless they were of urgent importance. one morning, about a week after the removal to the new house, the office door suddenly opened, and "cobbler" horn emerged into the hall in a state of great excitement, holding an open letter in his hand. "jemima!" he shouted. the only response was a sound of angry voices from the region of the kitchen, amidst which he recognised his sister's familiar tones. surely jemima was not having trouble with the servants! approaching the kitchen door, he pushed it slightly open, and peeped into the room. miss jemima was emphatically laying down the law to the young and comely cook, who stood back against the table, facing her mistress, with the rolling-pin in her hand, and rebellion in every curve of her figure and in every feature of her face. "you are a saucy minx," miss jemima was saying, in her sharpest tones. "'minx' yourself," was the pert reply. "no mistress shan't interfere with me and my work, as you've done this last week. if you was a real lady, you wouldn't do it." "you rude girl, i'll teach you to keep your place." "keep your own," rapped out the girl; "and it 'ull be the better for all parties. as for me, i shan't keep this place, and i give you warning from now, so there!" at this moment, the girl caught sight of her master's face at the door, and flinging herself around to the table, resumed her work. miss jemima, in her great anger, advanced a pace or two, with uplifted hand, towards the broad back of her rebellious cook: "cobbler" horn, observing the position of affairs, spoke in emphatic tones. "jemima, i want you at once." miss jemima started, and then, without a word, followed her brother to the dining-room. "brother," she said, snatching, in her anger, the first word, "that girl has insulted me grossly." "yes, jemima, i heard; but try to forget it for a moment. i have great news for you. this letter is about cousin jack." in a moment miss jemima had forgotten her insubordinate cook. "so the poor creature is found!" she said when she had taken, and read, the letter. "yes, and he proves to be in a condition which will render doubly welcome the good news he will shortly receive." "then you persist in your intention to hand over to him a share of uncle's money?" "to be sure i do!" "well," retorted miss jemima, somewhat acrimoniously, "it's a pity. that portion of the money will be dispersed in a worse manner even than it was gathered." "don't say that, jemima," said her brother gravely. "well," asked miss jemima, dispensing with further protest, "what are you going to do?" "the first thing is to see messrs. tongs and ball. you see they ask me to do so. i can't get away to-day. to-morrow i am to visit our village, you know; and, as it is on the way to london, the best plan will be to go on when i am so far." so it was settled, and miss owen was instructed to write the lawyers, saying that mr. horn would wait upon them on the morning of the third day from that time. the next morning, "cobbler" horn, having invested his young secretary with full powers in regard to his correspondence, during his absence, set off by an early train for daisy lane, en route for london. he had but a vague idea as to the village of which he was the chief proprietor. he was aware, however, that his property there, including the old hall itself, was, to quote mr. ball, "somewhat out of repair"; and he rejoiced in the prospect of the opportunity its dilapidation might present of turning to good account some considerable portion of his immense wealth. it was almost noon when the train stopped at the small station at which he was to alight. he was the only passenger who left the train at that station; and, almost before his feet had touched the platform, he was greeted by a plain, middle-aged man, of medium height and broad of build, whose hair was reddish-brown and his whiskers brownish-red, while his tanned and glowing face bore ample evidence of an out-door life. he had the appearance of a good-natured, intelligent, and trustworthy man. this was john gray, the agent of the property; and "cobbler" horn liked him from the first. "it's only a mile and a half to the village sir," said the man, as they mounted the trap which was waiting outside the station; "and we shall soon run along." the trap was a nondescript and dilapidated vehicle, and the horse was by no means a thoroughbred. but the whole turn-out was faultlessly clean. "it's rather a crazy concern, sir," said mr. gray candidly. "but you needn't be afraid. it will hold together for this time, i think." "cobbler" horn smiled somewhat sadly, as he mounted to his seat. here was probably an instalment of much with which he was destined to meet that day. "wake up, jack!" said mr. gray, shaking the reins. the appearance of the animal indicated that it was necessary for him to take his master's injunction in a literal sense. he awoke with a start, and set off at a walking pace, from which, by dint of much persuasion on the part of his driver, he was induced to pass into a gentle trot. "he never goes any faster than that," said the agent. "ah!" ejaculated "cobbler" horn. "but we must try to get you something better to drive about in than this, mr. gray." "thank you, sir. it will be a good thing." as they slowly progressed along the pleasant country road, the agent gave his new employer sundry particulars concerning the property of which he had become possessed. "nearly all the village belongs to you, sir. there's only the church and vicarage, and one farm-house, with a couple of cottages attached, that are not yours. but you'll find your property in an awful state. i've done what i could to patch it up; but what can you do without money?" "i hope, mr. gray," said the new proprietor, "that we shall soon rectify all that." "of course you will, sir," said the candid agent. "it's very painful," he added, "to hear the complaints the people make." "no doubt. you must take me to see some of my tenants; but you must not tell them who i am." "there's a decent house!" he remarked presently, as they came in sight of a comfortable-looking residence, which stood on their left, at the entrance of the village. "ah, that's the vicarage," replied the agent, "and the church is a little beyond, and along there, on the other side of the road, is the farm-house which does not belong to you." they were now entering the village, the long, straggling street of which soon afforded "the golden shoemaker" evidence enough of his deceased uncle's parsimonious ideas. half-ruined cottages and tumbledown houses were dispersed around; here and there along the main street, were two or three melancholy shops; and in the centre of the village stood a disreputable-looking public-house. "i could wish," said "cobbler" horn, as they passed the last-mentioned building, "that my village did not contain any place of that kind." "there's no reason," responded the agent, with a quiet smile, "why you should have a public-house in the place, if you don't want one." "couldn't we have a public-house without strong drink?" "no doubt we could, sir; but it wouldn't pay." "you mean as a matter of money, of course. but that is nothing to me, and the scheme would pay in other respects. i leave it to you, mr. gray, to get rid of the present occupant of the house as soon as it can be done without injustice, and to convert the establishment into a public-house without the drink--a place which will afford suitable accommodation for travellers, and be a pleasant meeting place, of an evening, for the men and boys of the village." "thank you, sir," said the agent, with huge delight. "have i carte blanche?" "'carte blanche'?" queried "cobbler" horn, with a puzzled air. "let me see; that's----what? ah, i know--a free hand, isn't it?" "yes, sir," replied the agent gravely. "then that's just what i mean." as they drove on, "cobbler" horn observed that most of the gardens attached to the cottages were in good order, and that some of the people had been at great pains to conceal the mouldering walls of their wretched huts with roses, honeysuckle, and various climbing plants. glowing with honest shame, he became restlessly eager to wave his golden wand over this desolate scene. "this is my place, sir," said the agent, as they stopped at the gate of a dingy, double-fronted house. "you'll have a bit of dinner with us in our humble way?" "thank you," said "the golden shoemaker," "i shall be very glad." chapter xxi. in need of repairs. after dinner, "cobbler" horn set out with his agent on a tour of inspection through the village. "we'll take this row first, sir, if you please," said mr. gray. "one of the people has sent for me to call." so saying he led the way towards a row of decrepit cottages which, with their dingy walls and black thatch, looked like a group of fungi, rather than a row of habitations erected by the hand of man. at the crazy door of the first cottage they were confronted by a stout, red-faced woman with bare beefy arms, who, on seeing "cobbler" horn, dropped a curtsey, and suppressed the angry salutation which she had prepared for mr. gray. "a friend of mine, mrs. blobs," said the agent. "glad to see you, sir," said the woman to "cobbler" horn. "will you please to walk in, gentlemen." "just cast your eye up there, mr. gray," she added when they were inside. "it's come through at last." sure enough it had. above their heads was a vast hole in the ceiling, and above that a huge gap in the thatch; and at their feet lay a heap of bricks, mortar, and fragments of rotten wood. "why the chimney has come through!" exclaimed mr. gray. "little doubt of that," said mrs. blobs. "was anybody hurt?" "no, but they might ha' bin. it was this very morning. the master was at his work, and the children away at school; but, if i hadn't just stepped out to have a few words with a neighbour, i might ha' bin just under the very place. isn't it disgraceful, sir," she added, turning to "cobbler" horn, "that human beings should be made to live in such tumbledown places? i believe mr. gray, here, would have put things right long ago; but he's been kept that tight by the old skin-flint what's just died. they do say as now the property have got into better hands; but----" "well, well, mrs. blobs" interposed the agent; "we shall soon see a change now i hope." "yes," assented "cobbler" horn, "we'll have----that is, i'm sure mr. gray will soon make you snug, ma'am." "we must call at every house, sir," said mr. gray, as they passed to the next door. "there isn't one of the lot but wants patching up almost every day." "cheer up, mr. gray," said "the golden shoemaker." "there shall be no more patching after this." in each of the miserable cottages they met with a repetition of their experience in the first. if the reproaches of the living could bring back the dead, old jacob horn should have formed one of the group in those mouldy and rotting cottages, to listen to the reiteration of the shameful story of his criminal neglect. here the windows were bursting from their setting, like the bulging eyes of suffocating men; and here the door-frame was in a state of collapse. in one cottage the ceiling was depositing itself, by frequent instalments, on the floor; and in another the floor itself was rotting away. in every case, mr. gray made bold to promise the speedy rectification of everything that was wrong; and "cobbler" horn confirmed his promises in a manner so authoritative that it would have been a wonder if his discontented tenants had not caught some glimmering of the truth as to who he was. on leaving the cottages, mr. gray took his employer to one of the farm-houses which his property comprised. they found the farmer, a burly, red-faced, ultra-choleric man, excited over some recently-consummated dilapidations on his premises. he conducted his visitors over his house and farm-buildings, grumbling like an ungreased wagon. his abuse of "cobbler" horn's dead uncle was unstinted, and almost every other word was a rumbling oath. mr. gray assured him that all would be put right now in a very short time; and "cobbler" horn said, "yes, he was sure it would." the farmer stared in surprise; but his blunter perception proved less penetrative than the keen insight of the women, and he simply wondered what this rather rough looking stranger could know about it, anyhow. he expressed a hope that it might be as mr. gray said. for himself he hadn't much faith. but, if there wasn't something done soon, the new landlord had better not show himself there, that was all; and the aggrieved farmer clenched his implied threat with the most emphatic oath he was able to produce. their inspection of the remainder of the village revealed, on every side, the same condition of ruin and decay; and it was with a sad and indignant heart that "cobbler" horn at length sat down, in mrs. gray's front parlour, to a late but welcome cup of tea. "to-morrow," he said, "we'll have a look at the old hall." "the golden shoemaker" spent the evening in close consultation with his agent. the state of the property was thoroughly discussed, and mr. gray was invested with full power to renovate and renew. his employer enjoined him to make complete work. he was to exceed, rather than stop short of, what was necessary, and to do even more than the tenants asked. "you will understand, mr. gray," said "cobbler" horn, "that i want all my property in this village to be put into such thorough repair that, as far as the comfort and convenience of my tenants are concerned, nothing shall remain to be desired. so set to work with all your might; and we shall not quarrel about the bill----if you only make it large enough." mr. gray's big heart bounded within him, as he received this generous commission. "and don't forget your own house," added his employer. "i think you had better build yourself a new one while you are about it; and let it be a house fit to live in." mr. gray warmly expressed his thanks, and they proceeded to the consideration of the numberless matters which it was necessary to discuss. in the morning, under the guidance of the agent, "cobbler" horn paid his promised visit to the old hall. it was a venerable elizabethan mansion, and, like everything else in the village that belonged to him, was sadly out of repair. as he entered the ancient pile, and passed from room to room, a purpose with regard to the old hall which already vaguely occupied his mind, took definite shape; and he seemed to hear, in the empty rooms, the glad ring of children's laughter and the patter of children's feet. in memory of his long-lost marian, and for the glory of the divine friend of children, the old hall should be transformed into a home for little ones who were homeless and without a friend. as they drove to the station, a little later, he announced his attention, with regard to the hall, to mr. gray. "i shall leave the business in your hands, mr. gray. you must consult those who understand such things, and visit similar institutions, and turn the old place into the best 'children's home' that can be produced." "very well, sir; but the children?" "that matter i will arrange myself." the agent was getting used to surprises; but the next that came almost took his breath away. "i believe," said "cobbler" horn, at the end of a brief silence, "that your salary, mr. gray, is £ a year?" "yes, sir." "well, i wish to increase the amount. pray consider that you will receive, from this time, at the rate of £ a year." "mr. horn!" cried the startled agent, "such generosity!" "not at all; i mean you to earn it, you know. but let your horse move on, or i shall miss my train. and, by the way, will you oblige me, mr. gray, by procuring for yourself a horse and trap better calculated to serve the interests of my property than this sorry turn-out. get the best equipment which can be obtained for money." the agent, not knowing whether he was touched the more by the kindness of the injunction, or by the delicacy with which it had been expressed, murmured incoherent thanks, and promised speedy compliance with his employer's commands. chapter xxii. "the golden shoemaker" instructs his lawyers. "cobbler" horn reached london early the same evening, and the following morning, at the appointed hour, duly presented himself at the office of messrs. tongs and ball. he was received with enthusiasm by the men of law. long mr. ball was, as usual, the chief speaker; and round mr. tongs yielded meek and monosyllabic assent to all his partner's words. "and how are you by this time, my dear sir?" asked mr. ball, almost affectionately, when they had taken their seats. "cobbler" horn had a vague impression that the lawyer was asking his question on behalf of his partner as well as of himself. "thank you, gentlemen," was his cordial reply. "i am thankful to say i never was better in my life; and i hope i find you the same?" "thank you, my dear sir," answered mr. ball, "speaking for self and partner, i think i may say that we are well." "yes," said mr. tongs. "but," resumed mr. ball, turning to the table, "your time is precious, mr. horn. shall we proceed?" "if you please, gentlemen." "very well," said the lawyer, taking up a bundle of papers; "these are the letters relating to the case of your unfortunate cousin. shall i give you their contents in due order, mr. horn?" "if you please," and "cobbler" horn composed himself to listen, with a grave face. the letters were from the agents of messrs. tongs and ball in new york; and the information they conveyed was to the effect that "cobbler" horn's scapegrace cousin had been traced to a poor lodging-house in that city, where he was slowly dying of consumption. he might last for months, but it was possible he would not linger more than a few weeks. "cobbler" horn listened to the reading of the letters with head down-bent. when it was finished, he looked up. "thank you, gentlemen," he said; "have you done anything?" mr. ball gazed at his client through his spectacles, over the top of the last of the letters, which he still held open in his hand, and there was gentle expostulation in his eye. "our instructions, mr. horn, were to find your cousin." "i see," said "cobbler" horn, with a smile; "and you have done that. well now, gentlemen, will you be kind enough to do something more?" "we will attend to your commands, mr. horn," was the deferential response. "that is our business." "yes," was the emphatic assent of mr. tongs. "the golden shoemaker" was becoming accustomed to the readiness of all with whom he had to do to wait upon his will. "well, gentlemen," he said, "i wish everything to be done to relieve my poor cousin's distress, and even, if possible, to save his life. be good enough to telegraph directions for him to be removed without delay to some place where he will receive the best care that money can procure. if his life cannot be saved, he may at least be kept alive till i can reach his bedside." "your commands shall be obeyed, sir," said mr. ball; "but," he added with much surprise, "is it necessary for you to go to new york yourself?" "that you must leave to me, gentlemen," said "the golden shoemaker" in a tone which put an end to debate. "now, gentlemen," he resumed, "kindly hand me those letters; and let me know how soon, after to-morrow, i can set out." "you don't mean to lose any time, sir," said mr. ball, handing the bundle of letters to his client. in a few moments, the lawyers were able to supply the information that a berth could be secured in a first-class steamer which would leave liverpool for new york in two days' time; and it was arranged that a passage should be booked. "we await your further orders, mr. horn," said mr. ball, rubbing his hands together, as he perceived that his client still retained his seat. "i'm afraid i detain you, gentlemen." "by no means, my dear sir," protested mr. ball. "no," echoed mr. tongs. "i am glad of that," said "cobbler" horn. "i should be sorry to waste your valuable time." more than once a clerk had come to the door to announce that so-and-so or so-and-so, awaited the leisure of his employers; and, in every case, the answer had been, "let them wait." the time of messrs. tongs and ball was indeed valuable, and no portion of it was likely to prove more so than that bestowed on the affairs of "cobbler" horn. both the lawyers smiled amiably. "you could not waste our time, mr. horn," said mr. ball. "no," echoed mr. tongs. "that's very good of you, gentlemen. but at any rate i really have some business of the gravest importance still to discuss with you." "by all means, my dear sir," said mr. ball with gusto, settling himself in an attitude of attention, while mr. tongs also prepared himself to listen. "i wish, gentlemen," announced "the golden shoemaker," "to make my will." "to be sure," said mr. ball. "you see," continued "cobbler" horn, "a journey to america is attended with some risk." "precisely," assented mr. ball. "and a man of your wealth, mr. horn, should not, in any case, postpone the making of his will. it was our intention to speak to you about the matter to-day." "to be sure," said "cobbler" horn. "can it be done at once?" "certainly," responded the lawyer, drawing his chair to the table, and preparing, pen in hand, to receive the instructions of his client. "you have no children, i think, mr. horn?" "cobbler" horn's cheeks blanched, and his lips quivered; but he instantly regained his self-control. "that is my difficulty," he said. "i had a child, but----" "ah!" interrupted mr. ball, "i understand. very sad." "no, sir," said "cobbler" horn sternly, "you do not understand. it is not as you think. but can i make my will in favour of a person who may, or may not, be alive?" mr. ball was in no wise abashed. "do i take you, my dear sir? you----" "the person," interposed "cobbler" horn, "to whom i wish to leave my property is my little daughter, marian, who wandered away twelve years ago, and has never been heard of since. can i do it, gentlemen?" "i think you can, mr. horn," replied mr. ball. "in the absence of any proof of death, your daughter may be considered to be still alive. what do you say, mr. tongs?" "oh yes; to be sure; certainly," exclaimed mr. tongs, who seemed to have been aroused from a reverie, and for whom it was enough that he was required to confirm some dictum of his partner. "thank you, gentlemen. then please to note that i wish my property to pass, at my death, to my daughter, marian horn." "very good, sir," said mr. ball, making a note on a sheet of paper. "but," he added, with an enquiring glance towards his client, "in the event--that is to say, supposing your daughter were not to reappear, mr. horn?" "i am coming to that," was the calm reply. "if my daughter does not come back before my death, i wish everything to go to my sister, jemima horn, on the condition that she gives it up to my daughter when she does return." "ah!" ejaculated mr. ball. "and may i ask, my dear sir?--if miss horn should die, say shortly after your own decease, what then?" "i have thought of that too. would it be in order, to appoint a trustee, to hold the property, in such a case, for my child?" "yes, quite in order. have you the name ready, my dear sir?" "i will give you that of rev. george durnford, of cottonborough." "and, for how long, mr. horn," asked mr. ball, when he had written down mr. durnford's name and address, "must the property be thus held?" "till my daughter comes to claim it." "but, but, my dear sir----" "very well," said "cobbler" horn, breaking in upon the lawyer's incipient protest; "put it like this. say that, in the event of my sister's death, everything is to go into the hands of mr. durnford, to be held by him in trust for my daughter, and to be dealt with according to his own discretion." "that is all on that subject, gentlemen," he added, in a tone of finality; and, having summarily dismissed one matter of business, he as summarily introduced another. "and now," he said, "having made provision for my daughter in the event of my death, i wish also to provide for her in case she should come back during my life. i desire the sum of £ , to be set aside and invested in such a manner, that my daughter may have it--principal and interest--as her own private fortune during my life." mr. ball regarded his singular client with a doubtful look. "is it necessary to do that, my dear sir? with your wealth, you will be able, at any time, to do for your daughter what you please." "yes," said mr. tongs, who seemed to think it time to put in his word. "gentlemen," said "cobbler" horn. "you must let me have my own way. it is my intention to turn my money to the best account, according to my light; and i wish to have the £ , secured to my child, lest, when she comes back, there should be nothing left for her." "well, mr. horn, of course your wishes shall be obeyed," said mr. ball, with a sigh; "but it is not an arrangement which i should advise." with this final protest the subject was dismissed; but, for many days, the £ , to be invested for the missing daughter of his eccentric client remained a burden on the mind of mr. ball. "and now," said "the golden shoemaker," "there is just another thing before i go. i have been to see my village. i found it, as you warned me, in a sadly dilapidated condition; and i have desired mr. gray to make all the necessary repairs. will you, gentlemen, give him all the help you can, and see that he doesn't want for money?" "we shall be delighted, my dear sir, as a matter of course." "thank you: mr. gray will probably apply to you on various points; and i wish you to know that he has my authority for all he does." "very good, sir," said mr. ball, in a respectful tone. "then, while i was at daisy lane, i paid a visit to the old hall." "ah!" exclaimed mr. ball, "a splendid family mansion, mr. horn?" "yes; i have desired mr. gray to have it renovated and furnished." "as a residence for yourself, of course?" "no; i have other designs." then, in the deeply-attentive ears of the two men of law, "the golden shoemaker" recited his plans with regard to the old hall. it would be a mild statement to say that messrs. tongs and ball were taken by surprise; but their client afforded them slight opportunity to interpose even a comment on his scheme. "you must help mr. gray in this matter especially, gentlemen, if you please. do all you can for him. i want it to be the best 'children's home' in the country. don't spare expense. i wish everything to be provided that is good for little children. my friend, mr. durnford will, perhaps, help me to find a 'father and mother' for the 'home;' you, gentlemen, shall assist me in the engagement of skilful nurses and trustworthy servants. in order that we may make the place as nearly perfect as possible, i have requested mr. gray to visit similar institutions in various parts of the country. he will look to you for advice; and i should be obliged, gentlemen, if you would put him on the right track." then he paused, and looked at his lawyers with a glowing face. "it's for the sake," he said, and there was a catch in his voice, "of my little marian, who went from me a wanderer upon the face of the earth." then, having arranged to call in the morning, for the purpose of signing his will, previous to his departure from town, he took his leave. chapter xxiii. memories. the following morning "cobbler" horn called at the office of messrs. tongs and ball at the appointed time. the will was ready, and, having signed it, he said "good day" to the lawyers, and took the next train to cottonborough, where he arrived early in the afternoon. subsequently, at the dinner-table, he answered freely the questions of miss jemima concerning his doings during his absence. nor did he feel the presence of his young secretary to be, in any degree, a restraint. already she was as one of the family, and was almost as much in the confidence of "the golden shoemaker" as was miss jemima herself. "cobbler" horn told of the dilapidated condition in which he had found the village, and of the instructions he had given to the agent. at the recital of the latter, miss jemima held up her hands in dismay, while the eyes of the secretary glistened with unconcealed delight. but the climax was reached when "cobbler" horn spoke of his intentions with regard to the old hall. miss jemima uttered a positive shriek, and shook her head till her straight, stiff side-curls quivered again. "thomas," she cried, "you must be mad! it will cost you thousands of pounds!" "yes, jemima," was the quiet reply; "and surely they could not be better spent! and then there'll still be a few thousands left," he added with a smile. "it's a way of spending the lord's money of which i'm sure he will approve. what do you say, miss owen?" "i think it's just splendid of you, mr. horn!" to do miss jemima justice, her annoyance arose quite as much from the annihilation of her dearly cherished hopes of becoming the mistress of an ideal country mansion, and filling the place of lady magnificent of her brother's village, as from the thought of the gigantic extravagance which his designs with regard to the old hall would involve. but the poor lady was to be yet further astonished. "oh, i forgot to tell you, jemima," said her brother, after a brief pause, and speaking with a whimsical air of apology, "that i am to start for america to-morrow." he spoke as though he were announcing a trip into the next county; and miss jemima could scarcely have shown greater amazement, if he had declared his intention of starting for the moon. the good lady almost bounced from her seat. "thomas!" she had not breath for more than that. in truth the announcement "the golden shoemaker" had made was startling enough. even miss owen looked up in intense surprise; and the servant girl, who was in the act of taking away the meat, was so startled that she almost let it fall into her master's lap. "cobbler" horn alone was unmoved. "you see," he said calmly, "when i considered the sad plight of our poor cousin, i thought it would be best for me to go and see to him myself. there are the letters," he added, taking them from his pocket, and handing them to his sister. "you will see, jemima, that the poor fellow is in sore straits--ill, and destitute in a low lodging-house in new york, miss owen! he will be informed, by now, of his change of fortune, and everything possible is to be done for him. but i feel that i can't leave him to strangers. and then there may be a chance of leading him to the saviour, who can tell? besides, jemima, a journey to america is not so much of an undertaking now-a-days, you know; and i sha'n't be many weeks away." by this time, miss jemima had managed to recover her breath, and, in part, her wits. "but i can't get you ready by to-morrow, thomas!" "my dear jemima, that doesn't matter at all: whether you can get me ready or not, i must go. the lawyers will have taken my passage by this time." "but--but you can never take care of yourself in america, thomas. it's such a large country, and so dreadful; and the americans are such strange people." "never mind, jemima," was the pleasant reply, "messrs. tongs and ball have sent a cablegram to their agent in new york, instructing him to look after me. and, besides, i've made my will." "what?" shouted miss jemima, "made your will?" to miss jemima it seemed a dreadful thing to make one's will. it was a last desperate resort. it was in view of death that people made their wills. it was evident her brother did not expect to get safely back. "yes," repeated "cobbler" horn, with a quiet smile, "i've made my will. but, don't be alarmed, jemima; i sha'n't die any the sooner for that. i did it as a wise precaution, with the approval of the lawyers. even if i had not been going to america, i should have had to make my will sooner or later. cheer up, jemima! our heavenly father bears rule in america, and on the sea, as well as here at home." miss jemima had relapsed into silence. she was beginning to realize the fact that her brother had made his will, which, after all, was not so very strange a thing. but what was the nature of the will? she did not desire to inherit her brother's property herself. she was rich enough already. but she was apprehensive that he might have made some foolish disposition of his money of which she would not be able to approve. to whom, or to what she would have desired him to leave his wealth, she could not, perhaps, have told; but she would not be easy till she knew the contents of his will. and yet she could not question her brother on the subject in the presence of his secretary. the girl might be very well, but must not be allowed to know too much. "if i don't come back, jemima," said "cobbler" horn, as though he had read his sister's thoughts, "you will know what my will contains soon enough. if i do--of which i have little doubt--i will tell you all about it myself." after dinner, "cobbler" horn retired, with his secretary, to the office, for the purpose of dealing with the letters which had accumulated during his absence from home. as they proceeded with their work, miss owen learnt that, while her employer was away in america, she was to have discretionary powers with regard to the whole of the correspondence. with all her self-confidence, the young secretary was rather staggered by this announcement; but she could obtain no release from the firm decree. "you see, i have perfect confidence in you, miss owen," explained "cobbler" horn, simply; "and besides, you know very well that, in most cases, you are better able to decide what to do than i am myself. but, if there are any of the letters that you would rather not deal with till i come back, just let them wait." this matter had been arranged during the first half-hour, in the course of a dropping conversation, carried on in the pauses of their work. they had put in a few words here and there in the crannies and crevices of their business so to speak. in the same manner, "cobbler" horn now proceeded to tell his secretary of his interview with his lawyers, and of the making of his will. "the golden shoemaker" had already become wonderfully attached to his young secretary. she had exercised no arts; she had practised no wiles. she was a sincere, guileless, christian girl. shrewd enough she was, indeed, but utterly incapable of scheming for any manner of selfish or sordid end. with her divine endowment of good looks and her consecrated good nature, she could not fail to captivate; and there is small room for wonder that she had made large inroads upon "cobbler" horn's big heart. the degree to which his engaging young secretary had won the confidence of "cobbler" horn will appear from the fact that he was about to reveal to her, this afternoon, those particulars with regard to his recently-made will the communication of which to his sister he had avowedly postponed. it was not his intention to treat miss jemima with disrespect. he felt that he could freely talk to miss owen; with his sister it would be a matter of greater delicacy to deal. he often fancied that his young secretary was just such as his darling marian would have been; and quite naturally, and very simply, he told her about his will, and even spoke of the money that was to be invested for his lost child. he was quite able now to talk calmly of the great sorrow of his life. the gentle and continued rubbing of the hand of time had allayed its sharper pang. "what do you think of it all, miss owen?" "i think, mr. horn," said the secretary, with the end of her penholder between her ruby lips, and a wistful look in her dark eyes, "that your daughter would be a very fortunate young lady, if she only knew it; and that there are not many fathers like you." "then you think i have done well?" "i think, sir, that you have done better than well." after another spell of work, miss owen looked up again with an eager face. "what was your little marian like, mr. horn?" she asked, in a tender and subdued tone. "well, she was----" but the ardent girl took him up before he could proceed. "would she have grown to be anything like me? i suppose she would be about my age." she was leaning forward now, with her elbows on the table, and her hands supporting her chin. her richly-tinted cheeks glowed with interest; her large, dark eyes shone like two bright stars. the question she had asked could not be to her more than a subject of amiable curiosity; but no doubt the enthusiastic nature of the girl fully accounted for the eagerness with which she had spoken. her sudden enquiry wafted "cobbler" horn back into the past; and there rose before him the vision of a bonny little nut-brown damsel of five summers, with eyes like sloes, and a mass of dusky hair. for an instant he caught his breath. he was startled to see, in the face of his young secretary what he would probably never have detected, if her question had not pointed it out. "well, really, miss owen," he said, simply, "now you speak of it, you are something like what my little marian may have grown to be by this time." "how delicious!" exclaimed miss owen. "cobbler" horn was gazing intently at his young secretary. what vague surmisings, like shadows on a window-blind--were flitting through his brain? what dim rays of hope were struggling to penetrate the gloom? suddenly he started, and shook himself, with a sigh. of course it could only be a fancy. how strange the frequent inability to perceive the significance of circumstances plainly suggestive of the fulfilment of some long-cherished hope! the joy, deferred so long comes, at last, in an hour when we are not aware, only to find us utterly oblivious that it is so near! "well, miss owen," said "cobbler" horn, rising to his feet, "i must be going to my cobbling. if you want me, you will know where to come." "yes, mr. horn." she was aware of his custom of resorting now and then to his old workshop. when he was gone, she paused for a moment, with her penholder once more between her lips. "how nice to think that i am like what that dear little marian would have been! i wonder whether we should have been friends, if she had lived? poor little thing, she's almost sure to be dead! though, perhaps not--who can tell? how queer that mr. horn should have lost a little girl, just as i must have been lost, and about the same time too! as for my being like her--perhaps, after all, that's only a fancy of his. well, at any rate, i must comfort and help him all i can. i can't step into his daughter's place exactly; but god has put it into my power to be to him, in many things, what little marian would have been if he had not lost her; and for christ's sake----" at this point, the young secretary's thoughts became too sacred for prying eyes. very soon she turned to her writing again. half an hour later, the afternoon post arrived, bringing, amongst other letters, one or two which necessitated an immediate interview with "cobbler" horn. to trip up to her bedroom and dress herself for going out was the work of a very few moments; and in a short time she was entering the street where "cobbler" horn and his sister had lived so long, and whence the hapless little marian had so heedlessly set out into the great world, on that bright may morning so many years ago. as miss owen entered the narrow street, she involuntarily raised her hand to her forehead. the weird feeling of familiarity with the old house and its vicinity, of which she had already been conscious more than once, had crept over her again. "how very strange!" she said to herself. "but there can't be anything in it!" as she approached the house, she became aware of the unconcealed scrutiny of a little man who was standing in the doorway of a shop on the other side of the street. it was tommy dudgeon, who had just then come to the door to show a customer out, a civility which he was wont to bestow, if possible, upon every one who came to the shop. lingering for a moment, in the hope of descrying another customer, he saw miss owen coming down the street. tommy knew about "cobbler" horn's secretary; but he had not, as yet, had a fair view of the young lady. he had not even thought much about her, and he did not suspect that it was she who was now coming along the street, until she passed into the old house. but, as he saw her now, with her black hair and dark glowing face, walking along the pavement in her decided way, he felt, as he afterwards said, "quite all-overish like." it was, at first, the vaguest of impressions that he received. then, as he gazed, he began to think that he had seen that figure before--though he continued to assure himself that he had not; and then, as miss owen drew nearer, he concluded that there must be some one of whom she reminded him--some one whom he had known long ago. then, with a flash, came back to him the scene--never to be forgotten--on that long-ago may morning; and tommy dudgeon heaved a sigh, for he had obtained his clue. "what a rude little man!" thought miss owen. "and yet he looks harmless enough. why he must be one of the little twin shopkeepers of whom i have heard mr. horn speak. that will account for his interest in me." the absorption of the young secretary in the duties of her office, during her stay in the old house, no doubt fully accounted for the fact that she had not become more familiar with the appearance of tommy dudgeon. by this time tommy had withdrawn into his shop. but he continued to watch. standing partly concealed behind some of the merchandise displayed in the shop window, he saw miss owen enter "cobbler" horn's former abode, and then waited for her once more to emerge. in ten minutes the young secretary again appeared. pausing on the door-step, she looked this way and that, and then, with emphatic tread, stepped out in the very track of the little twinkling feet which tommy had watched in their last departure on that ill-fated spring morning so long ago. the little man craned his neck to see the better through the window, and then, unable to restrain himself, he hurried to the doorway of the shop once more, and, with enlightened eyes, watched the figure of the girl till it passed out of sight. then he turned, and rushed into the kitchen behind the shop. his brother was trying to put one of the twins to sleep by carrying it to and fro; his brother's wife was making bread. he raised his hands. "she's come back!" he cried. then, recollecting himself, he said, more quietly, "i mean i've seen the sec'tary." chapter xxiv. on the ocean. the evening of the next day saw "the golden shoemaker" steaming out of the mersey, on board the first-rate atlantic liner on which his passage had been taken by messrs. tongs and ball. miss jemima had bidden her brother a reluctant farewell. in her secret soul, she nursed a doubt, of which, indeed, she was half-ashamed, as to the prospect of his safe return; and she endeavoured to fortify her timorous heart by the utterance of sundry sharp speeches concerning the folly of his enterprise. the voyage across the great ocean, in the splendid _floating hotel_ in which he had embarked was a new and delightful experience to "cobbler" horn. but his peace of mind sustained brief disturbance on his being shown to his quarters on board the vessel. his lawyers had, as a matter of course, taken for their wealthy client a first-class passage. it had not occurred to him to give them any instructions on the point, and they had taken it for granted that they were doing what he would desire. perhaps, if they had asked him, he might, in his ignorance of such matters, have said, "oh yes, first-class, by all means." but when he saw the splendid accommodation which his money had procured, he started back, and said to the attendant: "this is much too grand for me. can't i make a change?" the attendant stared in surprise. "'fraid not sir," he said, "every second-class berth is taken." "i don't mind about the money," said "cobbler" horn hastily. "but i should be more comfortable in a plainer cabin," and he looked around uneasily at the luxurious and splendid appointments of the quarters which had been assigned to him, as his home, for the next few days. the attendant, regarding with a critical eye the modest attire and unassuming demeanour of "cobbler" horn, inwardly agreed with what this somewhat eccentric passenger had said. "the only way, sir," said the man, at length, "is to get some one to change with you." "ah, the very thing! how can it be managed?" the attendant mused with hand on chin. "well, sir," he said, gliding into an interrogative tone, "if you really mean it----?" "most certainly i do." "then i think i can arrange it for you, sir. there is one second-class passenger who would probably jump at such a chance. he is an invalid; and it would be a great comfort to him to get into such quarters as these. i've heard a good bit about him since he came on board." "then he's our man," said "cobbler" horn; and then, he added hesitatingly, "there'll be a sovereign for you, if you manage it at once. i'll wait here till you let me know." the attendant sped on his errand, and, before night, the desired exchange had been duly made--"cobbler" horn was established in the comfortable and congenial accommodation afforded by a second-class cabin, and the invalid passenger was blessing his unknown benefactor, as he sank to rest amidst the luxury of his new surroundings. it was late autumn, and the sea, though not stormy, was sufficiently restless to make the commencement of the passage unpleasant for all who were not good sailors. "cobbler" horn was not one of these; and, when, upon the second day out, he observed the deserted appearance of the decks and saloons, and, on making enquiry of an official, learnt that most of the passengers were sick, he realized with a healthy and grateful thrill of pleasure, that he was blessed with immunity from the almost universal tribulation which waylays the landsman who ventures on the treacherous deep. it will, therefore, be readily believed that "the golden shoemaker" keenly enjoyed the whole of the voyage. he breathed the fresh, briny air with much relish; the wonders of the sea furnished him with many instructive and pious thoughts; and the ship itself supplied him with an inexhaustible fund of interest. in particular, he paid frequent visits to the steerage, where large numbers of emigrants were bestowed. he spent many hours amongst these poor people; and, by entering into conversation with such of them as were disposed to talk, he became acquainted with many cases of necessity, which he was not slow to relieve. nor did the gifts of money, which he bestowed with his usual large generosity, constitute the only form of help he gave. in a thousand nameless ways he ministered to the wants and relieved the difficulties of his humble fellow-passengers, who quickly came to look upon him as the good genius of the ship. as a matter of course, the whisper soon went round, "who is he?" and when, in some inscrutable way, the truth leaked out, the poor people regarded him with a kind of awe. some, indeed, criticised, and said he did not look much like a millionaire; but there were many in that motley crowd in whose hearts, during those few brief days on the ocean, "cobbler" horn made for himself a very sacred place. in the course of a day or two, the decks and saloons began to assume a more animated appearance. hitherto "cobbler" horn had not greatly attracted the attention of the passengers with whom he was more immediately associated; but now that they were in a condition to think of something other than their own concerns, their interest in him began to awake. who had not heard of "the golden shoemaker"--"the millionaire cordwainer"--"the lucky son of crispin"--as he had been variously designated in the newspapers of the day? when it became known that so great a celebrity was on board, there was a general desire to make his acquaintance. some vainly asked the captain to give them an introduction; some boldly introduced themselves. "cobbler" horn was courteous to all, in his homely way; but he showed no anxiety to become further acquainted with these obtrusive persons. the simplicity of his manners and the plainness of his dress caused much surprise; and the public interest concerning him sensibly quickened when whispers floated forth of the giving up of his berth to the invalid passenger, and of his charitable doings amongst the poor emigrants. during the voyage, "the golden shoemaker" spent much time in close and prayerful study of his bible, which had ever been, and still was, his dearest, and well nigh his only, book. he was induced to do this not only by his love of the book itself, but also by a definite desire to absorb, and transfuse into his own experience, all those teachings of the word of god which bore upon the new position in which he had been so strangely placed. first of all, he turned to certain notable passages of scripture which shot up before his memory like well-known beacon-lights along a rocky coast. there glared upon him, first of all, the lurid denunciation which opens the fifth chapter of the epistle of james, commencing, "go to now, ye rich men, weep and howl for your miseries that shall come upon you!" "god forbid," he cried, "that my 'gold and silver' should ever become 'cankered!' it would be a terrible thing for their 'rust' to 'witness against me,' and eat my 'flesh as it were fire'; and it would be yet more dreadful for the money which has such power for good to be itself given up to canker and rust!" then he would meditate on the uncompromising declarations of christ--"how hardly shall they that have riches enter into the kingdom of god!" "it is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle, than for a rich man to enter into the kingdom of god." he trembled as he read; but, pondering, he took heart again. though hard, it was not impossible, for a man of wealth to enter into the kingdom of god. "camel!" "eye of a needle!" he did not know exactly what this strange saying meant; but he thought he had heard the minister say that it was intended to show the great difficulty involved in the salvation of a rich man. then he read further, "how hard is it for them that trust in riches to enter into the kingdom of god," and that seemed to make the matter plain. "ah," he thought, "may i be saved from ever trusting in my riches!" he plucked an ear of wholesome admonition from the parable of the sower. "the deceitfulness of riches!" he murmured. "how true!" and he subjected himself to the most vigilant scrutiny, lest he should be beguiled by the unlimited possibilities of self-indulgence which his wealth supplied. he turned frequently to the emphatic declaration of paul to timothy. "they that will be rich," it runs, "fall into temptation and a snare, and into many foolish and hurtful lusts, which drown men in destruction and perdition. for the love of money is the root of all evil: which while some coveted after, they have erred from the faith, and pierced themselves through with many sorrows." "ah!" he would exclaim, "i didn't want to be rich. at the very most agur's prayer would have been mine: 'give me neither poverty nor riches.' but it's quite true that riches bring 'temptations' and are a 'snare,' whether people 'will' be rich or become rich against their will; and i must be on the watch. and then there's that about 'the love of money' being 'the root of all evil!'" as he spoke, he drew a handful of coins from his pocket, and eyed them askance. "queer things to love!" he mused. and then, as he thought of his balance at the bank, his large rent-roll, and his many profitable investments, his face grew very grave. "ah," he sighed, letting copper, silver, and gold, slide jingling back into his pocket, "i think i have an idea how some people get to love their money. lord save _me_." he was very fond of the book of proverbs. its short, sententious sentences were altogether to his mind. "there is that scattereth," he read, "and yet increaseth; and there is that withholdeth more than is meet, but it tendeth to poverty." "i scatter," he said; "but i don't want to increase. lord, spare me the consequences of my scattering! 'withholdeth more than is meet'! lord, by thy grace, that will not i! i have no objection to poverty; but i would not have it come in that way!" "there is that maketh himself rich," he read again, "yet hath nothing; there is that maketh himself poor, yet hath great riches." "ah," he sighed, "to possess such riches, i would gladly make myself poor!" but there was one text in the book of proverbs which "cobbler" horn could never read without a smile. "the poor," it ran "is hated even of his own neighbour; but the rich hath many friends." he thought of his daily shoals of letters, of the numerous visiting cards which had been left at the door of his new abode, and of the obsequious attentions he had begun to receive from the office-bearers and leading members of his church; and he called to mind the eagerness of his fellow-voyagers to make his acquaintance. "ah" he mused shrewdly, "friends, like most good things, are chiefly to be had when you don't need them!" in these sacred studies, the days passed swiftly for "the golden shoemaker." very different were the methods by which the majority of his fellow-passengers endeavoured to beguile the time. amongst the least objectionable of these were concerts, theatricals, billiards, and all kinds of games. much time was spent by the ladies in idle chat, to which the gentlemen added the seductions of cigar and pipe. there were not a few of the passengers, moreover, who resorted to the vicious excitement of betting; and "cobbler" horn marked with amazement and horror the eagerness with which they staked their money on a variety of unutterably trivial questions. the disposition of really large sums of money was made to depend, on whether a certain cloud would obscure the sun or not; whether a large bird, seen as they neared the land, would sweep by on one side of the ship or the other; whether the pilot would prove to be tall or short; and upon a multitude of other matters so utterly unimportant, that "the golden shoemaker" began to think he was voyaging with a company of escaped lunatics. to one gentleman, who proposed to take a bet with him as to the nationality of the next vessel they might happen to meet, he gave a characteristic reply. "thank you," he said gravely, "i am not anxious on that subject; and, if i were, i should wait for the appearance of the vessel itself. besides, i cannot think it right to risk my money in the way you propose. i dare not throw away upon a mere frivolity what god has given me to use for the good of my fellows. and then, if we were to bet, as you suggest, the one who happened to win would be receiving what he had no moral right to possess. i don't----" thus far the would-be better had listened patiently. but it was a bet he wanted, and not a sermon. "i beg your pardon," he therefore said, at this point, "i see i have made a mistake;" and with a polite bow, he moved hastily away. one fine evening, towards the end of the voyage, as "cobbler" horn was taking the air on deck, he was accosted by the attendant who had arranged the transfer of his berth from first to second-class. "the gentleman, sir," he said, touching his cap, "who took your cabin----he----" "yes," interrupted "cobbler" horn; "how is he? better, i hope." "much better, sir; and he thought, perhaps you would see him." "do you know what he wants?" asked "cobbler" horn, in a hesitating tone. "well, sir," replied the man, "he didn't exactly say; but i rather suspect it's a little matter of thanks. and, begging your pardon, sir, it's very natural." "cobbler" horn was not offended at the man's freedom of address, as another in his place might have been. "if that is all, then," he said, "i think he must excuse me. i deserve no thanks. i consulted my own inclination, as much as his comfort. i am glad he is better. tell him he is heartily welcome, and ask him if there is anything more i can do." the next morning, as "cobbler" horn stood talking, for a minute or so, to the captain, the obsequious attendant once more appeared. touching his cap with double emphasis, in honour of the captain, he handed a letter to "cobbler" horn. "from the gentleman in your cabin, sir. no answer, sir----i was told to say," and, once more touching his cap, the polite functionary marched sedately away. [illustration: "'from the gentleman in your cabin, sir.'"--_page ._] "i must leave you to read your letter, mr. horn," said the captain; and, with the word, he withdrew to attend to his duties in another part of the ship. "cobbler" horn's letter was brief, and ran as follows: "dear sir, "though i may not in person express my gratitude for your great kindness, i have that to tell which you ought to know. poverty, sickness, loss of dear ones, perfidy of professed friends, and ills of all imaginable kinds, have fallen to my lot. i am an american. i have a young wife, and a dear little girl in new york. i have been to europe upon what has turned out a most disastrous business trip. i came on board this vessel a battered, broken man, not knowing, and scarcely caring, whether i should live to reach the other side. faith in christianity, in religion, in god himself, i had utterly renounced. but i want to tell you that all that is changed. i now wish, and hope, to live; my health is vastly improved; and--will you let me say it without offence?--i find myself able once more to believe in god, and in such religion as yours. i will not again ask you to see me; but if, after reading this letter, you should feel inclined to pay me a visit, i need not tell you how delighted i should be. "i am, "dear sir, "yours gratefully, "thaddeus p. waldron." "cobbler" horn read this gratifying letter over and over again, with a secret joy. but it was not till the next day that he could bring himself to comply with the invitation of its closing sentence, and pay a visit to the writer. he found the young man, who was far on his way to recovery, full of thankfulness to him and of gratitude to god. it seemed that, previous to the accumulation of troubles beneath which his faith had given away, the young fellow had been a zealous christian. "cobbler" horn found him sincerely penitent; and, during this, and succeeding interviews, he had the joy of leading him back to the saviour. chapter xxv. cousin jack. as "cobbler" horn was leaving the vessel at new york, he witnessed the meeting of thaddeus p. waldron and his wife. mrs. waldron had come on board the steamer. she was a wholesome, glowing little woman, encumbered with no inconvenient quantity of reserve. she flung her arms impulsively around her husband's neck, and kissed him with a smack like the report of a pistol. "why, thad," she cried, "do tell! you've completely taken me in! i expected a scarecrow. what for did you frighten me with that letter i got last week? it might have been my death!" then, with a little trill of a laugh, the happy woman hugged once more the equally delighted "thad," and gave him another resounding kiss. by this time the attention of those who were passing to and fro around them began to be attracted; and, amongst the rest, "cobbler" horn, who was held for a few moments in the crowd, was watching them with deep interest. "hold hard, little woman," exclaimed thaddeus, "or i guess i sha'n't have breath left to tell you my news! and," he added, "it's better even than you think." "oh, thad, do tell!" she cried, still regarding her husband with admiring eyes. "well, my health has been fixed up by the sea air, and the comfort and attention i've had during the voyage, which is all through the goodness of one man. i calculate that man 'ull have to show up before we leave this vessel. he wasn't out of sight five minutes ago." as he spoke, he looked round, and saw the figure of "cobbler" horn, who, evidently in dread of a demonstration on the part of his grateful friend, was modestly moving away amongst the crowd. one stride of thaddeus p. waldron's long legs, and he had his benefactor by the arm. "here, stranger--no, darn it all, you aren't a stranger, no how you fix it--this way sir, if _you_ please." "now, little woman," he exclaimed, triumphantly dragging his reluctant captive towards his wife, "this is the man you have to thank--this man and god! he gave up----" "oh," interrupted "cobbler" horn, "you mustn't allow him to thank me for that, ma-am. i did it quite as much for my own sake." "hear him!" exclaimed thaddeus, with incredulous admiration. "anyhow he made me think, little wife, that there was some genuine religion in the world after all. and that helped me to get better too. and the long and short of it is, i've been made a new man of, inside and out; and we're going to have some real good times! and now, old girl, you've just got to give the man whose done it all a hug and a buss, and then we'll come along." "cobbler" horn started back in dismay. but mrs. thaddeus was thoroughly of her husband's mind. what he had been, as she knew from his letters, and what she found him now, passed through her mind in a flash. she was modest enough, but not squeamish; and the honest face of "cobbler" horn was one which no woman, under the circumstances, need have hesitated to kiss. so, in a moment, to the amusement of the crowd, to the huge delight of the grateful thaddeus, and to the confusion of "the golden shoemaker" himself, the thing was done. the next minute, the happy and grateful couple were gone, and "cobbler" horn had scarcely time to recover his composure before he found himself greeted by the agent of messrs. tongs and ball, who, having been furnished by those gentlemen with a particular description of the personal appearance of their eccentric client, had experienced but little difficulty in singling him out. from this gentleman "cobbler" horn learnt that his ill-fated cousin had been removed from the wretched lodgings where he was found to the best private hospital in new york, where he was receiving every possible care. the agent had also engaged apartments for "cobbler" horn himself in a first-class hotel in the neighbourhood of the hospital. it was a great relief to "cobbler" horn that his conductor had undertaken the care of his luggage, and the management of everything connected with his debarkation. he was realizing more and more the immense advantages conferred by wealth. on being shown into the splendid apartments which had been engaged for him in the hotel, he shrank back as he had done from the first-class accommodation assigned to him on board the steam-boat. but this time he was obliged to submit. wealth has its penalties, as well as its advantages. it was early in the forenoon when the vessel arrived; and, when "the golden shoemaker" was duly installed in his luxurious quarters at the hotel, the agent left him, having first promised to come back at three o'clock, and conduct him to the bedside of his cousin. at the appointed time the agent returned. "cobbler" horn was eager to be going, and they at once set out. a few minutes brought them to the hospital where his cousin lay. they were immediately shown in, and "cobbler" horn found himself entering a bright and airy chamber, where he presently stood beside his cousin's bed. the sick man had been apprised of the approaching visit of his generous relative from over the water, and he regarded "cobbler" horn now with a kind of dull wonder in his hollow eyes. at the same time he held out a hand which was wasted almost to transparency. "cobbler" horn took the thin fingers in his strong grasp; and, as he looked, with a great pity, on the sunken cheeks, the protruding mouth, the dark gleaming eyes, and the contracted forehead with its setting of black damp hair, he thought that, if ever he had seen the stamp of death upon a human face, he saw it now. "well, cousin jack," he said sadly, "it grieves me that our first meeting should be like this." cousin jack, struggling with strong emotion, regarded his visitor with a fixed look. his mouth worked convulsively, and it was some moments before he could speak. at length he found utterance, in hollow tones, and with laboured breath. "have you--come all this way--across the water--on purpose to see me?" "yes," replied "cobbler" horn, simply, "of course i have. i wanted you to know that you are to have your honest share of our poor uncle's money. and because i was determined to make sure that everything was done for you that could be done, and because i wished to do some little for you myself, i did not send, but came." "uncle's money! ah, yes, they told me about it. well, you might have kept it all; and it's very good of you--very. but money won't be much use to me very long. it's your coming that i take so kindly. you see, i hadn't a friend; and it seemed so dreadful to die like that. oh, it was good of you to come!" in his wonder at the loving solicitude which had brought his cousin across the water to his dying bed, he almost seemed to undervalue the act of rare unselfishness by which so much money had been relinquished which might have been kept without fear of reproach. "cobbler" horn was not hurt by the seeming insensibility of his poor cousin to the great sacrifice he had made on his behalf. he did not desire, nor did he think that he deserved, any credit for what he had done. he had simply done his duty, as a matter of course. but he was much gratified that his poor cousin was so grateful for his coming. he sat down, with shining eyes, by the bedside, and took the wasted hand in his once more. "cousin," he asked, "have they cared for you in every way?" "yes, cousin, they have done what they could, thanks to your goodness!" "not at all. your own money will pay the bill, you know." for a moment cousin jack was perplexed. his own money? he had not a cent. in the world! he had actually forgotten that his cousin had made him rich. "my own money?" "yes; the third part of what uncle left you know." a slight flush mantled the hollow cheeks. "oh yes; what a dunce i am! i'm afraid i'm very ungrateful. but you see i seem to have done with such things. and yet the money is going to be of some use to me after all." "yes, that it is! it shall bring you comfort, ease, and, if possible, health and life." the sick man shook his head. "no," he said, wistfully; "a little of the first two, perhaps, but none of the last. i know i can't live many weeks; and it's no use deceiving myself with false hopes." as "cobbler" horn looked at his cousin, he knew that he was not mistaken in his forecast. "cobbler" horn did not remain long with his sick cousin at this time. "there is one thing i should like," he said gravely, as he rose from his seat. "there is not much that i can deny you," replied jack; "what is it?" he spoke without much show of interest. "i should like to pray with you before i go." cousin jack started, and again his pale face flushed. "certainly," he said, "if you wish it; but it will be of no use. nothing is of any use now." "the golden shoemaker" knelt down beside the bed, and prayed for his dying cousin, in his own simple, fervent way. then, with a promise to come again on the following day, he passed out of the room. the prayer had been brief, and poor jack had listened to it with heedless resignation; but it had struck a chord in his bruised heart which continued to vibrate long after his visitor was gone. the next day "cobbler" horn found his cousin in a more serious mood. the poor young man told him something of his sad history; and "cobbler" horn spoke many earnest and faithful words. it became increasingly evident to "cobbler" horn, day by day, that life was ebbing fast within his cousin's shattered frame; and he grew ever more anxious to bring the poor young fellow to the saviour. but somehow the work seemed to drag. jack would express a desire for salvation; and yet, somehow he seemed to be holding back. the hindrance was revealed, one day, by a stray question asked by "cobbler" horn. "how about your will, jack?" jack stared blankly. "my will? why should i make a will?" "because you have some money to leave." "ah! whose will it be, if i die without a will?" "mine, i suppose," said "cobbler" horn reluctantly, after a moment's thought. "well, then, let it be; nothing could be better." "but is there no one to whom you would like to leave your money?" jack looked fixedly at the already beloved face of his cousin. then his own face worked convulsively, and he covered it with his wasted fingers. "yes, yes," he said, in tones of distress; "there is some one. that is---- you are sure the money is really my own?" he seemed all eagerness now to possess his share of the money. "to be sure it is," responded "cobbler" horn. "that is quite settled." "well, then, there is a poor girl who would have given her life for mine; but i have behaved to her like a brute. she shall have every penny of it." "cobbler" horn listened with intense interest, and at once gave expression to a burning apprehension which had instantly pierced his mind. "behaved like a brute!" he exclaimed. "not in the worst way of all, i hope, jack?" "no, no, not that!" cried jack, in horror. "thank god! but now, do you know where this poor girl is to be found?" "i think so. her name is bertha norman, and her parents live in a village only a few miles from here. when i gave her up, i believe she left her situation, here in the city, and went home with a broken heart." "well, jack, your decision will meet with the approval of god. but, in the meantime, we must try to find this poor girl." "if you only would!" "of course. but, with regard to the other matter--you would like to have the thing done at once?" "the thing?" "the will." "oh yes; it would be better so." "then we'll arrange, if possible, for this afternoon. perhaps you know a lawyer?" "no. amongst all my follies, i have kept out of the hands of the lawyers. but there is the gentleman who rescued me from that den, where i should have been dead by now. perhaps he would do?" "ah, the agent of my lawyers in london! well, i'll see him at once." so the thing was done. that afternoon the lawyer came to receive instructions, and the next morning the will was presented and duly signed. when the lawyer was gone, jack turned feebly to "cobbler" horn. "there's just one thing more," he said. "i must see her, and tell her about it myself." "would she come" asked "cobbler" horn. "and do you think it would be well?" "'come'? she would come, if i were dying at north pole. and there will be no peace for me, till i have heard from her own lips that she has forgiven me." "ah!" ejaculated "cobbler" horn. "do you say so?" "yes, cousin; i feel that it's no use to ask pardon of god, till bertha has forgiven me. you know what i mean." "yes," said "cobbler" horn gently; "i know what you mean, and i'll do what i can." "thank you!" said jack, fervently. "but it mustn't be by letter. you must go and see her yourself, if you will; and i don't think you will refuse." "cobbler" horn shrank, at first, from so delicate and difficult a mission, for which he pronounced himself utterly unfit. but the pathetic appeal of the dark, hollow eyes, which gleamed upon him from the pillow, ultimately prevailed. "tell her," said jack, as "cobbler" horn wished him good night, "that i dare not ask pardon of god, till i have her forgiveness from her own lips." in a village almost english in its rural loveliness "cobbler" horn found himself, the next morning, face to face, in the little front-room of a humble cottage, with a pale, sorrowful maiden, on whose pensively-beautiful face hope and fear mingled their lights and shadows while he delivered his tender message. "would she go with him?" "go?" she exclaimed, with trembling eagerness, "of course i will! but how good it is of you, sir--a stranger, to come like this!" so bertha norman came back with "cobbler" horn to the private hospital in new york. he put her into her cousin's room, closed the door, and then quietly came downstairs. bertha did not notice that her conductor had withdrawn. she flew to the bedside. the dying man put out a trembling hand. "forgive----" he began in broken tones. but she stifled his words with gentle kisses, and, sitting down by the bed, clasped his poor thin hand. "ask god to forgive you, dear jack. i've never stopped loving you a bit!" "yes, i will ask god that," he said. "i can now. but i want to tell you something first, bertha. i am a rich man." then he told her the wonderful story. "ah!" she exclaimed, "that was your friend who brought me here. i felt that he was good." "he is," said jack. "and now bertha, it's all yours. i've made my will, and the money is to come to you when i'm gone. you know i'm going, bertha?" she tightened the grasp of her hand on his with a convulsive movement, but did not speak. "it 'ull be your very own, bertha," he said. "yes, thank you, dear jack. but forgive me, if i don't think much about that just now." then there was a brief silence, which was presently broken by jack. "you won't leave me, yet, bertha? you'll stay with me a little while?" "jack i shall never leave you any more!" and there was a world of love in her gentle eyes. "thank god!" murmured the dying man. "till----till----you mean?" "yes; but, jack, you must come back to god!" "yes, i will. but call cousin thomas in." she found "the golden shoemaker" in a small sitting-room downstairs; and, having brought him up to the sick-chamber, stood before him in the middle of the room, and, taking his big hand, gently lifted it, with both her tiny white ones, to her lips. "in the presence of my dear jack," she said, "i thank you. but, dear friend, i think you should take the money back when he is gone." "my dear young lady," protested "cobbler" horn, with uplifted hand, "how can i take it, seeing it is not mine? but," he added softly, "we will not speak of it now." true to her promise, bertha did not leave her beloved jack until the end; and the regular attendants, supplied by the house, so far from regarding her presence as an intrusion, were easily induced to look upon her as one of themselves. "cobbler" horn was rarely absent during the day-time; and, in the brief remaining space of poor jack's chequered life, his gentle lover, and his high-souled cousin, had the great joy of leading him to entertain a genuine trust in the saviour. the end came so suddenly, that they had no time for parting words; but they had good hope, as they reverently closed his eyes. when all was over, and he had been laid to rest in the cemetery, "cobbler" horn took bertha back to her village home, and then set his face once more towards england, bearing in his heart a chastened memory, and the image of a sweet, pensive face. chapter xxvi. home again. it was with feelings of deep gratitude to god that "cobbler" horn set foot once more upon his native land. after having been away no longer than four weeks, he landed at liverpool on a bright winter's morning, and, taking an early train, reached cottonborough about mid-day. he had telegraphed the time of his arrival, and bounder, the coachman, was at the station to meet him with the dog-cart. he had sent his message for the purpose of preparing his sister for his arrival; for he knew she preferred not to be taken unawares by such events. if he had given the matter a thought, he would have told them not to send to meet him at the station. he would much rather have walked, than ridden, a distance so short. and then he shrank, at all times, from the idea of making a public parade of his newly-acquired state. and, if all the truth must be told, he was--not awed, but mildly irritated, by the imposing presence, and reproachful civility, of the ideal bounder. here was bounder now, with his dignified salute. "cobbler" horn yearned to give the man a hearty shake of the hand, and ask him sociably how he had been getting on. this was obviously out of the question; but, just then, little tommy dudgeon happened to come up, on his way into the station. here was an opportunity not to be let slip, and "cobbler" horn seized with avidity on his humble little friend, and gave him the hearty hand-shake which he would fain have bestowed upon the high and mighty bounder. it was a means of grace to "the golden shoemaker" once more to clasp the hand of a compatriot and a friend. he stood talking to tommy for a few minutes, while bounder waited in his seat with an expression of very slightly veiled scorn on his majestic face. at length, quite oblivious of the contemptuous disapproval of his coachman, and greatly refreshed in spirit, "cobbler" horn bade his little friend "good day," and mounted to his seat. they drove off in silence. "cobbler" horn scarcely knew whether his exacting coachman would think it proper for his master to enter into conversation with him; and the coachman, on his part, would not be guilty of such a breach of decorum as to speak to his master when his master had not first spoken to him. miss jemima was standing in the doorway to receive her brother; and behind her, with a radiant face, modestly waited the young secretary. miss jemima presented her cheek, as though for the performance of a surgical operation, and "cobbler" horn kissed it with a hearty smack. at the same time he grasped her hand. "well, jemima," he exclaimed, "i'm back again safe and sound, you see!" "yes," was the solemn response, "i'm thankful to see you, brother,--and relieved." "cobbler" horn laughed heartily, and kissed her on the other cheek. "thankful enough, jemima, let us be. but 'relieved'! well, i had no fear. you see, my dear sister, the whole round world lies in the hand of god. and, then, i didn't understand the way the lord has been dealing with me of late to mean that he was going to allow me to be cut off quite so soon as that." this was said cheerily, and not at all in a preaching tone; and having said it, "cobbler" horn turned, with genuine pleasure, to exchange a genial greeting with his young secretary, who had remained sedately in the background. "dinner is almost ready," said miss jemima, as they entered the house; "so you must not spend long in your room." "i promise you," said her brother, from the stairs, "that i shall be at the table almost as soon as the dinner itself." during dinner, "cobbler" horn talked much about his voyage to and fro, and his impressions of america. he had sent, by letter, during his absence, a regular report, from time to time, of the progress of the sorrowful business which had taken him across the sea; and with regard to that neither he nor his sister was now inclined to speak at large. after dinner, "cobbler" horn, somewhat to his sister's mortification, retired to the office, for the purpose of receiving, from his secretary, a report of the correspondence which had passed through her hands during his absence. let it not be supposed that miss jemima was capable of entertaining suspicion with regard to her brother. she would frown upon his doings and disapprove of his opinions, with complete unreserve; but she would not admit concerning him a shadow of mistrust. when, therefore, it is recorded that his frequent and close intercourse with his young secretary occasioned his sister uneasiness of mind, it must not be supposed that any evil imagining intruded upon her thoughts. miss jemima was simply fearful lest this young girl should, perhaps inadvertently, steal into the place in her brother's heart which belonged to her. as "cobbler" horn and his secretary sat in counsel, from time to time, in their respective arm-chairs, at the opposite ends of the office table, neither of them had any suspicion of miss jemima's jealous fears. miss owen had dealt diligently, and with much shrewdness, with the ever-inflowing tide of letters. her labour was much lightened now by reason of "cobbler" horn's having provided her with the best type-writer that could be obtained for money. with regard to some of the letters, she had ventured to avail herself of the advice of the minister; and she had also, with great tact, consulted miss jemima on points with reference to which the opinion of that lady was likely to be sound and safe. the consequence was that the letters which remained to be considered were comparatively few. first, miss owen gave her employer an account of the letters of which she had disposed; then she unfolded such matters as were still the subjects of correspondence; and lastly she laid before him the letters with which she had not been able to deal. the most important of all the letters were two long ones from messrs. tongs and ball and mr. gray, respectively, relating to the improvements in progress at daisy lane in general, and in particular to the work of altering and fitting up the old hall for the great and gracious purpose on which its owner had resolved. "the golden shoemaker" was gratified to learn, from these letters, that the work of renovating his dilapidated property had been so well begun, and that already, amongst his long-suffering tenants, great satisfaction was beginning to prevail. the remaining letters were passed under review, and then "cobbler" horn lingered for a few moment's chat. "i mean to take my sister and you to see the village and the hall one day soon, miss owen," he said. "oh, thank you, mr. horn!" enthusiastically exclaimed the young secretary. "you would like to go?" "i should love it dearly! i can't tell you, mr. horn, how much i am interested in that kind and generous scheme of yours for the old hall." in her intercourse with her employer, "cobbler" horn's secretary was quite free and unreserved, as indeed he wished her to be. "it's to be a home for orphans, isn't it?" she asked. "not for orphans only," he replied, tenderly, as he thought of his own lost little one. "it's for children who have no home, whether orphans or not,--little waifs, you know, and strays--children who have no one to care for them." "i'm doing it," he added, simply, "for the sake of my little marian." "oh, how good of you! and, do you know, mr. horn, its being for waifs and strays makes me like it all the more; because i was a waif and stray once myself." she was leaning forward, with her elbows on the table, and her pretty but decided chin resting on her doubled hands. as she spoke, her somewhat startling announcement presented itself to her in a serio-comic light, and a whimsical twinkle came into her eyes. the same impression was shared by "cobbler" horn; and, regarding his young secretary, with her neatly-clothed person, her well-arranged hair, and her capable-looking face, he found it difficult to regard as anything but a joke the announcement that she had once been, as she expressed it, "a waif and stray." "you!" he exclaimed, with an indulgent smile. "yes, mr. horn, i was indeed a little outcast girl. did not mr. durnford tell you that the dear friends who have brought me up are not my actual parents?" "yes," replied "cobbler" horn, slowly, "he certainly did. but i did not suspect----" "of course not!" laughed the young girl. "you would never dream of insulting me by supposing that i had once been a little tramp!" "no, of course not," agreed "cobbler" horn, with a perplexed smile. "it's true, nevertheless," affirmed miss owen. "mr. and mrs. burton have been like parents to me almost ever since i can remember, and i always call them 'father' and 'mother'; but they are no more relations to me than are you and miss horn. they found me in the road, a poor little ragged mite; and they took me home, and i've been just like their own ever since. i remember something of it, in a vague sort of way." "cobbler" horn was regarding his secretary with a bewildered gaze. "you may well be astonished, mr. horn. but, do you know, sometimes i almost feel glad that i don't know my real father and mother. they must have been dreadful people. but, whatever they were, they could never have been better to me than mr. and mrs. burton have been. they have treated me exactly as if i had been their own child." many confused thoughts were working in the brain of "cobbler" horn. "but," said miss owen, resuming her work, "i must tell you about it another time." "yes, you shall," said "cobbler" horn, rousing himself. "i shall want to hear it all." so saying, he left the room, and betook himself to his old workshop for an hour or two on his beloved cobbler's bench. he had placed the old house under the care of a widow, whom he permitted to live there rent free, and to have the use of the furniture which remained in the house, and to whom, in addition, he paid a small weekly fee. as he walked along the street, he could not fail to think of what his secretary had just said with reference to her early life. his thoughts were full of pathetic interest. then she too had been a little homeless one! the fact endeared to him, more than ever, the bright young girl who had come like a stream of sunshine into his life. for to "cobbler" horn his young secretary was indeed becoming very dear. it could not be otherwise. she was just filling his life with the gentle and considerate helpfulness which he had often thought would have been afforded to him by his little marian. and now, it seemed to draw this young girl closer to him still, when he learnt that she had once been homeless and friendless, as he had too much reason to fear that his own little one had become. he had a feeling also that the coincidence therein involved was strange. chapter xxvii. coming into collision with the proprieties. it is not surprising that, in his new station, "cobbler" horn should have committed an occasional breach of etiquette. it was unlikely that he would ever be guilty of real impropriety; but it was inevitable that he should, now and again, set at nought the so-called "proprieties" of fashionable life. in the genuine sense of the word, "cobbler" horn was a christian gentleman; and he would have sustained the character in any position in which he might have been placed. but he had a feeling akin to contempt for the punctilious and conventional squeamishness of polite society. it was, no doubt, largely for this reason that "society" did not receive "the golden shoemaker" within its sacred enclosure. not that it rejected him. he had too much money for that; half his wealth would have procured him the entrée to the most select circles. but the attitude he assumed towards the fashionable world rendered impossible his admission to its charmed precincts. he made it evident that he would not, and could not, conform to its customs or observe its rules. the world, indeed, courted him, at first, and would gladly have taken him within its arms. fashion set to work to woo him, as it would have wooed an ogre possessed of his glittering credentials. but he repelled its advances with an amused indifference verging on contempt. "cobbler" horn foiled, by dint of sheer unresponsiveness, the first attempt to introduce itself to him made by the world. on his return from america, one of the first things which attracted his attention was a pile of visiting cards on a silver salver which stood on the hall table. some of these bore the most distinguished names which cottonborough or its vicinity could boast. there were municipal personages of the utmost dignity, and the representatives of county families of the first water. it had taken the world some little time to awake to a sense of its "duty" with regard to the "cobbler" who had suddenly acceded to so high a position in the aristocracy of wealth. but when, at length, it realized that "the golden shoemaker" was indeed a fact, it set itself to bestow upon him as full and free a recognition as though the blood in his veins had been of the most immaculate blue. it was during his absence in america that the great rush of the fashionable world to his door had actually set in. but miss jemima had not been taken unawares. she had supplied herself betimes with a manual of etiquette, which she had studied with the assiduity of a diligent school-girl. she had also, though not without trepidation, ordered a quantity of visiting cards, and had them inscribed respectively with her own and her brother's names. and thus, when society made its first advances, it did not find miss jemima unprepared. when "cobbler" horn espied the visiting cards on his hall table, he said to his sister: "what, more of these, jemima?" "yes, thomas," she responded, with evident pride; "and some of them belong to the best people in the neighbourhood!" "and have all these people been here?" he asked, taking up a bunch of the cards between his finger and thumb, and regarding them with a mingling of curiosity and amusement. "yes," replied miss jemima, in exultant tones, "they have all been here; but a good many of them happened to come when i was out." "cobbler" horn sighed. "well," he said, "i suppose this is another of 'the penalties of wealth!'" "say rather _privileges_, thomas," miss jemima ventured delicately to suggest. "no, jemima. it may appear to you in that light; but i am not able to regard as a privilege the coming to us of all these grand people. how much better it would be, if they would leave us to live our life in our own way! do you suppose they would ever have taken any notice of us at all, if it had not been for this money?" miss jemima was unable to reply; for it was impossible to gainsay her brother's words. and yet it was sweet to her soul to have all the best people in the neighbourhood calling and leaving their cards. for the present, she let the matter rest. but, a day or two afterwards, the course of events brought the question to the surface again. miss jemima was brushing her brother's coat, in the dining-room, after dinner, previous to his setting out for his old workshop, when they saw a carriage drive up to the gate. "here are some more of your grand friends, jemima," said "cobbler" horn, with a sigh. "how ever am i to get out?" miss jemima was peeping out from behind the window-curtain, with the eagerness of a girl. "why," she exclaimed, as the occupants of the carriage began to alight, "it's mr. and mrs. brownlow, the retired b----." "brewer" she was going to say but checked herself. "surely you will not think of going out now, thomas?" "cobbler" horn knew mr. and mrs. brownlow very well by sight. he had known them before they rode in their carriage, and when they were much less splendid people than they had latterly become. he had never greatly desired their acquaintance when it was unattainable; and, now that it was being thrust upon him, he desired it even less than before. there was no reason why he should be intimate with this man. on what grounds had he called? "cobbler" horn could not refrain from regarding the visit as being an impertinence. "my dear jemima," he said, "i must be going at once. these people cannot have any business with me; and i have a good deal of work to do. you have received the other people; and you can manage these. but, jemima, do not encourage them to come again!" so saying, he moved towards the door; but miss jemima placed an agitated hand upon his arm. "thomas," she cried, "what shall i say to them?" "tell them i am obliged to go out. do you think it would be right to keep my poor people waiting for their boots and shoes, while i spent the time in idle ceremony?" miss jemima ceased to remonstrate, and her brother again moved towards the door. but, before he reached it, a servant appeared with the cards of mr. and mrs. brownlow, who were by this time installed in the drawing-room. miss jemima took the cards, and "cobbler" horn made for the front-door. "not that way, thomas!" she cried after him. "they'll see you!" "cobbler" horn looked around in surprise. "why not, my dear? they will thus perceive that i have really gone out." the next moment he was gone, and miss jemima was left to face the visitors with the best excuses she could frame. the question of returning the numerous calls they had received occasioned much perplexity to miss jemima's mind. nothing would induce her brother to accompany her on any expedition of the kind. while, therefore, in some cases, she was able to go by herself, in others she was obliged to refrain from going altogether, and, as a matter of course, offence was given. the natural consequence was that the number of callers rapidly diminished, and "the golden shoemaker's" reputation for eccentricity was thoroughly established. "cobbler" horn very rarely consented to see any company who came merely to pay a call. but one afternoon, when his sister was out, he went into the drawing-room to excuse her absence, and, in fact, to dismiss the callers. "my sister is not at home, ma'am," he said, addressing the buxom and magnificent lady, who, with her two slender and humble-looking sons, had awaited his coming. having delivered his announcement, he stood at the open door, as though to show his visitors out. the lady, however, quite unabashed, retained her seat. "may i venture to say," she asked, "that, inasmuch as the absence of miss horn has procured us the pleasure of making the acquaintance of her brother, it is not entirely a matter of regret?" "cobbler" horn bowed gravely. "it is very good of you to say that, ma'am; but i'm afraid i must ask you to excuse me too. i'm very busy; and, besides, these ceremonies are not at all in my way." the lady, who bore a title, changed countenance, and rose to her feet. she was conscious that she had been dismissed. "certainly, sir," she said, in accents of freezing politeness; "no doubt you have many concerns. we will retire at once." the lady's sons also rose, moving as she moved, like the satellites of a planet. "there is no need for you to go, ma'am," "cobbler" horn hastened to say, quite unaware that he had committed a grave breach of etiquette. "if you will only excuse me, and stay here by yourselves, for a little while, no doubt my sister will soon be back; and i'm sure she will be glad to see you." "thank you," was the haughty response of the angered dame; "we have already remained too long. be good enough, sir, to have us shown out." "cobbler" horn rang the bell; and, as the lady, followed by her sons, swept past him with a stately and disdainful bow, he felt that, in some way, he had grievously transgressed. miss jemima, on her return, a few moments later, heard, with great consternation, what had taken place. "i asked the good lady to wait till you came, jemima; but she insisted on going away at once." "oh, thomas, what have you done!" cried miss jemima, in piteous tones. "what could i do?" was the reply. "you see, i could not think of wasting my time; and i thought they would not mind staying by themselves, for a few minutes, till you came in." "oh, dear," cried miss jemima, "i'm afraid she'll never come again!" "well, never mind, jemima," said her brother; "i don't suppose it will matter very much." the foreboding of miss jemima was fulfilled; the outraged lady returned no more. and there were many others, who, when they found that the master of the house had little taste for fashionable company, discontinued their calls. some few of her new-made acquaintances only miss jemima was able, by dint of her own careful and eager politeness, to retain. there were also other points at which "cobbler" horn came into collision with the customs of society. he persisted in habitually going out with his hands ungloved. he possessed a hardy frame, and, even in winter, he had rarely worn either gloves or overcoat; and now, as ever, almost his only preparation for going out was to take his hat down from its peg, and put it on his head. miss jemima pathetically entreated that he would at least wear gloves. but he was obdurate. his hands, he said, were always warm enough when he was out of doors; and he would try to keep them clean. another of the whims of "cobbler" horn was his fondness for doing what his sister called "common" work. one morning, for example, on coming down to breakfast, the good lady, looking through the window, saw her brother, in his shirt sleeves, engaged in trimming the grass of the lawn. with a little scream, she ran out at the front-door, and caught him by the arm. "thomas! thomas!" she cried, "if you don't care about yourself, have a little thought for me!" "what is it, jemima?" he asked straightening himself. "is breakfast ready? i'm very sorry to have kept you waiting. i'll come at once." "no, no," exclaimed miss jemima; "it's not that! but for a man in your position to be working like a common gardener--it's shameful! pray come in at once, before you are seen by any one going by! without your coat too, on a sharp winter's morning like this!" "my dear jemima," said "cobbler" horn, as he turned with her towards the house, "if i _were_ a common gardener, there would be no disgrace, any more than in my present position. there's no shame in a bit of honest work, anyhow, jemima; and it's a great treat to me." miss jemima's chief concern was to get her unmanageable brother into the house as quickly as possible, and she paid little heed to what he said. chapter xxviii. bounder gives warning. there was another personage to whom the unconventional ways of "the golden shoemaker" gave great offence; and that was mr. bounder, the coachman. as a coachman, bounder was faultless. his native genius had been developed and matured by a long course of first-class experience. in matters of etiquette, within his province, bounder was precise. right behaviour between master and coachman was, in his opinion, "the whole duty of man." he held in equal contempt a presuming coachman and a master who did not keep his place. bounder soon discovered that, in "cobbler" horn, he had a master of whom it was impossible to approve. bounder "see'd from the fust as mr. horn warn't no gentleman." it was always the way with "them as was made rich all of a suddint like." and bounder puffed out his red cheeks till they looked like two toy balloons. it was "bad enough to be kept waiting outside the station, while your master stood talking to a little feller as looked as like a rag and bone man as anythink; but when you was required to stop the kerridge and pick up every tramp as you overtook on the road, it was coming it a little too strong." this last was a slight exaggeration on the part of bounder. the exact truth was that, on one occasion, his master had stopped the carriage for the purpose of giving a lift to a respectable, though not well-to-do, pedestrian, and in another instance, a working-class woman and her tired little one had been invited to take their seats on bounder's sacred cushions, bounder's master himself alighting to lift the bedusted child to her place. but this was not the worst. the woman who lived in the little cottage past which marian had trotted so eagerly, on the morning of her disappearance so long ago, had a daughter who was a cripple from disease of the spine. she was the only daughter, and, being well up in her teens, would have been a great help to her mother if she had been well. "cobbler" horn was deeply moved by the pale cheeks and frail bent form of the invalid girl. he induced his sister to call at the cottage, and they took the poor suffering creature under their care. it was not unnatural that the young secretary should also be enlisted in this kindly service. first she was sent to the cottage with delicacies to tempt the appetite of the sick girl; and then she began to go there of her own accord. during one of her visits, the mother happened to say: "you see, miss, what she wants is fresh air. but how's she to get it? she can't walk only a few yards at a time; and even a mild winter's not the time for sitting out." the woman spoke without any special design; but her words suggested to the mind of miss owen a happy thought. the young secretary was so firmly established, by this time, in the regard of her employer that she was able to approach him with the least degree of reserve. so she spoke out her thought to him with the frankness of a favourite daughter. an actual daughter would have thrown her arms around his neck, and emphasized her suggestion with a kiss. miss owen did not do this; but the tone of respectful yet affectionate confidence in which she spoke served her purpose just as well. "mr. horn"--they were in the midst of their daily grapple with the correspondence--"the doctor says poor susie martin ought to have a great deal of fresh air. don't you think a carriage drive now and then would be a good thing?" her knowledge of "cobbler" horn assured her that her suggestion would be adopted. otherwise she would have hesitated to throw it out. "cobbler" horn laid down the pen with which he had been making some jottings for the guidance of his secretary, and regarded her steadfastly for a moment or two. then his face lighted up with a sudden glow. "to be sure! why didn't i think of that? my dear young lady, you are my good angel!" that evening miss owen was desired to take a message to the cottage; and the next day bounder was confounded by being ordered to convey miss owen and the invalid girl for a country drive, in the pony carriage. bounder stared, became apoplectic in appearance, and stutteringly asked to have the order repeated. his master complied with his request; and bounder turned away, with haughty mien, to do as he was bid. he was consumed with fierce mortification. he would bear it this time, but not again. he was like the proverbial camel, which succumbs beneath the last straw. very soon the point would be reached at which long-suffering endurance must give way. it was a deep grievance with bounder that he was seldom ordered to drive to big houses. he was required to turn the heads of his horses into many strange ways. he was almost daily ordered to drive down streets where he was ashamed to be seen, and to stop at doors at which he felt it to be an indignity to be compelled to pull up his prancing steeds. bounder hailed with relief the occasions on which he was required to take miss jemima out. then he was sure of not receiving an order to obey which would be beneath the dignity of a coachman who, until now, had known no service but of the highest class. such occasions supplied salve to his wounded spirit. but his wound was reopened every day by some fresh insult at the hands of his master. he had submitted to the odious necessity of driving out in his carriage the crippled girl, and that not only once or twice. but the tide of rebellion was rising higher and higher in his breast, and gathering strength from day to day; and, at length, bounder resolved to give his master "warning," and remove himself from so uncongenial a sphere. he did not quite like to make his master's kindness to the poor invalid girl his ostensible reason for desiring a change; and, while he was looking around for a plausible pretext, the course of events supplied him with exactly such an occasion as he sought. bounder had not as yet become aware of the daily visits of his master to his old workshop. he had been kept in ignorance of the matter merely because there was no special reason why he should be informed. one afternoon, on leaving home, "cobbler" horn had left word with miss jemima for the coachman to come to the old house, with the dog-cart, at three o'clock. bounder received the order with a feeling of apathetic wonder as to what new freak he was expected to countenance and aid. at the entrance of the street in which the old house stood, he involuntarily pulled up his horse. then, with an air of ineffable disdain, he drove slowly on, and proceeded to the number at which he had been directed to call. summoning a passing boy, he ordered him to knock at the door. the boy contemplated disobedience; but a glance at bounder's whip induced him to change his mind, and he gave the door a sounding rap. the door speedily opened, and bounder's master appeared. but such was his disguise that bounder was necessitated to rub his eyes. divested of his coat, and enfolded in a leathern apron, "the golden shoemaker" stood in the doorway, with bare arms, holding out a pair of newly-mended hob-nailed boots. "that's right," he said; "i'm glad you're punctual. will you kindly take these boots to no. , drake street, round the corner; and then come back here;" and, stepping out upon the pavement, he placed the boots on the vacant cushion of the dog-cart, close to bounder's magnificent person. bounder touched his hat as usual; but there was an evil fire in his heart, and, as he drove slowly away, a lava-tide of fierce thought coursed through his mind. that he, bounder, "what had drove real gentlemen and ladies, such as a member of parliament and a _barrow-knight_," should have been ordered to drive home a pair of labourer's boots! this was "the last straw," indeed! arrived at no. , drake street, bounder altogether declined to touch the offending boots. he simply indicated them with his whip to the woman who had come to the door in some surprise, and ignoring her expression of thanks, turned the head of his horse, and drove gloomily away. that night, "cobbler" horn's outraged coachman sought speech with his master. "i wish to give you warning, sir," he said, touching his hat, and speaking in tones of perfect respect. bounder's master started. he had intended to make the best of his coachman. "why so, bounder?" he asked. "don't i give you money enough, or what?" "oh," replied bounder, "the money's all right; but, to make a clean breast of it, the service ain't ezactly what i've been used to. i ain't been accustomed to drive about in back streets, and stop at cottages and such; and to take up every tramp as you meets; and to carry labourer's boots on the seat of the dog-cart." "i'm afraid, mr. bounder," said "cobbler" horn, with a broad smile, "that i've hurt your dignity." "well, as to that, sir," said the coachman, uneasily, "all as i wishes to say is that i've been used to a 'igh class service; and i took this place under a mis-happrehension." "very well, bounder," rejoined "cobbler" horn, more gravely, "then we had better part. for i can't promise you any different class of service, seeing it is my intention to use my carriages quite as much for the benefit of other people as for my own; and it is not at all likely that i shall drive about much amongst fashionable folks. when do you wish to go, mr. bounder?" this was business-like indeed. bounder was in no haste to reply. "because," resumed his master, "i will release you next week, if you wish." "well, sir," replied bounder slowly, "i shouldn't wish to go under the month." "very well. but, you must know, bounder, that i have no fault to find with you. it's you who have given me notice, you know." bounder drew himself up to his full height. "fault to find" with him! the mere suggestion was an insult. but bounder put it into his pocket. "if you are in want of a character, now," resumed "cobbler" horn, "i shall----" "thank you, sir," interposed bounder with hauteur, "i am provided as to that. there's more than one gentleman who will speak for me," and bounder faced about, and marched away with his nose turned towards the stars. chapter xxix. vague surmisings. the feeling of familiarity with the previous abode of her employer, and its surroundings, of which miss owen had been conscious at first, had become modified as the weeks went by. the removal to the new house had, no doubt, in part contributed to this result; and, very soon, if she did not forget the impression of revived remembrance of which she had been aware at first, she ceased to be conscious that any trace of it remained. she did not, indeed, forget that it had been; she remembered vividly the fact that, when she first entered the old house, she had almost felt as if she had come home. that feeling had now almost passed away. but she was beginning to ponder certain things which seemed to be connected with it in some vague way. though she had often been told of the circumstances under which she had been rescued from a life of poverty and possible shame, her own recollection of the matter was very dim. she seemed to remember a time of great trouble, and then a sudden change, since which all had been happy and bright; and certainly, if she had not been definitely informed of the fact, she would never have suspected that the kind friends to whom she owed so much were not her actual parents. that vague reminiscence of early distress would have lingered with her as the memory of a troubled dream, and nothing more. hitherto she had not been anxious for further information concerning her parentage and early life. there were times when she felt some small measure of dissatisfaction at the thought that she did not know who she really was. but this feeling was held in check by the consideration that, if her parents had been good and kind, she would probably not have been in a position to need the loving service which had been rendered to her by mr. and mrs. burton; and she felt that she would a thousand times rather have them for her father and mother, than be compelled to give those dear names to such persons as it was more than likely her actual parents had been. for the most part, therefore, she had feared, rather than hoped, that her real father and mother might appear. now, however, vague surmisings were being awakened in the mind of the young secretary. her kind employer had mysteriously lost a little girl. this suggested to her a new set of possibilities as to her own past. it came to her mind that perhaps she also had been lost, and that the misery she vaguely remembered, had been inflicted by other hands than those of her parents. if, like little marian, she had actually wandered away, it was probably no fault of theirs, and perhaps they had been mourning for her all these years. then, almost for the first time, she was conscious of an ardent desire to know who her parents had been. over this question she pondered often and long. she could do nothing more--except pray. and pray she did. she asked that, if it were right and best, the cloud of obscurity might be lifted from her earlier years. and yet, as day by day she persisted in this prayer, she had a feeling that the prayer itself, and the desire from which it proceeded, might, perhaps, constitute a species of disloyalty to the only parents she seemed ever to have known. to this feeling her great love and strong conscientiousness gave birth. yet she could neither repress her desire nor refrain from her prayer. but there was another thing which "cobbler" horn had said. when his secretary asked him what little marian would probably be like, if she were still alive, he, in all simplicity, and without perceiving the possible direction that might be given to her thoughts, had replied that his lost child, if living, would be not unlike what his secretary actually was. he probably intended no more than that there might be a general resemblance between the two girls; and he might be mistaken even in that. miss owen herself took such a view of the matter at the time, and passed it lightly by. but, afterwards, in the course of her ponderings, it came back again. the unpremeditated words, in which her employer had admitted the probability of a resemblance between herself and what his own lost child might most likely have become, seemed to find their place amongst the other strange things which were perplexing her mind. very deeply miss owen pondered these many puzzling things, from day to day. a momentous possibility seemed to be dawning on her view; but she was like one who, being but half-awake, cannot decide whether the brightness of coming day may not, after all, be merely a dim dream-light which will presently fade away. it appeared to her sometimes as though she were on the verge of the momentous discovery which she had often wondered whether she would ever make. could it be that the mystery of her parentage was about to be solved, and that with a result which would be altogether to her mind? but, as often as she reached this point, she pulled herself sharply up. her name was mary ann owen: that settled the question at once. but was it so? there came a time when she began to have doubts even as to her name. perhaps the wish was father to the thought. at any rate, she had never liked the name by which she was known; and now she was conscious of a very definite reason for wishing that it might, in some way, turn out not to be her name after all. was it certain that her name was mary ann owen? she had a strange, weird feeling at the thought of what the question implied. and there was distinct ground for doubt. when she had been found by her adopted parents, her baby tongue, in answer to their questioning, had pronounced her name as best it could. but, as her speech was less distinct than is usually that of a child of her apparent years, they had never felt quite sure about her name. the name by which she forthwith became known to them was the best interpretation they could put upon her broken words, and it had been accepted by the child herself without objection; but in the minds of mr. and mrs. burton there had always been a lingering doubt. miss owen had been aware of this, but had given it little heed. now, however, the fact that there was uncertainty as to her name came vividly to her mind. and yet, if her name was not mary ann owen, it might be something else quite as far from her desires. but stay, might it not be supposed that her real name, whatever it might be, was similar in sound to the name her baby tongue had been thought to pronounce? she had tried to tell her kind friends her name; and they had understood her to say that it was mary ann owen. if they were mistaken, what other name was there of similar sound? ah, there was one! then she thrilled with almost a delirium of delight, which quickly gave place to a guilty feeling--as though she had put forth her hand towards that which was too sacred for her touch. "what silly day-dreams have come into my head!" she cried. "the golden shoemaker" too had his ponderings, in these days. of late he had been thinking more about his little marian than for many years past; and, if he had searched for the reason of this, he would have discovered it in the fact that his young girl secretary daily reminded him, in various ways, of his long lost child. miss owen was--or so he fancied--very much like what his darling would have become. there was, to be sure, not much in that, after all; and the same might have been the case with many another young girl. but the points of resemblance between the history of his young secretary and the early fate of his little marian constituted another circumstance of strange import. like his own child, miss owen had been an outcast. kind friends had given her a home. might it not be that similar happiness had fallen to the lot of his little marian? if he could think so, he would almost be reconciled to the prospect of never seeing her again. and every day he felt that his young secretary was making for herself a larger place in his heart. chapter xxx. a novel difficulty for a man of wealth. the trouble with most people, rich and otherwise, is to know how to keep their money; how to get rid of it was the difficulty with which "the golden shoemaker" was beset. "cobbler" horn's unalterable purpose was to retain no more than a comparatively small portion of his wealth for his own use. since he had entered upon his fortune, he had already given away a great deal of money; but it seemed to him a very trifling amount in proportion to the vast sum he possessed. he was, moreover, aware that he was getting richer every day. since the property had come into his hands, the investments it comprised were yielding better than ever before; and he could not endure that such vast sums of money should be accumulating upon him, while there was so much misery and want in the world. he believed that his immense wealth had been given him, in trust, by god; and that it was not absolutely his own. the purpose of god, in bestowing it upon him, was that he should use it for the benefit of all who had any need which might be supplied by its means; and, by so much, it belonged, not to "cobbler" horn himself, but, under god, to those who possessed any such claim to its use. he was convinced that no preacher had ever been more definitely or solemnly called to the ministration of the "word" than was he, "the golden shoemaker," to the ministry of wealth. and it was a ministry after his own heart. full of christ-like love and pity for the needy, the sad, and the sinful, he revelled in the gracious opportunities which now crowded his life. he had few greater pleasures, in these days, than that afforded him by the signing of cheques. to negotiate a contribution from him for some worthy object was a means of grace;--so hearty and joyous was his response to the appeal, and so thankful did he seem for the opportunity it had brought. never, perhaps, were the functions of a christian man of wealth more clearly comprehended, or the possibilities of blessedness involved in the possession of riches more fully realized, than by "cobbler" horn. he often told himself that, by making others happy with his money, he secured the highest benefit it was able to impart. thus bestowed, his wealth afforded him infinitely greater satisfaction, than if he had devoted it entirely to his own personal ends. but "the golden shoemaker" was not satisfied. his money was not going fast enough. the amounts he had already dispensed appeared but as a few splashes of foam from the sea. he wanted channels for his benevolence. his difficulty was rare. most men of means find that they have not the wherewithal to supply the demands of their own many-handed need. he was able to satisfy almost unlimited necessities beyond his own, but was sadly troubled to know how it might be done. yet he was determined that he would not rest, until he had found means of disposing, in his lord's service, of every penny that remained to him, after his own modest wants had been supplied. actuated by this purpose, "cobbler" horn resolved to pay another visit to his minister. mr. durnford had helped him before, and would help him again. of set purpose, he selected monday morning for his visit. unless his business had been very urgent indeed, he would not have run the risk of disturbing mr. durnford at his studies by going to see him on any other morning than this. but he knew that, on monday morning, the minister was accustomed to throw himself somewhat on the loose, and was rather glad, than otherwise, to welcome a congenial visitor at that time. mr. durnford, as usual, gave his friend a cordial greeting. there was not a member of his church who occupied a higher place in his regard than did "cobbler" horn. "glad to see you, mr. horn!" he said, entering the dining-room, whither his visitor had been shown by the maid; and he heartily shook "the golden shoemaker" by the hand. "this is a regular 'blue monday' with me, as, indeed, most of my mondays are; and a little brotherly chat will give me a lift. how go the millions?" by this time they were seated opposite to each other, in two comfortable chairs, before a cheerful fire. the minister's half-joking question touched so closely the trouble just then upon "cobbler" horn's mind, that he took it quite seriously, and returned a very grave reply. "the 'millions,' sir, are not going fast enough; in fact, they go very slowly indeed. and, to make a clean breast of it, that is what has brought me here this morning." "ah!" exclaimed mr. durnford, with deep interest. "but, sir," added "cobbler" horn, half-rising, and putting out his hand, "don't let me hinder you. i can come another time, if you are busy just now." "don't speak of such a thing, my dear friend!" cried the minister, putting out his hand in turn. "keep your seat. i'm never busy on a monday morning--if i can help it. i am always ready, between the hours of nine and one on monday, for any innocent diversion that may come in my way. i keep what is called 'saint monday'--at least in the morning. if i am disturbed on any other morning, i--well, i don't like it. but any reasonable person who finds me at home on a monday morning--against which, i must admit, the chances are strong, for i frequently go off on some harmless jaunt--is quite welcome to me for that time." "i had an idea of that, sir," responded "cobbler" horn. "ah, you are a most considerate man! but now, about the millions?" "the golden shoemaker" smiled. "not 'millions,' sir--hardly one million yet--indeed a great deal less now, actually in my own hands; though i am seriously afraid of what it may become. all my investments are turning out so well, that the money is coming in much faster than i can get rid of it! it's positively dreadful! i shall have to increase my givings very largely in some way." the minister held up his hands in mock astonishment; and there was a twinkle of honest pleasure in his keen, grey eyes. "mr. horn, i believe you are the first man, since the foundation of the world, who has been troubled because his money didn't go fast enough!" "well, sir, that is the case." his unwieldy wealth weighed too heavily upon his heart and conscience to permit of his adopting the half-humorous view of the situation which mr. durnford seemed to take. "but surely, mr. horn," urged the minister, becoming serious, "there are plenty of ways for your money. to get money is often difficult; it should be easy enough to get rid of it." "yes, sir, there are plenty of ways. my poor, devoted secretary knows that as well as i do. but the puzzle is, to find the right ways. if i merely wanted to get rid of my money, the letters of a single week would almost enable me to do that." "yes, yes," said mr. durnford, "of course. i know exactly how it is. you could make your money up in a bag, and toss it into the sea at one throw, if that were all." "yes," replied "cobbler" horn, with a quiet smile; and he sighed faintly, as though he wished it were permissible to rid himself thus easily of his golden encumbrance. "but that is not all, mr. durnford," he then said. "no, mr. horn, you feel that it would not do to cast your bread on the waters in that literal sense. you are constrained to cast it, not into the sea, but, like precious seed, into the soil of human hearts and lives--soil that has been prepared by the plough of poverty and the harrow of suffering. isn't that it, my friend?" "cobbler" horn leaned forward in his chair, with glistening eyes. "yes, sir; go on; you are a splendid thought reader." "you feel that merely to dispose of your money anyhow--without discrimination--would be worse than hoarding it up?" "that i do, sir!" "it is not your money, but the lord's; and you wish to dispose of every penny in a way he would approve?" "yes, sir," was "cobbler" horn's emphatic confirmation; "and i'm so anxious about it that often i can't sleep at nights. i expect the lord gave me all this money because he knew i should want to use it for him; and i'm determined not to disappoint him. i feel the more strongly on the subject, because there's so much of the lord's money in the world that he never gets the benefit of at all." the minister listened gravely. "so you want my advice?" "yes, sir; and your help. my difficulty is that it is the unworthy who are most eager to ask for help. those who are really deserving are often the last to cry out; and many of them would rather die than beg. now, sir, i want you to help me to find out cases of real need, to tell me of any good cause that comes to your knowledge; and suggest as many ways as you can of making a good use of my money. will you do this for me, sir? although you have helped me so much already, i don't think you will refuse my request." the minister listened to this appeal from "the golden shoemaker" with a feeling of holy joy. "no, my dear friend," he said, "i will not refuse your request. how can i? believing, with you, that your wealth is a divine trust, i regard your appeal as a call from god himself. besides, you could not have demanded from me a more congenial service. you shall have all the help i can give; and between us," he added, with a reviving flicker of his previous facetiousness, "we shall make the millions fly." "thank you, heartily, sir. but i must warn you that you have undertaken no light task. we shall have to dispose of many thou----" "we will make them vanish," broke in the minister, "like half-pence in the hands of a conjuror." "i know," said "cobbler" horn, with a smile, "that you ministers are well able to dispose of the money." "yes, i suppose we are. but, dear friend, let it be understood, at the outset, that i can be no party to your defrauding yourself." "it is all the lord's money," said "the golden shoemaker." "yes; but, if you employ it for him, he means you to have your commission." "oh, as to that, a very little will serve. my wants are few." "my dear friend," remonstrated the minister, "are you not in danger of falling into a mistake? god has given you the power to acquire a great deal of the good of this world; and i don't think it would be right for you not to make a pretty complete use of your opportunities. though you should be ever so generous to yourself, and live a very full and abundant life, you will still be able to give immense sums of money away; and such a life would fit you all the better to serve god in your new sphere." "you think that, do you, sir?" asked "cobbler" horn, evidently impressed. "i certainly do." "well, i will consider it; for i dare say you are right. but to return to what we were talking about just now, perhaps, sir, you could give me a hint or two, this morning, with regard to my money?" thus invited, mr. durnford ventured to mention several cases of individual necessity with which he was acquainted, and to indicate various schemes of wide-spread benevolence in which a man of wealth might embark. "cobbler" horn listened attentively; and, having entered in his note-book the names mr. durnford had given him, promised also to consider the more general suggestions he had made. "i am very much obliged to you, sir," he said; "and shall often come to you for advice of this kind." "as often as you like, mr. horn," laughed the minister; "it doesn't cost much to give advice. it is those who follow it that have to pay." "yes," rejoined "cobbler" horn; "and that will i do most gladly." so saying, he rose from his seat, and held out his hand. "good morning, sir!" "good morning, my dear sir!" said the minister, grasping the proffered hand. "by the way, how is miss owen getting on?" "my dear sir, i owe you eternal gratitude for having made me acquainted with that young lady!" "i'm glad of that, but not a bit surprised." "she is a greater help to me than i can tell. and what a sad history she seems to have had--in early life, that is! her childhood appears to have been a sad time." "ah, she has told you, then?" "yes, it came out quite by accident. she didn't obtrude it in any way." "i am sure she wouldn't." "and the fact that she was once a little outcast girl increases my interest in her very much." "that," said the minister, "is a matter of course." chapter xxxi. "cobbler" horn's critics. the months passed. christmas came, and was left behind, and now spring had fairly set in. "the golden shoemaker" had become a person of great consideration to the dignitaries of his church. it is true there were those amongst its wealthy members by whom he was unsparingly criticised behind his back. but this did not deter them from paying him all manner of court to his face. he was startled at the importance which he had suddenly acquired. his acquaintance was sought on every side; and he found himself the subject of a variety of polite attentions to which he had been an entire stranger until now. men of wealth and position who, though they were his fellow-members in the church, had never yet shaken him by the hand, suddenly discovered that he was their dear friend. there was one rich man whose pew in the church was next to that of "cobbler" horn. though this man had sat side by side with his poor brother for many years, in the house of god, he had seemed unaware of his existence. but no sooner did "cobbler" horn become "the golden shoemaker" than the attitude of his wealthy neighbour underwent a change. the first sign of recognition he bestowed upon his recently-enriched fellow-worshipper was a polite bow as they were leaving the church; next he ventured to show "cobbler" horn the hymn, when the latter happened to come late one day; and, at length, on a certain sunday morning, as they were going out, he stepped into the aisle, and proffered his hand to "the golden shoemaker," for a friendly shake. "cobbler" horn started, and drew back. it was not in his nature to be malicious; and to decline the offered civility was the furthest thing from his thoughts. he was simply lost in amazement. the gentleman who was offering to shake hands with him was one of the most important men in cottonborough. but his great astonishment arose from the fact that this mighty personage, after sitting within reach of him in the house of god for so many years, without bestowing upon him the slightest sign of recognition, should suddenly desire to shake him by the hand! the man noticed his hesitation, and was turning away with offended dignity. but "cobbler" horn quickly recovered himself, and, taking the hand which had been offered to him, gave it a heartier shake than it had, perhaps, ever received before. "it was not that, mr. varley," he said, "i'm glad enough to shake hands with you, as i should have been long ago. but it did seem such a queer thing that we should have been sitting side by side here all these years, and you should never have thought of shaking hands with me before. i suppose the reason why you do it now is that the lord has seen fit to make me a rich man. now i really don't think i'm any more fit to be shaken hands with on that account. personally, i'm very much the same as i've been any time these twenty years past; and it does seem to me a bit strange that you and others should appear to think otherwise." "cobbler" horn spoke in a pleasant tone, and there was a twinkle of amusement in his eye. but mr. varley was not amused. regarding "cobbler" horn with an expression of countenance which was very much like a scowl, he turned upon his heel and withdrew; and, during the week, he arranged for a sitting in another part of the church. mr. varley was not the only rich and influential member of the church who had recently discovered in "cobbler" horn a suitable object of friendly regard. but the most cordial and obsequious of his wealthy fellow-members were ready enough to criticise him behind his back. with the advice and help of the minister, he had begun to "make the millions fly," in good earnest; and his phenomenal liberality--prodigality, it was called by some--could not, in the nature of things, escape notice. it soon became, in fact, the talk of the town and of the country round. but it was by the members of his church that "cobbler" horn's lavish benefactions were most eagerly discussed. various opinions were expressed, by his fellow-christians, of "the golden shoemaker," and of the guineas with which he was so free. some few saw the real man in their suddenly-enriched friend, and rejoiced. others shook their heads, and said the "shoemaker" would not be "golden" long at that rate; and some scornfully curled their lips, and declared the man to be a fool. but the most bitter of "cobbler" horn's critics were certain of his wealthy brethren who seemed to regard his abundant liberality as a personal affront. there were many wealthy members in mr. durnford's church. the minister sometimes thought, in his inmost soul, that his church would have been but little poorer, in any sense of the word, for the loss of some of the rich men whose names were on its roll. with all their wealth, many of them were not "rich towards god." but mr. durnford was circumspect. it was his endeavour, without failing in his duty, either to his divine master, or to these gilded sheep of his, to make what use of them he might in connection with his sacred work. there was little, it is true, to be got out of these wealthy men but their money, and they could not be persuaded to part with much of that; but the minister did not give them much rest. one pleasant spring evening, mr. durnford set out on one of what he called his "financial tours" amongst this section of his members. the first house to which he went--and, as it proved, the last--was that of a very rich brewer, who was one of the main pillars of the church. there were other members of mr. durnford's flock who were of the same trade. this was not gratifying to mr. durnford; but what could he do? the brewers were blameless in their personal behaviour, regular in their attendance in the sanctuary, and exact in their fulfilment of the conditions of church membership; and he could not unchurch them merely because they were brewers. if he began there, it would be difficult to tell where he ought to stop. nor did he scorn their gifts of money to the cause of god. he was pleased that they were willing to devote some portion of their gains to so good a purpose; his regret was that the portion was so small. mr. durnford did not hesitate to tell his rich members what he conceived to be the just claims of the cause of god upon their wealth; and, on the evening of which we speak, he called first, for this purpose, on the aforesaid brewer, mr. caske. this gentleman lived in a large, square, old-fashioned, comfortable house, surrounded with its own grounds, which were extensive and well laid out. the entire premises were encompassed with a high brick wall, which might well have been supposed to hide a workhouse or a prison, instead of the paradise it actually concealed. perhaps mr. caske had selected this secluded abode from an instinctive disinclination to obtrude the abundance and comfort which he had derived from the manufacture and sale of beer; perhaps he had bought this particular house simply because it was in itself such a dwelling as he desired. at any rate, there he was, with his abundance and luxury, within his encircling wall; and one was tempted to wonder whether there was as much mystery in connection with the article of his manufacture, as seemed to be associated with his place of abode. the minister let himself in at a small door in the boundary wall, and made his way, through the grounds, to the front-door of the house. "mr. caske has company to-night, sir," said the maid who opened the door. "any one i know, mary?" "yes, sir; mr. botterill and mr. kershaw." "oh, well, i want to see them too. where are they?" "in the smoke-room, sir." "well, show me in. it will be all right." as mr. durnford was a frequent and privileged visitor, the girl promptly complied with his request. the smoke-room was a good-sized, comfortable apartment, furnished with every convenience that smokers are supposed to require. it looked out, by two long windows, on a wide sweep of lawn which stretched away from the end of the house. in this room, in chairs of various luxurious styles, sat mr. caske and his two friends. each of the three men was smoking a churchwarden pipe; and at the elbow of each stood a little three-legged, japanned smoker's table, on which was a stand of matches, an ash-tray, and a glass of whisky. the three smokers slowly turned their heads, as the minister entered the room, and, on recognising him, they all rose to their feet. "good evening, sir," said mr. caske, advancing, with his pipe in his left hand, and his right hand stretched out; "you have surprised us at our devotions again." "which you are performing," rejoined the minister, "with an earnestness worthy of a nobler object of worship." mr. caske laughed huskily; and the minister turned to greet messrs. botterill and kershaw, who were waiting, pipes in hand, to resume their seats. mr. botterill was a wine and spirit merchant, and mr. kershaw was a draper in a large way. when they had all taken their seats, a few moments of silence ensued. this was occasioned by the necessity which arose for the three smokers vigorously to puff their pipes, which had burnt low; and perhaps there was some little reluctance, on the part of mr. caske and his friends, to resume the conversation which had been in progress previous to the entrance of mr. durnford. when the pipes had been blown up, and were once more in full blast, there was no longer any excuse for silence. mr. caske, being the host, was then the first to speak. he had known his minister too well to invite him to partake of the refreshment with which he was regaling his friends. he was a small, rotund man, with shining, rosy cheeks, and a husky voice. "all well with you, mr. durnford?" "yes, thank you, mr. caske; but i am afraid i intrude?" he was conscious of some constraint on the part of the company. "i fear," he resumed, "that i have interrupted some important business?" and he looked around with an air of enquiry. mr. caske airily waved his long pipe. "oh no, sir," he said, lightly, "nothing of consequence"--here he glanced at his friends--"we were, ah--talking about our friend, ah--'the golden shoemaker.'" mr. caske was secretly anxious to elicit the minister's opinion of "cobbler" horn. "ah," exclaimed mr. durnford, with an intonation in which sarcasm might not have been difficult to detect, "and what about 'the golden shoemaker'?" mr. caske looked at mr. botterill and mr. kershaw; and mr. kershaw and mr. botterill looked first at each other, and then at mr. caske. "well," replied mr. caske, at length, "he's being more talked about than ever." "well, now," asked the minister, "as to what in particular?" "chiefly as to the way he's squandering his money." "oh, i wasn't aware mr. horn had become a spendthrift! you must have been misinformed, mr. caske," and mr. durnford looked the brewer intently in the face. "ah," said mr. caske, somewhat uneasily, "you don't take me, sir. it's not that he spends his money. it's the rate at which he gives it away. he's simply flinging it from him right and left!" as he spoke, mr. caske swelled with righteous indignation. money, in his eyes, was a sacred thing--to be guarded with care, and parted with reluctantly. no working man could have been more careful with regard to the disposal of each individual shilling of his weekly wages, than was mr. caske in the handling of his considerable wealth. "he's simply tossing his money from him, sir," he reiterated, "as if it were just a heap of leaves." "yes," said mr. botterill, "and it doesn't seem right." mr. botterill was a tall man, with glossy black hair and whiskers, and an inflamed face. he seemed never to be quite at ease in his mind, which, perhaps, was not matter for surprise. mr. kershaw next felt that it was his turn to speak. "ah," he said, "this kind of thing makes a false impression, you know!" though a man of moderate bodily dimensions, mr. kershaw had a largeness of manner which seemed to magnify him far beyond his real proportions. he spread himself abroad, and made the most of himself. he had actually a large head, which was bald on the top, with dark bushy hair round about. his face, which was deeply pitted with small-pox, was adorned with mutton-chop whiskers, from between which a very prominent nose and chin thrust themselves forth. "yes," broke in mr. caske, "people will be apt to think that everybody who has a little bit of money ought to do as he does. but, if that were the case, where should i be, for instance?" and mr. caske swelled himself out more than ever. mr. durnford had hitherto listened in silence. though inclined to speak in very strong terms, he had restrained himself with a powerful effort. he knew that if he allowed these men to proceed, they would soon fill their cup. "well, gentlemen," he now remarked quietly, "there is force in what you say." mr. caske and his two friends regarded their minister with a somewhat doubtful look. mr. caske seemed to think that mr. durnford's remark made it necessary for him to justify the attitude he had assumed with regard to "cobbler" horn. "perhaps, sir," he said, "you don't know in what a reckless fashion our friend is disposing of his money?" "well, mr. caske, let us hear," said the minister, settling himself to listen. "well, sir, you know about his having given up a great part of his fortune to some girl in america, because she was the sweetheart of a cousin of his who died." "yes," said mr. durnford, quietly, "i've heard of that." "well, there was a mad trick, to begin with," resumed mr. caske, in a severe tone. "and then there's that big house in the village which, it's said, all belongs to him. he's fitting it up to be a sort of home for street arabs and gipsy children; and it's costing him thousands of pounds that he'll never see again!" "yes, i know about that too." "then, you will, of course, be aware, sir, that he gives more to our church funds than any half-dozen of us put together." "yes," broke in mr. kershaw, with his obtrusive nose. "he thinks to shame the rest of us, no doubt. and they say now that he's going to employ two town missionaries and a bible-woman out of his own pocket. is it true, think you, sir?" "it is not unlikely," was the quiet reply. there was a note of warning in both mr. durnford's words and tone; but the admonitory sign passed unobserved. "well, then," resumed mr. caske, "think of the money he gave away during the winter. he seemed to want to do everything himself. there was hardly anything left for any one else to do." mr. durnford smiled inwardly at the idea of mr. caske making a grievance of the fact that there had been left to him no occasion for benevolence. "it was nothing but blankets, and coals, and money," continued mr. caske. "and then the families he has picked out of the slums and sent across the sea! and it's said he'll pay anybody's debts, and gives to any beggar, and will lend anybody as much money as they like to ask." at this point mr. botterill once more put in his word. "i heard, only the other day, that mr. horn had announced his intention of presenting the town with a free library and a public park." "it's like his impudence!" exclaimed mr. kershaw. "after that i can believe anything," cried mr. caske. "the man ought to be stopped. it's very much to be regretted that he ever came into the money. and what a fool he is from his own standpoint! when he has got rid of all his money, it will be doubly hard for him to go back to poverty again." mr. caske was speaking somewhat at random. "don't you think, sir," he concluded, with a facetious air, "that providence sometimes makes a mistake in these matters?" the question was addressed to the minister. "no, never!" exclaimed mr. durnford, with an emphasis which caused mr. caske to start so violently, that the stem of his pipe, which he had just replaced in his mouth, clattered against his teeth. "no, never! and least of all in the case of friend horn." the three critics of "the golden shoemaker" stared at the minister in amazement. they had been led to think mr. durnford was substantially in agreement with their views. "no, gentlemen," he resumed, "my opinion is quite the reverse of yours. i believe this almost unlimited wealth has been given to our friend, because he is eminently fitted to be the steward of his lord's goods." this declaration was followed by an awkward pause, which mr. caske was the first to break. "perhaps you think, sir," he said, in an injured tone, "that this upstart fellow is an example to us?" "mr. caske," responded the minister, "you have interpreted my words to a nicety." the three critics shuffled uneasily in their chairs. "yes," continued mr. durnford, "an example and a reproach! mr. horn has the true idea of the responsibilities of a christian man of wealth; you have missed it. he is resolved to use his money for god, to whom it belongs; you spend yours on yourselves--except in as far as you hoard it up you know not for whom or what. he is never satisfied that he is giving enough away; you grumble and groan over every paltry sovereign with which you are induced to part. he will be able to give a good account of his stewardship when the lord comes; there will be an awkward reckoning for you in that day." the three friends had ceased to smoke, and were listening to mr. durnford's deliverance open-mouthed. they respected their minister, and valued his esteem. they were rather conscience-stricken, than offended now. "but, surely, sir," said mr. kershaw, presently, finding breath first of the three, "you wouldn't have us fling away our money, as he does?" "i shouldn't be in haste to forbid you, mr. kershaw, if you seemed inclined to take that course," said the minister, with a smile. "but, if you come within measurable distance of the example of our friend, you will do very well." "but," pleaded mr. botterill, "ought we not to consider our wives and families?" "you do, mr. botterill, you do," was the somewhat sharp reply. "but there still remains ample scope for the claims of god." upon this, there ensued a pause, which was at length broken by mr. caske, who, whatever might be his shortcomings, was not an ill-natured man. "well, sir," he remarked, good-humouredly, "you've hit us hard." "i am glad you are sensible of the fact," was the pleasant reply. "no doubt you are!" rejoined mr. caske, in a somewhat jaunty tone. "and i suppose you intend now to give us an opportunity of following your advice?" "why, yes," said mr. durnford, with a smile, "i really came to ask you for the payment of certain subscriptions now due. it is time i was making up some of the quarterly payments. but, perhaps, after what has been said, you would like to take a day or two----?" "no, for my part," interposed mr. caske, "i don't want any time. i'll double my subscriptions at once." "same here," said mr. kershaw, concisely. "thank you, gentlemen!" said mr. durnford, briskly, entering the amounts in his note book. "now, mr. botterill." "well," was the reluctant response, "i suppose i shall have to follow suit." mr. durnford smiled. "thank you, gentlemen, all," he said. "keep that up, and it will afford you more pleasure than you think." when, shortly afterwards, the minister took his departure, the three friends resumed their smoking; but they did not return to their criticism of "the golden shoemaker." chapter xxxii. "in labours more abundant." unlike many wealthy professors of religion, "the golden shoemaker" did not suppose that, in giving his money to the various funds of the church, he fulfilled, as far as he was concerned, all the claims of the cause of christ. he did not imagine that he could purchase, by means of his monetary gifts, exemption from the obligation to engage in active christian work. he did not desire to be thus exempt. his greatest delight was to be directly and actively employed in serving his divine lord; and so little did he think of availing himself of the occasion of his sudden accession to wealth to withdraw from actual participation in the service of christ, that he hailed with intense joy the richer opportunities of service with which he was thus supplied. for some years "cobbler" horn had been a teacher in a small mission sunday school, which was carried on in a low part of the town by several members of mr. durnford's church. but, about a year previous to the change in his circumstances, he had been persuaded by the minister to transfer his services to the larger school. he always made the conversion of his scholars his chief aim; and very soon after he entered on his new sphere, one of the boys in his class, a bright little fellow about nine years old, named willie raynor, had been very remarkably converted to god. the boy was promising to become a very thorough-going christian, and no one rejoiced more than he in the good fortune of "cobbler" horn. there was considerable speculation, amongst the friends and fellow-teachers of "the golden shoemaker," as to whether his altered circumstances would lead to the relinquishment of his work in the school. little willie raynor heard some whisper of this talk, and was much distressed. his relations with his beloved teacher were very close; and, without a moment's hesitation, he went straight to "cobbler" horn, and asked him what he was going to do. "mr. horn, you won't leave the school now you are a rich man, will you? because i don't think we can do without you!" "cobbler" horn was taken by surprise. the idea of leaving the school had never occurred to his mind. for one moment, there was a troubled look in his face. "who has put such nonsense into your head, laddie?" "oh, i've heard them talking about it. but i said i was sure they were wrong." "why, of course they were, dear lad. why should i leave the school? haven't i more reason than ever to work for the lord?" "oh, i'm so glad!" and willie went home with a bounding heart. meanwhile curiosity continued to be felt and expressed on every hand, as to the course "the golden shoemaker" would actually pursue; and no little surprise was created as, sunday after sunday, he was still seen sitting in the midst of his class, as quietly and modestly as though he were still the poor cobbler whom everybody had known so well. nor was he content simply to continue the work he had been accustomed to do for christ during his previous life. the larger leisure which his wealth had brought, enabled him to multiply his religious and benevolent activities to an almost unlimited extent. he went about doing good from morning to night. he rejoiced to exercise for god the all but boundless influence which his money enabled him to exert. his original plan--which he persistently followed--of mending, free of charge, the boots and shoes of the poorer portion of his former customers was but one amongst many means by which he strove to benefit his necessitous fellowmen. he never gave money for the relief of distress, without ascertaining whether there was anything that he could do personally to help. he made it a point also to offer spiritual consolation to those upon whom he bestowed temporal benefactions. hardly a day but found him in the abode of poverty, or in the sick-room; and not one of his numberless opportunities of speaking the words which "help and heal" did he let slip. one evening, as he was passing through a poor part of the town, he came into collision with a drunken man, who was in the act of entering a low public-house. the wretched creature looked up into "cobbler" horn's face, and "cobbler" horn recognised him as a formerly respectable neighbour of his own. "richard," he cried, catching the man by the arm, "don't go in there!" "shall if i like, thomas," said the man, thickly, recognising "cobbler" horn in turn. "d'yer think 'cause ye're rich, yer has right t' say where i shall go in, and where i shan't go in?" "oh, no, richard," said "cobbler" horn, with his hand still on the man's arm. "but you've had enough drink, and had better go quietly home." as he spoke, he gradually drew his captive further away from the public-house. the man struggled furiously, talking all the time in rapid and excited tones. "let me a-be!" he exclaimed with a thickness of tone which was the combined result of indignation and strong drink. "you ha' no right to handle me like this! ain't this a free country? where's the perlice?" "come along, richard; you'll thank me to-morrow," persisted "cobbler" horn quietly, moving his captive along another step or two. but, by this time, a crowd was beginning to gather; and it seemed likely that, although richard himself might not be able effectually to resist his captor, "cobbler" horn's purpose would be frustrated in another way. in fact the crowd--a sadly dilapidated crew--had drawn so closely around the centre of interest, as to render almost impossible the further progress of the struggling pair. at this point, some one recognised "cobbler" horn. "yah!" he cried, "it ain't a fight, after all! it's 'the golden shoemaker' a-collarin' a cove wot's drunk!" at the announcement of "the golden shoemaker," the people crowded up more closely than ever. while all had heard of that glittering phenomenon, perhaps few had actually seen him, and the present opportunity was not to be lost. "cobbler" horn grasped the situation, and resolved, under the inspiration of the moment, to turn it to good account. he was not afraid that these people would interfere with his present purpose. he could see that they were regarding him with too much interest and respect for that. moreover, since richard belonged to another part of the town, his fortunes would not awaken any special sympathy in the breasts of the crowd. on the other hand, there was a possibility that the delay caused by the gathering of the crowd might enable "cobbler" horn to make a deeper impression on his poor degraded friend, than if he had simply dragged him home from the public-house. exerting, therefore, all his strength, he thrust the hapless richard forth at arm's length, and, in emphatic tones, bespoke for him the attention of the crowd. "look at him!" he exclaimed. "once he was a respectable man, tidy and bright; and he wasn't ashamed to look anybody in the face. and now see what he is!" the crowd looked, and saw a slovenly and dissipated man, who hung his head, with a dull feeling of shame. the people gazed upon the wretched man in silence. they were awed by the solemn and impressive manner in which they had been addressed. "this man," resumed "cobbler" horn, "once had a thriving business and a comfortable home. now his business has gone to the dogs, and his home has become a den. his wife and children are ragged and hungry; and i question if he has a penny piece left that he can justly call his own. the most complete ruin stares him in the face, and he probably won't last another year." the crowd still gazed, and listened in silence. "and, do you ask," continued "cobbler" horn, "what has done all this? no, you don't; you know too well. it's drink--the stuff that many of you love so much. for there are many of you,"--and he swept the crowd with a scrutinizing glance--"who are far on the same downward way as this poor fool. he was my neighbour and friend; and he had as nice a little wife as ever brightened a home. but it would make the heart of a stone bleed to see her as i saw her but a few days ago. but, there; go home, richard! and may god help you to become a man once more!" so saying, he released his captive; and the wretched creature, partially sobered with astonishment and shame, crept through the crowd, which parted for him to pass, and staggered off on his way towards home. then, like some ancient prophet, upon whom the spirit of the lord had come, "the golden shoemaker" turned and preached, from the living text of his besotted friend, a telling impromptu temperance sermon to the motley crowd. the whole incident was quite unpremeditated. he had never dreamt that he would do such a thing as he was doing now. but that by no means lessened the effect of his burning words, which went home to the hearts, and even to the consciences of not a few of those by whom they were heard. when he had finished, he passed on, and left his hearers to their thoughts. but, for himself, there had been shown to him yet another way in which he might work for god; and, thereafter, "the golden shoemaker" was often seen at the corners of back streets, and in the recesses of the slums, preaching, to all who would hear, that glorious gospel of which the message of mercy to the victims of strong drink is, after all, only a part. chapter xxxiii. tommy dudgeon on the watch. it will be remembered that, after bursting into the back-room with the declaration, "she's come back!" tommy dudgeon had suddenly pulled himself up and substituted the commonplace statement that he had "seen the sec'tary." in fact, though, on marking the manner in which miss owen had stepped out of the house and walked along the street, he had, for an instant, imagined that little marian had actually returned, the calmer moments which followed had shown him what seemed the folly of such a supposition. what real resemblance could there be between a child of five and a young woman of eighteen? he had, indeed, seemed to see, this afternoon, the very same determined look, and the pretty purposeful step, with which the little maid whom he had loved had passed out of his sight so long ago. but he now assured himself that "it was only the sec'tary after all." the child, for whom he had not ceased to mourn, would certainly come back, but not like that. it was inevitable that unimaginative tommy dudgeon should at first dismiss the possibility that little wild-flower marian should have returned in the person of the lady-secretary. but, none the less, the sight of the secretary had brought back to him the vision of little marian as he had seen her last; and thenceforth he was supplied with matter for much perplexing thought. fortunately the occupants of the room into which he had burst with his hasty exclamation, who consisted of his brother and his brother's wife alone, had but indistinctly caught his words. consequently no one was any the wiser, and he was able to assure himself that his first impression with regard to the "sec'tary" was still the secret of his own breast. it was a secret, however, which gave him no little trouble. the vanishing of the child had occasioned him bitter grief. he had not only mourned in respectful sympathy with the stricken father, but he had also sorrowed on his own account. he had very tenderly loved little marian horn. she had come to him like a fairy, scattering clouds of care, and diffusing joy; and, since her departure, it had seemed as though the sunshine had ceased to visit the narrow street upon which he looked out through the window, and from the doorway, of his little shop. and tommy's regret for the loss of the child was rendered keener by a haunting consciousness that a measure of responsibility for it belonged to himself. might he not have prevented her departure? he could not, indeed, have been supposed to know that she was running away. but he did not allow himself to plead any excuse on that account. he ought to have known, was his continual reflection, that she would come to harm--going away by herself like that; and, at least, he might have questioned her as to where she was going. through all the years, he had not ceased to afflict himself with such thoughts as these. once he actually mentioned his self-accusing thoughts to "cobbler" horn. it was on one of the rare occasions when the afflicted father had spontaneously spoken of his lost child to his humble friend. he gazed blankly at the little huckster, for a moment, as though he had not understood. then, perceiving his drift, he gently answered, "my dear friend, you could not help it. please do not speak of it again." tommy had always yearned for the recovery of the child; and, the wish being father to the thought, he fully shared with "cobbler" horn himself the expectation that she would eventually return. this expectation kept him on the alert; and there is little cause to wonder that even so slight a sign as the poise of the secretary's head, or the manner in which she walked, should have induced him to think, for some passing moments, that his long-cherished desire had been fulfilled at last. and now, although he had dismissed that belief, it had left him more vigilant than ever. it may be questioned, indeed, whether he had actually dismissed it, or whether, having been dismissed, it had really gone away. there are visitors who will take no hint to depart. it would seem that here was such a visitor. the discarded impression that little marian had come back in the person of "cobbler" horn's secretary refused to be banished from tommy dudgeon's mind. henceforth he would have no peace until he had set the fateful question at rest once for all. to this end he watched for the young secretary day by day. a hundred times a day he went to the shop-door, to gaze along the street; and at frequent intervals he craned his neck to get a better view through the window. he would leave the most profitable customer, at the sound of a footstep without, or at the shutting of a neighbouring door. he gave himself to deep ponderings, in the midst of which he became oblivious of all around. his anxiety told upon his appetite, and affected his health. his friends became alarmed; but, when they questioned him, he only shook his head. his very character seemed to be changed. hitherto he had been the most transparent of men; now he moved about with the air of a conspirator, and bore himself like one on whose heart some mysterious secret weighed. it was a long time before tommy's watching and pondering produced any definite result. miss owen seldom visited the street in which "the little twin brethren" had their shop. by the desire of her employer she never came to him in his old workshop, except upon business which could not be delayed. two or three times only, hitherto, had tommy dudgeon been privileged to feast his eyes on the dainty little figure, which, on his first sight of it, had awakened such tender memories in his mind. on each occasion those memories had returned as vividly as before; but the only result had been that his perplexity was sensibly increased. all through the winter, the perturbation of the little huckster's mind remained unallayed; but there came a day in early spring which set his questionings at rest. in that joyous season there was born to mr. and mrs. john dudgeon an eighth child. the fact that, this time, the arrival did not consist of twins was no less gratifying to the happy father, than to his much-enduring spouse. but the child was a fine one, and his birth almost cost his mother's life. as may be supposed, "the golden shoemaker" did not forget his humble friends in their trouble. he engaged for them the ablest doctor, and the most efficient nurse, that money could command. every day he sent messages of enquiry, and the messengers were never empty-handed. sometimes it was a servant who came; and sometimes it was the coachman--not bounder, but his successor, who was quite a different man--with the carriage. on the day of which we speak, the carriage had stopped at the door, and tommy dudgeon, on the watch as usual, observed that a young lady was sitting amongst its cushions. it was the four-wheeler, and its fair occupant, basket in hand, alighted nimbly as soon as it stopped. tommy vigorously rubbed his eyes. yes, it was the "sec'tary!" now, perhaps, his opportunity had come. as yet, he had never spoken to the "sec'tary," or heard her speak. he made his most polite bow, as she stepped into his shop. but how his heart thumped! he was shy with ladies at the best; but now, hope and fear, and a vague feeling that, with the entrance of this sprightly little lady, the past had all come back, increased his habitual nervousness a hundredfold. surely it was not the first time that little tossing dusky head, with its black sparkling eyes, had presented itself in his doorway! she paused a moment on the step, gazed around with a bewildered air, and shot a startled glance into the honest, eager face of the little man, who quivered from head to foot as he met her gaze. "that strange feeling again!" she thought, "i can never have been _here_ before, at any rate!" tommy dudgeon's own confusion prevented his perceiving the momentary discomposure of his visitor. the next minute, however, she was speaking to the little man in her cordial, unaffected way. "you are mr. dudgeon, i expect," she said, holding out her neatly-gloved hand. "how are you, this afternoon? but," she continued after a pause, "which mr. dudgeon is it--the one with a wife, or the one without? my name," she added in her lively way, "is owen--mr. horn's secretary, you know. you've heard of me, no doubt, mr. dudgeon?" tommy dudgeon had not yet found his tongue. "but," she broke out again, "i'm not giving you a chance to tell me who you are. is it mr. dudgeon, or mr. john? you see i know all about you." tommy dudgeon was in no condition to answer miss owen's question, even yet, simple though it was. if the sight of her had brought back the past, what thronging memories crowded upon him at the sound of her voice--wooing, wilful, joyously insistent! but that she was so womanly and ladylike, and that he knew she was "only the sec'tary," he would have been ready to advance upon her with outstretched hands, and ask her if she had quite forgotten tommy dudgeon--her old friend, tommy? as it was, he stood staring like one bewitched. miss owen, wondering at his silence, and his fixed gaze, repeated her question in another form. "i don't wish to be rude; but are you the husband, or is it your brother?" tommy pulled himself together with a gasp. "my name is thomas, miss. it is my brother who is married, and whose wife is ill." "then, mr. thomas, i'm glad to make your acquaintance. how is your brother's wife to-day? i've brought a few little things from miss horn, with her respects." miss owen herself would have said "love," rather than respects. but it was a great concession on the part of miss jemima to send anything at all to "those dudgeons," with or without a message of any kind, and was quite a sign of grace. "it's very kind of miss horn," said tommy, who was still perturbed; "and of you as well, miss. perhaps you will see my sister-in-law? she's much better, and sitting up--and able to converse." as he spoke, he led the way into the kitchen, in the doorway of which the young girl once more paused, and looked around in the same bewildered way as before. but she instantly recovered herself; and, at the invitation of a woman who was in attendance, proceeded to mount the narrow stairs. miss owen was performing a thoroughly congenial errand. it was her delight to be, in any way, the instrument of the wide-spread benevolence and varied christian ministrations of her beloved employer. nor was it an insignificant service which she therein performed. her tender companionship had been of scarcely less benefit to the crippled girl than the almost daily rides which the generosity of "cobbler" horn enabled the poor invalid to enjoy; and her presence and sensible christian talk were quite as helpful to mrs. john dudgeon, as were the delicacies from miss jemima's kitchen. john dudgeon, who was acting as temporary nurse, rose to his feet as the secretary entered, and stole modestly downstairs. miss owen followed him with her eyes in renewed perplexity. what could it all mean? these dear, funny little men! had she known them in a former state of existence, or what? she came downstairs when she was ready to leave, and in the kitchen she paused once more. on one side of the fire-place was an old arm-chair with a leather cushion. seized with a sudden fancy, miss owen addressed the woman, who was waiting to see her out. "may i sit in that chair a moment?" she asked. "certainly, miss," was the civil reply; and, in another moment, the young secretary had crossed the room, and seated herself in the chair. "how strange!" she murmured. "how familiar everything is!" at that moment, tommy dudgeon came in from the shop; and, on seeing miss owen in the old arm-chair, he stopped short, and uttered a cry. "i beg your pardon, miss; i thought----" it was in that very chair, standing in exactly the same spot as now, that little marian had been accustomed to sit, when she used to come in and delight the two little bachelors with her quaint sayings, and queen it over them in her pretty wilful way. for her sake, the old chair had been carefully preserved. "you thought i was taking a liberty, no doubt, sir," said miss owen, jumping to her feet, with a merry laugh; "and quite right too." tommy was horrified at the bare suggestion of such a thing. he begged her to sit down again, and she laughingly complied, insisting that he should sit in the opposite chair. presently john came in, and stood looking calmly on. he was visited by no disturbing memories. having chatted gaily, for a few minutes, with the two little men, miss owen took her leave. "it's all so strange!" she thought, as the carriage bore her swiftly away. then she knitted her brows, and clenched her hands in her lap. "oh," she half-audibly exclaimed, "what if i _have_ been here before? what if----" and she shivered with the excitement of the thought. * * * * * as for tommy dudgeon, all his doubts were put to flight at last. chapter xxxiv. a "father" and "mother" for the "home." about six weeks after this, the old hall at daisy lane was ready for opening as a "home" for waifs and strays. "cobbler" horn had visited daisy lane, from time to time, and he had also taken his sister and his young secretary to see the village and the old hall. he had been much pleased with the progress of the improvements, and had marked with satisfaction the transformation which, in pursuance of his orders, was being effected in the hall. it was clear that mr. gray was not only a most capable agent, but also a man after his employer's own heart; and it was evident that messrs. tongs and ball had assisted the agent in every possible way. the old hall seemed likely to become an ideal children's home. the arrangements were most complete. a staff of capable nurses, and a bevy of maid-servants, had been engaged; to whom were added a porter and two boys, together with a head gardener and three assistants, to make, and keep, beautiful the spacious grounds. a number of children had already been selected as inmates of the "home." setting aside the majority of the appeals, which had been many, from relatives who had children left on their hands by deceased parents, "cobbler" horn had adhered to his original purpose of receiving chiefly stray children--little ones with no friends, and without homes. with the aid of his lawyers, and of mr. durnford, he had much communication with workhouse and parish authorities, and even with the police; and, as the opening day of the "home" drew near, he had secured, as the nucleus of his little family, some dozen tiny outcasts, consisting of six or seven boys, and about as many girls. it now remained that a "father" and "mother" should be found. on this subject "the golden shoemaker" had talked much with his minister. he shrank from the thought of advertising his need. he was afraid of bringing upon himself an avalanche of mercenary applications. his idea was to fix upon some excellent christian man and woman who might be induced to accept the post as a sacred and delightful duty. they must be persons who loved children, and who were not in search of a living; and it would be none the worse if it were necessary for them to make what would be considered a sacrifice, in order to accept the post. "cobbler" horn looked around. he had no acquaintances in whom it seemed likely that his ideal would be realized. he mentioned his views to his lawyers, and they smiled in their indulgent way. messrs. tongs and ball had already learnt to respect their eccentric client. but it was difficult for their legal minds to regard the question of the appointment of a master and matron to the "home" exactly in the light in which it presented itself to "cobbler" horn. he spoke of his cherished desire to mr. durnford. "if i get the right man and woman, you know, sir, i shall be willing to pay them almost any amount of money. but i don't want them to know this beforehand. i must have a _father_ and _mother_ for my little family. it would be just as well," he added in faltering tones, "if they had lost a little one of their own. and i should like them to be some good christian man and his wife, who would undertake the work without asking about salary at all, and would leave it to me to make that all right. do you think they would trust me so far, mr. durnford?" mr. durnford smiled in his shrewd way. "if they knew you, mr. horn, they would rather trust you in the matter than suggest an amount themselves." "no doubt," responded "the golden shoemaker," with a smile. "but now, mr. durnford," he persisted for the twentieth time, "do you know of such a couple as i want?" they were in the minister's study. mr. durnford sat musing, with his arms resting upon his knees, and his hands together at the finger-tips. suddenly he looked up. "you want a couple who have lost a child, mr. horn? i can tell you of some good people who have found one." "cobbler" horn gave a slight start. "found a child! what child?" such were the thoughts which darted, like lightning, through his brain. then he smiled sadly to himself. of course what he had imagined, for an instant, could not be. "well" he said calmly, "who are they? let me hear!" for one moment only, mr. durnford hesitated to reply. "you will, perhaps, be startled, mr. horn, but must not misunderstand me, if i say that they are the excellent friends who have been as father and mother to your secretary, miss owen." "cobbler" horn was indeed startled. his thoughts had not turned in the direction indicated by the minister's suggestion--that was all. but he was not displeased. "ah!" he exclaimed. "well, if they are anything like my little secretary, they will do." "mr. and mrs. burton do not know that i have any thought of suggesting them to you, mr. horn. nor have i the least idea whether or not they would accept the post. mr. burton holds a good position on the railway, in birmingham, which i know he has no present intention of relinquishing. but there is not another couple of my acquaintance who would be likely to meet your wishes as well as these good friends of mine. you know, of course, that miss owen was found and rescued by them, when she was quite a little thing?" "yes," was the thoughtful reply; "and you really think they are the kind of persons i want?" "i do, indeed." "well, well! but might i ask them, do you think?" "perhaps," said mr. durnford, "it would be as well to mention it to miss owen first." "might i do that, think you?" "by all means!" "then i will." he spoke to his secretary that very day. miss owen was delighted with the proposal, and approved of it with all her heart. she hoped mr. and mrs. burton would consent, and felt almost sure that they would. after that the minister agreed to convey the request of "the golden shoemaker" to his good friends. for this purpose, he made a journey to birmingham, and, on the evening of his return, called on "cobbler" horn. "well?" enquired the latter eagerly, almost before the minister had taken his seat. "our friends are favourably disposed," replied mr. durnford; "but they would like to have a personal interview first." "by all means. when can they see me? and where?" "well, it would be a great convenience to mr. burton if you would go there. he cannot very well get away. but he could arrange to meet you at his own house." acting upon this suggestion, "cobbler" horn paid a visit to birmingham, the outcome of which was the engagement of mr. and mrs. burton as "father" and "mother" of the "home." chapter xxxv. the opening of the "home." at length the day arrived for the opening of the "home." it was early in june, and the weather was superb. all the inhabitants of daisy lane, whether tenants of "cobbler" horn or not, were invited to the opening ceremony, and to the festivities which were to occupy the remainder of the day. there was to be first a brief religious service in front of the hall, after which miss jemima was to unlock the great front door with a golden key. then would follow a royal feast in a marquee on the lawn; and, during the afternoon and evening, the house and grounds would be open to all. the religious service was to be conducted by mr. durnford. the parish clergyman had been invited to take part, but had declined. many of his brother-clergymen would have hailed with joy such an opportunity of fulfilling the spirit of their religion; but the vicar of daisy lane regarded the matter in a different light. in due course "cobbler" horn, miss jemima, the young secretary, tommy dudgeon--to whom had been given a very pressing invitation to join the party,--and mr. durnford, alighted from the train at the station which served for daisy lane, and were met by mr. gray. "well, mr. gray," said "the golden shoemaker," who was in a buoyant, and almost boisterous mood, "how are things looking?" "everything promises well, sir," replied the agent, who was beaming with pleasure. "the arrangements are all complete; and everybody will be there--that is, with the exception of the vicar. save his refusal to be present, there has not, thus far, been a single hitch." "i wish," said "cobbler" horn, "that we could have got the poor man to come--for his own sake, i mean." "yes, sir; he will do himself no good. it's well they're not all like that." mr. gray had brought his own dog-cart for the gentlemen; and he had provided for the ladies a comfortable basket-carriage, of which his son, a lad of fifteen, had charge. the dog-cart was a very different equipage from the miserable turn-out with which the agent had met his employer on the occasion of his first visit. everything was of the best--the highly-finished trap, the shining harness, the dashing horse; and "cobbler" horn was thankful to mark the honest pride with which the agent handled the reins. a few minutes brought them to daisy lane. here indeed was a change! an unstinted expenditure of money, the toil of innumerable workmen, and the tireless energy and ever-ready tact of mr. gray, had converted the place into a model village. instead of dropsical and rotting hovels, neat and smiling cottages were seen on every side. the vicarage, and the one farm-house not included in the property of "cobbler" horn, which had, aforetime, by their respectability and good repair, aggravated the untidiness and dilapidation of the rest of the village, were now rendered almost shabby by the fresh beauty of the renovated property of "the golden shoemaker." on every hand there were signs of rejoicing. it was evidently a gala day at daisy lane. over almost every garden gate there was an arch of flowers. streamers and garlands were displayed at every convenient point. such a quantity of bunting had never before fluttered in the breezes of daisy lane. as they approached the farm-house which "cobbler" horn had inspected on the occasion of his first visit, their progress was stayed by the farmer himself, who was waiting for them at his gate, radiant and jovial, a farmer, as it seemed, without a grievance! he advanced into the road with uplifted hand, and mr. gray and his son reined in their horses. the farmer approached the side of the dog-cart. "let me have a shake of your fist, sir," he said, seizing the hand of "the golden shoemaker." "you're a model landlord. no offence; but it's hard to believe that you're anyways related to that 'ere old skin-flint as was owner here afore you." the farmer wore on his breast a huge red rosette, almost as big as a pickling cabbage, as though the occasion had been that of an election day, or a royal wedding, or some other celebration equally august. "i'm glad you're satisfied with what mr. gray has done, mr. carter," said "cobbler" horn. "satisfied! that ain't the word! and, as for gray--well, he's a decent body enough. but it's little as he could ha' done, if you hadn't spoke the word." then they drove on, and the farmer followed in their wake, occupying, with the roll of his legs, and the flourish of his big stick, as much of the road as the carriages themselves. as they proceeded, they passed several groups of villagers, in gala dress, who were making their way towards the gates of the hall grounds. "these are the laggards," explained the agent, "the bulk of the people are already on the ground." "cobbler" horn was recognised by the people, most of whom knew him well by sight; and, while the men touched their hats, and the boys made their bows, the women curtseyed, and each girl gave a funny little bob. of all the novel sensations which his wealth had brought to "the golden shoemaker," this was the most distinctly and entirely new. it had not seemed to him more strange, though it had been less agreeable, to be the object of bounder's obsequious attentions, than it did now to receive the worship of these simple villagers. in due course they reached the hall gates, and entered the grounds. a large marquee, with its fluttering flags, had been erected on one side of the lawn, which was almost like a small field. the people were dispersed about the grass in gaily-coloured groups, though few of them had wandered very far from the gates. when the carriages were seen approaching, the various parties gathered more closely together; and the people arranged themselves in lines on either side of the drive. the horses were immediately brought to a walking pace; and then, a jolly young farmer leading off, the villagers rent the air with their shouts of welcome. it was the spontaneous tribute of these simple people to the man, whose coming had restored long unaccustomed comfort to their lives, and awakened new hope in their despondent breasts. "the golden shoemaker" raised his hat and waved his hand; and, inasmuch as the acclamations of the people were evidently intended for the ladies also, the young secretary nodded around with beaming smiles, and even miss jemima perceptibly bent her rigid neck. at length the joyous procession arrived in front of the hall steps. here mr. and mrs. burton were waiting to receive them. in response to their smiling welcome, "cobbler" horn shook these good people heartily by the hand, and, having introduced them to miss jemima, turned aside for a moment, that they might greet their adopted daughter. in a few moments, he turned to them again, and enquired if everything was to their mind. "everything, sir," said mr. burton. "the arrangements are perfect." "and our little family are all here," added mrs. burton, pointing, with motherly pride, to a row of clean and radiant boys and girls, who were ranged at the top of the steps. "cobbler" horn's face was illumined with a ray of pleasure, as he looked up, at mrs. burton's words; and yet there was a pensive shade upon his brow. miss jemima scrutinised the little regiment, and actually uttered a grunt of satisfaction. miss owen glanced from the happy child-faces to that of "cobbler" horn with eyes of reverent love. the children were not uniformly dressed; and they might very well have passed for the actual offspring of the kindly man and woman whom they were to know as "father" and "mother" from henceforth. "is everything ready, mr. gray?" asked "cobbler" horn. "yes, sir." "then let us begin." at a signal from mr. gray, the people drew more closely up to the foot of the steps; and it was noticeable that tommy dudgeon had withdrawn to a modest position amongst the crowd. a hymn was then announced by mr. durnford, and sung from printed papers which had been distributed amongst the people. then, while every head was bowed, the minister offered a brief, but fervent and appropriate prayer. next came an address from "cobbler" horn, in which, after explaining the purpose to which the hall was to be devoted, he took the opportunity of assuring those of his tenants who were present that he would, as their landlord, do his utmost to promote their welfare. his hearty words were received with great applause, which was redoubled when he led miss jemima to the front. the minister then stepped forward, and presented miss jemima with a golden key, with which she deftly unlocked the great door, and, having pushed it open, turned to the people, and bowing gravely in response to their cheers, made, for the first and last time in her life, a public speech. she had much pleasure, she said, in declaring the old hall open for the reception of friendless children, many of whom, she trusted, would find a happy home within its walls, and be there trained for a useful life. here miss jemima stopped abruptly, and looked straight before her, with a very stern face, as though angry with herself for what she had done. and then, under cover of the renewed cheers of the people, she withdrew into the background. the simple ceremony being over, the people were invited to enter the building and pass through the rooms. this invitation was freely accepted; and soon the various apartments of the renovated hall were filled with people, who did not hesitate to express their admiration of what they saw. when all the visitors had passed through the rooms, and admired to their hearts' content, the ringing of a large hand-bell on the lawn announced that dinner was ready. at the four long tables which ran the whole length of the marquee there was room for all, and very soon every seat was occupied. the grace was announced by mr. durnford, and sung by the people, with a heartiness which might have been expected of hungry villagers, who had been summoned to an unaccustomed and sumptuous feast. then the carvers got to work, and, as the waiters carried round the laden plates, comparative quiet reigned; but, when the plates began to reach the guests, the clatter of crockery, the rattle of knives and forks, and the babel of voices, made such a festive hubbub as was grateful to the ear. after dinner, there was speech-making and merriment; and then the people left the tent, and dispersed about the grounds. while the former part of this process was in progress, miss owen heard a fragment of conversation which caused her to tingle to her finger-tips. she had just moved towards one of the tables for the purpose of helping an old woman to rise from her seat, and her presence was not perceived by the speakers, whose faces were turned the other way. they were two village gossips, a middle-aged woman and a younger one. "is she his daughter?" were the words that fell upon the young secretary's ears, spoken by the elder woman in a stage whisper. "no," replied the other, in a similar tone. "he never had but one child--her as was lost. this one's the secretary, or some such." "well, i do say as she'd pass for his own daughter anywhere." miss owen was not nervous; but her heart beat tumultuously at the thoughts which this whispered colloquy suggested to her mind. she placed her hand upon the table to steady herself, as the two women, all unconscious of the effect of their gossiping words, moved slowly away. "the golden shoemaker" and his friends arrived at cottonborough late that night. a carriage was waiting for them at the station; and, having said "good night" to mr. durnford and tommy dudgeon, they were soon driven home. they were a quiet--almost silent--party. the events of the day had supplied them with much food for thought. the image of his little lost marian presented itself vividly to the mind of "cobbler" horn to-night. miss jemima's thoughts dwelt on what was her one tender memory--that of the tiny, dark-eyed damsel who had so mysteriously vanished from the sphere of her authority so long ago. and miss owen? well, when she had at last reached her room, her first act was to lock the door. then she knelt before her small hair-covered travelling trunk, and, having unlocked it, she slowly raised the lid and placed it back against the wall. for a moment she hesitated, and then, plunging her arm down at one corner of the trunk, amongst its various contents, she brought up, from the hidden depths, a small tissue paper parcel. this she opened carefully, and disclosed a tiny shoe, homely but neat, a little child's chemise, and an old, faded, pink print sun-bonnet, minus a string. in the upper leather of the shoe were several cuts, the work of some wanton hand. sitting back upon her heels, she let the open parcel fall into her lap. "what would i not give," she sighed, "to find the fellow of this little shoe! but no doubt it has long ago rotted at the bottom of some muddy ditch!" then, for the hundredth time, she examined the little chemise, at one corner of which were worked, in red cotton, the letters "m.h." "they have told me again and again that i had this chemise on when i was found. of course that doesn't prove that it was my own, and i have never supposed that those two letters stand for my name. but now--well, may it not be so, after all? it was really no more than a guess, on the part of mr. and mrs. burton, that my name was mary ann owen; and, from what i can see, it's just as likely to have been anything else. let me think; what name might 'm.h.' stand for? mary hall? margaret harper? mari----. no, no, i dare not think that--at least, not yet!" once more she wrapped up her little parcel of relics, and returned it to its place at the bottom of her trunk. "heigho!" she exclaimed, as, having closed and locked the trunk, she sprang to her feet. "how i do wonder who i am!" [illustration: "a tiny shoe."--_page ._] chapter xxxvi. tommy dudgeon undertakes a delicate enterprise. the time which had elapsed since the first visit of miss owen to the house of "the little twin brethren" had constituted, for tommy dudgeon, a period of mental unrest. if he had been perturbed before, he was twice as uneasy now. he had made the joyous discovery which he had been expecting to make almost ever since he had seen the young secretary walking in her emphatic way along the street. but, joyous as the discovery was, the making of it had actually increased the perturbation of his mind. his trouble was that he could not tell how he would ever be able to make his discovery known. he did not doubt that, to his dear friend, "cobbler" horn, and to the young secretary, the communication of it would impart great joy. but he was restrained by a fear, which would arise, notwithstanding his feeling of certainty, lest he should prove to be mistaken after all; and his fear was reinforced by an inward persuasion which he had that he was the most awkward person in the world by whom so delicate a communication could be made. yet he told himself he was quite sure that the young secretary was no other than little marian come back. his doubts had vanished when he had seen her sitting in the old arm-chair, just as when she was a child; and every time he had seen her since that day his assurance had been made more sure. but, as long as he was compelled to keep his discovery to himself, it was almost the same as though he had not made it at all. tommy almost wished that some one else had made the great discovery, as well as himself. his thoughts had turned to his brother john; and he had resolved to put him to the test, which he had subsequently done with considerable tact. on the evening of the day following that of the first visit of miss owen to their house, the brothers had been sitting by the fire before going to bed. "john," tommy had said, seizing his opportunity, "you saw the young lady who was here the other day?" "yes." "she's the secretary, you know." "yes," said john again, yawning; for he was sleepy. "well, what did you think of her?" john started, and regarded his brother with a stare of astonishment. it was the first time tommy had ever asked his opinion on such a subject. was he thinking of getting married, or what? john dudgeon had a certain broad sense of humour which enabled him to perceive such ludicrous elements of a situation as showed themselves on the surface. "ah!" he exclaimed slyly; "are you there?" tommy put out his hands in some confusion. "no, no," he said, "not what you think! but did you notice anything particular about the young lady?" "well no," replied john, "except that i thought she was a very nice young person. but, tommy, isn't she rather too young? if you really are thinking of getting married, wouldn't it be better to choose some one a little nearer your own age?" john would not be dissuaded from the idea that his brother was intent on matrimonial thoughts. tommy waved his hand, in a deprecatory way, and rising from his chair, said "good night," and betook himself to bed. it was plain that he was quite alone in his discovery. what was he to do? to speak to miss owen on the subject was out of the question. the only alternative was to communicate the good news to "cobbler" horn himself. but there seemed to be stupendous difficulties involved in such a course. he was aware that there was nothing his friend would more rejoice to know than that which he had to tell. from various hints thrown out by "cobbler" horn, tommy knew that he regarded miss owen with much of the fondness of a father; and it was not likely that the joy of finding his lost child would be diminished in the least by the fact that she had presented herself in the person of his secretary. but this consideration did not relieve the perplexity with which the little huckster contemplated the necessity of making known his secret to "cobbler" horn. for, to say nothing of the initial obstacle of his own timidity, he feared it would be almost impossible to convince his friend that his strange surmise was correct. if "cobbler" horn had not discovered for himself the identity of his secretary with his long-lost child, was it likely that he would accept that astounding fact on the testimony of any other person? it is needless to say that tommy dudgeon made his perplexity a matter of prayer. he prayed and pondered, night and day; and, at length a thought came to him which seemed to point out the way of which he was in search. might he not give "cobbler" horn some covert hint which would put him on the track of making the great discovery for himself? surely some such thing, though difficult, might be done! he must indeed be cautious, and not by any means reveal his design. the suggestion must seem to be incidental and unpremeditated. there must be no actual mention of little marian, and no apparently intentional indication of miss owen. something must be said which might induce "cobbler" horn to associate the idea of his little lost marian with that of his young secretary--to place them side by side before his mind. and it must all arise in the course of conversation, the order of which--he tommy dudgeon, must deliberately plan. the audacity of the thought made his hair stand up. it was a delicate undertaking indeed! the little man felt like a surgeon about to perform a critical operation upon his dearest friend. he was preparing to open an old wound in the heart of his beloved benefactor. true, he hoped so to deal with it that it should never bleed again. but what if he failed? that would be dreadful! yet the attempt must be made. so he set himself to his task. his opportunity came on the afternoon of the day following that of the opening of the "home." watching from the corner of his window, as he was wont, about three o'clock, tommy saw "the golden shoemaker" come along the street, and enter his old house. then the little man turned away from the window, and became very nervous. for quite two minutes he stood back against the shelves, trying to compose himself. when he had succeeded, in some degree, in steadying his quivering nerves, he reached from under the counter a brown-paper parcel containing a pair of boots, which had, for some days, been lying in readiness for the occasion which had now arrived, and, calling john to mind the shop, slipped swiftly into the street. a minute later he was standing in the doorway of "cobbler" horn's workshop. "the little twin brethren" had, at first, been disposed to refrain from availing themselves of the gratuitous labours of their friend; but, perceiving that it would afford him pleasure, they had yielded with an easy grace, and now tommy was glad to have so good an excuse for a visit to "the golden shoemaker," as was supplied by the boots in the parcel under his arm. "cobbler" horn perceived the nervousness of his visitor, and thinking it strange that the bringing of a pair of boots to be mended should have occasioned his humble little friend so much trepidation, he did his best, by adopting a specially sociable tone, to put him at his ease. "ah, tommy, what have we there?" he asked. "more work for the 'cobbler,' eh?" "just an old pair of boots which want mending, mr. horn," said tommy, in uncertain tones, as he unwrapped the boots and held them out with a shaking hand--"that is, if you are not too busy." "not by any means," said "cobbler" horn, with a smile. "put them down." tommy obeyed. there stood against the wall, a much-worn wooden chair from which the back had been sawn off close. "i'll sit down, if you don't mind," gasped tommy, depositing himself upon this superannuated seat. "by all means," said "cobbler" horn cordially; "make yourself quite at home." "thank you," said tommy, drawing from his pocket a red and yellow handkerchief, with which he vigorously mopped his brow. "cobbler" horn waited calmly for his perturbed visitor to become composed; and tommy sat for some minutes, staring helplessly at "cobbler" horn, and still rubbing his forehead. what had become of the astute plan of operations which the little man had laid down? "you have surely something on your mind, friend?" said "cobbler" horn, in an enquiring tone. "yes, i have," said tommy, somewhat relieved; "it's been there for some time." "well, what is it? can i help you in any way?" "oh, no; i don't want help." his utterly incapacitated demeanour belied him; but he was speaking of financial help. "i've been thinking of the past, mr. horn," he managed to say, making a faint effort to direct the conversation according to his original design. "ah!" sighed "cobbler" horn. "of the past!" with the word, his thoughts darted back to that period of his own past towards which they so often sadly turned. "i somehow can't help it," continued tommy, gathering courage. "there seems to be something that keeps bringing it up." "cobbler" horn fixed his keen eyes on the agitated face of his visitor. he knew what it was in the past to which tommy referred, and appreciated his delicacy of expression. "yes, tommy," he said, "and i, too, often think of the past. but is there anything special that brings it to your mind just now?" upon this, all tommy dudgeon's clever plans vanished into air. his scheme for leading the conversation up to the desired point utterly broke down. he cast himself on the mercy of his friend. "oh," he cried, in thrilling tones, "can't you see it? can't you feel it--every day? the sec'tary! the sec'tary! if it is so plain to me, how can you be so blind?" then he darted from the room, and betook himself home with all speed. chapter xxxvii. between life and death. "cobbler" horn's first thought was that the strain of eccentricity in his humble little friend had developed into actual insanity. but, on further consideration, he was disposed to take another view. he felt bound to admit that, though there had been a strangeness in the behaviour of the little man throughout his visit, it had not afforded any actual ground for the suspicion of insanity, until he had so suddenly rushed away home. it was, therefore, possible that there might prove to be some important meaning in what he had said. at first "cobbler" horn had gathered nothing intelligible from the impassioned apostrophe of his excited little friend; but, by degrees, there dawned upon him some faint gleam of what its meaning might be. "the sec'tary!" that was the quaint term by which tommy was wont to designate miss owen. but their conversation had been drifting in the direction of his little lost marian. why, then, should miss owen have been in tommy's mind? ah, he saw how it was! his humble friend had perceived that miss owen was a dear, good girl; and he had noticed her evident attachment to him--"cobbler" horn, and his fondness for her, and no doubt the little man had meant to suggest that she should take the place of the lost child. it was characteristic of his humble friend that he should seek, by such a hint, to point out a course which, no doubt, seemed to him, likely to afford satisfaction to all concerned; and "cobbler" horn could not help admiring the delicacy with which it had been done. "the golden shoemaker" was quite persuaded that he had hit upon the right interpretation of the little huckster's words; and he was not altogether displeased with the suggestion he supposed them to convey. of course marian would ultimately come back; and no one else could be permitted permanently to occupy her place. but there was no reason why he should not let his young secretary take, for the time being, as far as possible, the place which would have been filled by his lost child. in fact, miss owen was almost like a daughter to him already; and he was learning to love her as such. well, he would adopt the suggestion of his little friend. his secretary should fill, for the time, the vacant place in his life. yet he would never leave off loving his precious marian; and her own share of love, which could never be given to another, must be reserved for her against her return, when he would have two daughters instead of one. thus mused "the golden shoemaker," until, suddenly recollecting himself, he started up. he had promised to visit one of his former neighbours, who was sick, and it was already past the time at which the visit should have been made. he hastily threw off his leathern apron, and put on his coat and hat. at the same moment, he observed that heavy rain was beating against the window. it was now early summer; and, misled by the fair face of the sky, he had left home without an umbrella. what was he to do? he passed into the kitchen, and opening the front door, stood looking out upon the splashing rain. behind him, in the room, sat, at her sewing, the good woman whom he had placed in charge of the house. she was small, and plump, and shining, the very picture of content. her manner was respectful, and, as a rule, she did not address "cobbler" horn until he had spoken to her. to-day, however, she was the first to speak. "surely, sir, you won't go out in such a rain!" as she spoke, the shower seemed suddenly to gather force, and the rain to descend in greater volume than ever. "thank you, mrs. bunn," replied "cobbler" horn, looking round. "i think i will wait for a moment or two; but i have no time to spare, and must go soon, in any case." the rain had turned the street into a river, upon the surface of which the plumply-falling drops were producing multitudes of those peculiar gleaming white splashes which are known to childhood as "sixpences and half-crowns." all at once the downpour diminished. the sky became lighter, and the sun showed a cleared face through the thinning clouds. "i think i may venture now," said "cobbler" horn. "better wait a little longer, sir; it 'ull come on again," said mrs. bunn, with the air of a person to whom the foibles of the weather were fully known. but "cobbler" horn was already in the street, and had not heard her words. it was some distance to the house of his sick friend, and he walked along at a rapid pace. but before he had proceeded far, the prophecy of mrs. bunn was fulfilled. in a moment, the sky grew black again; and, after a preliminary dash of heavy drops, the rain came down in greater abundance than before. it almost seemed as though a water-spout had burst. in two minutes, "the golden shoemaker" was wet to the skin. he might have returned to the house, from which he was distant no more than a few hundred yards; but he thought that, as he was already wet through, he might as well go on. besides, "cobbler" horn's promise was sacred, and it had been given to his sick friend. so he plunged on through the flooded and splashing streets. when he reached his destination, he was glad that he had not turned back. his poor friend was much worse, and it was evident that he had not many hours to live. forgetful of his own discomfort, and heedless of danger from his wet clothes, "cobbler" horn took his place at the bedside, and remained for many hours with the dying man. his friend was a christian, and did not fear to die. he had never been married, was almost without relatives, and had scarcely a friend. as, hour after hour, he held the hand of the dying man, "cobbler" horn whispered in his ear, from time to time, a cheering word, or breathed a fervent prayer. the feeble utterances of the dying man, which became less frequent as the hours crept away, left no doubt as to the reality of his faith in god, and, about midnight, he passed peacefully away. "cobbler" horn lingered a few moments' longer, and set out for home. the rain had long ceased, and the sky was without a cloud. the semi-tropical shower had been followed by a rapid cooling of the atmosphere, and he shivered in his still damp clothes, as he hurried along. he found miss jemima and the young secretary anxiously awaiting his return. they knew of his intention of visiting his sick friend, and were not much surprised that he was so late. but his sister was greatly concerned to find that he had remained so long with his clothes damp. he went at once to bed, and miss jemima insisted upon bringing to him there a steaming basin of gruel. he took a few spoonfuls, and then lay wearily back upon the bed. miss jemima shook up his pillows, arranged the bed-clothes, and reluctantly left him for the night. in the morning it was evident that "the golden shoemaker" was ill. the wetting he had received, followed by the effect of the chill night air, had found out an unsuspected weakness in his constitution, and symptoms of acute bronchitis had set in. the doctor was hastily summoned, and, after the manner of his kind, gravely shook his head, by way of intimating that the case was much more serious than he was prepared verbally to admit. the condition of the patient, indeed, was such as to justify the most alarming interpretation of the doctor's manner and words. now followed a time of painful suspense. in spite of all that money could do, "cobbler" horn grew worse daily. the visits of the doctor, though repeated twice, and even three times a day, produced but little appreciable result. could it be that this man, into whose possession such vast wealth had so recently come, was so early to be called to relinquish it again? was it possible that all this money was so soon to drop from the hands which had seemed more fit to hold it than almost any other hands to which had ever been entrusted the disposal of money? miss jemima did not ask herself such questions as these. she moved about the house, trying, in her grim way, to crush down within her heart the anguished thought that her beloved and worshipped brother lay at the point of death. and miss owen--with what emotions did she contemplate the possibility of that dread event the actual occurrence of which became more probable every day? she went about her duties like one in a dream. what would it mean to her if he were to die? she would lose a great benefactor, and a dear friend; and that would be grief enough. but was there not something more that she would lose--something which had seemed almost within her grasp, which it had hitherto been the hope, and yet the fear, of her life that she might find, but which, of late, she had desired to find with an ardent and unhalting hope? it was with a sick heart that the young secretary discharged, from day to day, her now familiar duties. she was now so well acquainted with the mind of her employer, that she could deal with the correspondence almost as well without, as with, his help. but she missed him every moment, and the thought that he might never again take his place over against her at the office table filled her with bitter grief. there were others who were anxious on account of the peril which threatened the life of "the golden shoemaker." mr. durnford was weighted with grave concern. he called every day to see his friend; and each time he left the sick-chamber, he was uncertain whether his predominant feeling was that of sorrow for the illness and danger of so good a man, or rejoicing that, in his pain and peril, "cobbler" horn was so patient and resigned. in the breasts of many who were accustomed to receive benefits at the hands of "the golden shoemaker," there was great distress. every day, and almost every hour, there were callers, chiefly of the humbler classes, with anxious enquiries on their lips. not the least solicitous of these were "the little twin brethren." tommy dudgeon almost continually haunted the house where his honoured friend lay in such dire straits. the anxiety of the little man was intensified by a burning desire to know whether his desperate appeal on the subject of the "sec'tary" had produced its designed effect on the mind of "cobbler" horn. public sympathy with "cobbler" horn and his anxious friends ran deep; and every one who could claim, in any degree, the privilege of a friend, made frequent enquiry as to the sufferer's state. but neither public sympathy nor private grief were of much avail; and it seemed, for a time, as though the earthly course of "the golden shoemaker" was almost run. there came a day when the doctors confessed that they could do no more. a few hours must decide the question of life or death. dreadful was the suspense in the stricken house, and great the sorrow in many hearts outside. mr. durnford, who had been summoned early in the morning, remained to await the issue of the day. little tommy dudgeon, who had been informed that the crisis was near, came, and lingered about the house, on one pretence or another, unable to tear himself away. but how was it with "the golden shoemaker" himself? from the first, he had been calm and patient; and, even now, when he was confronted with the grim visage of death, he did not flinch. long accustomed to leave the issues of his life to god, willing to live yet prepared to die, he realized his position without dismay. no doctor ever had a more tractable patient than was "cobbler" horn; and he yielded himself to his nurses like an infant of days. in the earlier stages of his illness, he had thought much about the mysterious words and strange behaviour of his friend tommy dudgeon, on the day on which he had been taken ill. further consideration had not absolutely confirmed "cobbler" horn's first impression as to the meaning of the little huckster's words. pondering them as he lay in bed, he had become less sure that his humble little friend had intended simply to suggest the admirable fitness of the young secretary to take the place of his lost child. surely, he had thought, the impassioned exclamation of the eccentric little man must have borne some deeper significance than that! and then he had become utterly bewildered as to what meaning the singular words of tommy dudgeon had been intended to convey. and then there came a glimmering--nothing more--of the idea his faithful friend had wished to impart. but, just when he might have penetrated the mystery, if he could have thought it out a little more, he became too ill to think at all. after this his mind wandered slightly, and once or twice a strange fancy beset him that his little marian was in the room, and that she was putting her soft hands on his forehead; but, in a moment, the fancy was gone, and he was aware that the young secretary was laying her cool gentle palm upon his burning brow. it had been a wonderful comfort to the girl that she had been permitted to take a spell of nursing now and then. chapter xxxviii. a little shoe. that which happens now and then occurred in the case of "cobbler" horn. the doctors proved to be mistaken; and thanks to a strong and unimpaired constitution, and to the blessing of god on efficient nursing and medical skill, "the golden shoemaker" survived the crisis of his illness, and commenced a steady return to health and strength. great was the joy on every side. but, perhaps, the person who rejoiced most was miss owen. not even the satisfaction of miss jemima at the ultimate announcement of the doctors, that their patient might now do well, was greater than was that of the young secretary. miss owen rejoiced for very special reasons of her own. during the convalescence of "cobbler" horn, the young secretary was with him very much. he was glad to have her in his room; and, as his strength returned, he talked to her often about herself. he seemed anxious to know all she could tell him of her early life. "sit down here, by the bed," he would say eagerly, taking her plump, brown wrist in his wasted fingers, "and tell me about yourself." she would obey him, laughing gently, less at the nature of the request, than at the eagerness with which it was made. "now begin," he said one evening, for the twentieth time, settling himself beneath the bed-clothes to listen, as though he had never heard the story before; "and mind you don't leave anything out." "well," she commenced, "i was a little wandering mite, with hardly any clothes and only one shoe. i was----" his hand was on her arm in an instant. this was the first time she had mentioned the fact that, when she was found by the friends by whom she had been brought up, one of her feet was without a shoe. "only one shoe, did you say?" asked "cobbler" horn, in tremulous tones. "yes," she replied, not suspecting the tumult of thoughts her simple statement had excited in his mind. in truth, her statement had agitated her listener in no slight degree. he did not, as yet, fully perceive its significance. but the coincidence was so very strange! one shoe! only one shoe! his little marian had lost one of her shoes when she strayed away. a wonderful coincidence, indeed! "i was very dirty, and my clothes were torn," resumed miss owen; "and i was altogether a very forlorn little thing, i have no doubt. i don't remember much about it, myself, you know; but mrs. burton has often told me that i was crying at the time, and appeared to have been so engaged for some time. it was one evening in june, and getting dusk. mr. and mrs. burton had been for a walk in the country, and were returning home, when they came upon me, walking very slowly, poking my fists into my eyes, and crying, as i said. when they asked me what was the matter, i couldn't tell them much. i seemed to be trying to say something about a 'bad woman,' and my 'daddy.' they couldn't even make out, with certainty, what i said my name was. little as you might think it, mr. horn. i was a very bad talker in those days. 'mary ann owen' was what my kind friends thought i called myself; and 'mary ann owen' i have been ever since. "well, these dear people took me home; and, after they had washed me, and found some clothes for me which had belonged to a little girl they had lost--their only child--they gave me a good basin of bread and milk, and put me to bed. "the next day they tried to get me to tell them something more, but it was no use; and as i couldn't tell them where i lived, and they didn't even feel sure about my name, they naturally felt themselves at a loss. but i don't think they were much troubled about that; for i believe they were quite prepared to keep me as their own child. you see they had lost a little one; and there was a vacant place that i expect they thought i might fill. they did, at first, try to find out who i was. but they altogether failed; and so, without more ado, they just made me their own little girl. they taught me to call them 'father' and 'mother'; and they have always been so good and kind!" though several points in miss owen's story had touched him keenly, "cobbler" horn quickly regained his composure after the first start of surprise. feeling himself too weak to do battle with agitating thoughts, he put aside, for the time, the importunate questions which besieged his mind. "thank you," he said quietly, when the narrative was finished. "to-morrow we will talk about it all again. i think i can go to sleep now. but will you first, please, read a little from the dear old book." the young girl reached a bible which stood always on a table by the bedside, and, turning to one of his favourite places, read, in her sweet clear tones, words of comfort and strength. then she bade him "good night," and moved towards the door. but he called her back. "will you take these letters?" he said, with his hand on a bundle of letters which lay on the table at his side; "and put them into the safe." they were letters of importance, to which he had been giving, during the evening, such attention as he was able. during his illness, he had allowed his secretary to keep the key of the safe. miss owen took the letters, and went downstairs. going first into the dining-room, she told miss jemima that "cobbler" horn seemed likely to go to sleep, and then proceeded to the office. without delay, she unlocked the safe, and was in the act of depositing the bundle of letters in its place, when, from a recess at the back, a small tissue-paper parcel, which she had never previously observed, fell down to the front, and became partially undone. as she picked it up, intending to restore it to the place from which it had fallen, her elbow struck the side of the safe, and the parcel was jerked out of her hand. in trying to save it, she retained in her grasp a corner of the paper, which unfolded itself, and there fell out upon the floor a little child's shoe, around which was wrapped a strip of stained and faded pink print. at a sight so unexpected she uttered a cry. then she picked up the little shoe, and, having released it from its bandage, turned it over and over in her hands. next she gave her attention to the piece of print. she was utterly dazed. suddenly the full meaning of her discovery flashed upon her mind. she dropped the simple articles by which she had been so deeply moved, and, covering her face with her hands, burst into a paroxysm of joyous tears. but her agitation was brief. hastily drying her eyes, she picked up the little shoe. no need to wait till she had compared it with the one which lay in the corner of her box! the image of the latter was imprinted on her mind with the exactness of a photograph, with its every wrinkle and spot, and every slash it had received from that unknown, wanton hand. she _could_ compare the two shoes here and now, as exactly as though she actually saw them side by side. yes, this little shoe was indeed the fellow of her own! and the strip of print--what was it but her missing bonnet-string? she had found what she had so often longed to find. and she herself was--yes, why should she hesitate to say it?--the little marian of whom she had so often heard! how wonderful it was! here was truth stranger than fiction, indeed! she laughed--a gentle, trilling laugh, low and sweet. but ah, she could not tell him! she could not say to him, "i am the daughter you lost so long ago. i have seen in your safe the fellow of the shoe i wore when i was found by my kind friends." of course it would convince him; but she could not say it. she must wait until he found out the truth for himself. but would he ever find it out? she hoped and thought he would. had he not marked what she said about her having had on only one shoe when she was found? and would not that lead him to think and enquire? meanwhile, she herself knew the wonderful truth; and she could afford to wait. it would all come right, of course it would; any other thought was too ridiculous to be entertained. very quietly, and with almost reverent fingers, she wound the faded bonnet-string once more around the little shoe, and wrapped them up again in the much-crumpled paper. "how often must he have unfolded it!" was the thought that nestled in her heart, as she replaced the precious parcel in the safe, and closed and locked the ponderous door. from the office, the young secretary went directly to her own room. to open her trunk, and plunge her hand down into the corner where lay her own little parcel of relics, was the work of a moment. there was certainly no room for doubt. the little, stout, leather shoe which she had treasured so long was the fellow of the one she had just seen in the safe downstairs. there was the very same curve of the sole, made by the pressure of the little foot--her own, and similar inequalities in the upper part. with a sudden movement, she lifted the tiny shoe to her lips. and here was her funny old sun-bonnet! how often she had wondered what had become of its other string! last of all, she took up the little chemise, which completed her simple store of relics, and gazed intently upon the red letters with which it was marked. all uncertainty as to their meaning was gone. what could "m.h." stand for but "marian horn"? with a grateful heart, she rolled up her treasures, and, having consigned them once more to their place in the trunk, went downstairs. miss jemima was indisposed; and, having seen the nurse duly installed in the sick-room, she had retired for the night. accordingly, miss owen, much to her relief, had supper by herself. she felt that she did not wish to talk to any one just at present, and to miss jemima least of all. when the young secretary fell asleep that night, she was lulled with the sweetness of the thought that she had not only found her father, but had discovered him in the person of the best man she had ever known. the discovery of her father might have proved a bitter disappointment; it was actually such as to fill her with unspeakable gratitude. she did not greatly regret that she had not found her mother, as well as her father. it would probably have caused her real grief, if any one had appeared to claim the place in her heart which was held by the woman from whom she had always received, in a peculiar degree, a mother's love and a mother's care. one could find room for any number of fathers--provided they were worthy. but a mother!--her place was sacred; there could be no sharing of her throne. chapter xxxix. a joyous discovery. it was long that night before "cobbler" horn fell asleep. he was free from pain, and felt better altogether than at any time since the beginning of his illness. yet he could not sleep. the story of his young secretary, as she had told it this evening, had supplied him with thoughts calculated to banish slumber from the most drowsy eyes. miss owen had told him her simple story many times before; but this evening she had introduced certain new particulars of a startling kind; and it was as the result of the thoughts thereby suggested that he was unable to sleep. the few additional details which the young secretary had included in her narrative this evening had given a new aspect to the story. there was the solitary shoe she had worn at the time when she had come into the kind hands of mr. and mrs. burton, and the fact that she was a very indistinct talker at the time. the entire story, too, seemed to correspond so well--why should he not admit it?--with what might not improbably have been the history of his little marian; and marian would be, at that time, about the same age as was miss owen when she was found by the friends whose adopted child she became. but the solitary shoe! he wondered whether it was still in her possession. he would ask her in the morning. and then the indistinct talk of which she had spoken! how well he remembered the pretty broken speech of his own little pet! then there returned to him that gleam of intelligence with regard to the meaning of the strange words of tommy dudgeon with which he had been visited at the beginning of his illness. surely this was what his faithful friend had meant! from the great affection of the little huckster for marian, it was likely that he would have a vivid recollection of the child; and no doubt the little man had already discerned what the father himself was only now, after so many hints, beginning to perceive. thus he pondered through the night. strange to say, he felt neither sleepy nor tired. he was refreshed by the gracious prophecy of coming joy which the story of his young secretary had supplied; and when, after falling asleep in the early hours of the morning, he awoke towards eight o'clock, he felt as though he had slept all night. it was the custom for the young secretary to pay a visit to her employer's room soon after breakfast, for the purpose of laying before him any of the morning's letters to which it was imperative that his personal attention should be given. most frequently miss owen's visit was, as far as business was concerned, a mere formality, or little more. there were few of the letters with which she herself was not able to deal; and all that was necessary, as a rule, was for her to make a general report, which "cobbler" horn invariably received with an approving smile. then the favoured young secretary would linger for a few moments in the room. she would hover about the bed; asking how he had passed the night; performing a variety of tender services, which, though he had not previously realized the need of them, increased his comfort to a wonderful extent; and talking, all the while, in her merry, heartsome way, like a privileged child, with now and then a gentle, cooing little laugh. there was nothing, in the whole course of the day, that "the golden shoemaker" enjoyed so much as the morning visit of his fresh young secretary. but he had never before anticipated it as eagerly as he did this morning. he had long looked upon this young girl rather in the light of a devoted daughter, than of a paid secretary. what if, unconsciously to them both, she had thus grown into her rightful place! as the time approached for her appearance, he had insensibly brought himself to face more fully the wonderful possibility which had been presenting itself to his mind during the last few hours. the nurse was surprised that, though he seemed to be even better than usual, he could scarcely eat any breakfast. all the time, he was watching the door, and listening for the slightest sound. he wondered whether miss owen still had in her possession the little shoe of which she had spoken. he must ask her that at once. and how he yearned to search her face, with one long, scrutinising gaze! at last she came, radiant, as usual! did he notice that a slight shyness veiled her face, and that there was an unusual tremor in her voice as she wished him "good morning"? if "cobbler" horn perceived these signs, he paid them but scant regard. he was too much absorbed in his own thoughts, to consider what those of his young secretary might be; and he was too busily engaged in scrutinising the permanent features of her face, to give much heed to its transient expression. what he saw did not greatly assist in the settlement of the question which occupied his mind. and small wonder that it should be so; for, when he had last seen his marian, she was a little girl of five. no less eagerly than "cobbler" horn scanned the countenance of his young secretary, did her eyes, that morning, seek his face. she too had passed a broken night. but it had not seemed wearisome or long. happy thoughts had rendered sleep an impertinence at first; and, when healthy youthful nature had, at length, asserted itself, the young girl had slept only in pleasant snatches, waking every now and then from some delicious dream, to assure herself that the sweetest dream could not be half so delightful as the glad reality which had come into her life. if these two people could have read each other's thoughts---- but that might not be. she wished him "good morning," in her own bright way; and he responded with his usual benignant smile. then they proceeded to business. there was one very important letter, which demanded some expenditure of time. the secretary was not altogether herself. her hand trembled a little, and there was a slight quaver in her voice. her employer noticed these signs of discomposure, and spoke of them in his kindly way. "surely you are not well this morning!" he said, placing his hand lightly on her wrist. his secretary was usually so self-possessed. "oh yes," she said, with a start, "i am quite well--quite." she smiled at the very idea of her not being well, knowing what she did. "come and sit down beside me for a little while," said "cobbler" horn, when their business was finished; "and let us have some talk." it was the ordinary invitation; but there was something unusual in the tone of his voice. as the young girl took her seat at the bedside, her previous agitation in some degree returned. "cobbler" horn's fingers closed upon her hand, with a gentle pressure. "my dear young lady, there is something that i wish to ask you." there was just the slightest tremor in his voice; and the young secretary was distinctly conscious of the beating of her heart. "yes, sir," she said, faintly, trembling a little. "don't be agitated," he continued, for it was impossible to overlook the fact of her excitement. "it's a very simple matter." he did not know--how could he?--that her thoughts were running in the same direction as his own. "you said," he pursued, "that, when you were found by your good friends, you were wearing only one shoe. did you--have you that shoe still?" it was evident that he was agitated now. miss owen started, and he could feel her hand quiver within his grasp, like a frightened bird. "yes," she answered in a whisper, above which she felt powerless to raise her voice, "i have kept it ever since." "then," he resumed, having now quite recovered his self-possession, "would you mind letting me see it?" with a strong effort, she succeeded in maintaining her self-control. "oh no, not at all, sir!" she said, rising, and moving towards the door; "i'll fetch it at once. but it isn't much to look at now," she added over her shoulder, as she left the room. "'not much to look at'!" laughed "the golden shoemaker" softly to himself. there was nothing that he had ever been half so anxious to see! five minutes later he was sitting up in bed, turning over and over in his hands the fellow of the little shoe which he had cherished for so many years as the dearest memento of his lost child. could there be any doubt? was it not his own handiwork? it had evidently received several random slashes with a knife, and it still bore traces of mud. but he knew his own work too well; and had he not looked upon the fellow of this shoe every day for the last twelve years? strange to say, so completely absorbed was "cobbler" horn in contemplating the shoe which his marian had worn, that, for the moment, he did not think of marian herself. at length he looked up. but he was alone. discretion, and the tumult of her emotions, had constrained the young secretary to withdraw from the room. putting a strong hand upon herself, she had retired to the office, where she was, at that moment, diligently at work. "cobbler" horn sighed. but perhaps it was better that the young girl had withdrawn. there was little room for doubt; but he must make assurance doubly sure. he touched the electric bell at the head of the bed, and the nurse immediately appeared. "will you be so good as to tell miss horn i should like to see her at once." the nurse, marking the eagerness with which the request was uttered, and observing the little shoe on the counterpane, perceived that the occasion was urgent, and departed on her errand with all speed. "i don't think he is any worse this morning," she said to miss jemima when she had delivered her message. "indeed he seems, quite unaccountably, to be very much better. but it is evident something has happened." without waiting to hear more, miss jemima hurried to her brother's room. sitting up in bed, with a happy face, he was holding in his hand a dilapidated child's shoe, which he placed in his sister's hands as soon as she approached the bed. "jemima, look at that!" he said joyously. thinking it was the shoe which her brother had always preserved with so much care, she took it, and examined it with much concern. "whoever can have cut it about like that?" she cried. "cobbler" horn hastened to rectify her mistake. "no, jemima," he said, in a tone of reverent exultation; "it's the other shoe--the one we've been wanting to find all these years!" the first thought of miss jemima was that her brother had gone mad. then she examined the shoe more closely. "to be sure!" she said. "how foolish of me! those cuts were made long ago." as she spoke, she put her hand on the table at the bedside, to steady herself. "brother," she demanded, in trembling tones, "where did you get this shoe? did it come by the morning post?" "cobbler" horn answered deliberately. he would give his sister time to take in the meaning of his words. "it has been in the possession of miss owen. she brought it to me just now." "miss owen?" miss jemima's first impulse was towards indignation. what had miss owen been doing with the shoe? but the next moment, she reflected that there must be some reasonable explanation of the fact that the shoe had been in the possession of her brother's secretary--though what that explanation might be miss jemima could not, as yet, divine. "she has had it," resumed "cobbler" horn, in the same quiet tone as before, "ever since she was a little girl. she was wearing it when she was found by the good people by whom she was adopted." then light came to miss jemima, clear and full. she grasped her brother's shoulder, and remembered his weakness only just in time to refrain from giving him a vigorous shake. "brother, brother," she cried, "do you understand what your words may mean?" "yes, jemima--in part, at least. but we must make sure. first we will put the two shoes together, and see that they really are the same." "why, surely, thomas, you have no doubt?" "there seems little room for it, indeed; but we cannot make too sure!" he wanted to give himself time to become accustomed to the great joy which was dawning on his life. "you know where the other shoe is, jemima?" "yes, in the safe." "yes; and you know that, while i have been up here, miss owen has kept the key of the safe?" "yes." miss jemima had undergone much mental chafing by reason of that knowledge. "well, will you go to her in the office, and say i wish you to bring me something out of the safe? she will not know what you bring. she will just hand you the key, and go on with her work." "yes, i will go, brother. but are you sure she knows or suspects nothing? she may have seen the shoe." "oh no; it is well wrapped up, and i am sure she would not touch the parcel. i can trust my secretary," he added, with a new-born pride. as miss jemima went down stairs, she wondered she had not long ago lighted on the discovery which her brother had now made. it explained many things. the tones and gestures which had so often startled her by their familiarity; the vague feeling that, at some time, she must have known this young girl before; the growing resemblance--evident to miss jemima's eyes, at least--of the young secretary to "cobbler" horn--these things, which, with many kindred signs, miss jemima had hidden in her heart, had their explanation in the discovery which had just been made. miss owen yielded the key of the safe without question. though she appeared to take no notice of miss jemima's doings, she knew, as by instinct, what miss jemima was taking out of the safe; and she told herself that she must not, and would not, let it appear that she supposed anything unusual was going on. she went on quietly with her work; but it was by dint of such an effort of self-control, as few human beings have ever found it necessary to make, or could have made. as the result of the young secretary's effort of self-repression, there appeared in her face, at the moment when miss jemima turned to leave the room, an expression so much like that assumed by the countenance of "cobbler" horn at times when he was very firm, that the heart of miss jemima gave a mighty bound. meanwhile miss jemima's brother was eagerly awaiting her return. she had been absent less than five minutes, when she once more entered his room. "there," she said, holding the two little shoes out towards her brother, side by side, "there can be no doubt about the shoes, at any rate. they are a pair, sure enough. why," she continued, turning up the shoe that miss owen had produced, "i remember noticing, that very morning, that half the leather was torn away from the heel of one of the child's shoes, just like that." as she spoke, she held out the shoe, and showed her brother that its heel had been damaged exactly as she had described. then a strange thing happened to miss jemima. she dropped the little shoes upon the bed, and, covering her face with her hands, cried gently for a few moments. "the golden shoemaker" gazed at his sister in some wonder; and then two large tears gathered in his own eyes, and rolled down his cheeks. all at once miss jemima almost fiercely dashed her hand across her eyes. "brother," she cried, "i've often heard of tears of joy; but i didn't think i should live to say they were the only ones i had shed since i was a little child! but there's no mistake about those shoes. and there's no doubt about anything else either." "cobbler" horn was, perhaps, quite as confident as his sister; but he was a little more cautious. "yes, jemima," he said; "but we must be careful. a mistake would be dreadful--both on our own account, and on that of--of miss owen. we must send for mr. and mrs. burton at once. mr. durnford will telegraph. it will be necessary, of course, to tell him of our discovery; but he may be trusted not to breathe it to any one else." miss jemima readily assented to her brother's proposal. mr. durnford was sent for, and came without delay. his astonishment on hearing the wonderful news his friends had to tell was hardly as great as they expected. it is possible that this arose from the fact that he was acquainted with the story of miss owen, and that his eyes and ears had been open during the last few months. it was, however, with no lack of heartiness that he complied with the request to send a telegram summoning mr. and mrs. burton to "cobbler" horn's bedside. chapter xl. tommy dudgeon's contribution. after the despatch of the telegram, the words of tommy dudgeon, with reference to the young secretary, recurred once more to the mind of "cobbler" horn, and he mentioned them to his sister. "this must have been what the good fellow meant," he said. "you remember, jemima, how fond they were of each other--tommy and the child?" "yes," responded miss jemima, reluctantly; for she still retained her dislike for "those stupid dudgeons." "do you know, jemima, i have it on my mind to send for tommy at once, and ask him what he really meant." "send for him--to come in here?" "yes; why not?" "well, you must do as you like, i suppose." a moment's reflection had convinced the good lady that she had really no sound reason to advance against the proposal her brother had made; and she knew that, in any case, he would do as he thought fit. accordingly a messenger was despatched for tommy dudgeon with all speed; and the little huckster turned over to his brother, without compunction, an important customer whom he happened to be serving at the time, and hurried away to the bedside of his honoured friend. the servant who, in obedience to orders received, showed tommy up at once to "cobbler" horn's room, handed in at the same time a telegram which had just arrived from mr. burton, saying that he and mrs. burton might be expected about three o'clock in the afternoon. "cobbler" horn placed the pink paper on the little table by his bedside, and turned to tommy, who stood just within the doorway, nervously twisting his hat between his hands. "come in, tommy, come in!" said "the golden shoemaker," encouragingly, "you see i am almost well." tommy advanced into the room; but being arrested by the sight of miss jemima, who stood at the bed-foot, he stopped short half-way between the bed and the door, and honoured that formidable lady with a trembling bow. miss jemima's mood this morning was complacency itself, and she acknowledged the obeisance of the little huckster with a not ungracious nod. greatly encouraged, tommy moved a pace or two nearer to the bed. "i'm deeply thankful, mr. horn," he said, "to see you looking so well." "thank you, tommy," responded "cobbler" horn, with a smile, as he reached out his hand. "the lord is very good. no doubt he has more work for me to do yet." as tommy almost reverently took the hand of his beloved and honoured friend he thought to himself, "i wonder whether he has considered what i said?" "the last time we met, tommy," began "cobbler" horn, as though in answer to the unspoken question of the little man--"but, sit down, friend, sit down." tommy protested that he would rather stand; but, being overborne, he effected a compromise, by placing himself quite forward on the edge of the chair, and depositing his hat on the floor, between his feet. "you remember the time?" resumed "cobbler" horn. "oh yes; quite well!" "it was the afternoon of the day i was taken ill." "yes; and mrs. bunn said you _would_ go out in that dreadful rain." tommy did not add that he himself, watching through his shop window, in the hope that his friend would come across to ask the meaning of his mysterious words, had, with a sinking heart, seen him walk off in the opposite direction through the drenching shower. "well," said "cobbler" horn, with a smile, "i've had to pay for that, and shall be all the wiser, no doubt. but there was something you said that afternoon that i want to ask you about. at the time i thought i knew what you meant. but i am inclined now to think i was mistaken, and that your words referred to something quite different from what i then supposed. do you remember what you said?" it was impossible for tommy dudgeon to conceal the agitation of his mind. he rejoiced at the opportunity to make known his great discovery to his friend; and yet he trembled lest he should prove unequal to the task. he thought, for a moment, that he would gain time by seeming not to understand the reference his friend had made. "what words do you speak of, chiefly, mr. horn?" he asked tremulously, "i said so many----" but tommy dudgeon could not dissemble. he stammered, stopped, wiped his forehead, and stretched out his hands as though in appeal to the mercy of his hearers. "of course i know what words you mean!" he cried. "i wanted to tell you of something i had seen for weeks, but that you didn't seem to see. and i can see it still; and there's no mistake about it. i'm as certain sure of it, as that i am sitting on this chair. it was about the sec'tary, and some one else; and yet not anybody else, because they're both the same. may i tell you, mr. horn? can you bear it, do you think?" "the golden shoemaker" regarded the eager face of his little friend with glistening eyes; and miss jemima, leaning towards him over the framework of the iron bedstead, listened with an intent countenance, from which all trace of disfavour had vanished away. "yes," said "cobbler" horn, in grave, calm tones; "tell us all. we are not unprepared." "thank you," said the little man, fervently. "but, oh, i wish you knew! i wish god had been pleased to make it known to you," he added with a reminiscence of his old testament studies, "in a dream and vision of the night. oh, my dear friend, don't you see that what you've been longing and praying for all these years has come to pass--as we always knew it would; and--and that she's come back! she's come back? there, that's what i meant!" "then it really was so," said "cobbler" horn. "i'm surprised i did not perceive your meaning at the time." tommy thought him wonderfully calm. "but i must tell you, tommy, that we have now very much reason to think that your surmise is correct." "_surmise_ is not the word, mr. horn; i know she's come back!" "of course you do," interposed miss jemima, in emphatic tones. tommy looked gratefully towards the hitherto dreadful lady; and she regarded him with eyes which seemed to say, "you have won my favour once for all." "can you tell us, tommy," asked "cobbler" horn, "what has made you so very sure?" "yes," replied tommy, with energy, "i'll tell you. everything has made me sure--the way she walks along the street, with her head up, and putting her foot down as if a regiment of soldiers wouldn't stop her; and her manner of coming into the shop and saying, 'how are you to-day, mr. dudgeon?' and her sitting in the old arm-chair, and putting her head on one side like a knowing little bird, and asking questions about everything, and letting her eyes shine on you like stars. begging your pardon, mr. horn, she's just the little lassie all over. why i should know her with my eyes shut, if she were only to speak up, and say, 'well, tommy, how are you, to-day?'" "but," asked "cobbler" horn, whose heart, secretly, was almost bursting with delight, "may you not be mistaken, after all?" "i am not mistaken," replied tommy firmly. "but it's such a long while ago," suggested "cobbler" horn; "and--and she will be very much altered by this time. you _can't_ be sure that a young woman is the same person as a little girl you haven't seen for more than a dozen years." herein, perhaps, "cobbler" horn's own chief difficulty lay. "how," he asked, "can i think of marian as being other than a little girl?" tommy dudgeon did not seem to be troubled in that way at all. "yes," he said, "i can be quite sure when i have known the little girl as i knew that one; and when i have watched, and listened to, the young woman, as i have been watching and listening to the sec'tary for these months past." "cobbler" horn and miss jemima exchanged glances. "this is truly wonderful!" said he. "not at all!" retorted she. "the wonder is, thomas, that you and i have been so blind all this time." "the golden shoemaker" smiled gently, as he lay back upon his pillows. the image of a small, dark-eyed child held possession of his mind; and he had not been able readily to bring himself to see his little marian in any other form. as for any real doubt, there was only a shred of it left in his mind now. yet he still said to himself that he must make assurance doubly sure. "well, tommy," he said, "we are very much obliged to you. and now, will you do us another kindness? we are expecting some friends this afternoon who may be able to give us a good deal of light on this subject. will you come, when we send for you, and hear what they have to say?" "that i will!" was the hearty response, "i'll come, mr. horn, whenever you send." "you have met these friends before, tommy," said "cobbler" horn. "they are mr. and mrs. burton--at the 'home,' you know." tommy nodded. "they found miss owen when she was a very little girl; and brought her up as their own child; and we hope that what they may tell us about her will help us to decide whether what we think is true." tommy nodded again with beaming eyes, and shortly afterwards took his leave. "now, brother," said miss jemima, "you must take some rest, or we shall have you ill again." "not much danger of that!" replied "cobbler" horn, smiling. "i think, please god, i've found a better medicine now, than all the doctors in the world could give me." "yes; but you are excited, and the reaction will come, if you do not take care." "well, perhaps you are right, jemima. but first, don't you think she had better be out of the way when mr. and mrs. burton come?" "yes, i've thought of that; she can take that poor girl along the road for a drive." "a capital idea. have it arranged, jemima." "very well. i'll go and see about it at once; and you get to sleep." chapter xli. no room for doubt! at the appointed time, mr. and mrs. burton arrived. being, as yet, ignorant of the purpose for which their presence was desired, they were full of conjectures. miss jemima received them in the dining-room, downstairs. the first question they asked related to "cobbler" horn's health. "was he worse?" "no," said miss jemima; "he is much better. but he wishes to consult you about a matter of great importance." then, upon their protesting that they were in no immediate need of refreshment, miss jemima conducted her visitors upstairs to her brother's room. though "cobbler" horn had not been to sleep since the morning, he was greatly refreshed by the quiet hours he had passed. he turned to greet mr. and mrs. burton, as they came in. "this is very good of you," he said, putting out his hand. miss jemima placed chairs for the visitors, and they took their seats near the bed. "i think i must sit up," said "cobbler" horn. miss jemima helped him to raise himself upon his pillows, and then sat down on a chair at the opposite side of the bed. "there now," said "the golden shoemaker," "we shall do finely. but, jemima, how about our friend, tommy?" "he'll be here directly" was the concise reply. mr. and mrs. burton waited patiently for "cobbler" horn to speak. mrs. burton was a shrewd-looking, motherly body; and her husband had the appearance of a capable and kindly man. they were both conscious of some curiosity, and even anxiety, with regard to what "cobbler" horn might be about to say. the peculiarity of the situation was that he should have sent for them both. perhaps each had some vague prevision of the communication he was about to make. "now, dear friends," he said, at last, "no doubt you will be wondering why i have sent for you in such a hurry." both mr. burton and his wife protested that they were always at the service of mr. horn, and expressed the assurance that he would not have sent for them without good cause. "thank you," he said. "i think you will admit that, in this instance, the cause is as good as can be." looking upon the kindly faces of these good christian people, "cobbler" horn wondered how they would receive the news he would probably have to impart. he must proceed cautiously. at the same time, he was thankful that his little lost child--if, indeed, it were so--had been committed by the great father to such kindly hands. "you will not mind, dear friends," he resumed, "if i ask you one or two questions about the circumstances under which my--miss owen came into your charge when a child?" "by no means, sir!" the startling nature of the question caused no hesitation in the reply. indeed, though startled, these good people were not so very much surprised. they had not, perhaps, been actually expecting that this would prove to be the subject on which they had been summoned to confer. but, ever since their adopted daughter had entered the household of this man, whose own little daughter had been lost, just about the time that she must have left her home, both mr. and mrs. burton had secretly thought that perhaps, as the result, she would find her own parent, and they would lose their child. perhaps it was on account of the vagueness of this thought, or because of the painful anticipations to which it gave rise, or for both these reasons, that the good couple had made no mention to each other of its presence in their respective minds. they glanced at one another now; and, by some subtle influence, each became aware that the other's mind had been occupied by this disturbing thought. "you will believe," said "cobbler" horn, "that i have good reasons for the questions i am going to ask?" "we are sure of that, sir," responded mr. burton. "yes, indeed," said mrs. burton. "well, can you tell me in what year, and at what time of the year, you found the child?" "it was on the nd of june, --" said mrs. burton, promptly. "cobbler" horn and miss jemima exchanged glances. it was the very year in which, on that bright may morning, little marian had vanished, like a flash of departing sunshine, from their lives. "about what age would you suppose the child to have been at the time?" "she told us her age," said mr. burton. "yes," pursued his wife, "she was a very indistinct talker, and her age was almost the only thing we could actually make out. she said she was five; and that was about what she looked." "do you think, now," continued "cobbler" horn, with another glance at his sister, "that you could give us anything like a description of the child?" "my wife can do that very well," said mr. burton. "she has often told miss owen what she looked like when we found her crying in the road." "yes," said mrs. burton, "i remember exactly what she was like. she had black hair--as she has now, and her eyes were very dark; her skin was even browner than it is now, being so dirty; and she had very rosy cheeks. it was evident that some of her clothes had been stolen. indeed they were almost all gone, and she had scarcely anything on but an old, and very dirty shawl, which was wrapped round her body so tightly that it must have hurt her very much. she had lost one of her shoes, and her foot was bound up with a filthy piece of rag. she had both her socks on, but they were in dreadful holes. she was wearing a torn sun-bonnet, which was covered with mud; and--let me see--one of its strings was missing. and, yes, her one shoe was cut about over the top, as if it had been done on purpose with a knife. she had evidently been in very bad hands, poor little mite!" and the honest, kindly face was darkened with a frown, as mrs. burton clenched her plump fist in her lap. miss jemima had been listening with intense interest, from her position on the other side of the bed; and now interposed with a question, in her own quick way. "what was the pattern of the sun-bonnet? was it a small, pink sprig, on a white ground?" "why, you must have seen it, ma'am!" was mrs. burton's startled reply. "that was the very thing!" "perhaps i have," responded miss jemima, "and perhaps i haven't." mrs. burton hardly knew what to say. "well," she resumed, at last, "miss owen has kept the sun-bonnet, and the one shoe, and two or three other little things; and i'm sure she will be glad to let you see them. but, may i ask, miss horn, what----" but "cobbler" horn interrupted her. "i think, jemima, we had now better tell our kind friends why we are asking these questions." "yes," said miss jemima; "i should have told them at first." "well," resumed "cobbler" horn, turning to mr. and mrs. burton, and speaking with an emotion which he could no longer conceal, "we have reason to believe that your adopted daughter--don't let me shock you--is our little lost marian, of whom you have several times heard me speak; and we are anxious to make sure if this is really the case." in the nature of things, mr. and mrs. burton were not so much surprised as they would have been if the course of events had not, in some measure, prepared them for the announcement which "cobbler" horn had now made. yet they experienced a slight shock; for even an expected crisis cannot be fully realized till it actually arrives. for a moment, there was silence in the room. then mrs. burton was the first to speak. "excuse us, dear sir," she said calmly, "if we are somewhat startled at what you have said. and yet we are not altogether surprised. you will not think that strange?" "no, ma'am," said "cobbler" horn, in a musing tone, "not altogether strange, perhaps. but, shall i explain a little further? it was only last evening that i was led to entertain the thought that miss owen might actually prove to be my lost child. she was telling me, as she had done several times before, all about how you found her, and of your goodness to her; and she spoke last night, for the first time, of the one shoe she was wearing when you found her in the road. now you may judge how i was startled, on hearing this, when i tell you that, just after marian was lost, we picked up one of her shoes in a field, over which she must have wandered away. so, this morning, without telling her my reason, i asked her to let me see the little shoe she had worn so long ago. she at once fetched it; and here it is, and with it the one we found in the field." so saying, he drew, from underneath the bed-clothes, the two little shoes; and placed them side by side upon the counterpane. mr. and mrs. burton rose and approached the bed. "yes," said mr. burton, "that is undoubtedly miss owen's little shoe." "and this," said mrs. burton, "is unquestionably its fellow," and, taking up the shoes, she held them towards her husband. "you are certainly right, my dear." then there was silence for a brief space, while these two simple-hearted people bent, with deep emotion, over the little baby shoes which seemed to prove so much. mrs. burton was the first to speak. "well," she said, calmly, but with a quivering lip, "we are to lose our child; but the will of the lord be done." mr. burton's only utterance was a deep sigh. "nay," said "cobbler" horn, "if it really be as i cannot help hoping it is, you will, perhaps, not lose so much as you think. but i am sure you will not begrudge me the joy of finding my child." "no, indeed, dear sir. on the contrary, we will rejoice with you as well as we can--and with her." these were the words of mrs. burton, and they received confirmation from her husband. at this point, tommy dudgeon quietly entered the room, and took his seat, at a motion from miss jemima, behind the chairs on which mr. and mrs. burton were sitting. "i have been anxious," resumed "cobbler" horn, "thoroughly to assure myself that there was no mistake. here is our friend, dudgeon, now. you saw him the day we opened the 'home.'" perceiving tommy for the first time, mr. and mrs. burton gave him a hearty greeting. "our friend knows," continued "cobbler" horn, "that i've been very sceptical about the good news." "very much so!" said tommy, nodding his head. "cobbler" horn smiled. "he was the first to find it out. you must know that he took much kind interest in my little girl; and it was a great grief to him that she was lost. and when your adopted daughter came to us, he was not long in forming conjectures as to who she might be. in a very short time, as a matter of fact, he had quite made up his mind. he tried to tell me about it; but i was too stupid to understand him, and so it was left for me to find out the happy truth by accident. tell our friends, tommy, how you came to discover who miss owen really was." thus enjoined, tommy, nothing loath, recounted once more the story of his great discovery. mr. and mrs. burton listened with deep attention, and, having put several questions to tommy, admitted that what he had said afforded much confirmation to the supposition that miss owen was the long-lost marian. "i have a thought about the child's name," said mrs. burton after a brief pause. "it comes to me that what she gave us as her name sounded quite as much like _marian horn_ as _mary ann owen_." "why yes," said miss jemima, "now i think of it, she used to pronounce her name very much as though it had been something like _mary ann owen_. as well as i can remember, it was 'ma--an o--on.'" "i believe you are right, jemima," said her brother. "it must be admitted," interposed mr. burton quickly, "that _mary ann owen_ was a very reasonable interpretation of that combination of sounds." "undoubtedly it was," assented "cobbler" horn. "yes," said mrs. burton, "what you say, miss horn, is very much like the way in which the child pronounced her name. and there's another thing which may serve as a further mark. she had on, beneath the old shawl, a little chemise, on which were worked, in red, the letters 'm.h.'" "i know it!" cried miss jemima. "i always marked her clothes like that. you used to laugh at me, thomas; but what do you say now?" "well, well!" said "the golden shoemaker" softly. "and listen to me," resumed miss jemima. "i am beginning to recollect, too. marian's hair was very stubborn; and there were two or three tufts at the back which always would stand up, like black feathers." "i remember that very well," said mrs. burton, with a smile. "of course," agreed her husband; "and many a joke we used to have about it. i called her my little blackbird." "and then," continued miss jemima, "there was another thing. a few days before the child's disappearance, she fell down and hurt her knee; and there were two scars, one on the knee, and another just below." "ah," said mrs. burton, "i remember those scars. don't you, john?" "yes; and i used to tell her she was an old soldier, and had been in the wars." "so you did; and--dear me, how old memories are beginning to come back!--she talked a great deal, not only of her 'daddy,' but of 'aunt 'mima.' i wonder i didn't think of that before. perhaps, ma'am----" "that's me!" cried miss jemima. "my name's jemima; and 'aunt 'mima' was what she always called me. there, thomas, do you want any further proof?" "cobbler" horn was lying with his hands over his face, and the bed was shaking with his convulsive efforts to repress his strong emotion. fear had impelled him to withstand his growing conviction that his long-lost child had been restored to him--fear of the consequences of a mistake, both to himself, and to the bright young girl whom he had already learnt to love as though she were indeed his child. but now, one after another, his doubts had been beaten down. he had listened eagerly to every word that had been spoken around his bed, and conviction had taken absolute possession of his mind. yet, for the moment, the shock of his great joy seemed almost more than his weakened nerves could bear. his friends stood around the bed, fearing for him. but, in a few moments, he withdrew his hands from his face, which was wet with the gracious tears of joy. he clasped his hands, and looked reverently upward. "'my soul doth magnify the lord; and my spirit hath rejoiced in god, my saviour.'" that was all. "you would like us to leave you, brother?" asked miss jemima. "for a very short time." he was quite himself again. "she is out still, isn't she?" "yes," replied miss jemima. "she will be in soon, no doubt. you would like to see her. well, leave that to me." then they left him to his blissful thoughts. for many minutes, he gratefully communed with god. he was thankful his child had come back to him so beautiful, and clever, and good. he could regard her with as much pride as love; though he told himself he would have loved her, and done all in his power to make her happy, whatever she had proved to be. and then, how glad he was that she had found her way into his heart before he knew she was his child. great, indeed, was the joy of "the golden shoemaker!" that very day he was to clasp his long-lost child to his heart! the door of his room had been left ajar. presently he heard the front-door open downstairs; and then there were voices in the hall, one of which he recognised as hers. the next moment he knew that she was coming upstairs. they had not told her the great news yet, of course? no; she was going direct to her own room. he took up the little shoes, which had been left lying on the bed. how well he remembered making them! he had selected for the purpose the very best bit of leather in his stock. he was proceeding to examine more closely the shoe that had been mutilated, when he heard the sound of a door being opened which he knew to be that of his young secretary's room. would she come to him before going downstairs? in truth, he wished not to see her until she had been told the great news. he breathed more freely when he heard her foot on the stairs. when "cobbler" horn had been alone about half an hour, miss jemima returned to the room. mrs. burton, she said, was in the dining-room, with----marian. there was just the slightest hesitation in miss jemima's pronunciation of the name. her brother's tea would come up in a few minutes. after he had taken it, he would perhaps be ready for the interview he so much desired. "tea!" "oh, but," said his matter-of-fact sister, "you must try to take it--as a duty." "i'll do my best," he said; "but i must be up and dressed before she comes, jemima." miss jemima demurred, but ultimately agreed. "i should like mr. durnford to be here," he continued, "and tommy dudgeon, and mr. and mrs. burton." "they shall all be present," said miss jemima. "and you, jemima, you will take care to be in the room at the time." "brother," responded the lady, "you may trust me for that." chapter xlii. father and daughter. mrs. burton, closeted with her adopted daughter, in the dining-room, found, to her surprise, that miss owen was not unprepared for the communication she was about to receive. since her discovery of the little shoe--the fellow of her own--in her employer's safe, and the startling conclusion at which she had thereupon arrived, the young secretary had been in a vaguely expectant state of mind. the great fact she had discovered could not long remain concealed from the person whom, next to herself, it most concerned. of course, it was impossible for her to speak out. but she had only to wait, and all would come right. she saw now why "cobbler" horn had been so much agitated to hear that, when she was found by mr. and mrs. burton, she was wearing only one shoe; and she was not surprised, the next morning, when he asked to see the shoe itself. as the day passed, she was instinctively aware that something unusual was going on. the visit of tommy dudgeon; the circumstance that she was not summoned to "cobbler" horn's room as usual, during the day; and her being unexpectedly despatched to take susie martin for a drive--were all signs pointing in one direction; and when, on her return from the drive, she was greeted with the announcement that mrs. burton was waiting to see her in the dining-room, she felt sure that the great secret was known. and she could not be much surprised, therefore, when, in the end, mrs. burton proceeded to make in set terms, the communication with which she was charged. "my dear," said the good lady, fondly kissing her adopted daughter, "i'm sure you will be surprised to see me." "i'm delighted, at any rate, dear mother," was the pardonably evasive reply. "not more than i am!" exclaimed the good creature. notwithstanding the loss she expected to sustain through the discovery which had been made, she had schooled herself to rejoice in the happiness which had come to her child. "but," she added, "you, my dear, will be more delighted still, when you hear the news i have to tell." as she spoke, she led the young secretary to a chair, and, having caused her to be seated, sat down on another chair by her side. then she took her companion's hand and held it tenderly in her lap. "my dear, i want to ask you something." the good lady tried to be calm, but her tones grew tremulous as she spoke. miss owen, too, was becoming excited, in spite of herself. "yes, mother dear," and the girl seemed to put special and loving emphasis on the word "mother." "do you remember," continued mrs. burton, "how, when you were all at daisy lane, at the opening of the 'home,' we were talking about mr. horn having lost his little girl in some mysterious fashion; and you said, laughing, what fun it would be, if you turned out to be that very little girl?" "yes, mother," was the reply, uttered in low and agitated tones, "i remember very well." "you didn't think that such a wonderful thing would ever come to pass, did you, dear?" asked mrs. burton, gently stroking the back of the plump little brown hand, which lay passive in her lap. "no," replied the girl, "i certainly did not; and it was just a mad joke, of course." as she spoke her whole frame quivered, and she made as though she would have withdrawn her hand and risen to her feet. mrs. burton tightened her grasp upon the fluttering hand in her lap, and gently restrained the agitated girl. "i haven't finished yet, dear," she said. "you know the saying that 'many a true word is spoken in jest'?" "yes, yes----" "well--try to be calm, my child--it has been found out----" "i know what you are going to say, mother," broke in the young girl. "it is that i have found my father--my very own; though i can never forget the only father i have known these years, and i haven't found another mother, and don't want to." then the woman and the child--for she was little more--became locked in a close embrace. after some minutes, mrs. burton unclasped the young arms from her neck, and, sitting hand in hand with her adopted daughter, she told her all the wondrous tale. "so you see, my child," she concluded, "your name is not owen after all; it is not even mary ann." "no," said the girl, with a bewitching touch of scorn. "mary ann owen, forsooth! i always had my doubts. horn is not much better in itself. but it is my father's name; and marian is all that could be desired. and so i really am that little marian of whom i have heard so many charming things! how sweet! but, mother, you must be the very same to me as ever; and i must find room for two fathers now, instead of one." "yes, my dear, i feel sure you will not love us any the less for this great change." "mother, mother, never speak of that again! if it had not been for you, i might never have come to know anything about myself, to say nothing of all the dreadful things which might have happened. oh, god is good!" "he is indeed, dear! but you will be longing to go to your father." "yes," said the girl, with a quiver of shy delight; "what does he say?" "my dear, he is thankful beyond measure." "but can he bear to see me just yet?" "he is preparing to receive you now. come!" "cobbler" horn had finished his tea, and was dressed, and sitting in an easy-chair in his bedroom. those about him had feared that the coming effort would be too much for his strength. but there was no need for their apprehension. joy was proving a splendid tonic. he sat calm and collected, awaiting the appearance of his child. his friends were all around him. mr. durnford, tommy dudgeon, mr. burton--all were there; and there, too, was miss jemima, no longer grim, but subdued almost to meekness. then it was done in a moment. the door opened, and mrs. burton entered, leading the young secretary by the hand. an instant later the girl ran forward, with a little cry, and flung herself into the outstretched arms of her waiting father. for some seconds they remained thus. then she gradually slipped down upon her knees, and let her head fall upon his breast, while her arms embraced him still, and his hand held closely to him her nestling face. speech was impossible on either side. she was weeping the sweet tears of joy, while he vainly struggled to find utterance for his love. one by one, their friends had stolen out of the room. even miss jemima had been content to go. the memory of that chastened lady was very vivid to-night, and she felt humbled and subdued. observing the silence, "cobbler" horn looked up, and perceived that they were alone. "they have all gone, marian," he said, gently. "won't you look up, and let father see your face?" she lifted her face, bedewed yet radiant; and he took it tenderly between his hands. "it is indeed the face of my little marian," he said, fondly. "how blind i must have been!" he gazed long and lovingly--feasting his eyes upon the brown, glowing face, in every feature of which he could now trace so plainly those of his little marian of days gone by. the hope which he had never quite relinquished was fulfilled at last! his gracious lord had justified his confidence, as, indeed, there had never been any reason to doubt that he would. "you feel quite sure about it, my dear; don't you?" he asked. "yes, father dear," she answered, in a thoughtful, contented tone. "there are so many things that help to make me sure." then she told him of her strange feeling of familiarity with the old house and street. she spoke of the little shoes, and of her having seen the one in the safe. she told him what she had overheard in the tent at daisy lane about her resemblance to himself. "and besides," she concluded, "after all that----mother has told me, how can i doubt? but now, daddy--i may call you that, mayn't i?" "the golden shoemaker" pressed convulsively the little hand he held. "that is what marian--what you always called me when you were a child, my dear. nothing would please me better." "then 'daddy' it shall be. and now, do you know, daddy, i'm beginning to remember things in a vague sort of way. i'm just like some one waking up after a good sleep. things, you know, that happened before one went to sleep, come back by degrees at such a time; and, in the same way, recollections are growing on me now of my childhood, and especially of the time when i was lost. let me see, now! i'm like some one looking into a magic crystal to see the future, only i want to recall the past. after thinking very hard, i've been able to call up some remembrance of the day i ran away from home. i seem to remember being very angry with someone, and wanting to get away. then there was a woman, and a man, but chiefly a woman, and some dark place that i was in. and i think they must have treated me badly in some way." "cobbler" horn thought for a moment. "why," he said, "that dark place must have been the wood, on the other side of the field where i found your shoe." "yes, no doubt; and wasn't it in that wood that you picked up the string of my sun-bonnet?" "to be sure it was!" "yes; and perhaps it was there that i was stripped of my clothes. when i fell into the hands of mr. and mrs. burton, my chief garment was an old ragged shawl. my one shoe, and my socks, and my sun-bonnet, were almost all i had besides. i've kept all the things except the socks, and you must see them by and bye, daddy." "of course i must." but, having found his child, he did not greatly care just now about anything else. presently she spoke again. "daddy!" "yes, marian?" "i'm so thankful it has turned out to be you!" "yes, my dear?" responded the happy father, in a tone of enquiry. "i mean i'm glad it's you who are my father. it might have been somebody quite different, you know." "yes," he answered again, with a beaming face. "i'm glad, you know, daddy, just because you're exactly the kind of father i want--that's all." "and i also am glad that it is you, little one," he responded. "and how thankful we ought to be that we learnt to love one another before getting to know who we were!" "yes," she said, "it would have been queer, and----not at all nice, if we had first been introduced to each other as father and daughter, and told it was our duty to love one another without delay. and then there's another thing. though, at first, it seemed cruel to you, daddy, that your little girl should have been lost for so many years, when i think how much more--very likely--we shall love one another, than we ever should have done if i had not been lost, and how much happier we shall be together, it seems quite kind of god to have allowed us to be separated for a little while--especially as he found such good friends to take care of me in the meantime." "cobbler" horn gently stroked the dark head, which still nestled against his breast. "we at least, little one," he said, "can say that 'all things work together for good.' but now, there are other things that we must talk about. you have come back, marian, to a very different home from the one you left. your father was a poor man when you went away; he is a rich one now. are you glad?" "oh yes, daddy," she answered, simply, "for your sake, and because i think my daddy is just the best man in the world to have charge of money. and you know," she added, archly, "that, in that respect, your daughter is after your own heart." "i know that well." "you must let me help you more than ever, daddy." she seemed scarcely to have realized the fact that she was heiress to all his wealth. "you shall, my dear," he said, fondly; "but you mustn't forget that all i have will be yours one day." she started violently. "well now, i declare!" she gasped. "i had scarcely thought of that. i was so glad and thankful to have found my father, that i forgot he had brought me a fortune. well, daddy, that won't make any difference. we'll still do our best to put all this money to the right use. and, as for my being your heiress--you must understand, sir, that you've got to live for ever; so there's an end of that." she had withdrawn herself from his embrace, and, kneeling back, was looking at him with dancing eyes. "well, darling," he said, with an indulgent smile, "we must leave that. but there is something else that i must tell you. when i was arranging about the disposal of all this money, in case i should be taken away, i thought of my little marian; and i had it set down in my will that you were to have everything after me, if you should be found. but, beside that, i directed the lawyers to invest for you the sum of £ , . but, let me see, i think i must have told you about this at the time." "of course you did, daddy, the very day you came back from london, just before you went to america!" "so i did. well, now, marian, that money is all your own from this time." "oh, daddy! daddy! how shall i thank you? so i shall be able to do something on my own account now!" did no stray thought flit through her mind of all the gaiety and pleasure so much money might buy? perhaps; but she was her father's own child. after a little more loving talk, the young secretary suddenly sprang to her feet. "i am forgetting myself sadly! the evening letters will be in." "cobbler" horn started. he had forgotten that she was his secretary. "i shall have to look out for another secretary, now," he said, with a comical air of mock dismay. "and, pray sir, why?" she demanded, standing before him in radiant rebellion. "i would have you to know there is no vacancy." then she laughed in her bewitching way. "but, my dear----" "say no more, daddy; it's quite settled. i shall very likely ask for an increase of salary; but there must be no talk of dismissal." again she laughed; and, in spite of himself, the happy father joined in her merriment. "well now, i must go," she said, with a parting kiss. "i'll send miss horn---- why, she's my aunt! i declare i'd quite overlooked that!" "yes, my dear; and a very kind aunt you'll find her." "i'm sure of that. but i'm afraid she'll be thinking me a very undutiful niece." at this moment, the door opened, and miss jemima herself walked in. "i thought it was time i came," she said, in her usual matter-of-fact way. "you must be thinking of getting back to bed, thomas." her niece interrupted her by throwing her arms around her neck, and giving her a hearty kiss. "aunt jemima, i have to beg your pardon," and she kissed her again; "but you didn't give me time, you were all off like a flock of sheep." "i think it is my place to beg your pardon, and not yours to beg mine," replied miss jemima, in the most natural way in the world. "i fear it was largely through me that you ran away from home." "did i actually run away, then?" "i think there's little doubt of it. but, whether you ran away or not, the fact remains that my treatment of you had been anything but kind. i meant well, but was mistaken; and i'm thankful to have the opportunity of asking you to forgive me." "don't say another word about it, auntie!" cried marian, kissing her once more. "it's literally all forgotten. and i dare say i was a troublesome little thing. but let me see. you haven't seen my treasures yet--except the shoe. i'll fetch them." in a few moments she had brought her little sun-bonnet, and the other relics of her childhood which she had preserved. it will not be difficult to imagine the tender interest with which aunt jemima, and even "cobbler" horn himself, gazed on those simple mementos of the past. the severed bonnet-string was lying on the bed. marian caught it up, and fitted it upon the bonnet. "i must sew my bonnet-string on," she said, gaily. her father laughed indulgently, and even aunt jemima smiled. "ah," she said, "and i too have a store of treasures to display," and she told of the little box in which she had kept the tiny garments marian had worn in the days of old. "how delicious?" cried the girl. "you will let me see them, by and bye, auntie, won't you? but now i really must be off to my letters." chapter xliii. the tramp's confession. before "the golden shoemaker" had returned to his bed the doctor arrived, and despotically demanded how he had dared to leave it without the permission of his medical man. at first the doctor prognosticated serious consequences from what he was pleased to call his patient's "intemperate and unlicensed haste." but, when he came the next day, and found "cobbler" horn considerably better, instead of worse, he changed his mind. "my dear sir," he said, "what have you been doing?" "i've been taking a new tonic, doctor," replied "cobbler" horn, with a smile; and he told him the great news. "well, well," murmured the doctor; "so it has actually turned out like that! i have often thought that there were many less likely things; and ever since you told me how closely the young lady's early history resembled that of your own child, i have had a sort of expectation that i should one day hear the announcement you have just made. well, my dear sir, i congratulate you both--as much on the fitness of the fact, as on the fact itself." "cobbler" horn's "new tonic" acted liked magic, and he was soon out of the doctor's hands. in a few days' time he was downstairs; and at the end of a fortnight he had resumed his ordinary routine of life. as far as outward appearances were concerned, the great discovery which had been made produced but little difference in the house. the servants had, indeed, been informed of the change in the position of the young secretary. it was also understood that she was to have things pretty much her own way. it was moreover tacitly admitted that almost unlimited arrears of filial privilege were due to the newly-recovered daughter of the house; and she herself evidently felt that the arrears of filial duty lying to her charge were quite equal in amount. "the golden shoemaker" regarded his new-found child with a very tender love; and even miss jemima manifested towards her an indulgent, if somewhat prim, affection. the gentle affectionateness of the girl towards both her father and her aunt was beautiful in the extreme. yet, even towards miss jemima, she was delightfully free from constraint; and it would have been difficult to decide whether to admire more the loving familiarity of the niece, or the complaisancy of the aunt. in the matter of the secretaryship marian was firmness itself. "cobbler" horn wished her to give it up; and miss jemima was shocked at the idea that she should propose to retain it for a single day. but she dismissed their remonstrances with a fine scorn. what did they take her for? was she any less fit for the post of secretary than she had been before? her duties had been a pleasure from the first; they would afford her greater delight than ever now. and why should they bring in a stranger to pry into their affairs? they might give her more salary, if they liked--and here she laughed merrily; but she wasn't going to give up the work she liked more than anything else in the world. one perplexing question yet remained unsolved--what had happened to marian between the day when she had left home and the time when she had been found by mr. and mrs. burton? the girl's own vague memories of that unhappy period, together with the condition in which she had been found, indicated that she had fallen into the hands of bad characters of some kind. was the mystery ever to be fully solved? to this question the course of events brought very speedily a complete reply. one evening, about a fortnight after the last-recorded events, an elderly tramp was sitting against a haystack upon some farm premises, at no great distance from the town of cottonborough. his age might be sixty, or, allowing for the rough life he had led, something less. he looked jaded and unwell. the day had been very warm, and the man was eating, with no great appetite, a sumptuous supper of german sausage and bread. the sausage had been wrapped in a piece of newspaper, which spread out upon his knees, was now doing duty as a tablecloth. having finished his meal, the man lazily glanced at the paper; but finding its contents, at first, to possess no particular interest, he was about to crumple it up and throw it away, when his eye lighted on a paragraph which induced him to pause. he smoothed out the paper, and raised it nearer to his eyes. "well," he muttered, "i ain't much of a scholard; but i means to get to the bottom o' this 'ere." with intense eagerness, he began to spell out the words of the paragraph which had arrested his attention. it was headed, "'the golden shoemaker' recovers his daughter, supposed to have been stolen by tramps in her childhood." from line to line he laboured painfully on. many times his progress was stayed by some formidable word; and again and again he was interrupted by a violent cough; but at length he had ascertained the contents of the paragraph. it contained as much as was known of the history of marian horn. it told how, at the age of five, she had, as was supposed, run away from home, and, as recently-discovered circumstances seemed to indicate, fallen into the hands of evil persons; and how all trace of her had then been lost until a few weeks afterwards, when, as had now become known, she was found, a wretched little waif, upon the highway, and adopted by mr. and mrs. burton. the circumstances of her after life were then set forth; and the narrative concluded with a glowing account of her re-union with her friends. the tramp deeply pondered this romantic story. "ah," he said to himself, "that must ha' been the little wench as me and the old woman took to. it was somewhere here away. i remember about the shoe as she'd lost. they must ha' found it. the old woman cut the other shoe, same as it says here. it were a bad thing of us to take the kid, that it were." at this point the man was seized with a violent fit of coughing. when it had subsided, he resumed his half-muttered meditations. "well, i'm glad as the little 'un got took care on, arter all, and has got back to her own natural born father at last; for she were a game little wench, and no mistake. she were a poor people's child when we got hold on her. but i've heerd tell o' 'the golden shoemaker,' as they calls him. it must ha' been arter she was lost that he got his money. well, i feels sorry, like, as we didn't try to find her friends. but the old gal were that onscrupulous, she didn't stick at nothink, she didn't. as sure as my name's jake dafty, this 'ere's a queer go." thus mused jake, the tramp, sitting against the haystack; and his musings were, ever and anon, disturbed by his racking cough. he felt indisposed to move. as he brooded over the past, his mind became uneasy, he was conscious of a vague desire to make confession of the evil he had done. did he feel that the sands of his life were almost sped? and was conscience waking at last? at length, between his fits of coughing, he was overtaken by sleep. the night was chilly after the warm day. the sun went down, and the stars peeped out serenely upon the frowzy and wretched tramp asleep against the haystack; and the dew settled thickly on his ragged beard and tattered clothes. every now and then he was shaken by his cough; but he was weary, and remained asleep. and, in his sleep, the past came back more vividly than it had ever re-visited him in his waking hours. he seemed to be present at the despoiling and ill-using of a dark-eyed child, whom he might have delivered, and did not; and, from time to time, he moved uneasily in his sleep, and groaned aloud. thus passed the night; and, in the morning, jake, being found by the farm people, in his place against the haystack, delirious, and evidently ill, was conveyed to the workhouse. the next day "the golden shoemaker" received word that a man who was dying in the workhouse begged to see him at once. "cobbler" horn ordered his closed carriage, and drove to the workhouse without delay. the man, who was jake, the tramp, had not long to live. his delirium was over now, and he was quite himself. his eyes were fixed eagerly upon the face of "cobbler" horn, as the latter entered the room. "are you 'the golden shoemaker'?" he asked. "so i am sometimes called," replied "cobbler" horn, with a smile. "well--i ain't got much time--i'm the bloke wot stole your little 'un; me and the old woman." "cobbler" horn uttered an exclamation of surprise. "yes. the old woman's gone. she died in quod. i don't know what they had done to her. perhaps nothink: maybe her time was come. i warn't that sorry; she'd got to be a stroke too many for me. but i want to tell you about the little 'un. i'm a going to die, and it 'ull be as well to get it off my mind. there ain't no mistake; cos i see'd it in the paper, and it tallies. i've got it here." as he spoke, he drew from beneath his pillow the crumpled piece of newspaper on which he had read of the restoration of marian to her father. "there," he said, "yer can read it for yerself." "cobbler" horn took the paper, and glanced at its contents. he had seen in various newspapers, if not this, several similar accounts of the adventures of his child. "ah," he said, handing back to the man the greasy and crumpled paper, "tell me about it." "well, you knows that field where you found one of her shoes?" "yes." "well, we wos a sitting under the hedge, near that field, one morning, a-dining, when the kid came along. she stopped when she see'd us; and we invited her to go along with us, and somehow she seemed as if she didn't like to refuse. arter that, we took her into the wood; and the old woman stripped off her clothes, and did her up like as she was when she was found. she'd lost one of her shoes, and i went back for it; but i couldn't find it nowheres. you may be sure as we got out o' these parts as fast as we could. we thought as the kid 'ud be a rare help in the cadging line. but she was that stubborn and noisy, we soon got sorry as we'd ever taken on with her; and, if she hadn't took herself right away, one arternoon when we was having of our arter-dinner nap in a dry ditch, i do believe as the old woman 'ud ha' found some means o' putting her on one side." having finished his story, the dying tramp lay still for awhile, with his eyes closed. "cobbler" horn looked down with pity upon the seamed and wrinkled face, from which almost all expression, except that of utter weariness, seemed to have been worn away. presently the dying man opened his eyes. "that's all as i has to tell, master," he said faintly. "do yer think, now, as yer could find it in yer heart to forgive a cove, like? it 'ud be none the worse for me, if yer could; nor, mayhap, for yourself neither. i'se sorry i done it." "cobbler" horn was deeply moved. but, as he now knew as much of what had happened to marian as was likely ever to come to light, he could afford to let the matter rest; and already he found himself thinking more of the miserable case of the dying waif before him, than of the confession the poor creature had made. so he gave himself fully to the congenial task of trying to bring this miserable being, into a fitting frame of mind in which to meet the solemn change which he must so soon undergo. "i forgive you freely," he said. "but won't you ask pardon of god? my forgiveness will be of little use without his." the dying tramp looked up with a listless stare. "it's wery good o' yer," he said, "to say as yer forgives me. but, as for god, i've never had much to do with him, yer see; and it ain't likely as he'll mind me now. and i don't seem to care about it a deal." "cobbler" horn was troubled, but not surprised. breathing a prayer for divine guidance and help, he set himself to make clear to this dark soul the way of life. in the simplest words at his command, he strove to make the wretched man understand and feel his need of a saviour; and, when, at length, he quitted the chamber of death, he had good reason to hope that his efforts had not been altogether in vain. marian was profoundly interested to hear of the dying tramp and the story he had told, which latter agreed so well with her own vague remembrances, that she joined her father and aunt in regarding it as indicating what had been the actual course of events. little, now, remains to be told. father and daughter united to render the vast wealth which god had intrusted to their charge a source of greater and yet greater blessing to increasing multitudes of needy and suffering people; and aunt jemima insisted on participating in all their generous schemes. marian is still secretary; but, as she receives many offers of marriage, it is possible the post may become vacant even yet. * * * * * fletcher and son, ltd., printers, norwich. galsworthy plays--series the pigeon a fantasy in three acts by john galsworthy persons of the play christopher wellwyn, an artist ann, his daughter guinevere megan, a flower-seller rory megan, her husband ferrand, an alien timson, once a cabman edward bertley, a canon alfred calway, a professor sir thomas hoxton, a justice of the peace also a police constable, three humble-men, and some curious persons the action passes in wellwyn's studio, and the street outside. act i. christmas eve. act ii. new year's day. act iii. the first of april. act i it is the night of christmas eve, the scene is a studio, flush with the street, having a skylight darkened by a fall of snow. there is no one in the room, the walls of which are whitewashed, above a floor of bare dark boards. a fire is cheerfully burning. on a model's platform stands an easel and canvas. there are busts and pictures; a screen, a little stool, two arm. chairs, and a long old-fashioned settle under the window. a door in one wall leads to the house, a door in the opposite wall to the model's dressing-room, and the street door is in the centre of the wall between. on a low table a russian samovar is hissing, and beside it on a tray stands a teapot, with glasses, lemon, sugar, and a decanter of rum. through a huge uncurtained window close to the street door the snowy lamplit street can be seen, and beyond it the river and a night of stars. the sound of a latchkey turned in the lock of the street door, and ann wellwyn enters, a girl of seventeen, with hair tied in a ribbon and covered by a scarf. leaving the door open, she turns up the electric light and goes to the fire. she throws of her scarf and long red cloak. she is dressed in a high evening frock of some soft white material. her movements are quick and substantial. her face, full of no nonsense, is decided and sincere, with deep-set eyes, and a capable, well-shaped forehead. shredding of her gloves she warms her hands. in the doorway appear the figures of two men. the first is rather short and slight, with a soft short beard, bright soft eyes, and a crumply face. under his squash hat his hair is rather plentiful and rather grey. he wears an old brown ulster and woollen gloves, and is puffing at a hand-made cigarette. he is ann's father, wellwyn, the artist. his companion is a well-wrapped clergyman of medium height and stoutish build, with a pleasant, rosy face, rather shining eyes, and rather chubby clean-shaped lips; in appearance, indeed, a grown-up boy. he is the vicar of the parish--canon bertley. bertley. my dear wellwyn, the whole question of reform is full of difficulty. when you have two men like professor calway and sir thomas hoxton taking diametrically opposite points of view, as we've seen to-night, i confess, i---- wellwyn. come in, vicar, and have some grog. bertley. not to-night, thanks! christmas tomorrow! great temptation, though, this room! goodnight, wellwyn; good-night, ann! ann. [coming from the fire towards the tea-table.] good-night, canon bertley. [he goes out, and wellwyn, shutting the door after him, approaches the fire.] ann. [sitting on the little stool, with her back to the fire, and making tea.] daddy! wellwyn. my dear? ann. you say you liked professor calway's lecture. is it going to do you any good, that's the question? wellwyn. i--i hope so, ann. ann. i took you on purpose. your charity's getting simply awful. those two this morning cleared out all my housekeeping money. wellwyn. um! um! i quite understand your feeling. ann. they both had your card, so i couldn't refuse--didn't know what you'd said to them. why don't you make it a rule never to give your card to anyone except really decent people, and--picture dealers, of course. wellwyn. my dear, i have--often. ann. then why don't you keep it? it's a frightful habit. you are naughty, daddy. one of these days you'll get yourself into most fearful complications. wellwyn. my dear, when they--when they look at you? ann. you know the house wants all sorts of things. why do you speak to them at all? wellwyn. i don't--they speak to me. [he takes of his ulster and hangs it over the back of an arm-chair.] ann. they see you coming. anybody can see you coming, daddy. that's why you ought to be so careful. i shall make you wear a hard hat. those squashy hats of yours are hopelessly inefficient. wellwyn. [gazing at his hat.] calway wears one. ann. as if anyone would beg of professor calway. wellwyn. well-perhaps not. you know, ann, i admire that fellow. wonderful power of-of-theory! how a man can be so absolutely tidy in his mind! it's most exciting. ann. has any one begged of you to-day? wellwyn. [doubtfully.] no--no. ann. [after a long, severe look.] will you have rum in your tea? wellwyn. [crestfallen.] yes, my dear--a good deal. ann. [pouring out the rum, and handing him the glass.] well, who was it? wellwyn. he didn't beg of me. [losing himself in recollection.] interesting old creature, ann--real type. old cabman. ann. where? wellwyn. just on the embankment. ann. of course! daddy, you know the embankment ones are always rotters. wellwyn. yes, my dear; but this wasn't. ann. did you give him your card? wellwyn. i--i--don't ann. did you, daddy? wellwyn. i'm rather afraid i may have! ann. may have! it's simply immoral. wellwyn. well, the old fellow was so awfully human, ann. besides, i didn't give him any money--hadn't got any. ann. look here, daddy! did you ever ask anybody for anything? you know you never did, you'd starve first. so would anybody decent. then, why won't you see that people who beg are rotters? wellwyn. but, my dear, we're not all the same. they wouldn't do it if it wasn't natural to them. one likes to be friendly. what's the use of being alive if one isn't? ann. daddy, you're hopeless. wellwyn. but, look here, ann, the whole thing's so jolly complicated. according to calway, we're to give the state all we can spare, to make the undeserving deserving. he's a professor; he ought to know. but old hoxton's always dinning it into me that we ought to support private organisations for helping the deserving, and damn the undeserving. well, that's just the opposite. and he's a j.p. tremendous experience. and the vicar seems to be for a little bit of both. well, what the devil----? my trouble is, whichever i'm with, he always converts me. [ruefully.] and there's no fun in any of them. ann. [rising.] oh! daddy, you are so--don't you know that you're the despair of all social reformers? [she envelops him.] there's a tear in the left knee of your trousers. you're not to wear them again. wellwyn. am i likely to? ann. i shouldn't be a bit surprised if it isn't your only pair. d'you know what i live in terror of? [wellwyn gives her a queer and apprehensive look.] ann. that you'll take them off some day, and give them away in the street. have you got any money? [she feels in his coat, and he his trousers--they find nothing.] do you know that your pockets are one enormous hole? wellwyn. no! ann. spiritually. wellwyn. oh! ah! h'm! ann. [severely.] now, look here, daddy! [she takes him by his lapels.] don't imagine that it isn't the most disgusting luxury on your part to go on giving away things as you do! you know what you really are, i suppose--a sickly sentimentalist! wellwyn. [breaking away from her, disturbed.] it isn't sentiment. it's simply that they seem to me so--so--jolly. if i'm to give up feeling sort of--nice in here [he touches his chest] about people--it doesn't matter who they are--then i don't know what i'm to do. i shall have to sit with my head in a bag. ann. i think you ought to. wellwyn. i suppose they see i like them--then they tell me things. after that, of course you can't help doing what you can. ann. well, if you will love them up! wellwyn. my dear, i don't want to. it isn't them especially--why, i feel it even with old calway sometimes. it's only providence that he doesn't want anything of me--except to make me like himself--confound him! ann. [moving towards the door into the house--impressively.] what you don't see is that other people aren't a bit like you. wellwyn. well, thank god! ann. it's so old-fashioned too! i'm going to bed--i just leave you to your conscience. wellwyn. oh! ann. [opening the door-severely.] good-night--[with a certain weakening] you old--daddy! [she jumps at him, gives him a hug, and goes out.] [wellwyn stands perfectly still. he first gazes up at the skylight, then down at the floor. slowly he begins to shake his head, and mutter, as he moves towards the fire.] wellwyn. bad lot.... low type--no backbone, no stability! [there comes a fluttering knock on the outer door. as the sound slowly enters his consciousness, he begins to wince, as though he knew, but would not admit its significance. then he sits down, covering his ears. the knocking does not cease. wellwyn drops first one, then both hands, rises, and begins to sidle towards the door. the knocking becomes louder.] wellwyn. ah dear! tt! tt! tt! [after a look in the direction of ann's disappearance, he opens the street door a very little way. by the light of the lamp there can be seen a young girl in dark clothes, huddled in a shawl to which the snow is clinging. she has on her arm a basket covered with a bit of sacking.] wellwyn. i can't, you know; it's impossible. [the girl says nothing, but looks at him with dark eyes.] wellwyn. [wincing.] let's see--i don't know you--do i? [the girl, speaking in a soft, hoarse voice, with a faint accent of reproach: "mrs. megan--you give me this---" she holds out a dirty visiting card.] wellwyn. [recoiling from the card.] oh! did i? ah! when? mrs. megan. you 'ad some vi'lets off of me larst spring. you give me 'arf a crown. [a smile tries to visit her face.] wellwyn. [looking stealthily round.] ah! well, come in--just for a minute--it's very cold--and tell us what it is. [she comes in stolidly, a sphinx-like figure, with her pretty tragic little face.] wellwyn. i don't remember you. [looking closer.] yes, i do. only-- you weren't the same-were you? mrs. megan. [dully.] i seen trouble since. wellwyn. trouble! have some tea? [he looks anxiously at the door into the house, then goes quickly to the table, and pours out a glass of tea, putting rum into it.] wellwyn. [handing her the tea.] keeps the cold out! drink it off! [mrs. megan drinks it of, chokes a little, and almost immediately seems to get a size larger. wellwyn watches her with his head held on one side, and a smile broadening on his face.] wellwyn. cure for all evils, um? mrs. megan. it warms you. [she smiles.] wellwyn. [smiling back, and catching himself out.] well! you know, i oughtn't. mrs. megan. [conscious of the disruption of his personality, and withdrawing into her tragic abyss.] i wouldn't 'a come, but you told me if i wanted an 'and---- wellwyn. [gradually losing himself in his own nature.] let me see--corner of flight street, wasn't it? mrs. megan. [with faint eagerness.] yes, sir, an' i told you about me vi'lets--it was a luvly spring-day. wellwyn. beautiful! beautiful! birds singing, and the trees, &c.! we had quite a talk. you had a baby with you. mrs. megan. yes. i got married since then. wellwyn. oh! ah! yes! [cheerfully.] and how's the baby? mrs. megan. [turning to stone.] i lost her. wellwyn. oh! poor--- um! mrs. megan. [impassive.] you said something abaht makin' a picture of me. [with faint eagerness.] so i thought i might come, in case you'd forgotten. wellwyn. [looking at, her intently.] things going badly? mrs. megan. [stripping the sacking off her basket.] i keep 'em covered up, but the cold gets to 'em. thruppence--that's all i've took. wellwyn. ho! tt! tt! [he looks into the basket.] christmas, too! mrs. megan. they're dead. wellwyn. [drawing in his breath.] got a good husband? mrs. megan. he plays cards. wellwyn. oh, lord! and what are you doing out--with a cold like that? [he taps his chest.] mrs. megan. we was sold up this morning--he's gone off with 'is mates. haven't took enough yet for a night's lodgin'. wellwyn. [correcting a spasmodic dive into his pockets.] but who buys flowers at this time of night? [mrs. megan looks at him, and faintly smiles.] wellwyn. [rumpling his hair.] saints above us! here! come to the fire! [she follows him to the fire. he shuts the street door.] wellwyn. are your feet wet? [she nods.] well, sit down here, and take them off. that's right. [she sits on the stool. and after a slow look up at him, which has in it a deeper knowledge than belongs of right to her years, begins taking off her shoes and stockings. wellwyn goes to the door into the house, opens it, and listens with a sort of stealthy casualness. he returns whistling, but not out loud. the girl has finished taking off her stockings, and turned her bare toes to the flames. she shuffles them back under her skirt.] wellwyn. how old are you, my child? mrs. megan. nineteen, come candlemas. wellwyn. and what's your name? mrs. megan. guinevere. wellwyn. what? welsh? mrs. megan. yes--from battersea. wellwyn. and your husband? mrs. megan. no. irish, 'e is. notting dale, 'e comes from. wellwyn. roman catholic? mrs. megan. yes. my 'usband's an atheist as well. wellwyn. i see. [abstractedly.] how jolly! and how old is he--this young man of yours? mrs. megan. 'e'll be twenty soon. wellwyn. babes in the wood! does he treat you badly? mrs. megan. no. wellwyn. nor drink? mrs. megan. no. he's not a bad one. only he gets playin' cards then 'e'll fly the kite. wellwyn. i see. and when he's not flying it, what does he do? mrs. megan. [touching her basket.] same as me. other jobs tires 'im. wellwyn. that's very nice! [he checks himself.] well, what am i to do with you? mrs. megan. of course, i could get me night's lodging if i like to do--the same as some of them. wellwyn. no! no! never, my child! never! mrs. megan. it's easy that way. wellwyn. heavens! but your husband! um? mrs. megan. [with stoical vindictiveness.] he's after one i know of. wellwyn. tt! what a pickle! mrs. megan. i'll 'ave to walk about the streets. wellwyn. [to himself.] now how can i? [mrs. megan looks up and smiles at him, as if she had already discovered that he is peculiar.] wellwyn. you see, the fact is, i mustn't give you anything--because --well, for one thing i haven't got it. there are other reasons, but that's the--real one. but, now, there's a little room where my models dress. i wonder if you could sleep there. come, and see. [the girl gets up lingeringly, loth to leave the warmth. she takes up her wet stockings.] mrs. megan. shall i put them on again? wellwyn. no, no; there's a nice warm pair of slippers. [seeing the steam rising from her.] why, you're wet all over. here, wait a little! [he crosses to the door into the house, and after stealthy listening, steps through. the girl, like a cat, steals back to the warmth of the fire. wellwyn returns with a candle, a canary-coloured bath gown, and two blankets.] wellwyn. now then! [he precedes her towards the door of the model's room.] hsssh! [he opens the door and holds up the candle to show her the room.] will it do? there's a couch. you'll find some washing things. make yourself quite at home. see! [the girl, perfectly dumb, passes through with her basket--and her shoes and stockings. wellwyn hands her the candle, blankets, and bath gown.] wellwyn. have a good sleep, child! forget that you're alive! [he closes the door, mournfully.] done it again! [he goes to the table, cuts a large slice of cake, knocks on the door, and hands it in.] chow-chow! [then, as he walks away, he sights the opposite door.] well--damn it, what could i have done? not a farthing on me! [he goes to the street door to shut it, but first opens it wide to confirm himself in his hospitality.] night like this! [a sputter of snow is blown in his face. a voice says: "monsieur, pardon!" wellwyn recoils spasmodically. a figure moves from the lamp-post to the doorway. he is seen to be young and to have ragged clothes. he speaks again: "you do not remember me, monsieur? my name is ferrand--it was in paris, in the champs-elysees--by the fountain.... when you came to the door, monsieur--i am not made of iron.... tenez, here is your card i have never lost it." he holds out to wellwyn an old and dirty wing card. as inch by inch he has advanced into the doorway, the light from within falls on him, a tall gaunt young pagan with fair hair and reddish golden stubble of beard, a long ironical nose a little to one side, and large, grey, rather prominent eyes. there is a certain grace in his figure and movements; his clothes are nearly dropping off him.] wellwyn. [yielding to a pleasant memory.] ah! yes. by the fountain. i was sitting there, and you came and ate a roll, and drank the water. ferrand. [with faint eagerness.] my breakfast. i was in poverty-- veree bad off. you gave me ten francs. i thought i had a little the right [wellwyn makes a movement of disconcertion] seeing you said that if i came to england---- wellwyn. um! and so you've come? ferrand. it was time that i consolidated my fortunes, monsieur. wellwyn. and you--have---- [he stops embarrassed.] ferrand. [shrugging his ragged shoulders.] one is not yet rothschild. wellwyn. [sympathetically.] no. [yielding to memory.] we talked philosophy. ferrand. i have not yet changed my opinion. we other vagabonds, we are exploited by the bourgeois. this is always my idea, monsieur. wellwyn. yes--not quite the general view, perhaps! well---- [heartily.] come in! very glad to see you again. ferrand. [brushing his arms over his eyes.] pardon, monsieur--your goodness--i am a little weak. [he opens his coat, and shows a belt drawn very tight over his ragged shirt.] i tighten him one hole for each meal, during two days now. that gives you courage. wellwyn. [with cooing sounds, pouring out tea, and adding rum.] have some of this. it'll buck you up. [he watches the young man drink.] ferrand. [becoming a size larger.] sometimes i think that i will never succeed to dominate my life, monsieur--though i have no vices, except that i guard always the aspiration to achieve success. but i will not roll myself under the machine of existence to gain a nothing every day. i must find with what to fly a little. wellwyn. [delicately.] yes; yes--i remember, you found it difficult to stay long in any particular--yes. ferrand. [proudly.] in one little corner? no--monsieur--never! that is not in my character. i must see life. wellwyn. quite, quite! have some cake? [he cuts cake.] ferrand. in your country they say you cannot eat the cake and have it. but one must always try, monsieur; one must never be content. [refusing the cake.] 'grand merci', but for the moment i have no stomach--i have lost my stomach now for two days. if i could smoke, monsieur! [he makes the gesture of smoking.] wellwyn. rather! [handing his tobacco pouch.] roll yourself one. ferrand. [rapidly rolling a cigarette.] if i had not found you, monsieur--i would have been a little hole in the river to-night-- i was so discouraged. [he inhales and puffs a long luxurious whif of smoke. very bitterly.] life! [he disperses the puff of smoke with his finger, and stares before him.] and to think that in a few minutes he will be born! monsieur! [he gazes intently at wellwyn.] the world would reproach you for your goodness to me. wellwyn. [looking uneasily at the door into the house.] you think so? ah! ferrand. monsieur, if he himself were on earth now, there would be a little heap of gentlemen writing to the journals every day to call him sloppee sentimentalist! and what is veree funny, these gentlemen they would all be most strong christians. [he regards wellwyn deeply.] but that will not trouble you, monsieur; i saw well from the first that you are no christian. you have so kind a face. wellwyn. oh! indeed! ferrand. you have not enough the pharisee in your character. you do not judge, and you are judged. [he stretches his limbs as if in pain.] wellwyn. are you in pain? ferrand. i 'ave a little the rheumatism. wellwyn. wet through, of course! [glancing towards the house.] wait a bit! i wonder if you'd like these trousers; they've--er--they're not quite---- [he passes through the door into the house. ferrand stands at the fire, with his limbs spread as it were to embrace it, smoking with abandonment. wellwyn returns stealthily, dressed in a jaeger dressing-gown, and bearing a pair of drawers, his trousers, a pair of slippers, and a sweater.] wellwyn. [speaking in a low voice, for the door is still open.] can you make these do for the moment? ferrand. 'je vous remercie', monsieur. [pointing to the screen.] may i retire? wellwyn. yes, yes. [ferrand goes behind the screen. wellwyn closes the door into the house, then goes to the window to draw the curtains. he suddenly recoils and stands petrified with doubt.] wellwyn. good lord! [there is the sound of tapping on glass. against the window-pane is pressed the face of a man. wellwyn motions to him to go away. he does not go, but continues tapping. wellwyn opens the door. there enters a square old man, with a red, pendulous jawed, shaking face under a snow besprinkled bowler hat. he is holding out a visiting card with tremulous hand.] wellwyn. who's that? who are you? timson. [in a thick, hoarse, shaking voice.] 'appy to see you, sir; we 'ad a talk this morning. timson--i give you me name. you invited of me, if ye remember. wellwyn. it's a little late, really. timson. well, ye see, i never expected to 'ave to call on yer. i was 'itched up all right when i spoke to yer this mornin', but bein' christmas, things 'ave took a turn with me to-day. [he speaks with increasing thickness.] i'm reg'lar disgusted--not got the price of a bed abaht me. thought you wouldn't like me to be delicate--not at my age. wellwyn. [with a mechanical and distracted dive of his hands into his pockets.] the fact is, it so happens i haven't a copper on me. timson. [evidently taking this for professional refusal.] wouldn't arsk you if i could 'elp it. 'ad to do with 'orses all me life. it's this 'ere cold i'm frightened of. i'm afraid i'll go to sleep. wellwyn. well, really, i---- timson. to be froze to death--i mean--it's awkward. wellwyn. [puzzled and unhappy.] well--come in a moment, and let's-- think it out. have some tea! [he pours out the remains of the tea, and finding there is not very much, adds rum rather liberally. timson, who walks a little wide at the knees, steadying his gait, has followed.] timson. [receiving the drink.] yer 'ealth. 'ere's--soberiety! [he applies the drink to his lips with shaking hand. agreeably surprised.] blimey! thish yer tea's foreign, ain't it? ferrand. [reappearing from behind the screen in his new clothes of which the trousers stop too soon.] with a needle, monsieur, i would soon have with what to make face against the world. wellwyn. too short! ah! [he goes to the dais on which stands ann's workbasket, and takes from it a needle and cotton.] [while he is so engaged ferrand is sizing up old timson, as one dog will another. the old man, glass in hand, seems to have lapsed into coma.] ferrand. [indicating timson] monsieur! [he makes the gesture of one drinking, and shakes his head.] wellwyn. [handing him the needle and cotton.] um! afraid so! [they approach timson, who takes no notice.] ferrand. [gently.] it is an old cabby, is it not, monsieur? 'ceux sont tous des buveurs'. wellwyn. [concerned at the old man's stupefaction.] now, my old friend, sit down a moment. [they manoeuvre timson to the settle.] will you smoke? timson. [in a drowsy voice.] thank 'ee-smoke pipe of 'baccer. old 'orse--standin' abaht in th' cold. [he relapses into coma.] ferrand. [with a click of his tongue.] 'il est parti'. wellwyn. [doubtfully.] he hasn't really left a horse outside, do you think? ferrand. non, non, monsieur--no 'orse. he is dreaming. i know very well that state of him--that catches you sometimes. it is the warmth sudden on the stomach. he will speak no more sense to-night. at the most, drink, and fly a little in his past. wellwyn. poor old buffer! ferrand. touching, is it not, monsieur? there are many brave gents among the old cabbies--they have philosophy--that comes from 'orses, and from sitting still. wellwyn. [touching timson's shoulder.] drenched! ferrand. that will do 'im no 'arm, monsieur-no 'arm at all. he is well wet inside, remember--it is christmas to-morrow. put him a rug, if you will, he will soon steam. [wellwyn takes up ann's long red cloak, and wraps it round the old man.] timson. [faintly roused.] tha's right. put--the rug on th' old 'orse. [he makes a strange noise, and works his head and tongue.] wellwyn. [alarmed.] what's the matter with him? ferrand. it is nothing, monsieur; for the moment he thinks 'imself a 'orse. 'il joue "cache-cache,"' 'ide and seek, with what you call-- 'is bitt. wellwyn. but what's to be done with him? one can't turn him out in this state. ferrand. if you wish to leave him 'ere, monsieur, have no fear. i charge myself with him. wellwyn. oh! [dubiously.] you--er--i really don't know, i--hadn't contemplated--you think you could manage if i--if i went to bed? ferrand. but certainly, monsieur. wellwyn. [still dubiously.] you--you're sure you've everything you want? ferrand. [bowing.] 'mais oui, monsieur'. wellwyn. i don't know what i can do by staying. ferrand. there is nothing you can do, monsieur. have confidence in me. wellwyn. well-keep the fire up quietly--very quietly. you'd better take this coat of mine, too. you'll find it precious cold, i expect, about three o'clock. [he hands ferrand his ulster.] ferrand. [taking it.] i shall sleep in praying for you, monsieur. wellwyn. ah! yes! thanks! well-good-night! by the way, i shall be down rather early. have to think of my household a bit, you know. ferrand. 'tres bien, monsieur'. i comprehend. one must well be regular in this life. wellwyn. [with a start.] lord! [he looks at the door of the model's room.] i'd forgotten---- ferrand. can i undertake anything, monsieur? wellwyn. no, no! [he goes to the electric light switch by the outer door.] you won't want this, will you? ferrand. 'merci, monsieur'. [wellwyn switches off the light.] ferrand. 'bon soir, monsieur'! wellwyn. the devil! er--good-night! [he hesitates, rumples his hair, and passes rather suddenly away.] ferrand. [to himself.] poor pigeon! [looking long at old timson] 'espece de type anglais!' [he sits down in the firelight, curls up a foot on his knee, and taking out a knife, rips the stitching of a turned-up end of trouser, pinches the cloth double, and puts in the preliminary stitch of a new hem--all with the swiftness of one well-accustomed. then, as if hearing a sound behind him, he gets up quickly and slips behind the screen. mrs. megan, attracted by the cessation of voices, has opened the door, and is creeping from the model's room towards the fire. she has almost reached it before she takes in the torpid crimson figure of old timson. she halts and puts her hand to her chest--a queer figure in the firelight, garbed in the canary-coloured bath gown and rabbit's-wool slippers, her black matted hair straggling down on her neck. having quite digested the fact that the old man is in a sort of stupor, mrs. megan goes close to the fire, and sits on the little stool, smiling sideways at old timson. ferrand, coming quietly up behind, examines her from above, drooping his long nose as if enquiring with it as to her condition in life; then he steps back a yard or two.] ferrand. [gently.] 'pardon, ma'moiselle'. mrs. megan. [springing to her feet.] oh! ferrand. all right, all right! we are brave gents! timson. [faintly roused.] 'old up, there! ferrand. trust in me, ma'moiselle! [mrs. megan responds by drawing away.] ferrand. [gently.] we must be good comrades. this asylum--it is better than a doss-'ouse. [he pushes the stool over towards her, and seats himself. somewhat reassured, mrs. megan again sits down.] mrs. megan. you frightened me. timson. [unexpectedly-in a drowsy tone.] purple foreigners! ferrand. pay no attention, ma'moiselle. he is a philosopher. mrs. megan. oh! i thought 'e was boozed. [they both look at timson] ferrand. it is the same-veree 'armless. mrs. megan. what's that he's got on 'im? ferrand. it is a coronation robe. have no fear, ma'moiselle. veree docile potentate. mrs. megan. i wouldn't be afraid of him. [challenging ferrand.] i'm afraid o' you. ferrand. it is because you do not know me, ma'moiselle. you are wrong, it is always the unknown you should love. mrs. megan. i don't like the way you-speaks to me. ferrand. ah! you are a princess in disguise? mrs. megan. no fear! ferrand. no? what is it then you do to make face against the necessities of life? a living? mrs. megan. sells flowers. ferrand. [rolling his eyes.] it is not a career. mrs. megan. [with a touch of devilry.] you don't know what i do. ferrand. ma'moiselle, whatever you do is charming. [mrs. megan looks at him, and slowly smiles.] mrs. megan. you're a foreigner. ferrand. it is true. mrs. megan. what do you do for a livin'? ferrand. i am an interpreter. mrs. megan. you ain't very busy, are you? ferrand. [with dignity.] at present i am resting. mrs. megan. [looking at him and smiling.] how did you and 'im come here? ferrand. ma'moiselle, we would ask you the same question. mrs. megan. the gentleman let me. 'e's funny. ferrand. 'c'est un ange' [at mrs. megan's blank stare he interprets.] an angel! mrs. megan. me luck's out-that's why i come. ferrand. [rising.] ah! ma'moiselle! luck! there is the little god who dominates us all. look at this old! [he points to timson.] he is finished. in his day that old would be doing good business. he could afford himself--[he maker a sign of drinking.]--then come the motor cars. all goes--he has nothing left, only 'is 'abits of a 'cocher'! luck! timson. [with a vague gesture--drowsily.] kick the foreign beggars out. ferrand. a real englishman.... and look at me! my father was merchant of ostrich feathers in brussels. if i had been content to go in his business, i would 'ave been rich. but i was born to roll--"rolling stone" to voyage is stronger than myself. luck!... and you, ma'moiselle, shall i tell your fortune? [he looks in her face.] you were born for 'la joie de vivre'--to drink the wines of life. 'et vous voila'! luck! [though she does not in the least understand what he has said, her expression changes to a sort of glee.] ferrand. yes. you were born loving pleasure. is it not? you see, you cannot say, no. all of us, we have our fates. give me your hand. [he kneels down and takes her hand.] in each of us there is that against which we cannot struggle. yes, yes! [he holds her hand, and turns it over between his own. mrs. megan remains stolid, half fascinated, half-reluctant.] timson. [flickering into consciousness.] be'ave yourselves! yer crimson canary birds! [mrs. megan would withdraw her hand, but cannot.] ferrand. pay no attention, ma'moiselle. he is a puritan. [timson relapses into comatosity, upsetting his glass, which falls with a crash.] mrs. megan. let go my hand, please! ferrand. [relinquishing it, and staring into the fore gravely.] there is one thing i have never done--'urt a woman--that is hardly in my character. [then, drawing a little closer, he looks into her face.] tell me, ma'moiselle, what is it you think of all day long? mrs. megan. i dunno--lots, i thinks of. ferrand. shall i tell you? [her eyes remain fixed on his, the strangeness of him preventing her from telling him to "get along." he goes on in his ironic voice.] it is of the streets--the lights-- the faces--it is of all which moves, and is warm--it is of colour--it is [he brings his face quite close to hers] of love. that is for you what the road is for me. that is for you what the rum is for that old--[he jerks his thumb back at timson. then bending swiftly forward to the girl.] see! i kiss you--ah! [he draws her forward off the stool. there is a little struggle, then she resigns her lips. the little stool, overturned, falls with a clatter. they spring up, and move apart. the door opens and ann enters from the house in a blue dressing-gown, with her hair loose, and a candle held high above her head. taking in the strange half-circle round the stove, she recoils. then, standing her ground, calls in a voice sharpened by fright: "daddy--daddy!"] timson. [stirring uneasily, and struggling to his feet.] all right! i'm comin'! ferrand. have no fear, madame! [in the silence that follows, a clock begins loudly striking twelve. ann remains, as if carved in atone, her eyes fastened on the strangers. there is the sound of someone falling downstairs, and wellwyn appears, also holding a candle above his head.] ann. look! wellwyn. yes, yes, my dear! it--it happened. ann. [with a sort of groan.] oh! daddy! [in the renewed silence, the church clock ceases to chime.] ferrand. [softly, in his ironic voice.] he is come, monsieur! 'appy christmas! bon noel! [there is a sudden chime of bells. the stage is blotted dark.] curtain. act ii it is four o'clock in the afternoon of new year's day. on the raised dais mrs. megan is standing, in her rags; with bare feet and ankles, her dark hair as if blown about, her lips parted, holding out a dishevelled bunch of violets. before his easel, wellwyn is painting her. behind him, at a table between the cupboard and the door to the model's room, timson is washing brushes, with the movements of one employed upon relief works. the samovar is hissing on the table by the stove, the tea things are set out. wellwyn. open your mouth. [mrs. megan opens her mouth.] ann. [in hat and coat, entering from the house.] daddy! [wellwyn goes to her; and, released from restraint, mrs. megan looks round at timson and grimaces.] wellwyn. well, my dear? [they speak in low voices.] ann. [holding out a note.] this note from canon bentley. he's going to bring her husband here this afternoon. [she looks at mrs. megan.] wellwyn. oh! [he also looks at mrs. megan.] ann. and i met sir thomas hoxton at church this morning, and spoke to him about timson. wellwyn. um! [they look at timson. then ann goes back to the door, and wellwyn follows her.] ann. [turning.] i'm going round now, daddy, to ask professor calway what we're to do with that ferrand. wellwyn. oh! one each! i wonder if they'll like it. ann. they'll have to lump it. [she goes out into the house.] wellwyn. [back at his easel.] you can shut your mouth now. [mrs. megan shuts her mouth, but opens it immediately to smile.] wellwyn. [spasmodically.] ah! now that's what i want. [he dabs furiously at the canvas. then standing back, runs his hands through his hair and turns a painter's glance towards the skylight.] dash! light's gone! off you get, child--don't tempt me! [mrs. megan descends. passing towards the door of the model's room she stops, and stealthily looks at the picture.] timson. ah! would yer! wellwyn. [wheeling round.] want to have a look? well--come on! [he takes her by the arm, and they stand before the canvas. after a stolid moment, she giggles.] wellwyn. oh! you think so? mrs. megan. [who has lost her hoarseness.] it's not like my picture that i had on the pier. wellwyn. no-it wouldn't be. mrs. megan. [timidly.] if i had an 'at on, i'd look better. wellwyn. with feathers? mrs. megan. yes. wellwyn. well, you can't! i don't like hats, and i don't like feathers. [mrs. megan timidly tugs his sleeve. timson, screened as he thinks by the picture, has drawn from his bulky pocket a bottle and is taking a stealthy swig.] wellwyn. [to mrs. megan, affecting not to notice.] how much do i owe you? mrs. megan. [a little surprised.] you paid me for to-day-all 'cept a penny. wellwyn. well! here it is. [he gives her a coin.] go and get your feet on! mrs. megan. you've give me 'arf a crown. wellwyn. cut away now! [mrs. megan, smiling at the coin, goes towards the model's room. she looks back at wellwyn, as if to draw his eyes to her, but he is gazing at the picture; then, catching old timson's sour glance, she grimaces at him, kicking up her feet with a little squeal. but when wellwyn turns to the sound, she is demurely passing through the doorway.] timson. [in his voice of dubious sobriety.] i've finished these yer brushes, sir. it's not a man's work. i've been thinkin' if you'd keep an 'orse, i could give yer satisfaction. wellwyn. would the horse, timson? timson. [looking him up and down.] i knows of one that would just suit yer. reel 'orse, you'd like 'im. wellwyn. [shaking his head.] afraid not, timson! awfully sorry, though, to have nothing better for you than this, at present. timson. [faintly waving the brushes.] of course, if you can't afford it, i don't press you--it's only that i feel i'm not doing meself justice. [confidentially.] there's just one thing, sir; i can't bear to see a gen'leman imposed on. that foreigner--'e's not the sort to 'ave about the place. talk? oh! ah! but 'e'll never do any good with 'imself. he's a alien. wellwyn. terrible misfortune to a fellow, timson. timson. don't you believe it, sir; it's his fault i says to the young lady yesterday: miss ann, your father's a gen'leman [with a sudden accent of hoarse sincerity], and so you are--i don't mind sayin' it--but, i said, he's too easy-goin'. wellwyn. indeed! timson. well, see that girl now! [he shakes his head.] i never did believe in goin' behind a person's back--i'm an englishman--but [lowering his voice] she's a bad hat, sir. why, look at the street she comes from! wellwyn. oh! you know it. timson. lived there meself larst three years. see the difference a few days' corn's made in her. she's that saucy you can't touch 'er head. wellwyn. is there any necessity, timson? timson. artful too. full o' vice, i call'er. where's 'er 'usband? wellwyn. [gravely.] come, timson! you wouldn't like her to---- timson. [with dignity, so that the bottle in his pocket is plainly visible.] i'm a man as always beared inspection. wellwyn. [with a well-directed smile.] so i see. timson. [curving himself round the bottle.] it's not for me to say nothing--but i can tell a gen'leman as quick as ever i can tell an 'orse. wellwyn. [painting.] i find it safest to assume that every man is a gentleman, and every woman a lady. saves no end of self-contempt. give me the little brush. timson. [handing him the brush--after a considerable introspective pause.] would yer like me to stay and wash it for yer again? [with great resolution.] i will--i'll do it for you--never grudged workin' for a gen'leman. wellwyn. [with sincerity.] thank you, timson--very good of you, i'm sure. [he hands him back the brush.] just lend us a hand with this. [assisted by timson he pushes back the dais.] let's see! what do i owe you? timson. [reluctantly.] it so 'appens, you advanced me to-day's yesterday. wellwyn. then i suppose you want to-morrow's? timson. well, i 'ad to spend it, lookin' for a permanent job. when you've got to do with 'orses, you can't neglect the publics, or you might as well be dead. wellwyn. quite so! timson. it mounts up in the course o' the year. wellwyn. it would. [passing him a coin.] this is for an exceptional purpose--timson--see. not---- timson. [touching his forehead.] certainly, sir. i quite understand. i'm not that sort, as i think i've proved to yer, comin' here regular day after day, all the week. there's one thing, i ought to warn you perhaps--i might 'ave to give this job up any day. [he makes a faint demonstration with the little brush, then puts it, absent-mindedly, into his pocket.] wellwyn. [gravely.] i'd never stand in the way of your bettering yourself, timson. and, by the way, my daughter spoke to a friend about you to-day. i think something may come of it. timson. oh! oh! she did! well, it might do me a bit o' good. [he makes for the outer door, but stops.] that foreigner! 'e sticks in my gizzard. it's not as if there wasn't plenty o' pigeons for 'im to pluck in 'is own gawd-forsaken country. reg-lar jay, that's what i calls 'im. i could tell yer something---- [he has opened the door, and suddenly sees that ferrand himself is standing there. sticking out his lower lip, timson gives a roll of his jaw and lurches forth into the street. owing to a slight miscalculation, his face and raised arms are plainly visible through the window, as he fortifies himself from his battle against the cold. ferrand, having closed the door, stands with his thumb acting as pointer towards this spectacle. he is now remarkably dressed in an artist's squashy green hat, a frock coat too small for him, a bright blue tie of knitted silk, the grey trousers that were torn, well-worn brown boots, and a tan waistcoat.] wellwyn. what luck to-day? ferrand. [with a shrug.] again i have beaten all london, monsieur --not one bite. [contemplating himself.] i think perhaps, that, for the bourgeoisie, there is a little too much colour in my costume. wellwyn. [contemplating him.] let's see--i believe i've an old top hat somewhere. ferrand. ah! monsieur, 'merci', but that i could not. it is scarcely in my character. wellwyn. true! ferrand. i have been to merchants of wine, of tabac, to hotels, to leicester square. i have been to a society for spreading christian knowledge--i thought there i would have a chance perhaps as interpreter. 'toujours meme chose', we regret, we have no situation for you--same thing everywhere. it seems there is nothing doing in this town. wellwyn. i've noticed, there never is. ferrand. i was thinking, monsieur, that in aviation there might be a career for me--but it seems one must be trained. wellwyn. afraid so, ferrand. ferrand. [approaching the picture.] ah! you are always working at this. you will have something of very good there, monsieur. you wish to fix the type of wild savage existing ever amongst our high civilisation. 'c'est tres chic ca'! [wellwyn manifests the quiet delight of an english artist actually understood.] in the figures of these good citizens, to whom she offers her flower, you would give the idea of all the cage doors open to catch and make tame the wild bird, that will surely die within. 'tres gentil'! believe me, monsieur, you have there the greatest comedy of life! how anxious are the tame birds to do the wild birds good. [his voice changes.] for the wild birds it is not funny. there is in some human souls, monsieur, what cannot be made tame. wellwyn. i believe you, ferrand. [the face of a young man appears at the window, unseen. suddenly ann opens the door leading to the house.] ann. daddy--i want you. wellwyn. [to ferrand.] excuse me a minute! [he goes to his daughter, and they pass out. ferrand remains at the picture. mrs. megan dressed in some of ann's discarded garments, has come out of the model's room. she steals up behind ferrand like a cat, reaches an arm up, and curls it round his mouth. he turns, and tries to seize her; she disingenuously slips away. he follows. the chase circles the tea table. he catches her, lifts her up, swings round with her, so that her feet fly out; kisses her bent-back face, and sets her down. she stands there smiling. the face at the window darkens.] ferrand. la valse! [he takes her with both hands by the waist, she puts her hands against his shoulders to push him of--and suddenly they are whirling. as they whirl, they bob together once or twice, and kiss. then, with a warning motion towards the door, she wrenches herself free, and stops beside the picture, trying desperately to appear demure. wellwyn and ann have entered. the face has vanished.] ferrand. [pointing to the picture.] one does not comprehend all this, monsieur, without well studying. i was in train to interpret for ma'moiselle the chiaroscuro. wellwyn. [with a queer look.] don't take it too seriously, ferrand. ferrand. it is a masterpiece. wellwyn. my daughter's just spoken to a friend, professor calway. he'd like to meet you. could you come back a little later? ferrand. certainly, ma'moiselle. that will be an opening for me, i trust. [he goes to the street door.] ann. [paying no attention to him.] mrs. megan, will you too come back in half an hour? ferrand. 'tres bien, ma'moiselle'! i will see that she does. we will take a little promenade together. that will do us good. [he motions towards the door; mrs. megan, all eyes, follows him out.] ann. oh! daddy, they are rotters. couldn't you see they were having the most high jinks? wellwyn. [at his picture.] i seemed to have noticed something. ann. [preparing for tea.] they were kissing. wellwyn. tt! tt! ann. they're hopeless, all three--especially her. wish i hadn't given her my clothes now. wellwyn. [absorbed.] something of wild-savage. ann. thank goodness it's the vicar's business to see that married people live together in his parish. wellwyn. oh! [dubiously.] the megans are roman catholic-atheists, ann. ann. [with heat.] then they're all the more bound. [wellwyn gives a sudden and alarmed whistle.] ann. what's the matter? wellwyn. didn't you say you spoke to sir thomas, too. suppose he comes in while the professor's here. they're cat and dog. ann. [blankly.] oh! [as wellwyn strikes a match.] the samovar is lighted. [taking up the nearly empty decanter of rum and going to the cupboard.] it's all right. he won't. wellwyn. we'll hope not. [he turns back to his picture.] ann. [at the cupboard.] daddy! wellwyn. hi! ann. there were three bottles. wellwyn. oh! ann. well! now there aren't any. wellwyn. [abstracted.] that'll be timson. ann. [with real horror.] but it's awful! wellwyn. it is, my dear. ann. in seven days. to say nothing of the stealing. wellwyn. [vexed.] i blame myself-very much. ought to have kept it locked up. ann. you ought to keep him locked up! [there is heard a mild but authoritative knock.] wellwyn. here's the vicar! ann. what are you going to do about the rum? wellwyn. [opening the door to canon bertley.] come in, vicar! happy new year! bertley. same to you! ah! ann! i've got into touch with her young husband--he's coming round. ann. [still a little out of her plate.] thank go---moses! bertley. [faintly surprised.] from what i hear he's not really a bad youth. afraid he bets on horses. the great thing, wellwyn, with those poor fellows is to put your finger on the weak spot. ann. [to herself-gloomily.] that's not difficult. what would you do, canon bertley, with a man who's been drinking father's rum? bertley. remove the temptation, of course. wellwyn. he's done that. bertley. ah! then--[wellwyn and ann hang on his words] then i should--er-- ann. [abruptly.] remove him. bertley. before i say that, ann, i must certainly see the individual. wellwyn. [pointing to the window.] there he is! [in the failing light timson's face is indeed to be seen pressed against the window pane.] ann. daddy, i do wish you'd have thick glass put in. it's so disgusting to be spied at! [wellwyn going quickly to the door, has opened it.] what do you want? [timson enters with dignity. he is fuddled.] timson. [slowly.] arskin' yer pardon-thought it me duty to come back-found thish yer little brishel on me. [he produces the little paint brush.] ann. [in a deadly voice.] nothing else? [timson accords her a glassy stare.] wellwyn. [taking the brush hastily.] that'll do, timson, thanks! timson. as i am 'ere, can i do anything for yer? ann. yes, you can sweep out that little room. [she points to the model's room.] there's a broom in there. timson. [disagreeably surprised.] certainly; never make bones about a little extra--never 'ave in all me life. do it at onsh, i will. [he moves across to the model's room at that peculiar broad gait so perfectly adjusted to his habits.] you quite understand me --couldn't bear to 'ave anything on me that wasn't mine. [he passes out.] ann. old fraud! wellwyn. "in" and "on." mark my words, he'll restore the--bottles. bertley. but, my dear wellwyn, that is stealing. wellwyn. we all have our discrepancies, vicar. ann. daddy! discrepancies! wellwyn. well, ann, my theory is that as regards solids timson's an individualist, but as regards liquids he's a socialist... or 'vice versa', according to taste. bertley. no, no, we mustn't joke about it. [gravely.] i do think he should be spoken to. wellwyn. yes, but not by me. bertley. surely you're the proper person. wellwyn. [shaking his head.] it was my rum, vicar. look so personal. [there sound a number of little tat-tat knocks.] wellwyn. isn't that the professor's knock? [while ann sits down to make tea, he goes to the door and opens it. there, dressed in an ulster, stands a thin, clean-shaved man, with a little hollow sucked into either cheek, who, taking off a grey squash hat, discloses a majestically bald forehead, which completely dominates all that comes below it.] wellwyn. come in, professor! so awfully good of you! you know canon bentley, i think? calway. ah! how d'you do? wellwyn. your opinion will be invaluable, professor. ann. tea, professor calway? [they have assembled round the tea table.] calway. thank you; no tea; milk. wellwyn. rum? [he pours rum into calway's milk.] calway. a little-thanks! [turning to ann.] you were going to show me some one you're trying to rescue, or something, i think. ann. oh! yes. he'll be here directly--simply perfect rotter. calway. [smiling.] really! ah! i think you said he was a congenital? wellwyn. [with great interest.] what! ann. [low.] daddy! [to calway.] yes; i--i think that's what you call him. calway. not old? ann. no; and quite healthy--a vagabond. calway. [sipping.] i see! yes. is it, do you think chronic unemployment with a vagrant tendency? or would it be nearer the mark to say: vagrancy---- wellwyn. pure! oh! pure! professor. awfully human. calway. [with a smile of knowledge.] quite! and--er---- ann. [breaking in.] before he comes, there's another---- bertley. [blandly.] yes, when you came in, we were discussing what should be done with a man who drinks rum--[calway pauses in the act of drinking]--that doesn't belong to him. calway. really! dipsomaniac? bertley. well--perhaps you could tell us--drink certainly changing thine to mine. the professor could see him, wellwyn? ann. [rising.] yes, do come and look at him, professor calway. he's in there. [she points towards the model's room. calway smiles deprecatingly.] ann. no, really; we needn't open the door. you can see him through the glass. he's more than half---- calway. well, i hardly---- ann. oh! do! come on, professor calway! we must know what to do with him. [calway rises.] you can stand on a chair. it's all science. [she draws calway to the model's room, which is lighted by a glass panel in the top of the high door. canon bertley also rises and stands watching. wellwyn hovers, torn between respect for science and dislike of espionage.] ann. [drawing up a chair.] come on! calway. do you seriously wish me to? ann. rather! it's quite safe; he can't see you. calway. but he might come out. [ann puts her back against the door. calway mounts the chair dubiously, and raises his head cautiously, bending it more and more downwards.] ann. well? calway. he appears to be---sitting on the floor. wellwyn. yes, that's all right! [bertley covers his lips.] calway. [to ann--descending.] by the look of his face, as far as one can see it, i should say there was a leaning towards mania. i know the treatment. [there come three loud knocks on the door. wellwyn and ann exchange a glance of consternation.] ann. who's that? wellwyn. it sounds like sir thomas. calway. sir thomas hoxton? wellwyn. [nodding.] awfully sorry, professor. you see, we---- calway. not at all. only, i must decline to be involved in argument with him, please. bertley. he has experience. we might get his opinion, don't you think? calway. on a point of reform? a j.p.! bertley. [deprecating.] my dear sir--we needn't take it. [the three knocks resound with extraordinary fury.] ann. you'd better open the door, daddy. [wellwyn opens the door. sir, thomas hoxton is disclosed in a fur overcoat and top hat. his square, well-coloured face is remarkable for a massive jaw, dominating all that comes above it. his voice is resolute.] hoxton. afraid i didn't make myself heard. wellwyn. so good of you to come, sir thomas. canon bertley! [they greet.] professor calway you know, i think. hoxton. [ominously.] i do. [they almost greet. an awkward pause.] ann. [blurting it out.] that old cabman i told you of's been drinking father's rum. bertley. we were just discussing what's to be done with him, sir thomas. one wants to do the very best, of course. the question of reform is always delicate. calway. i beg your pardon. there is no question here. hoxton. [abruptly.] oh! is he in the house? ann. in there. hoxton. works for you, eh? wellwyn. er--yes. hoxton. let's have a look at him! [an embarrassed pause.] bertley. well--the fact is, sir thomas---- calway. when last under observation---- ann. he was sitting on the floor. wellwyn. i don't want the old fellow to feel he's being made a show of. disgusting to be spied at, ann. ann. you can't, daddy! he's drunk. hoxton. never mind, miss wellwyn. hundreds of these fellows before me in my time. [at calway.] the only thing is a sharp lesson! calway. i disagree. i've seen the man; what he requires is steady control, and the bobbins treatment. [wellwyn approaches them with fearful interest.] hoxton. not a bit of it! he wants one for his knob! brace 'em up! it's the only thing. bertley. personally, i think that if he were spoken to seriously calway. i cannot walk arm in arm with a crab! hoxton. [approaching calway.] i beg your pardon? calway. [moving back a little.] you're moving backwards, sir thomas. i've told you before, convinced reactionaryism, in these days---- [there comes a single knock on the street door.] bertley. [looking at his watch.] d'you know, i'm rather afraid this may be our young husband, wellwyn. i told him half-past four. wellwyn. oh! ah! yes. [going towards the two reformers.] shall we go into the house, professor, and settle the question quietly while the vicar sees a young man? calway. [pale with uncompleted statement, and gravitating insensibly in the direction indicated.] the merest sense of continuity--a simple instinct for order---- hoxton. [following.] the only way to get order, sir, is to bring the disorderly up with a round turn. [calway turns to him in the doorway.] you people without practical experience---- calway. if you'll listen to me a minute. hoxton. i can show you in a mo---- [they vanish through the door.] wellwyn. i was afraid of it. bertley. the two points of view. pleasant to see such keenness. i may want you, wellwyn. and ann perhaps had better not be present. wellwyn. [relieved.] quite so! my dear! [ann goes reluctantly. wellwyn opens the street door. the lamp outside has just been lighted, and, by its gleam, is seen the figure of rory megan, thin, pale, youthful. ann turning at the door into the house gives him a long, inquisitive look, then goes.] wellwyn. is that megan? megan. yus. wellwyn. come in. [megan comes in. there follows an awkward silence, during which wellwyn turns up the light, then goes to the tea table and pours out a glass of tea and rum.] bertley. [kindly.] now, my boy, how is it that you and your wife are living apart like this? megan. i dunno. bertley. well, if you don't, none of us are very likely to, are we? megan. that's what i thought, as i was comin' along. wellwyn. [twinkling.] have some tea, megan? [handing him the glass.] what d'you think of her picture? 'tisn't quite finished. megan. [after scrutiny.] i seen her look like it--once. wellwyn. good! when was that? megan. [stoically.] when she 'ad the measles. [he drinks.] wellwyn. [ruminating.] i see--yes. i quite see feverish! bertley. my dear wellwyn, let me--[to, megan.] now, i hope you're willing to come together again, and to maintain her? megan. if she'll maintain me. bertley. oh! but--i see, you mean you're in the same line of business? megan. yus. bertley. and lean on each other. quite so! megan. i leans on 'er mostly--with 'er looks. bertley. indeed! very interesting--that! megan. yus. sometimes she'll take 'arf a crown off of a toff. [he looks at wellwyn.] wellwyn. [twinkling.] i apologise to you, megan. megan. [with a faint smile.] i could do with a bit more of it. bertley. [dubiously.] yes! yes! now, my boy, i've heard you bet on horses. megan. no, i don't. bertley. play cards, then? come! don't be afraid to acknowledge it. megan. when i'm 'ard up--yus. bertley. but don't you know that's ruination? megan. depends. sometimes i wins a lot. bertley. you know that's not at all what i mean. come, promise me to give it up. megan. i dunno abaht that. bertley. now, there's a good fellow. make a big effort and throw the habit off! megan. comes over me--same as it might over you. bertley. over me! how do you mean, my boy? megan. [with a look up.] to tork! [wellwyn, turning to the picture, makes a funny little noise.] bertley. [maintaining his good humour.] a hit! but you forget, you know, to talk's my business. it's not yours to gamble. megan. you try sellin' flowers. if that ain't a--gamble bertley. i'm afraid we're wandering a little from the point. husband and wife should be together. you were brought up to that. your father and mother---- megan. never was. wellwyn. [turning from the picture.] the question is, megan: will you take your wife home? she's a good little soul. megan. she never let me know it. [there is a feeble knock on the door.] wellwyn. well, now come. here she is! [he points to the door, and stands regarding megan with his friendly smile.] megan. [with a gleam of responsiveness.] i might, perhaps, to please you, sir. bertley. [appropriating the gesture.] capital, i thought we should get on in time. megan. yus. [wellwyn opens the door. mrs. megan and ferrand are revealed. they are about to enter, but catching sight of megan, hesitate.] bertley. come in! come in! [mrs. megan enters stolidly. ferrand, following, stands apart with an air of extreme detachment. megan, after a quick glance at them both, remains unmoved. no one has noticed that the door of the model's room has been opened, and that the unsteady figure of old timson is standing there.] bertley. [a little awkward in the presence of ferrand--to the megans.] this begins a new chapter. we won't improve the occasion. no need. [megan, turning towards his wife, makes her a gesture as if to say: "here! let's get out of this!"] bentley. yes, yes, you'll like to get home at once--i know. [he holds up his hand mechanically.] timson. i forbids the banns. bertley, [startled.] gracious! timson. [extremely unsteady.] just cause and impejiment. there 'e stands. [he points to ferrand.] the crimson foreigner! the mockin' jay! wellwyn. timson! timson. you're a gen'leman--i'm aweer o' that but i must speak the truth--[he waves his hand] an' shame the devil! bertley. is this the rum--? timson. [struck by the word.] i'm a teetotaler. wellwyn. timson, timson! timson. seein' as there's ladies present, i won't be conspicuous. [moving away, and making for the door, he strikes against the dais, and mounts upon it.] but what i do say, is: he's no better than 'er and she's worse. bertley. this is distressing. ferrand. [calmly.] on my honour, monsieur! [timson growls.] wellwyn. now, now, timson! timson. that's all right. you're a gen'leman, an' i'm a gen'leman, but he ain't an' she ain't. wellwyn. we shall not believe you. bertley. no, no; we shall not believe you. timson. [heavily.] very well, you doubts my word. will it make any difference, guv'nor, if i speaks the truth? bertley. no, certainly not--that is--of course, it will. timson. well, then, i see 'em plainer than i see [pointing at bertley] the two of you. wellwyn. be quiet, timson! bertley. not even her husband believes you. megan. [suddenly.] don't i! wellwyn. come, megan, you can see the old fellow's in paradise. bertley. do you credit such a--such an object? [he points at timson, who seems falling asleep.] megan. naow! [unseen by anybody, ann has returned.] bertley. well, then, my boy? megan. i seen 'em meself. bertley. gracious! but just now you were will---- megan. [sardonically.] there wasn't nothing against me honour, then. now you've took it away between you, cumin' aht with it like this. i don't want no more of 'er, and i'll want a good deal more of 'im; as 'e'll soon find. [he jerks his chin at ferrand, turns slowly on his heel, and goes out into the street.] [there follows a profound silence.] ann. what did i say, daddy? utter! all three. [suddenly alive to her presence, they all turn.] timson. [waking up and looking round him.] well, p'raps i'd better go. [assisted by wellwyn he lurches gingerly off the dais towards the door, which wellwyn holds open for him.] timson. [mechanically.] where to, sir? [receiving no answer he passes out, touching his hat; and the door is closed.] wellwyn. ann! [ann goes back whence she came.] [bertley, steadily regarding mrs. megan, who has put her arm up in front of her face, beckons to ferrand, and the young man comes gravely forward.] bertley. young people, this is very dreadful. [mrs. megan lowers her arm a little, and looks at him over it.] very sad! mrs. megan. [dropping her arm.] megan's no better than what i am. bertley. come, come! here's your home broken up! [mrs. megan smiles. shaking his head gravely.] surely-surely-you mustn't smile. [mrs. megan becomes tragic.] that's better. now, what is to be done? ferrand. believe me, monsieur, i greatly regret. bertley. i'm glad to hear it. ferrand. if i had foreseen this disaster. bertley. is that your only reason for regret? ferrand. [with a little bow.] any reason that you wish, monsieur. i will do my possible. mrs. megan. i could get an unfurnished room if [she slides her eyes round at wellwyn] i 'ad the money to furnish it. bertley. but suppose i can induce your husband to forgive you, and take you back? mrs. megan. [shaking her head.] 'e'd 'it me. bertley. i said to forgive. mrs. megan. that wouldn't make no difference. [with a flash at bertley.] an' i ain't forgiven him! bertley. that is sinful. mrs. megan. i'm a catholic. bertley. my good child, what difference does that make? ferrand. monsieur, if i might interpret for her. [bertley silences him with a gesture.] mrs. megan. [sliding her eyes towards wellwyn.] if i 'ad the money to buy some fresh stock. bertley. yes; yes; never mind the money. what i want to find in you both, is repentance. mrs. megan. [with a flash up at him.] i can't get me livin' off of repentin'. bertley. now, now! never say what you know to be wrong. ferrand. monsieur, her soul is very simple. bertley. [severely.] i do not know, sir, that we shall get any great assistance from your views. in fact, one thing is clear to me, she must discontinue your acquaintanceship at once. ferrand. certainly, monsieur. we have no serious intentions. bertley. all the more shame to you, then! ferrand. monsieur, i see perfectly your point of view. it is very natural. [he bows and is silent.] mrs. megan. i don't want'im hurt'cos o' me. megan'll get his mates to belt him--bein' foreign like he is. bertley. yes, never mind that. it's you i'm thinking of. mrs. megan. i'd sooner they'd hit me. wellwyn. [suddenly.] well said, my child! mrs. megan. 'twasn't his fault. ferrand. [without irony--to wellwyn.] i cannot accept that monsieur. the blame--it is all mine. ann. [entering suddenly from the house.] daddy, they're having an awful----! [the voices of professor calway and sir thomas hoxton are distinctly heard.] calway. the question is a much wider one, sir thomas. hoxton. as wide as you like, you'll never---- [wellwyn pushes ann back into the house and closes the door behind her. the voices are still faintly heard arguing on the threshold.] bertley. let me go in here a minute, wellyn. i must finish speaking to her. [he motions mrs. megan towards the model's room.] we can't leave the matter thus. ferrand. [suavely.] do you desire my company, monsieur? [bertley, with a prohibitive gesture of his hand, shepherds the reluctant mrs. megan into the model's room.] wellwyn. [sorrowfully.] you shouldn't have done this, ferrand. it wasn't the square thing. ferrand. [with dignity.] monsieur, i feel that i am in the wrong. it was stronger than me. [as he speaks, sir thomas hoxton and professor calway enter from the house. in the dim light, and the full cry of argument, they do not notice the figures at the fire. sir thomas hoxton leads towards the street door.] hoxton. no, sir, i repeat, if the country once commits itself to your views of reform, it's as good as doomed. calway. i seem to have heard that before, sir thomas. and let me say at once that your hitty-missy cart-load of bricks regime---- hoxton. is a deuced sight better, sir, than your grand-motherly methods. what the old fellow wants is a shock! with all this socialistic molly-coddling, you're losing sight of the individual. calway. [swiftly.] you, sir, with your "devil take the hindmost," have never even seen him. [sir thomas hoxton, throwing back a gesture of disgust, steps out into the night, and falls heavily professor calway, hastening to his rescue, falls more heavily still.] [timson, momentarily roused from slumber on the doorstep, sits up.] hoxton. [struggling to his knees.] damnation! calway. [sitting.] how simultaneous! [wellwyn and ferrand approach hastily.] ferrand. [pointing to timson.] monsieur, it was true, it seems. they had lost sight of the individual. [a policeman has appeared under the street lamp. he picks up hoxton's hat.] constable. anything wrong, sir? hoxton. [recovering his feet.] wrong? great scott! constable! why do you let things lie about in the street like this? look here, wellyn! [they all scrutinize timson.] wellwyn. it's only the old fellow whose reform you were discussing. hoxton. how did he come here? constable. drunk, sir. [ascertaining timson to be in the street.] just off the premises, by good luck. come along, father. timson. [assisted to his feet-drowsily.] cert'nly, by no means; take my arm. [they move from the doorway. hoxton and calway re-enter, and go towards the fire.] ann. [entering from the house.] what's happened? calway. might we have a brush? hoxton. [testily.] let it dry! [he moves to the fire and stands before it. professor calway following stands a little behind him. ann returning begins to brush the professor's sleeve.] wellwyn. [turning from the door, where he has stood looking after the receding timson.] poor old timson! ferrand. [softly.] must be philosopher, monsieur! they will but run him in a little. [from the model's room mrs. megan has come out, shepherded by canon bertley.] bertley. let's see, your christian name is----. mrs. megan. guinevere. bertley. oh! ah! ah! ann, take gui--take our little friend into the study a minute: i am going to put her into service. we shall make a new woman of her, yet. ann. [handing canon bertley the brush, and turning to mrs. megan.] come on! [she leads into the house, and mrs. megan follows stolidly.] bertley. [brushing calway's back.] have you fallen? calway. yes. bertley. dear me! how was that? hoxton. that old ruffian drunk on the doorstep. hope they'll give him a sharp dose! these rag-tags! [he looks round, and his angry eyes light by chance on ferrand.] ferrand. [with his eyes on hoxton--softly.] monsieur, something tells me it is time i took the road again. wellwyn. [fumbling out a sovereign.] take this, then! ferrand. [refusing the coin.] non, monsieur. to abuse 'ospitality is not in my character. bertley. we must not despair of anyone. hoxton. who talked of despairing? treat him, as i say, and you'll see! calway. the interest of the state---- hoxton. the interest of the individual citizen sir---- bertley. come! a little of both, a little of both! [they resume their brushing.] ferrand. you are now debarrassed of us three, monsieur. i leave you instead--these sirs. [he points.] 'au revoir, monsieur'! [motioning towards the fire.] 'appy new year! [he slips quietly out. wellwyn, turning, contemplates the three reformers. they are all now brushing away, scratching each other's backs, and gravely hissing. as he approaches them, they speak with a certain unanimity.] hoxton. my theory----! calway. my theory----! bertley. my theory----! [they stop surprised. wellwyn makes a gesture of discomfort, as they speak again with still more unanimity.] hoxton. my----! calway. my----! bertley. my----! [they stop in greater surprise. the stage is blotted dark.] curtain. act iii it is the first of april--a white spring day of gleams and driving showers. the street door of wellwyn's studio stands wide open, and, past it, in the street, the wind is whirling bits of straw and paper bags. through the door can be seen the butt end of a stationary furniture van with its flap let down. to this van three humble-men in shirt sleeves and aprons, are carrying out the contents of the studio. the hissing samovar, the tea-pot, the sugar, and the nearly empty decanter of rum stand on the low round table in the fast-being-gutted room. wellwyn in his ulster and soft hat, is squatting on the little stool in front of the blazing fire, staring into it, and smoking a hand-made cigarette. he has a moulting air. behind him the humble-men pass, embracing busts and other articles of vertu. chief h'man. [stopping, and standing in the attitude of expectation.] we've about pinched this little lot, sir. shall we take the--reservoir? [he indicates the samovar.] wellwyn. ah! [abstractedly feeling in his pockets, and finding coins.] thanks--thanks--heavy work, i'm afraid. h'man. [receiving the coins--a little surprised and a good deal pleased.] thank'ee, sir. much obliged, i'm sure. we'll 'ave to come back for this. [he gives the dais a vigorous push with his foot.] not a fixture, as i understand. perhaps you'd like us to leave these 'ere for a bit. [he indicates the tea things.] wellwyn. ah! do. [the humble-men go out. there is the sound of horses being started, and the butt end of the van disappears. wellwyn stays on his stool, smoking and brooding over the fare. the open doorway is darkened by a figure. canon bertley is standing there.] bertley. wellwyn! [wellwyn turns and rises.] it's ages since i saw you. no idea you were moving. this is very dreadful. wellwyn. yes, ann found this--too exposed. that tall house in flight street--we're going there. seventh floor. bertley. lift? [wellwyn shakes his head.] bertley. dear me! no lift? fine view, no doubt. [wellwyn nods.] you'll be greatly missed. wellwyn. so ann thinks. vicar, what's become of that little flower-seller i was painting at christmas? you took her into service. bertley. not we--exactly! some dear friends of ours. painful subject! wellwyn. oh! bertley. yes. she got the footman into trouble. wellwyn. did she, now? bertley. disappointing. i consulted with calway, and he advised me to try a certain institution. we got her safely in--excellent place; but, d'you know, she broke out three weeks ago. and since-- i've heard [he holds his hands up] hopeless, i'm afraid--quite! wellwyn. i thought i saw her last night. you can't tell me her address, i suppose? bertley. [shaking his head.] the husband too has quite passed out of my ken. he betted on horses, you remember. i'm sometimes tempted to believe there's nothing for some of these poor folk but to pray for death. [ann has entered from the house. her hair hangs from under a knitted cap. she wears a white wool jersey, and a loose silk scarf.] bertley. ah! ann. i was telling your father of that poor little mrs. megan. ann. is she dead? bertley. worse i fear. by the way--what became of her accomplice? ann. we haven't seen him since. [she looks searchingly at wellwyn.] at least--have you--daddy? wellwyn. [rather hurt.] no, my dear; i have not. bertley. and the--old gentleman who drank the rum? ann. he got fourteen days. it was the fifth time. bertley. dear me! ann. when he came out he got more drunk than ever. rather a score for professor calway, wasn't it? bertley. i remember. he and sir thomas took a kindly interest in the old fellow. ann. yes, they fell over him. the professor got him into an institution. bertley. indeed! ann. he was perfectly sober all the time he was there. wellwyn. my dear, they only allow them milk. ann. well, anyway, he was reformed. wellwyn. ye-yes! ann. [terribly.] daddy! you've been seeing him! wellwyn. [with dignity.] my dear, i have not. ann. how do you know, then? wellwyn. came across sir thomas on the embankment yesterday; told me old timso--had been had up again for sitting down in front of a brewer's dray. ann. why? wellwyn. well, you see, as soon as he came out of the what d'you call 'em, he got drunk for a week, and it left him in low spirits. bertley. do you mean he deliberately sat down, with the intention--of--er? wellwyn. said he was tired of life, but they didn't believe him. ann. rather a score for sir thomas! i suppose he'd told the professor? what did he say? wellwyn. well, the professor said [with a quick glance at bertley] he felt there was nothing for some of these poor devils but a lethal chamber. bertley. [shocked.] did he really! [he has not yet caught wellwyn' s glance.] wellwyn. and sir thomas agreed. historic occasion. and you, vicar h'm! [bertley winces.] ann. [to herself.] well, there isn't. bertley. and yet! some good in the old fellow, no doubt, if one could put one's finger on it. [preparing to go.] you'll let us know, then, when you're settled. what was the address? [wellwyn takes out and hands him a card.] ah! yes. good-bye, ann. good-bye, wellyn. [the wind blows his hat along the street.] what a wind! [he goes, pursuing.] ann. [who has eyed the card askance.] daddy, have you told those other two where we're going? wellwyn. which other two, my dear? ann. the professor and sir thomas. wellwyn. well, ann, naturally i---- ann. [jumping on to the dais with disgust.] oh, dear! when i'm trying to get you away from all this atmosphere. i don't so much mind the vicar knowing, because he's got a weak heart---- [she jumps off again. ] wellwyn. [to himself.] seventh floor! i felt there was something. ann. [preparing to go.] i'm going round now. but you must stay here till the van comes back. and don't forget you tipped the men after the first load. wellwyn. oh! yes, yes. [uneasily.] good sorts they look, those fellows! ann. [scrutinising him.] what have you done? wellwyn. nothing, my dear, really----! ann. what? wellwyn. i--i rather think i may have tipped them twice. ann. [drily.] daddy! if it is the first of april, it's not necessary to make a fool of oneself. that's the last time you ever do these ridiculous things. [wellwyn eyes her askance.] i'm going to see that you spend your money on yourself. you needn't look at me like that! i mean to. as soon as i've got you away from here, and all--these---- wellwyn. don't rub it in, ann! ann. [giving him a sudden hug--then going to the door--with a sort of triumph.] deeds, not words, daddy! [she goes out, and the wind catching her scarf blows it out beneath her firm young chin. wellwyn returning to the fire, stands brooding, and gazing at his extinct cigarette.] wellwyn. [to himself.] bad lot--low type! no method! no theory! [in the open doorway appear ferrand and mrs. megan. they stand, unseen, looking at him. ferrand is more ragged, if possible, than on christmas eve. his chin and cheeks are clothed in a reddish golden beard. mrs. megan's dress is not so woe-begone, but her face is white, her eyes dark-circled. they whisper. she slips back into the shadow of the doorway. wellwyn turns at the sound, and stares at ferrand in amazement.] ferrand. [advancing.] enchanted to see you, monsieur. [he looks round the empty room.] you are leaving? wellwyn. [nodding--then taking the young man's hand.] how goes it? ferrand. [displaying himself, simply.] as you see, monsieur. i have done of my best. it still flies from me. wellwyn. [sadly--as if against his will.] ferrand, it will always fly. [the young foreigner shivers suddenly from head to foot; then controls himself with a great effort.] ferrand. don't say that, monsieur! it is too much the echo of my heart. wellwyn. forgive me! i didn't mean to pain you. ferrand. [drawing nearer the fire.] that old cabby, monsieur, you remember--they tell me, he nearly succeeded to gain happiness the other day. [wellwyn nods.] ferrand. and those sirs, so interested in him, with their theories? he has worn them out? [wellwyn nods.] that goes without saying. and now they wish for him the lethal chamber. wellwyn. [startled.] how did you know that? [there is silence.] ferrand. [staring into the fire.] monsieur, while i was on the road this time i fell ill of a fever. it seemed to me in my illness that i saw the truth--how i was wasting in this world--i would never be good for any one--nor any one for me--all would go by, and i never of it--fame, and fortune, and peace, even the necessities of life, ever mocking me. [he draws closer to the fire, spreading his fingers to the flame. and while he is speaking, through the doorway mrs. megan creeps in to listen.] ferrand. [speaking on into the fire.] and i saw, monsieur, so plain, that i should be vagabond all my days, and my days short, i dying in the end the death of a dog. i saw it all in my fever-- clear as that flame--there was nothing for us others, but the herb of death. [wellwyn takes his arm and presses it.] and so, monsieur, i wished to die. i told no one of my fever. i lay out on the ground--it was verree cold. but they would not let me die on the roads of their parishes--they took me to an institution, monsieur, i looked in their eyes while i lay there, and i saw more clear than the blue heaven that they thought it best that i should die, although they would not let me. then monsieur, naturally my spirit rose, and i said: "so much the worse for you. i will live a little more." one is made like that! life is sweet, monsieur. wellwyn. yes, ferrand; life is sweet. ferrand. that little girl you had here, monsieur [wellwyn nods.] in her too there is something of wild-savage. she must have joy of life. i have seen her since i came back. she has embraced the life of joy. it is not quite the same thing. [he lowers his voice.] she is lost, monsieur, as a stone that sinks in water. i can see, if she cannot. [as wellwyn makes a movement of distress.] oh! i am not to blame for that, monsieur. it had well begun before i knew her. wellwyn. yes, yes--i was afraid of it, at the time. [mrs. megan turns silently, and slips away.] feerrand. i do my best for her, monsieur, but look at me! besides, i am not good for her--it is not good for simple souls to be with those who see things clear. for the great part of mankind, to see anything--is fatal. wellwyn. even for you, it seems. ferrand. no, monsieur. to be so near to death has done me good; i shall not lack courage any more till the wind blows on my grave. since i saw you, monsieur, i have been in three institutions. they are palaces. one may eat upon the floor--though it is true--for kings--they eat too much of skilly there. one little thing they lack--those palaces. it is understanding of the 'uman heart. in them tame birds pluck wild birds naked. wellwyn. they mean well. ferrand. ah! monsieur, i am loafer, waster--what you like--for all that [bitterly] poverty is my only crime. if i were rich, should i not be simply veree original, 'ighly respected, with soul above commerce, travelling to see the world? and that young girl, would she not be "that charming ladee," "veree chic, you know!" and the old tims--good old-fashioned gentleman--drinking his liquor well. eh! bien--what are we now? dark beasts, despised by all. that is life, monsieur. [he stares into the fire.] wellwyn. we're our own enemies, ferrand. i can afford it--you can't. quite true! ferrand. [earnestly.] monsieur, do you know this? you are the sole being that can do us good--we hopeless ones. wellwyn. [shaking his head.] not a bit of it; i'm hopeless too. ferrand. [eagerly.] monsieur, it is just that. you understand. when we are with you we feel something--here--[he touches his heart.] if i had one prayer to make, it would be, good god, give me to understand! those sirs, with their theories, they can clean our skins and chain our 'abits--that soothes for them the aesthetic sense; it gives them too their good little importance. but our spirits they cannot touch, for they nevare understand. without that, monsieur, all is dry as a parched skin of orange. wellwyn. don't be so bitter. think of all the work they do! ferrand. monsieur, of their industry i say nothing. they do a good work while they attend with their theories to the sick and the tame old, and the good unfortunate deserving. above all to the little children. but, monsieur, when all is done, there are always us hopeless ones. what can they do with me, monsieur, with that girl, or with that old man? ah! monsieur, we, too, 'ave our qualities, we others--it wants you courage to undertake a career like mine, or like that young girl's. we wild ones--we know a thousand times more of life than ever will those sirs. they waste their time trying to make rooks white. be kind to us if you will, or let us alone like mees ann, but do not try to change our skins. leave us to live, or leave us to die when we like in the free air. if you do not wish of us, you have but to shut your pockets and--your doors--we shall die the faster. wellwyn. [with agitation.] but that, you know--we can't do--now can we? ferrand. if you cannot, how is it our fault? the harm we do to others--is it so much? if i am criminal, dangerous--shut me up! i would not pity myself--nevare. but we in whom something moves-- like that flame, monsieur, that cannot keep still--we others--we are not many--that must have motion in our lives, do not let them make us prisoners, with their theories, because we are not like them--it is life itself they would enclose! [he draws up his tattered figure, then bending over the fire again.] i ask your pardon; i am talking. if i could smoke, monsieur! [wellwyn hands him a tobacco pouch; and he rolls a cigarette with his yellow-stained fingers.] ferrand. the good god made me so that i would rather walk a whole month of nights, hungry, with the stars, than sit one single day making round business on an office stool! it is not to my advantage. i cannot help it that i am a vagabond. what would you have? it is stronger than me. [he looks suddenly at wellwyn.] monsieur, i say to you things i have never said. wellwyn. [quietly.] go on, go on. [there is silence.] ferrand. [suddenly.] monsieur! are you really english? the english are so civilised. wellwyn. and am i not? ferrand. you treat me like a brother. [wellwyn has turned towards the street door at a sound of feet, and the clamour of voices.] timson. [from the street.] take her in 'ere. i knows 'im. [through the open doorway come a police constable and a loafer, bearing between them the limp white faced form of mrs. megan, hatless and with drowned hair, enveloped in the policeman's waterproof. some curious persons bring up the rear, jostling in the doorway, among whom is timson carrying in his hands the policeman's dripping waterproof leg pieces.] ferrand. [starting forward.] monsieur, it is that little girl! wellwyn. what's happened? constable! what's happened! [the constable and loafer have laid the body down on the dais; with wellwyn and ferrand they stand bending over her.] constable. 'tempted sooicide, sir; but she hadn't been in the water 'arf a minute when i got hold of her. [he bends lower.] can't understand her collapsin' like this. wellwyn. [feeling her heart.] i don't feel anything. ferrand. [in a voice sharpened by emotion.] let me try, monsieur. constable. [touching his arm.] you keep off, my lad. wellwyn. no, constable--let him. he's her friend. constable. [releasing ferrand--to the loafer.] here you! cut off for a doctor-sharp now! [he pushes back the curious persons.] now then, stand away there, please--we can't have you round the body. keep back--clear out, now! [he slowly moves them back, and at last shepherds them through the door and shuts it on them, timson being last.] ferrand. the rum! [wellwyn fetches the decanter. with the little there is left ferrand chafes the girl's hands and forehead, and pours some between her lips. but there is no response from the inert body.] ferrand. her soul is still away, monsieur! [wellwyn, seizing the decanter, pours into it tea and boiling water.] constable. it's never drownin', sir--her head was hardly under; i was on to her like knife. ferrand. [rubbing her feet.] she has not yet her philosophy, monsieur; at the beginning they often try. if she is dead! [in a voice of awed rapture.] what fortune! constable. [with puzzled sadness.] true enough, sir--that! we'd just begun to know 'er. if she 'as been taken--her best friends couldn't wish 'er better. wellwyn. [applying the decanter to her dips.] poor little thing! i'll try this hot tea. ferrand. [whispering.] 'la mort--le grand ami!' wellwyn. look! look at her! she's coming round! [a faint tremor passes over mrs. megan's body. he again applies the hot drink to her mouth. she stirs and gulps.] constable. [with intense relief.] that's brave! good lass! she'll pick up now, sir. [then, seeing that timson and the curious persons have again opened the door, he drives them out, and stands with his back against it. mrs. megan comes to herself.] wellwyn. [sitting on the dais and supporting her--as if to a child.] there you are, my dear. there, there--better now! that's right. drink a little more of this tea. [mrs. megan drinks from the decanter.] ferrand. [rising.] bring her to the fire, monsieur. [they take her to the fire and seat her on the little stool. from the moment of her restored animation ferrand has resumed his air of cynical detachment, and now stands apart with arms folded, watching.] wellwyn. feeling better, my child? mrs. megan. yes. wellwyn. that's good. that's good. now, how was it? um? mrs. megan. i dunno. [she shivers.] i was standin' here just now when you was talkin', and when i heard 'im, it cam' over me to do it--like. wellwyn. ah, yes i know. mrs. megan. i didn't seem no good to meself nor any one. but when i got in the water, i didn't want to any more. it was cold in there. wellwyn. have you been having such a bad time of it? mrs. megan. yes. and listenin' to him upset me. [she signs with her head at ferrand.] i feel better now i've been in the water. [she smiles and shivers.] wellwyn. there, there! shivery? like to walk up and down a little? [they begin walking together up and down.] wellwyn. beastly when your head goes under? mrs. megan. yes. it frightened me. i thought i wouldn't come up again. wellwyn. i know--sort of world without end, wasn't it? what did you think of, um? mrs. megan. i wished i 'adn't jumped--an' i thought of my baby-- that died--and--[in a rather surprised voice] and i thought of d-dancin'. [her mouth quivers, her face puckers, she gives a choke and a little sob.] wellwyn. [stopping and stroking her.] there, there--there! [for a moment her face is buried in his sleeve, then she recovers herself.] mrs. megan. then 'e got hold o' me, an' pulled me out. wellwyn. ah! what a comfort--um? mrs. megan. yes. the water got into me mouth. [they walk again.] i wouldn't have gone to do it but for him. [she looks towards ferrand.] his talk made me feel all funny, as if people wanted me to. wellwyn. my dear child! don't think such things! as if anyone would----! mrs. megan. [stolidly.] i thought they did. they used to look at me so sometimes, where i was before i ran away--i couldn't stop there, you know. wellwyn. too cooped-up? mrs. megan. yes. no life at all, it wasn't--not after sellin' flowers, i'd rather be doin' what i am. wellwyn. ah! well-it's all over, now! how d'you feel--eh? better? mrs. megan. yes. i feels all right now. [she sits up again on the little stool before the fire.] wellwyn. no shivers, and no aches; quite comfy? mrs. megan. yes. wellwyn. that's a blessing. all well, now, constable--thank you! constable. [who has remained discreetly apart at the door-cordially.] first rate, sir! that's capital! [he approaches and scrutinises mrs. megan.] right as rain, eh, my girl? mrs. megan. [shrinking a little.] yes. constable. that's fine. then i think perhaps, for 'er sake, sir, the sooner we move on and get her a change o' clothin', the better. wellwyn. oh! don't bother about that--i'll send round for my daughter--we'll manage for her here. constable. very kind of you, i'm sure, sir. but [with embarrassment] she seems all right. she'll get every attention at the station. wellwyn. but i assure you, we don't mind at all; we'll take the greatest care of her. constable. [still more embarrassed.] well, sir, of course, i'm thinkin' of--i'm afraid i can't depart from the usual course. wellwyn. [sharply.] what! but-oh! no! no! that'll be all right, constable! that'll be all right! i assure you. constable. [with more decision.] i'll have to charge her, sir. wellwyn. good god! you don't mean to say the poor little thing has got to be---- constable. [consulting with him.] well, sir, we can't get over the facts, can we? there it is! you know what sooicide amounts to-- it's an awkward job. wellwyn. [calming himself with an effort.] but look here, constable, as a reasonable man--this poor wretched little girl--you know what that life means better than anyone! why! it's to her credit to try and jump out of it! [the constable shakes his head.] wellwyn. you said yourself her best friends couldn't wish her better! [dropping his voice still more.] everybody feels it! the vicar was here a few minutes ago saying the very same thing--the vicar, constable! [the constable shakes his head.] ah! now, look here, i know something of her. nothing can be done with her. we all admit it. don't you see? well, then hang it--you needn't go and make fools of us all by---- ferrand. monsieur, it is the first of april. constable. [with a sharp glance at him.] can't neglect me duty, sir; that's impossible. wellwyn. look here! she--slipped. she's been telling me. come, constable, there's a good fellow. may be the making of her, this. constable. i quite appreciate your good 'eart, sir, an' you make it very 'ard for me--but, come now! i put it to you as a gentleman, would you go back on yer duty if you was me? [wellwyn raises his hat, and plunges his fingers through and through his hair.] wellwyn. well! god in heaven! of all the d---d topsy--turvy--! not a soul in the world wants her alive--and now she's to be prosecuted for trying to be where everyone wishes her. constable. come, sir, come! be a man! [throughout all this mrs. megan has sat stolidly before the fire, but as ferrand suddenly steps forward she looks up at him.] ferrand. do not grieve, monsieur! this will give her courage. there is nothing that gives more courage than to see the irony of things. [he touches mrs. megan's shoulder.] go, my child; it will do you good. [mrs. megan rises, and looks at him dazedly.] constable. [coming forward, and taking her by the hand.] that's my good lass. come along! we won't hurt you. mrs. megan. i don't want to go. they'll stare at me. constable. [comforting.] not they! i'll see to that. wellwyn. [very upset.] take her in a cab, constable, if you must --for god's sake! [he pulls out a shilling.] here! constable. [taking the shilling.] i will, sir, certainly. don't think i want to---- wellwyn. no, no, i know. you're a good sort. constable. [comfortable.] don't you take on, sir. it's her first try; they won't be hard on 'er. like as not only bind 'er over in her own recogs. not to do it again. come, my dear. mrs. megan. [trying to free herself from the policeman's cloak.] i want to take this off. it looks so funny. [as she speaks the door is opened by ann; behind whom is dimly seen the form of old timson, still heading the curious persons.] ann. [looking from one to the other in amazement.] what is it? what's happened? daddy! ferrand. [out of the silence.] it is nothing, ma'moiselle! she has failed to drown herself. they run her in a little. wellwyn. lend her your jacket, my dear; she'll catch her death. [ann, feeling mrs. megan's arm, strips of her jacket, and helps her into it without a word.] constable. [donning his cloak.] thank you. miss--very good of you, i'm sure. mrs. megan. [mazed.] it's warm! [she gives them all a last half-smiling look, and passes with the constable through the doorway.] ferrand. that makes the third of us, monsieur. we are not in luck. to wish us dead, it seems, is easier than to let us die. [he looks at ann, who is standing with her eyes fixed on her father. wellwyn has taken from his pocket a visiting card.] wellwyn. [to ferrand.] here quick; take this, run after her! when they've done with her tell her to come to us. ferrand. [taking the card, and reading the address.] "no. , haven house, flight street!" rely on me, monsieur--i will bring her myself to call on you. 'au revoir, mon bon monsieur'! [he bends over wellwyn's hand; then, with a bow to ann goes out; his tattered figure can be seen through the window, passing in the wind. wellwyn turns back to the fire. the figure of timson advances into the doorway, no longer holding in either hand a waterproof leg-piece.] timson. [in a croaky voice.] sir! wellwyn. what--you, timson? timson. on me larst legs, sir. 'ere! you can see 'em for yerself! shawn't trouble yer long.... wellwyn. [after a long and desperate stare.] not now--timson not now! take this! [he takes out another card, and hands it to timson] some other time. timson. [taking the card.] yer new address! you are a gen'leman. [he lurches slowly away.] [ann shuts the street door and sets her back against it. the rumble of the approaching van is heard outside. it ceases.] ann. [in a fateful voice.] daddy! [they stare at each other.] do you know what you've done? given your card to those six rotters. wellwyn. [with a blank stare.] six? ann. [staring round the naked room.] what was the good of this? wellwyn. [following her eyes---very gravely.] ann! it is stronger than me. [without a word ann opens the door, and walks straight out. with a heavy sigh, wellwyn sinks down on the little stool before the fire. the three humble-men come in.] chief humble-man. [in an attitude of expectation.] this is the larst of it, sir. wellwyn. oh! ah! yes! [he gives them money; then something seems to strike him, and he exhibits certain signs of vexation. suddenly he recovers, looks from one to the other, and then at the tea things. a faint smile comes on his face.] wellwyn. you can finish the decanter. [he goes out in haste.] chief humble-man. [clinking the coins.] third time of arskin'! april fool! not 'arf! good old pigeon! second humble-man. 'uman being, i call 'im. chief humble-man. [taking the three glasses from the last packing-case, and pouring very equally into them.] that's right. tell you wot, i'd never 'a touched this unless 'e'd told me to, i wouldn't--not with 'im. second humble-man. ditto to that! this is a bit of orl right! [raising his glass.] good luck! third humble-man. same 'ere! [simultaneously they place their lips smartly against the liquor, and at once let fall their faces and their glasses.] chief humble-man. [with great solemnity.] crikey! bill! tea! .....'e's got us! [the stage is blotted dark.] curtain. the end daddy-long-legs by jean webster copyright by the century company to you blue wednesday the first wednesday in every month was a perfectly awful day--a day to be awaited with dread, endured with courage and forgotten with haste. every floor must be spotless, every chair dustless, and every bed without a wrinkle. ninety-seven squirming little orphans must be scrubbed and combed and buttoned into freshly starched ginghams; and all ninety-seven reminded of their manners, and told to say, 'yes, sir,' 'no, sir,' whenever a trustee spoke. it was a distressing time; and poor jerusha abbott, being the oldest orphan, had to bear the brunt of it. but this particular first wednesday, like its predecessors, finally dragged itself to a close. jerusha escaped from the pantry where she had been making sandwiches for the asylum's guests, and turned upstairs to accomplish her regular work. her special care was room f, where eleven little tots, from four to seven, occupied eleven little cots set in a row. jerusha assembled her charges, straightened their rumpled frocks, wiped their noses, and started them in an orderly and willing line towards the dining-room to engage themselves for a blessed half hour with bread and milk and prune pudding. then she dropped down on the window seat and leaned throbbing temples against the cool glass. she had been on her feet since five that morning, doing everybody's bidding, scolded and hurried by a nervous matron. mrs. lippett, behind the scenes, did not always maintain that calm and pompous dignity with which she faced an audience of trustees and lady visitors. jerusha gazed out across a broad stretch of frozen lawn, beyond the tall iron paling that marked the confines of the asylum, down undulating ridges sprinkled with country estates, to the spires of the village rising from the midst of bare trees. the day was ended--quite successfully, so far as she knew. the trustees and the visiting committee had made their rounds, and read their reports, and drunk their tea, and now were hurrying home to their own cheerful firesides, to forget their bothersome little charges for another month. jerusha leaned forward watching with curiosity--and a touch of wistfulness--the stream of carriages and automobiles that rolled out of the asylum gates. in imagination she followed first one equipage, then another, to the big houses dotted along the hillside. she pictured herself in a fur coat and a velvet hat trimmed with feathers leaning back in the seat and nonchalantly murmuring 'home' to the driver. but on the door-sill of her home the picture grew blurred. jerusha had an imagination--an imagination, mrs. lippett told her, that would get her into trouble if she didn't take care--but keen as it was, it could not carry her beyond the front porch of the houses she would enter. poor, eager, adventurous little jerusha, in all her seventeen years, had never stepped inside an ordinary house; she could not picture the daily routine of those other human beings who carried on their lives undiscommoded by orphans. je-ru-sha ab-bott you are wan-ted in the of-fice, and i think you'd better hurry up! tommy dillon, who had joined the choir, came singing up the stairs and down the corridor, his chant growing louder as he approached room f. jerusha wrenched herself from the window and refaced the troubles of life. 'who wants me?' she cut into tommy's chant with a note of sharp anxiety. mrs. lippett in the office, and i think she's mad. ah-a-men! tommy piously intoned, but his accent was not entirely malicious. even the most hardened little orphan felt sympathy for an erring sister who was summoned to the office to face an annoyed matron; and tommy liked jerusha even if she did sometimes jerk him by the arm and nearly scrub his nose off. jerusha went without comment, but with two parallel lines on her brow. what could have gone wrong, she wondered. were the sandwiches not thin enough? were there shells in the nut cakes? had a lady visitor seen the hole in susie hawthorn's stocking? had--o horrors!--one of the cherubic little babes in her own room f 'sauced' a trustee? the long lower hall had not been lighted, and as she came downstairs, a last trustee stood, on the point of departure, in the open door that led to the porte-cochere. jerusha caught only a fleeting impression of the man--and the impression consisted entirely of tallness. he was waving his arm towards an automobile waiting in the curved drive. as it sprang into motion and approached, head on for an instant, the glaring headlights threw his shadow sharply against the wall inside. the shadow pictured grotesquely elongated legs and arms that ran along the floor and up the wall of the corridor. it looked, for all the world, like a huge, wavering daddy-long-legs. jerusha's anxious frown gave place to quick laughter. she was by nature a sunny soul, and had always snatched the tiniest excuse to be amused. if one could derive any sort of entertainment out of the oppressive fact of a trustee, it was something unexpected to the good. she advanced to the office quite cheered by the tiny episode, and presented a smiling face to mrs. lippett. to her surprise the matron was also, if not exactly smiling, at least appreciably affable; she wore an expression almost as pleasant as the one she donned for visitors. 'sit down, jerusha, i have something to say to you.' jerusha dropped into the nearest chair and waited with a touch of breathlessness. an automobile flashed past the window; mrs. lippett glanced after it. 'did you notice the gentleman who has just gone?' 'i saw his back.' 'he is one of our most affluential trustees, and has given large sums of money towards the asylum's support. i am not at liberty to mention his name; he expressly stipulated that he was to remain unknown.' jerusha's eyes widened slightly; she was not accustomed to being summoned to the office to discuss the eccentricities of trustees with the matron. 'this gentleman has taken an interest in several of our boys. you remember charles benton and henry freize? they were both sent through college by mr.--er--this trustee, and both have repaid with hard work and success the money that was so generously expended. other payment the gentleman does not wish. heretofore his philanthropies have been directed solely towards the boys; i have never been able to interest him in the slightest degree in any of the girls in the institution, no matter how deserving. he does not, i may tell you, care for girls.' 'no, ma'am,' jerusha murmured, since some reply seemed to be expected at this point. 'to-day at the regular meeting, the question of your future was brought up.' mrs. lippett allowed a moment of silence to fall, then resumed in a slow, placid manner extremely trying to her hearer's suddenly tightened nerves. 'usually, as you know, the children are not kept after they are sixteen, but an exception was made in your case. you had finished our school at fourteen, and having done so well in your studies--not always, i must say, in your conduct--it was determined to let you go on in the village high school. now you are finishing that, and of course the asylum cannot be responsible any longer for your support. as it is, you have had two years more than most.' mrs. lippett overlooked the fact that jerusha had worked hard for her board during those two years, that the convenience of the asylum had come first and her education second; that on days like the present she was kept at home to scrub. 'as i say, the question of your future was brought up and your record was discussed--thoroughly discussed.' mrs. lippett brought accusing eyes to bear upon the prisoner in the dock, and the prisoner looked guilty because it seemed to be expected--not because she could remember any strikingly black pages in her record. 'of course the usual disposition of one in your place would be to put you in a position where you could begin to work, but you have done well in school in certain branches; it seems that your work in english has even been brilliant. miss pritchard, who is on our visiting committee, is also on the school board; she has been talking with your rhetoric teacher, and made a speech in your favour. she also read aloud an essay that you had written entitled, "blue wednesday".' jerusha's guilty expression this time was not assumed. 'it seemed to me that you showed little gratitude in holding up to ridicule the institution that has done so much for you. had you not managed to be funny i doubt if you would have been forgiven. but fortunately for you, mr.--, that is, the gentleman who has just gone--appears to have an immoderate sense of humour. on the strength of that impertinent paper, he has offered to send you to college.' 'to college?' jerusha's eyes grew big. mrs. lippett nodded. 'he waited to discuss the terms with me. they are unusual. the gentleman, i may say, is erratic. he believes that you have originality, and he is planning to educate you to become a writer.' 'a writer?' jerusha's mind was numbed. she could only repeat mrs. lippett's words. 'that is his wish. whether anything will come of it, the future will show. he is giving you a very liberal allowance, almost, for a girl who has never had any experience in taking care of money, too liberal. but he planned the matter in detail, and i did not feel free to make any suggestions. you are to remain here through the summer, and miss pritchard has kindly offered to superintend your outfit. your board and tuition will be paid directly to the college, and you will receive in addition during the four years you are there, an allowance of thirty-five dollars a month. this will enable you to enter on the same standing as the other students. the money will be sent to you by the gentleman's private secretary once a month, and in return, you will write a letter of acknowledgment once a month. that is--you are not to thank him for the money; he doesn't care to have that mentioned, but you are to write a letter telling of the progress in your studies and the details of your daily life. just such a letter as you would write to your parents if they were living. 'these letters will be addressed to mr. john smith and will be sent in care of the secretary. the gentleman's name is not john smith, but he prefers to remain unknown. to you he will never be anything but john smith. his reason in requiring the letters is that he thinks nothing so fosters facility in literary expression as letter-writing. since you have no family with whom to correspond, he desires you to write in this way; also, he wishes to keep track of your progress. he will never answer your letters, nor in the slightest particular take any notice of them. he detests letter-writing and does not wish you to become a burden. if any point should ever arise where an answer would seem to be imperative--such as in the event of your being expelled, which i trust will not occur--you may correspond with mr. griggs, his secretary. these monthly letters are absolutely obligatory on your part; they are the only payment that mr. smith requires, so you must be as punctilious in sending them as though it were a bill that you were paying. i hope that they will always be respectful in tone and will reflect credit on your training. you must remember that you are writing to a trustee of the john grier home.' jerusha's eyes longingly sought the door. her head was in a whirl of excitement, and she wished only to escape from mrs. lippett's platitudes and think. she rose and took a tentative step backwards. mrs. lippett detained her with a gesture; it was an oratorical opportunity not to be slighted. 'i trust that you are properly grateful for this very rare good fortune that has befallen you? not many girls in your position ever have such an opportunity to rise in the world. you must always remember--' 'i--yes, ma'am, thank you. i think, if that's all, i must go and sew a patch on freddie perkins's trousers.' the door closed behind her, and mrs. lippett watched it with dropped jaw, her peroration in mid-air. the letters of miss jerusha abbott to mr. daddy-long-legs smith fergussen hall th september dear kind-trustee-who-sends-orphans-to-college, here i am! i travelled yesterday for four hours in a train. it's a funny sensation, isn't it? i never rode in one before. college is the biggest, most bewildering place--i get lost whenever i leave my room. i will write you a description later when i'm feeling less muddled; also i will tell you about my lessons. classes don't begin until monday morning, and this is saturday night. but i wanted to write a letter first just to get acquainted. it seems queer to be writing letters to somebody you don't know. it seems queer for me to be writing letters at all--i've never written more than three or four in my life, so please overlook it if these are not a model kind. before leaving yesterday morning, mrs. lippett and i had a very serious talk. she told me how to behave all the rest of my life, and especially how to behave towards the kind gentleman who is doing so much for me. i must take care to be very respectful. but how can one be very respectful to a person who wishes to be called john smith? why couldn't you have picked out a name with a little personality? i might as well write letters to dear hitching-post or dear clothes-prop. i have been thinking about you a great deal this summer; having somebody take an interest in me after all these years makes me feel as though i had found a sort of family. it seems as though i belonged to somebody now, and it's a very comfortable sensation. i must say, however, that when i think about you, my imagination has very little to work upon. there are just three things that i know: i. you are tall. ii. you are rich. iii. you hate girls. i suppose i might call you dear mr. girl-hater. only that's rather insulting to me. or dear mr. rich-man, but that's insulting to you, as though money were the only important thing about you. besides, being rich is such a very external quality. maybe you won't stay rich all your life; lots of very clever men get smashed up in wall street. but at least you will stay tall all your life! so i've decided to call you dear daddy-long-legs. i hope you won't mind. it's just a private pet name we won't tell mrs. lippett. the ten o'clock bell is going to ring in two minutes. our day is divided into sections by bells. we eat and sleep and study by bells. it's very enlivening; i feel like a fire horse all of the time. there it goes! lights out. good night. observe with what precision i obey rules--due to my training in the john grier home. yours most respectfully, jerusha abbott to mr. daddy-long-legs smith st october dear daddy-long-legs, i love college and i love you for sending me--i'm very, very happy, and so excited every moment of the time that i can scarcely sleep. you can't imagine how different it is from the john grier home. i never dreamed there was such a place in the world. i'm feeling sorry for everybody who isn't a girl and who can't come here; i am sure the college you attended when you were a boy couldn't have been so nice. my room is up in a tower that used to be the contagious ward before they built the new infirmary. there are three other girls on the same floor of the tower--a senior who wears spectacles and is always asking us please to be a little more quiet, and two freshmen named sallie mcbride and julia rutledge pendleton. sallie has red hair and a turn-up nose and is quite friendly; julia comes from one of the first families in new york and hasn't noticed me yet. they room together and the senior and i have singles. usually freshmen can't get singles; they are very scarce, but i got one without even asking. i suppose the registrar didn't think it would be right to ask a properly brought-up girl to room with a foundling. you see there are advantages! my room is on the north-west corner with two windows and a view. after you've lived in a ward for eighteen years with twenty room-mates, it is restful to be alone. this is the first chance i've ever had to get acquainted with jerusha abbott. i think i'm going to like her. do you think you are? tuesday they are organizing the freshman basket-ball team and there's just a chance that i shall get in it. i'm little of course, but terribly quick and wiry and tough. while the others are hopping about in the air, i can dodge under their feet and grab the ball. it's loads of fun practising--out in the athletic field in the afternoon with the trees all red and yellow and the air full of the smell of burning leaves, and everybody laughing and shouting. these are the happiest girls i ever saw--and i am the happiest of all! i meant to write a long letter and tell you all the things i'm learning (mrs. lippett said you wanted to know), but th hour has just rung, and in ten minutes i'm due at the athletic field in gymnasium clothes. don't you hope i'll get in the team? yours always, jerusha abbott ps. ( o'clock.) sallie mcbride just poked her head in at my door. this is what she said: 'i'm so homesick that i simply can't stand it. do you feel that way?' i smiled a little and said no; i thought i could pull through. at least homesickness is one disease that i've escaped! i never heard of anybody being asylum-sick, did you? th october dear daddy-long-legs, did you ever hear of michael angelo? he was a famous artist who lived in italy in the middle ages. everybody in english literature seemed to know about him, and the whole class laughed because i thought he was an archangel. he sounds like an archangel, doesn't he? the trouble with college is that you are expected to know such a lot of things you've never learned. it's very embarrassing at times. but now, when the girls talk about things that i never heard of, i just keep still and look them up in the encyclopedia. i made an awful mistake the first day. somebody mentioned maurice maeterlinck, and i asked if she was a freshman. that joke has gone all over college. but anyway, i'm just as bright in class as any of the others--and brighter than some of them! do you care to know how i've furnished my room? it's a symphony in brown and yellow. the wall was tinted buff, and i've bought yellow denim curtains and cushions and a mahogany desk (second hand for three dollars) and a rattan chair and a brown rug with an ink spot in the middle. i stand the chair over the spot. the windows are up high; you can't look out from an ordinary seat. but i unscrewed the looking-glass from the back of the bureau, upholstered the top and moved it up against the window. it's just the right height for a window seat. you pull out the drawers like steps and walk up. very comfortable! sallie mcbride helped me choose the things at the senior auction. she has lived in a house all her life and knows about furnishing. you can't imagine what fun it is to shop and pay with a real five-dollar bill and get some change--when you've never had more than a few cents in your life. i assure you, daddy dear, i do appreciate that allowance. sallie is the most entertaining person in the world--and julia rutledge pendleton the least so. it's queer what a mixture the registrar can make in the matter of room-mates. sallie thinks everything is funny--even flunking--and julia is bored at everything. she never makes the slightest effort to be amiable. she believes that if you are a pendleton, that fact alone admits you to heaven without any further examination. julia and i were born to be enemies. and now i suppose you've been waiting very impatiently to hear what i am learning? i. latin: second punic war. hannibal and his forces pitched camp at lake trasimenus last night. they prepared an ambuscade for the romans, and a battle took place at the fourth watch this morning. romans in retreat. ii. french: pages of the three musketeers and third conjugation, irregular verbs. iii. geometry: finished cylinders; now doing cones. iv. english: studying exposition. my style improves daily in clearness and brevity. v. physiology: reached the digestive system. bile and the pancreas next time. yours, on the way to being educated, jerusha abbott ps. i hope you never touch alcohol, daddy? it does dreadful things to your liver. wednesday dear daddy-long-legs, i've changed my name. i'm still 'jerusha' in the catalogue, but i'm 'judy' everywhere else. it's really too bad, isn't it, to have to give yourself the only pet name you ever had? i didn't quite make up the judy though. that's what freddy perkins used to call me before he could talk plainly. i wish mrs. lippett would use a little more ingenuity about choosing babies' names. she gets the last names out of the telephone book--you'll find abbott on the first page--and she picks the christian names up anywhere; she got jerusha from a tombstone. i've always hated it; but i rather like judy. it's such a silly name. it belongs to the kind of girl i'm not--a sweet little blue-eyed thing, petted and spoiled by all the family, who romps her way through life without any cares. wouldn't it be nice to be like that? whatever faults i may have, no one can ever accuse me of having been spoiled by my family! but it's great fun to pretend i've been. in the future please always address me as judy. do you want to know something? i have three pairs of kid gloves. i've had kid mittens before from the christmas tree, but never real kid gloves with five fingers. i take them out and try them on every little while. it's all i can do not to wear them to classes. (dinner bell. goodbye.) friday what do you think, daddy? the english instructor said that my last paper shows an unusual amount of originality. she did, truly. those were her words. it doesn't seem possible, does it, considering the eighteen years of training that i've had? the aim of the john grier home (as you doubtless know and heartily approve of) is to turn the ninety-seven orphans into ninety-seven twins. the unusual artistic ability which i exhibit was developed at an early age through drawing chalk pictures of mrs. lippett on the woodshed door. i hope that i don't hurt your feelings when i criticize the home of my youth? but you have the upper hand, you know, for if i become too impertinent, you can always stop payment of your cheques. that isn't a very polite thing to say--but you can't expect me to have any manners; a foundling asylum isn't a young ladies' finishing school. you know, daddy, it isn't the work that is going to be hard in college. it's the play. half the time i don't know what the girls are talking about; their jokes seem to relate to a past that every one but me has shared. i'm a foreigner in the world and i don't understand the language. it's a miserable feeling. i've had it all my life. at the high school the girls would stand in groups and just look at me. i was queer and different and everybody knew it. i could feel 'john grier home' written on my face. and then a few charitable ones would make a point of coming up and saying something polite. i hated every one of them--the charitable ones most of all. nobody here knows that i was brought up in an asylum. i told sallie mcbride that my mother and father were dead, and that a kind old gentleman was sending me to college which is entirely true so far as it goes. i don't want you to think i am a coward, but i do want to be like the other girls, and that dreadful home looming over my childhood is the one great big difference. if i can turn my back on that and shut out the remembrance, i think, i might be just as desirable as any other girl. i don't believe there's any real, underneath difference, do you? anyway, sallie mcbride likes me! yours ever, judy abbott (nee jerusha.) saturday morning i've just been reading this letter over and it sounds pretty un-cheerful. but can't you guess that i have a special topic due monday morning and a review in geometry and a very sneezy cold? sunday i forgot to post this yesterday, so i will add an indignant postscript. we had a bishop this morning, and what do you think he said? 'the most beneficent promise made us in the bible is this, "the poor ye have always with you." they were put here in order to keep us charitable.' the poor, please observe, being a sort of useful domestic animal. if i hadn't grown into such a perfect lady, i should have gone up after service and told him what i thought. th october dear daddy-long-legs, i'm in the basket-ball team and you ought to see the bruise on my left shoulder. it's blue and mahogany with little streaks of orange. julia pendleton tried for the team, but she didn't get in. hooray! you see what a mean disposition i have. college gets nicer and nicer. i like the girls and the teachers and the classes and the campus and the things to eat. we have ice-cream twice a week and we never have corn-meal mush. you only wanted to hear from me once a month, didn't you? and i've been peppering you with letters every few days! but i've been so excited about all these new adventures that i must talk to somebody; and you're the only one i know. please excuse my exuberance; i'll settle pretty soon. if my letters bore you, you can always toss them into the wastebasket. i promise not to write another till the middle of november. yours most loquaciously, judy abbott th november dear daddy-long-legs, listen to what i've learned to-day. the area of the convex surface of the frustum of a regular pyramid is half the product of the sum of the perimeters of its bases by the altitude of either of its trapezoids. it doesn't sound true, but it is--i can prove it! you've never heard about my clothes, have you, daddy? six dresses, all new and beautiful and bought for me--not handed down from somebody bigger. perhaps you don't realize what a climax that marks in the career of an orphan? you gave them to me, and i am very, very, very much obliged. it's a fine thing to be educated--but nothing compared to the dizzying experience of owning six new dresses. miss pritchard, who is on the visiting committee, picked them out--not mrs. lippett, thank goodness. i have an evening dress, pink mull over silk (i'm perfectly beautiful in that), and a blue church dress, and a dinner dress of red veiling with oriental trimming (makes me look like a gipsy), and another of rose-coloured challis, and a grey street suit, and an every-day dress for classes. that wouldn't be an awfully big wardrobe for julia rutledge pendleton, perhaps, but for jerusha abbott--oh, my! i suppose you're thinking now what a frivolous, shallow little beast she is, and what a waste of money to educate a girl? but, daddy, if you'd been dressed in checked ginghams all your life, you'd appreciate how i feel. and when i started to the high school, i entered upon another period even worse than the checked ginghams. the poor box. you can't know how i dreaded appearing in school in those miserable poor-box dresses. i was perfectly sure to be put down in class next to the girl who first owned my dress, and she would whisper and giggle and point it out to the others. the bitterness of wearing your enemies' cast-off clothes eats into your soul. if i wore silk stockings for the rest of my life, i don't believe i could obliterate the scar. latest war bulletin! news from the scene of action. at the fourth watch on thursday the th of november, hannibal routed the advance guard of the romans and led the carthaginian forces over the mountains into the plains of casilinum. a cohort of light armed numidians engaged the infantry of quintus fabius maximus. two battles and light skirmishing. romans repulsed with heavy losses. i have the honour of being, your special correspondent from the front, j. abbott ps. i know i'm not to expect any letters in return, and i've been warned not to bother you with questions, but tell me, daddy, just this once--are you awfully old or just a little old? and are you perfectly bald or just a little bald? it is very difficult thinking about you in the abstract like a theorem in geometry. given a tall rich man who hates girls, but is very generous to one quite impertinent girl, what does he look like? r.s.v.p. th december dear daddy-long-legs, you never answered my question and it was very important. are you bald? i have it planned exactly what you look like--very satisfactorily--until i reach the top of your head, and then i am stuck. i can't decide whether you have white hair or black hair or sort of sprinkly grey hair or maybe none at all. here is your portrait: but the problem is, shall i add some hair? would you like to know what colour your eyes are? they're grey, and your eyebrows stick out like a porch roof (beetling, they're called in novels), and your mouth is a straight line with a tendency to turn down at the corners. oh, you see, i know! you're a snappy old thing with a temper. (chapel bell.) . p.m. i have a new unbreakable rule: never, never to study at night no matter how many written reviews are coming in the morning. instead, i read just plain books--i have to, you know, because there are eighteen blank years behind me. you wouldn't believe, daddy, what an abyss of ignorance my mind is; i am just realizing the depths myself. the things that most girls with a properly assorted family and a home and friends and a library know by absorption, i have never heard of. for example: i never read mother goose or david copperfield or ivanhoe or cinderella or blue beard or robinson crusoe or jane eyre or alice in wonderland or a word of rudyard kipling. i didn't know that henry the eighth was married more than once or that shelley was a poet. i didn't know that people used to be monkeys and that the garden of eden was a beautiful myth. i didn't know that r. l. s. stood for robert louis stevenson or that george eliot was a lady. i had never seen a picture of the 'mona lisa' and (it's true but you won't believe it) i had never heard of sherlock holmes. now, i know all of these things and a lot of others besides, but you can see how much i need to catch up. and oh, but it's fun! i look forward all day to evening, and then i put an 'engaged' on the door and get into my nice red bath robe and furry slippers and pile all the cushions behind me on the couch, and light the brass student lamp at my elbow, and read and read and read one book isn't enough. i have four going at once. just now, they're tennyson's poems and vanity fair and kipling's plain tales and--don't laugh--little women. i find that i am the only girl in college who wasn't brought up on little women. i haven't told anybody though (that would stamp me as queer). i just quietly went and bought it with $ . of my last month's allowance; and the next time somebody mentions pickled limes, i'll know what she is talking about! (ten o'clock bell. this is a very interrupted letter.) saturday sir, i have the honour to report fresh explorations in the field of geometry. on friday last we abandoned our former works in parallelopipeds and proceeded to truncated prisms. we are finding the road rough and very uphill. sunday the christmas holidays begin next week and the trunks are up. the corridors are so filled up that you can hardly get through, and everybody is so bubbling over with excitement that studying is getting left out. i'm going to have a beautiful time in vacation; there's another freshman who lives in texas staying behind, and we are planning to take long walks and if there's any ice--learn to skate. then there is still the whole library to be read--and three empty weeks to do it in! goodbye, daddy, i hope that you are feeling as happy as i am. yours ever, judy ps. don't forget to answer my question. if you don't want the trouble of writing, have your secretary telegraph. he can just say: mr. smith is quite bald, or mr. smith is not bald, or mr. smith has white hair. and you can deduct the twenty-five cents out of my allowance. goodbye till january--and a merry christmas! towards the end of the christmas vacation. exact date unknown dear daddy-long-legs, is it snowing where you are? all the world that i see from my tower is draped in white and the flakes are coming down as big as pop-corns. it's late afternoon--the sun is just setting (a cold yellow colour) behind some colder violet hills, and i am up in my window seat using the last light to write to you. your five gold pieces were a surprise! i'm not used to receiving christmas presents. you have already given me such lots of things--everything i have, you know--that i don't quite feel that i deserve extras. but i like them just the same. do you want to know what i bought with my money? i. a silver watch in a leather case to wear on my wrist and get me to recitations in time. ii. matthew arnold's poems. iii. a hot water bottle. iv. a steamer rug. (my tower is cold.) v. five hundred sheets of yellow manuscript paper. (i'm going to commence being an author pretty soon.) vi. a dictionary of synonyms. (to enlarge the author's vocabulary.) vii. (i don't much like to confess this last item, but i will.) a pair of silk stockings. and now, daddy, never say i don't tell all! it was a very low motive, if you must know it, that prompted the silk stockings. julia pendleton comes into my room to do geometry, and she sits cross-legged on the couch and wears silk stockings every night. but just wait--as soon as she gets back from vacation i shall go in and sit on her couch in my silk stockings. you see, daddy, the miserable creature that i am but at least i'm honest; and you knew already, from my asylum record, that i wasn't perfect, didn't you? to recapitulate (that's the way the english instructor begins every other sentence), i am very much obliged for my seven presents. i'm pretending to myself that they came in a box from my family in california. the watch is from father, the rug from mother, the hot water bottle from grandmother who is always worrying for fear i shall catch cold in this climate--and the yellow paper from my little brother harry. my sister isabel gave me the silk stockings, and aunt susan the matthew arnold poems; uncle harry (little harry is named after him) gave me the dictionary. he wanted to send chocolates, but i insisted on synonyms. you don't object, do you, to playing the part of a composite family? and now, shall i tell you about my vacation, or are you only interested in my education as such? i hope you appreciate the delicate shade of meaning in 'as such'. it is the latest addition to my vocabulary. the girl from texas is named leonora fenton. (almost as funny as jerusha, isn't it?) i like her, but not so much as sallie mcbride; i shall never like any one so much as sallie--except you. i must always like you the best of all, because you're my whole family rolled into one. leonora and i and two sophomores have walked 'cross country every pleasant day and explored the whole neighbourhood, dressed in short skirts and knit jackets and caps, and carrying shiny sticks to whack things with. once we walked into town--four miles--and stopped at a restaurant where the college girls go for dinner. broiled lobster ( cents), and for dessert, buckwheat cakes and maple syrup ( cents). nourishing and cheap. it was such a lark! especially for me, because it was so awfully different from the asylum--i feel like an escaped convict every time i leave the campus. before i thought, i started to tell the others what an experience i was having. the cat was almost out of the bag when i grabbed it by its tail and pulled it back. it's awfully hard for me not to tell everything i know. i'm a very confiding soul by nature; if i didn't have you to tell things to, i'd burst. we had a molasses candy pull last friday evening, given by the house matron of fergussen to the left-behinds in the other halls. there were twenty-two of us altogether, freshmen and sophomores and juniors and seniors all united in amicable accord. the kitchen is huge, with copper pots and kettles hanging in rows on the stone wall--the littlest casserole among them about the size of a wash boiler. four hundred girls live in fergussen. the chef, in a white cap and apron, fetched out twenty-two other white caps and aprons--i can't imagine where he got so many--and we all turned ourselves into cooks. it was great fun, though i have seen better candy. when it was finally finished, and ourselves and the kitchen and the door-knobs all thoroughly sticky, we organized a procession and still in our caps and aprons, each carrying a big fork or spoon or frying pan, we marched through the empty corridors to the officers' parlour, where half-a-dozen professors and instructors were passing a tranquil evening. we serenaded them with college songs and offered refreshments. they accepted politely but dubiously. we left them sucking chunks of molasses candy, sticky and speechless. so you see, daddy, my education progresses! don't you really think that i ought to be an artist instead of an author? vacation will be over in two days and i shall be glad to see the girls again. my tower is just a trifle lonely; when nine people occupy a house that was built for four hundred, they do rattle around a bit. eleven pages--poor daddy, you must be tired! i meant this to be just a short little thank-you note--but when i get started i seem to have a ready pen. goodbye, and thank you for thinking of me--i should be perfectly happy except for one little threatening cloud on the horizon. examinations come in february. yours with love, judy ps. maybe it isn't proper to send love? if it isn't, please excuse. but i must love somebody and there's only you and mrs. lippett to choose between, so you see--you'll have to put up with it, daddy dear, because i can't love her. on the eve dear daddy-long-legs, you should see the way this college is studying! we've forgotten we ever had a vacation. fifty-seven irregular verbs have i introduced to my brain in the past four days--i'm only hoping they'll stay till after examinations. some of the girls sell their text-books when they're through with them, but i intend to keep mine. then after i've graduated i shall have my whole education in a row in the bookcase, and when i need to use any detail, i can turn to it without the slightest hesitation. so much easier and more accurate than trying to keep it in your head. julia pendleton dropped in this evening to pay a social call, and stayed a solid hour. she got started on the subject of family, and i couldn't switch her off. she wanted to know what my mother's maiden name was--did you ever hear such an impertinent question to ask of a person from a foundling asylum? i didn't have the courage to say i didn't know, so i just miserably plumped on the first name i could think of, and that was montgomery. then she wanted to know whether i belonged to the massachusetts montgomerys or the virginia montgomerys. her mother was a rutherford. the family came over in the ark, and were connected by marriage with henry the viii. on her father's side they date back further than adam. on the topmost branches of her family tree there's a superior breed of monkeys with very fine silky hair and extra long tails. i meant to write you a nice, cheerful, entertaining letter tonight, but i'm too sleepy--and scared. the freshman's lot is not a happy one. yours, about to be examined, judy abbott sunday dearest daddy-long-legs, i have some awful, awful, awful news to tell you, but i won't begin with it; i'll try to get you in a good humour first. jerusha abbott has commenced to be an author. a poem entitled, 'from my tower', appears in the february monthly--on the first page, which is a very great honour for a freshman. my english instructor stopped me on the way out from chapel last night, and said it was a charming piece of work except for the sixth line, which had too many feet. i will send you a copy in case you care to read it. let me see if i can't think of something else pleasant-- oh, yes! i'm learning to skate, and can glide about quite respectably all by myself. also i've learned how to slide down a rope from the roof of the gymnasium, and i can vault a bar three feet and six inches high--i hope shortly to pull up to four feet. we had a very inspiring sermon this morning preached by the bishop of alabama. his text was: 'judge not that ye be not judged.' it was about the necessity of overlooking mistakes in others, and not discouraging people by harsh judgments. i wish you might have heard it. this is the sunniest, most blinding winter afternoon, with icicles dripping from the fir trees and all the world bending under a weight of snow--except me, and i'm bending under a weight of sorrow. now for the news--courage, judy!--you must tell. are you surely in a good humour? i failed in mathematics and latin prose. i am tutoring in them, and will take another examination next month. i'm sorry if you're disappointed, but otherwise i don't care a bit because i've learned such a lot of things not mentioned in the catalogue. i've read seventeen novels and bushels of poetry--really necessary novels like vanity fair and richard feverel and alice in wonderland. also emerson's essays and lockhart's life of scott and the first volume of gibbon's roman empire and half of benvenuto cellini's life--wasn't he entertaining? he used to saunter out and casually kill a man before breakfast. so you see, daddy, i'm much more intelligent than if i'd just stuck to latin. will you forgive me this once if i promise never to fail again? yours in sackcloth, judy dear daddy-long-legs, this is an extra letter in the middle of the month because i'm rather lonely tonight. it's awfully stormy. all the lights are out on the campus, but i drank black coffee and i can't go to sleep. i had a supper party this evening consisting of sallie and julia and leonora fenton--and sardines and toasted muffins and salad and fudge and coffee. julia said she'd had a good time, but sallie stayed to help wash the dishes. i might, very usefully, put some time on latin tonight but, there's no doubt about it, i'm a very languid latin scholar. we've finished livy and de senectute and are now engaged with de amicitia (pronounced damn icitia). should you mind, just for a little while, pretending you are my grandmother? sallie has one and julia and leonora each two, and they were all comparing them tonight. i can't think of anything i'd rather have; it's such a respectable relationship. so, if you really don't object--when i went into town yesterday, i saw the sweetest cap of cluny lace trimmed with lavender ribbon. i am going to make you a present of it on your eighty-third birthday. ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! that's the clock in the chapel tower striking twelve. i believe i am sleepy after all. good night, granny. i love you dearly. judy the ides of march dear d.-l.-l., i am studying latin prose composition. i have been studying it. i shall be studying it. i shall be about to have been studying it. my re-examination comes the th hour next tuesday, and i am going to pass or bust. so you may expect to hear from me next, whole and happy and free from conditions, or in fragments. i will write a respectable letter when it's over. tonight i have a pressing engagement with the ablative absolute. yours--in evident haste j. a. th march mr. d.-l.-l. smith, sir: you never answer any questions; you never show the slightest interest in anything i do. you are probably the horridest one of all those horrid trustees, and the reason you are educating me is, not because you care a bit about me, but from a sense of duty. i don't know a single thing about you. i don't even know your name. it is very uninspiring writing to a thing. i haven't a doubt but that you throw my letters into the waste-basket without reading them. hereafter i shall write only about work. my re-examinations in latin and geometry came last week. i passed them both and am now free from conditions. yours truly, jerusha abbott nd april dear daddy-long-legs, i am a beast. please forget about that dreadful letter i sent you last week--i was feeling terribly lonely and miserable and sore-throaty the night i wrote. i didn't know it, but i was just sickening for tonsillitis and grippe and lots of things mixed. i'm in the infirmary now, and have been here for six days; this is the first time they would let me sit up and have a pen and paper. the head nurse is very bossy. but i've been thinking about it all the time and i shan't get well until you forgive me. here is a picture of the way i look, with a bandage tied around my head in rabbit's ears. doesn't that arouse your sympathy? i am having sublingual gland swelling. and i've been studying physiology all the year without ever hearing of sublingual glands. how futile a thing is education! i can't write any more; i get rather shaky when i sit up too long. please forgive me for being impertinent and ungrateful. i was badly brought up. yours with love, judy abbott the infirmary th april dearest daddy-long-legs, yesterday evening just towards dark, when i was sitting up in bed looking out at the rain and feeling awfully bored with life in a great institution, the nurse appeared with a long white box addressed to me, and filled with the loveliest pink rosebuds. and much nicer still, it contained a card with a very polite message written in a funny little uphill back hand (but one which shows a great deal of character). thank you, daddy, a thousand times. your flowers make the first real, true present i ever received in my life. if you want to know what a baby i am i lay down and cried because i was so happy. now that i am sure you read my letters, i'll make them much more interesting, so they'll be worth keeping in a safe with red tape around them--only please take out that dreadful one and burn it up. i'd hate to think that you ever read it over. thank you for making a very sick, cross, miserable freshman cheerful. probably you have lots of loving family and friends, and you don't know what it feels like to be alone. but i do. goodbye--i'll promise never to be horrid again, because now i know you're a real person; also i'll promise never to bother you with any more questions. do you still hate girls? yours for ever, judy th hour, monday dear daddy-long-legs, i hope you aren't the trustee who sat on the toad? it went off--i was told--with quite a pop, so probably he was a fatter trustee. do you remember the little dugout places with gratings over them by the laundry windows in the john grier home? every spring when the hoptoad season opened we used to form a collection of toads and keep them in those window holes; and occasionally they would spill over into the laundry, causing a very pleasurable commotion on wash days. we were severely punished for our activities in this direction, but in spite of all discouragement the toads would collect. and one day--well, i won't bore you with particulars--but somehow, one of the fattest, biggest, juciest toads got into one of those big leather arm chairs in the trustees' room, and that afternoon at the trustees' meeting--but i dare say you were there and recall the rest? looking back dispassionately after a period of time, i will say that punishment was merited, and--if i remember rightly--adequate. i don't know why i am in such a reminiscent mood except that spring and the reappearance of toads always awakens the old acquisitive instinct. the only thing that keeps me from starting a collection is the fact that no rule exists against it. after chapel, thursday what do you think is my favourite book? just now, i mean; i change every three days. wuthering heights. emily bronte was quite young when she wrote it, and had never been outside of haworth churchyard. she had never known any men in her life; how could she imagine a man like heathcliffe? i couldn't do it, and i'm quite young and never outside the john grier asylum--i've had every chance in the world. sometimes a dreadful fear comes over me that i'm not a genius. will you be awfully disappointed, daddy, if i don't turn out to be a great author? in the spring when everything is so beautiful and green and budding, i feel like turning my back on lessons, and running away to play with the weather. there are such lots of adventures out in the fields! it's much more entertaining to live books than to write them. ow ! ! ! ! ! ! that was a shriek which brought sallie and julia and (for a disgusted moment) the senior from across the hall. it was caused by a centipede like this: only worse. just as i had finished the last sentence and was thinking what to say next--plump!--it fell off the ceiling and landed at my side. i tipped two cups off the tea table in trying to get away. sallie whacked it with the back of my hair brush--which i shall never be able to use again--and killed the front end, but the rear fifty feet ran under the bureau and escaped. this dormitory, owing to its age and ivy-covered walls, is full of centipedes. they are dreadful creatures. i'd rather find a tiger under the bed. friday, . p.m. such a lot of troubles! i didn't hear the rising bell this morning, then i broke my shoestring while i was hurrying to dress and dropped my collar button down my neck. i was late for breakfast and also for first-hour recitation. i forgot to take any blotting paper and my fountain pen leaked. in trigonometry the professor and i had a disagreement touching a little matter of logarithms. on looking it up, i find that she was right. we had mutton stew and pie-plant for lunch--hate 'em both; they taste like the asylum. the post brought me nothing but bills (though i must say that i never do get anything else; my family are not the kind that write). in english class this afternoon we had an unexpected written lesson. this was it: i asked no other thing, no other was denied. i offered being for it; the mighty merchant smiled. brazil? he twirled a button without a glance my way: but, madam, is there nothing else that we can show today? that is a poem. i don't know who wrote it or what it means. it was simply printed out on the blackboard when we arrived and we were ordered to comment upon it. when i read the first verse i thought i had an idea--the mighty merchant was a divinity who distributes blessings in return for virtuous deeds--but when i got to the second verse and found him twirling a button, it seemed a blasphemous supposition, and i hastily changed my mind. the rest of the class was in the same predicament; and there we sat for three-quarters of an hour with blank paper and equally blank minds. getting an education is an awfully wearing process! but this didn't end the day. there's worse to come. it rained so we couldn't play golf, but had to go to gymnasium instead. the girl next to me banged my elbow with an indian club. i got home to find that the box with my new blue spring dress had come, and the skirt was so tight that i couldn't sit down. friday is sweeping day, and the maid had mixed all the papers on my desk. we had tombstone for dessert (milk and gelatin flavoured with vanilla). we were kept in chapel twenty minutes later than usual to listen to a speech about womanly women. and then--just as i was settling down with a sigh of well-earned relief to the portrait of a lady, a girl named ackerly, a dough-faced, deadly, unintermittently stupid girl, who sits next to me in latin because her name begins with a (i wish mrs. lippett had named me zabriski), came to ask if monday's lesson commenced at paragraph or , and stayed one hour. she has just gone. did you ever hear of such a discouraging series of events? it isn't the big troubles in life that require character. anybody can rise to a crisis and face a crushing tragedy with courage, but to meet the petty hazards of the day with a laugh--i really think that requires spirit. it's the kind of character that i am going to develop. i am going to pretend that all life is just a game which i must play as skilfully and fairly as i can. if i lose, i am going to shrug my shoulders and laugh--also if i win. anyway, i am going to be a sport. you will never hear me complain again, daddy dear, because julia wears silk stockings and centipedes drop off the wall. yours ever, judy answer soon. th may daddy-long-legs, esq. dear sir: i am in receipt of a letter from mrs. lippett. she hopes that i am doing well in deportment and studies. since i probably have no place to go this summer, she will let me come back to the asylum and work for my board until college opens. i hate the john grier home. i'd rather die than go back. yours most truthfully, jerusha abbott cher daddy-jambes-longes, vous etes un brick! je suis tres heureuse about the farm, parceque je n'ai jamais been on a farm dans ma vie and i'd hate to retourner chez john grier, et wash dishes tout l'ete. there would be danger of quelque chose affreuse happening, parceque j'ai perdue ma humilite d'autre fois et j'ai peur that i would just break out quelque jour et smash every cup and saucer dans la maison. pardon brievete et paper. je ne peux pas send des mes nouvelles parceque je suis dans french class et j'ai peur que monsieur le professeur is going to call on me tout de suite. he did! au revoir, je vous aime beaucoup. judy th may dear daddy-long-legs, did you ever see this campus? (that is merely a rhetorical question. don't let it annoy you.) it is a heavenly spot in may. all the shrubs are in blossom and the trees are the loveliest young green--even the old pines look fresh and new. the grass is dotted with yellow dandelions and hundreds of girls in blue and white and pink dresses. everybody is joyous and carefree, for vacation's coming, and with that to look forward to, examinations don't count. isn't that a happy frame of mind to be in? and oh, daddy! i'm the happiest of all! because i'm not in the asylum any more; and i'm not anybody's nursemaid or typewriter or bookkeeper (i should have been, you know, except for you). i'm sorry now for all my past badnesses. i'm sorry i was ever impertinent to mrs. lippett. i'm sorry i ever slapped freddie perkins. i'm sorry i ever filled the sugar bowl with salt. i'm sorry i ever made faces behind the trustees' backs. i'm going to be good and sweet and kind to everybody because i'm so happy. and this summer i'm going to write and write and write and begin to be a great author. isn't that an exalted stand to take? oh, i'm developing a beautiful character! it droops a bit under cold and frost, but it does grow fast when the sun shines. that's the way with everybody. i don't agree with the theory that adversity and sorrow and disappointment develop moral strength. the happy people are the ones who are bubbling over with kindliness. i have no faith in misanthropes. (fine word! just learned it.) you are not a misanthrope are you, daddy? i started to tell you about the campus. i wish you'd come for a little visit and let me walk you about and say: 'that is the library. this is the gas plant, daddy dear. the gothic building on your left is the gymnasium, and the tudor romanesque beside it is the new infirmary.' oh, i'm fine at showing people about. i've done it all my life at the asylum, and i've been doing it all day here. i have honestly. and a man, too! that's a great experience. i never talked to a man before (except occasional trustees, and they don't count). pardon, daddy, i don't mean to hurt your feelings when i abuse trustees. i don't consider that you really belong among them. you just tumbled on to the board by chance. the trustee, as such, is fat and pompous and benevolent. he pats one on the head and wears a gold watch chain. that looks like a june bug, but is meant to be a portrait of any trustee except you. however--to resume: i have been walking and talking and having tea with a man. and with a very superior man--with mr. jervis pendleton of the house of julia; her uncle, in short (in long, perhaps i ought to say; he's as tall as you.) being in town on business, he decided to run out to the college and call on his niece. he's her father's youngest brother, but she doesn't know him very intimately. it seems he glanced at her when she was a baby, decided he didn't like her, and has never noticed her since. anyway, there he was, sitting in the reception room very proper with his hat and stick and gloves beside him; and julia and sallie with seventh-hour recitations that they couldn't cut. so julia dashed into my room and begged me to walk him about the campus and then deliver him to her when the seventh hour was over. i said i would, obligingly but unenthusiastically, because i don't care much for pendletons. but he turned out to be a sweet lamb. he's a real human being--not a pendleton at all. we had a beautiful time; i've longed for an uncle ever since. do you mind pretending you're my uncle? i believe they're superior to grandmothers. mr. pendleton reminded me a little of you, daddy, as you were twenty years ago. you see i know you intimately, even if we haven't ever met! he's tall and thinnish with a dark face all over lines, and the funniest underneath smile that never quite comes through but just wrinkles up the corners of his mouth. and he has a way of making you feel right off as though you'd known him a long time. he's very companionable. we walked all over the campus from the quadrangle to the athletic grounds; then he said he felt weak and must have some tea. he proposed that we go to college inn--it's just off the campus by the pine walk. i said we ought to go back for julia and sallie, but he said he didn't like to have his nieces drink too much tea; it made them nervous. so we just ran away and had tea and muffins and marmalade and ice-cream and cake at a nice little table out on the balcony. the inn was quite conveniently empty, this being the end of the month and allowances low. we had the jolliest time! but he had to run for his train the minute he got back and he barely saw julia at all. she was furious with me for taking him off; it seems he's an unusually rich and desirable uncle. it relieved my mind to find he was rich, for the tea and things cost sixty cents apiece. this morning (it's monday now) three boxes of chocolates came by express for julia and sallie and me. what do you think of that? to be getting candy from a man! i begin to feel like a girl instead of a foundling. i wish you'd come and have tea some day and let me see if i like you. but wouldn't it be dreadful if i didn't? however, i know i should. bien! i make you my compliments. 'jamais je ne t'oublierai.' judy ps. i looked in the glass this morning and found a perfectly new dimple that i'd never seen before. it's very curious. where do you suppose it came from? th june dear daddy-long-legs, happy day! i've just finished my last examination physiology. and now: three months on a farm! i don't know what kind of a thing a farm is. i've never been on one in my life. i've never even looked at one (except from the car window), but i know i'm going to love it, and i'm going to love being free. i am not used even yet to being outside the john grier home. whenever i think of it excited little thrills chase up and down my back. i feel as though i must run faster and faster and keep looking over my shoulder to make sure that mrs. lippett isn't after me with her arm stretched out to grab me back. i don't have to mind any one this summer, do i? your nominal authority doesn't annoy me in the least; you are too far away to do any harm. mrs. lippett is dead for ever, so far as i am concerned, and the semples aren't expected to overlook my moral welfare, are they? no, i am sure not. i am entirely grown up. hooray! i leave you now to pack a trunk, and three boxes of teakettles and dishes and sofa cushions and books. yours ever, judy ps. here is my physiology exam. do you think you could have passed? lock willow farm, saturday night dearest daddy-long-legs, i've only just come and i'm not unpacked, but i can't wait to tell you how much i like farms. this is a heavenly, heavenly, heavenly spot! the house is square like this: and old. a hundred years or so. it has a veranda on the side which i can't draw and a sweet porch in front. the picture really doesn't do it justice--those things that look like feather dusters are maple trees, and the prickly ones that border the drive are murmuring pines and hemlocks. it stands on the top of a hill and looks way off over miles of green meadows to another line of hills. that is the way connecticut goes, in a series of marcelle waves; and lock willow farm is just on the crest of one wave. the barns used to be across the road where they obstructed the view, but a kind flash of lightning came from heaven and burnt them down. the people are mr. and mrs. semple and a hired girl and two hired men. the hired people eat in the kitchen, and the semples and judy in the dining-room. we had ham and eggs and biscuits and honey and jelly-cake and pie and pickles and cheese and tea for supper--and a great deal of conversation. i have never been so entertaining in my life; everything i say appears to be funny. i suppose it is, because i've never been in the country before, and my questions are backed by an all-inclusive ignorance. the room marked with a cross is not where the murder was committed, but the one that i occupy. it's big and square and empty, with adorable old-fashioned furniture and windows that have to be propped up on sticks and green shades trimmed with gold that fall down if you touch them. and a big square mahogany table--i'm going to spend the summer with my elbows spread out on it, writing a novel. oh, daddy, i'm so excited! i can't wait till daylight to explore. it's . now, and i am about to blow out my candle and try to go to sleep. we rise at five. did you ever know such fun? i can't believe this is really judy. you and the good lord give me more than i deserve. i must be a very, very, very good person to pay. i'm going to be. you'll see. good night, judy ps. you should hear the frogs sing and the little pigs squeal and you should see the new moon! i saw it over my right shoulder. lock willow, th july dear daddy-long-legs, how did your secretary come to know about lock willow? (that isn't a rhetorical question. i am awfully curious to know.) for listen to this: mr. jervis pendleton used to own this farm, but now he has given it to mrs. semple who was his old nurse. did you ever hear of such a funny coincidence? she still calls him 'master jervie' and talks about what a sweet little boy he used to be. she has one of his baby curls put away in a box, and it is red--or at least reddish! since she discovered that i know him, i have risen very much in her opinion. knowing a member of the pendleton family is the best introduction one can have at lock willow. and the cream of the whole family is master jervis--i am pleased to say that julia belongs to an inferior branch. the farm gets more and more entertaining. i rode on a hay wagon yesterday. we have three big pigs and nine little piglets, and you should see them eat. they are pigs! we've oceans of little baby chickens and ducks and turkeys and guinea fowls. you must be mad to live in a city when you might live on a farm. it is my daily business to hunt the eggs. i fell off a beam in the barn loft yesterday, while i was trying to crawl over to a nest that the black hen has stolen. and when i came in with a scratched knee, mrs. semple bound it up with witch-hazel, murmuring all the time, 'dear! dear! it seems only yesterday that master jervie fell off that very same beam and scratched this very same knee.' the scenery around here is perfectly beautiful. there's a valley and a river and a lot of wooded hills, and way in the distance a tall blue mountain that simply melts in your mouth. we churn twice a week; and we keep the cream in the spring house which is made of stone with the brook running underneath. some of the farmers around here have a separator, but we don't care for these new-fashioned ideas. it may be a little harder to separate the cream in pans, but it's sufficiently better to pay. we have six calves; and i've chosen the names for all of them. . sylvia, because she was born in the woods. . lesbia, after the lesbia in catullus. . sallie. . julia--a spotted, nondescript animal. . judy, after me. . daddy-long-legs. you don't mind, do you, daddy? he's pure jersey and has a sweet disposition. he looks like this--you can see how appropriate the name is. i haven't had time yet to begin my immortal novel; the farm keeps me too busy. yours always, judy ps. i've learned to make doughnuts. ps. ( ) if you are thinking of raising chickens, let me recommend buff orpingtons. they haven't any pin feathers. ps. ( ) i wish i could send you a pat of the nice, fresh butter i churned yesterday. i'm a fine dairy-maid! ps. ( ) this is a picture of miss jerusha abbott, the future great author, driving home the cows. sunday dear daddy-long-legs, isn't it funny? i started to write to you yesterday afternoon, but as far as i got was the heading, 'dear daddy-long-legs', and then i remembered i'd promised to pick some blackberries for supper, so i went off and left the sheet lying on the table, and when i came back today, what do you think i found sitting in the middle of the page? a real true daddy-long-legs! i picked him up very gently by one leg, and dropped him out of the window. i wouldn't hurt one of them for the world. they always remind me of you. we hitched up the spring wagon this morning and drove to the centre to church. it's a sweet little white frame church with a spire and three doric columns in front (or maybe ionic--i always get them mixed). a nice sleepy sermon with everybody drowsily waving palm-leaf fans, and the only sound, aside from the minister, the buzzing of locusts in the trees outside. i didn't wake up till i found myself on my feet singing the hymn, and then i was awfully sorry i hadn't listened to the sermon; i should like to know more of the psychology of a man who would pick out such a hymn. this was it: come, leave your sports and earthly toys and join me in celestial joys. or else, dear friend, a long farewell. i leave you now to sink to hell. i find that it isn't safe to discuss religion with the semples. their god (whom they have inherited intact from their remote puritan ancestors) is a narrow, irrational, unjust, mean, revengeful, bigoted person. thank heaven i don't inherit god from anybody! i am free to make mine up as i wish him. he's kind and sympathetic and imaginative and forgiving and understanding--and he has a sense of humour. i like the semples immensely; their practice is so superior to their theory. they are better than their own god. i told them so--and they are horribly troubled. they think i am blasphemous--and i think they are! we've dropped theology from our conversation. this is sunday afternoon. amasai (hired man) in a purple tie and some bright yellow buckskin gloves, very red and shaved, has just driven off with carrie (hired girl) in a big hat trimmed with red roses and a blue muslin dress and her hair curled as tight as it will curl. amasai spent all the morning washing the buggy; and carrie stayed home from church ostensibly to cook the dinner, but really to iron the muslin dress. in two minutes more when this letter is finished i am going to settle down to a book which i found in the attic. it's entitled, on the trail, and sprawled across the front page in a funny little-boy hand: jervis pendleton if this book should ever roam, box its ears and send it home. he spent the summer here once after he had been ill, when he was about eleven years old; and he left on the trail behind. it looks well read--the marks of his grimy little hands are frequent! also in a corner of the attic there is a water wheel and a windmill and some bows and arrows. mrs. semple talks so constantly about him that i begin to believe he really lives--not a grown man with a silk hat and walking stick, but a nice, dirty, tousle-headed boy who clatters up the stairs with an awful racket, and leaves the screen doors open, and is always asking for cookies. (and getting them, too, if i know mrs. semple!) he seems to have been an adventurous little soul--and brave and truthful. i'm sorry to think he is a pendleton; he was meant for something better. we're going to begin threshing oats tomorrow; a steam engine is coming and three extra men. it grieves me to tell you that buttercup (the spotted cow with one horn, mother of lesbia) has done a disgraceful thing. she got into the orchard friday evening and ate apples under the trees, and ate and ate until they went to her head. for two days she has been perfectly dead drunk! that is the truth i am telling. did you ever hear anything so scandalous? sir, i remain, your affectionate orphan, judy abbott ps. indians in the first chapter and highwaymen in the second. i hold my breath. what can the third contain? 'red hawk leapt twenty feet in the air and bit the dust.' that is the subject of the frontispiece. aren't judy and jervie having fun? th september dear daddy, i was weighed yesterday on the flour scales in the general store at the comers. i've gained nine pounds! let me recommend lock willow as a health resort. yours ever, judy dear daddy-long-legs, behold me--a sophomore! i came up last friday, sorry to leave lock willow, but glad to see the campus again. it is a pleasant sensation to come back to something familiar. i am beginning to feel at home in college, and in command of the situation; i am beginning, in fact, to feel at home in the world--as though i really belonged to it and had not just crept in on sufferance. i don't suppose you understand in the least what i am trying to say. a person important enough to be a trustee can't appreciate the feelings of a person unimportant enough to be a foundling. and now, daddy, listen to this. whom do you think i am rooming with? sallie mcbride and julia rutledge pendleton. it's the truth. we have a study and three little bedrooms--voila! sallie and i decided last spring that we should like to room together, and julia made up her mind to stay with sallie--why, i can't imagine, for they are not a bit alike; but the pendletons are naturally conservative and inimical (fine word!) to change. anyway, here we are. think of jerusha abbott, late of the john grier home for orphans, rooming with a pendleton. this is a democratic country. sallie is running for class president, and unless all signs fail, she is going to be elected. such an atmosphere of intrigue you should see what politicians we are! oh, i tell you, daddy, when we women get our rights, you men will have to look alive in order to keep yours. election comes next saturday, and we're going to have a torchlight procession in the evening, no matter who wins. i am beginning chemistry, a most unusual study. i've never seen anything like it before. molecules and atoms are the material employed, but i'll be in a position to discuss them more definitely next month. i am also taking argumentation and logic. also history of the whole world. also plays of william shakespeare. also french. if this keeps up many years longer, i shall become quite intelligent. i should rather have elected economics than french, but i didn't dare, because i was afraid that unless i re-elected french, the professor would not let me pass--as it was, i just managed to squeeze through the june examination. but i will say that my high-school preparation was not very adequate. there's one girl in the class who chatters away in french as fast as she does in english. she went abroad with her parents when she was a child, and spent three years in a convent school. you can imagine how bright she is compared with the rest of us--irregular verbs are mere playthings. i wish my parents had chucked me into a french convent when i was little instead of a foundling asylum. oh no, i don't either! because then maybe i should never have known you. i'd rather know you than french. goodbye, daddy. i must call on harriet martin now, and, having discussed the chemical situation, casually drop a few thoughts on the subject of our next president. yours in politics, j. abbott th october dear daddy-long-legs, supposing the swimming tank in the gymnasium were filled full of lemon jelly, could a person trying to swim manage to keep on top or would he sink? we were having lemon jelly for dessert when the question came up. we discussed it heatedly for half an hour and it's still unsettled. sallie thinks that she could swim in it, but i am perfectly sure that the best swimmer in the world would sink. wouldn't it be funny to be drowned in lemon jelly? two other problems are engaging the attention of our table. st. what shape are the rooms in an octagon house? some of the girls insist that they're square; but i think they'd have to be shaped like a piece of pie. don't you? nd. suppose there were a great big hollow sphere made of looking-glass and you were sitting inside. where would it stop reflecting your face and begin reflecting your back? the more one thinks about this problem, the more puzzling it becomes. you can see with what deep philosophical reflection we engage our leisure! did i ever tell you about the election? it happened three weeks ago, but so fast do we live, that three weeks is ancient history. sallie was elected, and we had a torchlight parade with transparencies saying, 'mcbride for ever,' and a band consisting of fourteen pieces (three mouth organs and eleven combs). we're very important persons now in ' .' julia and i come in for a great deal of reflected glory. it's quite a social strain to be living in the same house with a president. bonne nuit, cher daddy. acceptez mez compliments, tres respectueux, je suis, votre judy th november dear daddy-long-legs, we beat the freshmen at basket ball yesterday. of course we're pleased--but oh, if we could only beat the juniors! i'd be willing to be black and blue all over and stay in bed a week in a witch-hazel compress. sallie has invited me to spend the christmas vacation with her. she lives in worcester, massachusetts. wasn't it nice of her? i shall love to go. i've never been in a private family in my life, except at lock willow, and the semples were grown-up and old and don't count. but the mcbrides have a houseful of children (anyway two or three) and a mother and father and grandmother, and an angora cat. it's a perfectly complete family! packing your trunk and going away is more fun than staying behind. i am terribly excited at the prospect. seventh hour--i must run to rehearsal. i'm to be in the thanksgiving theatricals. a prince in a tower with a velvet tunic and yellow curls. isn't that a lark? yours, j. a. saturday do you want to know what i look like? here's a photograph of all three that leonora fenton took. the light one who is laughing is sallie, and the tall one with her nose in the air is julia, and the little one with the hair blowing across her face is judy--she is really more beautiful than that, but the sun was in her eyes. 'stone gate', worcester, mass., st december dear daddy-long-legs, i meant to write to you before and thank you for your christmas cheque, but life in the mcbride household is very absorbing, and i don't seem able to find two consecutive minutes to spend at a desk. i bought a new gown--one that i didn't need, but just wanted. my christmas present this year is from daddy-long-legs; my family just sent love. i've been having the most beautiful vacation visiting sallie. she lives in a big old-fashioned brick house with white trimmings set back from the street--exactly the kind of house that i used to look at so curiously when i was in the john grier home, and wonder what it could be like inside. i never expected to see with my own eyes--but here i am! everything is so comfortable and restful and homelike; i walk from room to room and drink in the furnishings. it is the most perfect house for children to be brought up in; with shadowy nooks for hide and seek, and open fire places for pop-corn, and an attic to romp in on rainy days and slippery banisters with a comfortable flat knob at the bottom, and a great big sunny kitchen, and a nice, fat, sunny cook who has lived in the family thirteen years and always saves out a piece of dough for the children to bake. just the sight of such a house makes you want to be a child all over again. and as for families! i never dreamed they could be so nice. sallie has a father and mother and grandmother, and the sweetest three-year-old baby sister all over curls, and a medium-sized brother who always forgets to wipe his feet, and a big, good-looking brother named jimmie, who is a junior at princeton. we have the jolliest times at the table--everybody laughs and jokes and talks at once, and we don't have to say grace beforehand. it's a relief not having to thank somebody for every mouthful you eat. (i dare say i'm blasphemous; but you'd be, too, if you'd offered as much obligatory thanks as i have.) such a lot of things we've done--i can't begin to tell you about them. mr. mcbride owns a factory and christmas eve he had a tree for the employees' children. it was in the long packing-room which was decorated with evergreens and holly. jimmie mcbride was dressed as santa claus and sallie and i helped him distribute the presents. dear me, daddy, but it was a funny sensation! i felt as benevolent as a trustee of the john grier home. i kissed one sweet, sticky little boy--but i don't think i patted any of them on the head! and two days after christmas, they gave a dance at their own house for me. it was the first really true ball i ever attended--college doesn't count where we dance with girls. i had a new white evening gown (your christmas present--many thanks) and long white gloves and white satin slippers. the only drawback to my perfect, utter, absolute happiness was the fact that mrs. lippett couldn't see me leading the cotillion with jimmie mcbride. tell her about it, please, the next time you visit the j. g. h. yours ever, judy abbott ps. would you be terribly displeased, daddy, if i didn't turn out to be a great author after all, but just a plain girl? . , saturday dear daddy, we started to walk to town today, but mercy! how it poured. i like winter to be winter with snow instead of rain. julia's desirable uncle called again this afternoon--and brought a five-pound box of chocolates. there are advantages, you see, about rooming with julia. our innocent prattle appeared to amuse him and he waited for a later train in order to take tea in the study. we had an awful lot of trouble getting permission. it's hard enough entertaining fathers and grandfathers, but uncles are a step worse; and as for brothers and cousins, they are next to impossible. julia had to swear that he was her uncle before a notary public and then have the county clerk's certificate attached. (don't i know a lot of law?) and even then i doubt if we could have had our tea if the dean had chanced to see how youngish and good-looking uncle jervis is. anyway, we had it, with brown bread swiss cheese sandwiches. he helped make them and then ate four. i told him that i had spent last summer at lock willow, and we had a beautiful gossipy time about the semples, and the horses and cows and chickens. all the horses that he used to know are dead, except grover, who was a baby colt at the time of his last visit--and poor grove now is so old he can just limp about the pasture. he asked if they still kept doughnuts in a yellow crock with a blue plate over it on the bottom shelf of the pantry--and they do! he wanted to know if there was still a woodchuck's hole under the pile of rocks in the night pasture--and there is! amasai caught a big, fat, grey one there this summer, the twenty-fifth great-grandson of the one master jervis caught when he was a little boy. i called him 'master jervie' to his face, but he didn't appear to be insulted. julia says she has never seen him so amiable; he's usually pretty unapproachable. but julia hasn't a bit of tact; and men, i find, require a great deal. they purr if you rub them the right way and spit if you don't. (that isn't a very elegant metaphor. i mean it figuratively.) we're reading marie bashkirtseff's journal. isn't it amazing? listen to this: 'last night i was seized by a fit of despair that found utterance in moans, and that finally drove me to throw the dining-room clock into the sea.' it makes me almost hope i'm not a genius; they must be very wearing to have about--and awfully destructive to the furniture. mercy! how it keeps pouring. we shall have to swim to chapel tonight. yours ever, judy th jan. dear daddy-long-legs, did you ever have a sweet baby girl who was stolen from the cradle in infancy? maybe i am she! if we were in a novel, that would be the denouement, wouldn't it? it's really awfully queer not to know what one is--sort of exciting and romantic. there are such a lot of possibilities. maybe i'm not american; lots of people aren't. i may be straight descended from the ancient romans, or i may be a viking's daughter, or i may be the child of a russian exile and belong by rights in a siberian prison, or maybe i'm a gipsy--i think perhaps i am. i have a very wandering spirit, though i haven't as yet had much chance to develop it. do you know about that one scandalous blot in my career the time i ran away from the asylum because they punished me for stealing cookies? it's down in the books free for any trustee to read. but really, daddy, what could you expect? when you put a hungry little nine-year girl in the pantry scouring knives, with the cookie jar at her elbow, and go off and leave her alone; and then suddenly pop in again, wouldn't you expect to find her a bit crumby? and then when you jerk her by the elbow and box her ears, and make her leave the table when the pudding comes, and tell all the other children that it's because she's a thief, wouldn't you expect her to run away? i only ran four miles. they caught me and brought me back; and every day for a week i was tied, like a naughty puppy, to a stake in the back yard while the other children were out at recess. oh, dear! there's the chapel bell, and after chapel i have a committee meeting. i'm sorry because i meant to write you a very entertaining letter this time. auf wiedersehen cher daddy, pax tibi! judy ps. there's one thing i'm perfectly sure of i'm not a chinaman. th february dear daddy-long-legs, jimmie mcbride has sent me a princeton banner as big as one end of the room; i am very grateful to him for remembering me, but i don't know what on earth to do with it. sallie and julia won't let me hang it up; our room this year is furnished in red, and you can imagine what an effect we'd have if i added orange and black. but it's such nice, warm, thick felt, i hate to waste it. would it be very improper to have it made into a bath robe? my old one shrank when it was washed. i've entirely omitted of late telling you what i am learning, but though you might not imagine it from my letters, my time is exclusively occupied with study. it's a very bewildering matter to get educated in five branches at once. 'the test of true scholarship,' says chemistry professor, 'is a painstaking passion for detail.' 'be careful not to keep your eyes glued to detail,' says history professor. 'stand far enough away to get a perspective of the whole.' you can see with what nicety we have to trim our sails between chemistry and history. i like the historical method best. if i say that william the conqueror came over in , and columbus discovered america in or or whenever it was, that's a mere detail that the professor overlooks. it gives a feeling of security and restfulness to the history recitation, that is entirely lacking in chemistry. sixth-hour bell--i must go to the laboratory and look into a little matter of acids and salts and alkalis. i've burned a hole as big as a plate in the front of my chemistry apron, with hydrochloric acid. if the theory worked, i ought to be able to neutralize that hole with good strong ammonia, oughtn't i? examinations next week, but who's afraid? yours ever, judy th march dear daddy-long-legs, there is a march wind blowing, and the sky is filled with heavy, black moving clouds. the crows in the pine trees are making such a clamour! it's an intoxicating, exhilarating, calling noise. you want to close your books and be off over the hills to race with the wind. we had a paper chase last saturday over five miles of squashy 'cross country. the fox (composed of three girls and a bushel or so of confetti) started half an hour before the twenty-seven hunters. i was one of the twenty-seven; eight dropped by the wayside; we ended nineteen. the trail led over a hill, through a cornfield, and into a swamp where we had to leap lightly from hummock to hummock. of course half of us went in ankle deep. we kept losing the trail, and we wasted twenty-five minutes over that swamp. then up a hill through some woods and in at a barn window! the barn doors were all locked and the window was up high and pretty small. i don't call that fair, do you? but we didn't go through; we circumnavigated the barn and picked up the trail where it issued by way of a low shed roof on to the top of a fence. the fox thought he had us there, but we fooled him. then straight away over two miles of rolling meadow, and awfully hard to follow, for the confetti was getting sparse. the rule is that it must be at the most six feet apart, but they were the longest six feet i ever saw. finally, after two hours of steady trotting, we tracked monsieur fox into the kitchen of crystal spring (that's a farm where the girls go in bob sleighs and hay wagons for chicken and waffle suppers) and we found the three foxes placidly eating milk and honey and biscuits. they hadn't thought we would get that far; they were expecting us to stick in the barn window. both sides insist that they won. i think we did, don't you? because we caught them before they got back to the campus. anyway, all nineteen of us settled like locusts over the furniture and clamoured for honey. there wasn't enough to go round, but mrs. crystal spring (that's our pet name for her; she's by rights a johnson) brought up a jar of strawberry jam and a can of maple syrup--just made last week--and three loaves of brown bread. we didn't get back to college till half-past six--half an hour late for dinner--and we went straight in without dressing, and with perfectly unimpaired appetites! then we all cut evening chapel, the state of our boots being enough of an excuse. i never told you about examinations. i passed everything with the utmost ease--i know the secret now, and am never going to fail again. i shan't be able to graduate with honours though, because of that beastly latin prose and geometry freshman year. but i don't care. wot's the hodds so long as you're 'appy? (that's a quotation. i've been reading the english classics.) speaking of classics, have you ever read hamlet? if you haven't, do it right off. it's perfectly corking. i've been hearing about shakespeare all my life, but i had no idea he really wrote so well; i always suspected him of going largely on his reputation. i have a beautiful play that i invented a long time ago when i first learned to read. i put myself to sleep every night by pretending i'm the person (the most important person) in the book i'm reading at the moment. at present i'm ophelia--and such a sensible ophelia! i keep hamlet amused all the time, and pet him and scold him and make him wrap up his throat when he has a cold. i've entirely cured him of being melancholy. the king and queen are both dead--an accident at sea; no funeral necessary--so hamlet and i are ruling in denmark without any bother. we have the kingdom working beautifully. he takes care of the governing, and i look after the charities. i have just founded some first-class orphan asylums. if you or any of the other trustees would like to visit them, i shall be pleased to show you through. i think you might find a great many helpful suggestions. i remain, sir, yours most graciously, ophelia, queen of denmark. th march, maybe the th dear daddy-long-legs, i don't believe i can be going to heaven--i am getting such a lot of good things here; it wouldn't be fair to get them hereafter too. listen to what has happened. jerusha abbott has won the short-story contest (a twenty-five dollar prize) that the monthly holds every year. and she's a sophomore! the contestants are mostly seniors. when i saw my name posted, i couldn't quite believe it was true. maybe i am going to be an author after all. i wish mrs. lippett hadn't given me such a silly name--it sounds like an author-ess, doesn't it? also i have been chosen for the spring dramatics--as you like it out of doors. i am going to be celia, own cousin to rosalind. and lastly: julia and sallie and i are going to new york next friday to do some spring shopping and stay all night and go to the theatre the next day with 'master jervie.' he invited us. julia is going to stay at home with her family, but sallie and i are going to stop at the martha washington hotel. did you ever hear of anything so exciting? i've never been in a hotel in my life, nor in a theatre; except once when the catholic church had a festival and invited the orphans, but that wasn't a real play and it doesn't count. and what do you think we're going to see? hamlet. think of that! we studied it for four weeks in shakespeare class and i know it by heart. i am so excited over all these prospects that i can scarcely sleep. goodbye, daddy. this is a very entertaining world. yours ever, judy ps. i've just looked at the calendar. it's the th. another postscript. i saw a street car conductor today with one brown eye and one blue. wouldn't he make a nice villain for a detective story? th april dear daddy-long-legs, mercy! isn't new york big? worcester is nothing to it. do you mean to tell me that you actually live in all that confusion? i don't believe that i shall recover for months from the bewildering effect of two days of it. i can't begin to tell you all the amazing things i've seen; i suppose you know, though, since you live there yourself. but aren't the streets entertaining? and the people? and the shops? i never saw such lovely things as there are in the windows. it makes you want to devote your life to wearing clothes. sallie and julia and i went shopping together saturday morning. julia went into the very most gorgeous place i ever saw, white and gold walls and blue carpets and blue silk curtains and gilt chairs. a perfectly beautiful lady with yellow hair and a long black silk trailing gown came to meet us with a welcoming smile. i thought we were paying a social call, and started to shake hands, but it seems we were only buying hats--at least julia was. she sat down in front of a mirror and tried on a dozen, each lovelier than the last, and bought the two loveliest of all. i can't imagine any joy in life greater than sitting down in front of a mirror and buying any hat you choose without having first to consider the price! there's no doubt about it, daddy; new york would rapidly undermine this fine stoical character which the john grier home so patiently built up. and after we'd finished our shopping, we met master jervie at sherry's. i suppose you've been in sherry's? picture that, then picture the dining-room of the john grier home with its oilcloth-covered tables, and white crockery that you can't break, and wooden-handled knives and forks; and fancy the way i felt! i ate my fish with the wrong fork, but the waiter very kindly gave me another so that nobody noticed. and after luncheon we went to the theatre--it was dazzling, marvellous, unbelievable--i dream about it every night. isn't shakespeare wonderful? hamlet is so much better on the stage than when we analyze it in class; i appreciated it before, but now, dear me! i think, if you don't mind, that i'd rather be an actress than a writer. wouldn't you like me to leave college and go into a dramatic school? and then i'll send you a box for all my performances, and smile at you across the footlights. only wear a red rose in your buttonhole, please, so i'll surely smile at the right man. it would be an awfully embarrassing mistake if i picked out the wrong one. we came back saturday night and had our dinner in the train, at little tables with pink lamps and negro waiters. i never heard of meals being served in trains before, and i inadvertently said so. 'where on earth were you brought up?' said julia to me. 'in a village,' said i meekly, to julia. 'but didn't you ever travel?' said she to me. 'not till i came to college, and then it was only a hundred and sixty miles and we didn't eat,' said i to her. she's getting quite interested in me, because i say such funny things. i try hard not to, but they do pop out when i'm surprised--and i'm surprised most of the time. it's a dizzying experience, daddy, to pass eighteen years in the john grier home, and then suddenly to be plunged into the world. but i'm getting acclimated. i don't make such awful mistakes as i did; and i don't feel uncomfortable any more with the other girls. i used to squirm whenever people looked at me. i felt as though they saw right through my sham new clothes to the checked ginghams underneath. but i'm not letting the ginghams bother me any more. sufficient unto yesterday is the evil thereof. i forgot to tell you about our flowers. master jervie gave us each a big bunch of violets and lilies-of-the-valley. wasn't that sweet of him? i never used to care much for men--judging by trustees--but i'm changing my mind. eleven pages--this is a letter! have courage. i'm going to stop. yours always, judy th april dear mr. rich-man, here's your cheque for fifty dollars. thank you very much, but i do not feel that i can keep it. my allowance is sufficient to afford all of the hats that i need. i am sorry that i wrote all that silly stuff about the millinery shop; it's just that i had never seen anything like it before. however, i wasn't begging! and i would rather not accept any more charity than i have to. sincerely yours, jerusha abbott th april dearest daddy, will you please forgive me for the letter i wrote you yesterday? after i posted it i was sorry, and tried to get it back, but that beastly mail clerk wouldn't give it back to me. it's the middle of the night now; i've been awake for hours thinking what a worm i am--what a thousand-legged worm--and that's the worst i can say! i've closed the door very softly into the study so as not to wake julia and sallie, and am sitting up in bed writing to you on paper torn out of my history note-book. i just wanted to tell you that i am sorry i was so impolite about your cheque. i know you meant it kindly, and i think you're an old dear to take so much trouble for such a silly thing as a hat. i ought to have returned it very much more graciously. but in any case, i had to return it. it's different with me than with other girls. they can take things naturally from people. they have fathers and brothers and aunts and uncles; but i can't be on any such relations with any one. i like to pretend that you belong to me, just to play with the idea, but of course i know you don't. i'm alone, really--with my back to the wall fighting the world--and i get sort of gaspy when i think about it. i put it out of my mind, and keep on pretending; but don't you see, daddy? i can't accept any more money than i have to, because some day i shall be wanting to pay it back, and even as great an author as i intend to be won't be able to face a perfectly tremendous debt. i'd love pretty hats and things, but i mustn't mortgage the future to pay for them. you'll forgive me, won't you, for being so rude? i have an awful habit of writing impulsively when i first think things, and then posting the letter beyond recall. but if i sometimes seem thoughtless and ungrateful, i never mean it. in my heart i thank you always for the life and freedom and independence that you have given me. my childhood was just a long, sullen stretch of revolt, and now i am so happy every moment of the day that i can't believe it's true. i feel like a made-up heroine in a story-book. it's a quarter past two. i'm going to tiptoe out to post this off now. you'll receive it in the next mail after the other; so you won't have a very long time to think bad of me. good night, daddy, i love you always, judy th may dear daddy-long-legs, field day last saturday. it was a very spectacular occasion. first we had a parade of all the classes, with everybody dressed in white linen, the seniors carrying blue and gold japanese umbrellas, and the juniors white and yellow banners. our class had crimson balloons--very fetching, especially as they were always getting loose and floating off--and the freshmen wore green tissue-paper hats with long streamers. also we had a band in blue uniforms hired from town. also about a dozen funny people, like clowns in a circus, to keep the spectators entertained between events. julia was dressed as a fat country man with a linen duster and whiskers and baggy umbrella. patsy moriarty (patrici really. did you ever hear such a name? mrs. lippett couldn't have done better) who is tall and thin was julia's wife in a absurd green bonnet over one ear. waves of laughter followed them the whole length of the course. julia played the part extremely well. i never dreamed that a pendleton could display so much comedy spirit--begging master jervie's pardon; i don't consider him a true pendleton though, any more than i consider you a true trustee. sallie and i weren't in the parade because we were entered for the events. and what do you think? we both won! at least in something. we tried for the running broad jump and lost; but sallie won the pole-vaulting (seven feet three inches) and i won the fifty-yard sprint (eight seconds). i was pretty panting at the end, but it was great fun, with the whole class waving balloons and cheering and yelling: what's the matter with judy abbott? she's all right. who's all right? judy ab-bott! that, daddy, is true fame. then trotting back to the dressing tent and being rubbed down with alcohol and having a lemon to suck. you see we're very professional. it's a fine thing to win an event for your class, because the class that wins the most gets the athletic cup for the year. the seniors won it this year, with seven events to their credit. the athletic association gave a dinner in the gymnasium to all of the winners. we had fried soft-shell crabs, and chocolate ice-cream moulded in the shape of basket balls. i sat up half of last night reading jane eyre. are you old enough, daddy, to remember sixty years ago? and, if so, did people talk that way? the haughty lady blanche says to the footman, 'stop your chattering, knave, and do my bidding.' mr. rochester talks about the metal welkin when he means the sky; and as for the mad woman who laughs like a hyena and sets fire to bed curtains and tears up wedding veils and bites--it's melodrama of the purest, but just the same, you read and read and read. i can't see how any girl could have written such a book, especially any girl who was brought up in a churchyard. there's something about those brontes that fascinates me. their books, their lives, their spirit. where did they get it? when i was reading about little jane's troubles in the charity school, i got so angry that i had to go out and take a walk. i understood exactly how she felt. having known mrs. lippett, i could see mr. brocklehurst. don't be outraged, daddy. i am not intimating that the john grier home was like the lowood institute. we had plenty to eat and plenty to wear, sufficient water to wash in, and a furnace in the cellar. but there was one deadly likeness. our lives were absolutely monotonous and uneventful. nothing nice ever happened, except ice-cream on sundays, and even that was regular. in all the eighteen years i was there i only had one adventure--when the woodshed burned. we had to get up in the night and dress so as to be ready in case the house should catch. but it didn't catch and we went back to bed. everybody likes a few surprises; it's a perfectly natural human craving. but i never had one until mrs. lippett called me to the office to tell me that mr. john smith was going to send me to college. and then she broke the news so gradually that it just barely shocked me. you know, daddy, i think that the most necessary quality for any person to have is imagination. it makes people able to put themselves in other people's places. it makes them kind and sympathetic and understanding. it ought to be cultivated in children. but the john grier home instantly stamped out the slightest flicker that appeared. duty was the one quality that was encouraged. i don't think children ought to know the meaning of the word; it's odious, detestable. they ought to do everything from love. wait until you see the orphan asylum that i am going to be the head of! it's my favourite play at night before i go to sleep. i plan it out to the littlest detail--the meals and clothes and study and amusements and punishments; for even my superior orphans are sometimes bad. but anyway, they are going to be happy. i think that every one, no matter how many troubles he may have when he grows up, ought to have a happy childhood to look back upon. and if i ever have any children of my own, no matter how unhappy i may be, i am not going to let them have any cares until they grow up. (there goes the chapel bell--i'll finish this letter sometime). thursday when i came in from laboratory this afternoon, i found a squirrel sitting on the tea table helping himself to almonds. these are the kind of callers we entertain now that warm weather has come and the windows stay open-- saturday morning perhaps you think, last night being friday, with no classes today, that i passed a nice quiet, readable evening with the set of stevenson that i bought with my prize money? but if so, you've never attended a girls' college, daddy dear. six friends dropped in to make fudge, and one of them dropped the fudge--while it was still liquid--right in the middle of our best rug. we shall never be able to clean up the mess. i haven't mentioned any lessons of late; but we are still having them every day. it's sort of a relief though, to get away from them and discuss life in the large--rather one-sided discussions that you and i hold, but that's your own fault. you are welcome to answer back any time you choose. i've been writing this letter off and on for three days, and i fear by now vous etes bien bored! goodbye, nice mr. man, judy mr. daddy-long-legs smith, sir: having completed the study of argumentation and the science of dividing a thesis into heads, i have decided to adopt the following form for letter-writing. it contains all necessary facts, but no unnecessary verbiage. i. we had written examinations this week in: a. chemistry. b. history. ii. a new dormitory is being built. a. its material is: (a) red brick. (b) grey stone. b. its capacity will be: (a) one dean, five instructors. (b) two hundred girls. (c) one housekeeper, three cooks, twenty waitresses, twenty chambermaids. iii. we had junket for dessert tonight. iv. i am writing a special topic upon the sources of shakespeare's plays. v. lou mcmahon slipped and fell this afternoon at basket ball, and she: a. dislocated her shoulder. b. bruised her knee. vi. i have a new hat trimmed with: a. blue velvet ribbon. b. two blue quills. c. three red pompoms. vii. it is half past nine. viii. good night. judy nd june dear daddy-long-legs, you will never guess the nice thing that has happened. the mcbrides have asked me to spend the summer at their camp in the adirondacks! they belong to a sort of club on a lovely little lake in the middle of the woods. the different members have houses made of logs dotted about among the trees, and they go canoeing on the lake, and take long walks through trails to other camps, and have dances once a week in the club house--jimmie mcbride is going to have a college friend visiting him part of the summer, so you see we shall have plenty of men to dance with. wasn't it sweet of mrs. mcbride to ask me? it appears that she liked me when i was there for christmas. please excuse this being short. it isn't a real letter; it's just to let you know that i'm disposed of for the summer. yours, in a very contented frame of mind, judy th june dear daddy-long-legs, your secretary man has just written to me saying that mr. smith prefers that i should not accept mrs. mcbride's invitation, but should return to lock willow the same as last summer. why, why, why, daddy? you don't understand about it. mrs. mcbride does want me, really and truly. i'm not the least bit of trouble in the house. i'm a help. they don't take up many servants, and sallie an i can do lots of useful things. it's a fine chance for me to learn housekeeping. every woman ought to understand it, and i only know asylum-keeping. there aren't any girls our age at the camp, and mrs. mcbride wants me for a companion for sallie. we are planning to do a lot of reading together. we are going to read all of the books for next year's english and sociology. the professor said it would be a great help if we would get our reading finished in the summer; and it's so much easier to remember it if we read together and talk it over. just to live in the same house with sallie's mother is an education. she's the most interesting, entertaining, companionable, charming woman in the world; she knows everything. think how many summers i've spent with mrs. lippett and how i'll appreciate the contrast. you needn't be afraid that i'll be crowding them, for their house is made of rubber. when they have a lot of company, they just sprinkle tents about in the woods and turn the boys outside. it's going to be such a nice, healthy summer exercising out of doors every minute. jimmie mcbride is going to teach me how to ride horseback and paddle a canoe, and how to shoot and--oh, lots of things i ought to know. it's the kind of nice, jolly, care-free time that i've never had; and i think every girl deserves it once in her life. of course i'll do exactly as you say, but please, please let me go, daddy. i've never wanted anything so much. this isn't jerusha abbott, the future great author, writing to you. it's just judy--a girl. th june mr. john smith, sir: yours of the th inst. at hand. in compliance with the instructions received through your secretary, i leave on friday next to spend the summer at lock willow farm. i hope always to remain, (miss) jerusha abbott lock willow farm, rd august dear daddy-long-legs, it has been nearly two months since i wrote, which wasn't nice of me, i know, but i haven't loved you much this summer--you see i'm being frank! you can't imagine how disappointed i was at having to give up the mcbrides' camp. of course i know that you're my guardian, and that i have to regard your wishes in all matters, but i couldn't see any reason. it was so distinctly the best thing that could have happened to me. if i had been daddy, and you had been judy, i should have said, 'bless you my child, run along and have a good time; see lots of new people and learn lots of new things; live out of doors, and get strong and well and rested for a year of hard work.' but not at all! just a curt line from your secretary ordering me to lock willow. it's the impersonality of your commands that hurts my feelings. it seems as though, if you felt the tiniest little bit for me the way i feel for you, you'd sometimes send me a message that you'd written with your own hand, instead of those beastly typewritten secretary's notes. if there were the slightest hint that you cared, i'd do anything on earth to please you. i know that i was to write nice, long, detailed letters without ever expecting any answer. you're living up to your side of the bargain--i'm being educated--and i suppose you're thinking i'm not living up to mine! but, daddy, it is a hard bargain. it is, really. i'm so awfully lonely. you are the only person i have to care for, and you are so shadowy. you're just an imaginary man that i've made up--and probably the real you isn't a bit like my imaginary you. but you did once, when i was ill in the infirmary, send me a message, and now, when i am feeling awfully forgotten, i get out your card and read it over. i don't think i am telling you at all what i started to say, which was this: although my feelings are still hurt, for it is very humiliating to be picked up and moved about by an arbitrary, peremptory, unreasonable, omnipotent, invisible providence, still, when a man has been as kind and generous and thoughtful as you have heretofore been towards me, i suppose he has a right to be an arbitrary, peremptory, unreasonable, invisible providence if he chooses, and so--i'll forgive you and be cheerful again. but i still don't enjoy getting sallie's letters about the good times they are having in camp! however--we will draw a veil over that and begin again. i've been writing and writing this summer; four short stories finished and sent to four different magazines. so you see i'm trying to be an author. i have a workroom fixed in a corner of the attic where master jervie used to have his rainy-day playroom. it's in a cool, breezy corner with two dormer windows, and shaded by a maple tree with a family of red squirrels living in a hole. i'll write a nicer letter in a few days and tell you all the farm news. we need rain. yours as ever, judy th august mr. daddy-long-legs, sir: i address you from the second crotch in the willow tree by the pool in the pasture. there's a frog croaking underneath, a locust singing overhead and two little 'devil downheads' darting up and down the trunk. i've been here for an hour; it's a very comfortable crotch, especially after being upholstered with two sofa cushions. i came up with a pen and tablet hoping to write an immortal short story, but i've been having a dreadful time with my heroine--i can't make her behave as i want her to behave; so i've abandoned her for the moment, and am writing to you. (not much relief though, for i can't make you behave as i want you to, either.) if you are in that dreadful new york, i wish i could send you some of this lovely, breezy, sunshiny outlook. the country is heaven after a week of rain. speaking of heaven--do you remember mr. kellogg that i told you about last summer?--the minister of the little white church at the corners. well, the poor old soul is dead--last winter of pneumonia. i went half a dozen times to hear him preach and got very well acquainted with his theology. he believed to the end exactly the same things he started with. it seems to me that a man who can think straight along for forty-seven years without changing a single idea ought to be kept in a cabinet as a curiosity. i hope he is enjoying his harp and golden crown; he was so perfectly sure of finding them! there's a new young man, very consequential, in his place. the congregation is pretty dubious, especially the faction led by deacon cummings. it looks as though there was going to be an awful split in the church. we don't care for innovations in religion in this neighbourhood. during our week of rain i sat up in the attic and had an orgy of reading--stevenson, mostly. he himself is more entertaining than any of the characters in his books; i dare say he made himself into the kind of hero that would look well in print. don't you think it was perfect of him to spend all the ten thousand dollars his father left, for a yacht, and go sailing off to the south seas? he lived up to his adventurous creed. if my father had left me ten thousand dollars, i'd do it, too. the thought of vailima makes me wild. i want to see the tropics. i want to see the whole world. i am going to be a great author, or artist, or actress, or playwright--or whatever sort of a great person i turn out to be. i have a terrible wanderthirst; the very sight of a map makes me want to put on my hat and take an umbrella and start. 'i shall see before i die the palms and temples of the south.' thursday evening at twilight, sitting on the doorstep. very hard to get any news into this letter! judy is becoming so philosophical of late, that she wishes to discourse largely of the world in general, instead of descending to the trivial details of daily life. but if you must have news, here it is: our nine young pigs waded across the brook and ran away last tuesday, and only eight came back. we don't want to accuse anyone unjustly, but we suspect that widow dowd has one more than she ought to have. mr. weaver has painted his barn and his two silos a bright pumpkin yellow--a very ugly colour, but he says it will wear. the brewers have company this week; mrs. brewer's sister and two nieces from ohio. one of our rhode island reds only brought off three chicks out of fifteen eggs. we can't imagine what was the trouble. rhode island reds, in my opinion, are a very inferior breed. i prefer buff orpingtons. the new clerk in the post office at bonnyrigg four corners drank every drop of jamaica ginger they had in stock--seven dollars' worth--before he was discovered. old ira hatch has rheumatism and can't work any more; he never saved his money when he was earning good wages, so now he has to live on the town. there's to be an ice-cream social at the schoolhouse next saturday evening. come and bring your families. i have a new hat that i bought for twenty-five cents at the post office. this is my latest portrait, on my way to rake the hay. it's getting too dark to see; anyway, the news is all used up. good night, judy friday good morning! here is some news! what do you think? you'd never, never, never guess who's coming to lock willow. a letter to mrs. semple from mr. pendleton. he's motoring through the berkshires, and is tired and wants to rest on a nice quiet farm--if he climbs out at her doorstep some night will she have a room ready for him? maybe he'll stay one week, or maybe two, or maybe three; he'll see how restful it is when he gets here. such a flutter as we are in! the whole house is being cleaned and all the curtains washed. i am driving to the corners this morning to get some new oilcloth for the entry, and two cans of brown floor paint for the hall and back stairs. mrs. dowd is engaged to come tomorrow to wash the windows (in the exigency of the moment, we waive our suspicions in regard to the piglet). you might think, from this account of our activities, that the house was not already immaculate; but i assure you it was! whatever mrs. semple's limitations, she is a housekeeper. but isn't it just like a man, daddy? he doesn't give the remotest hint as to whether he will land on the doorstep today, or two weeks from today. we shall live in a perpetual breathlessness until he comes--and if he doesn't hurry, the cleaning may all have to be done over again. there's amasai waiting below with the buckboard and grover. i drive alone--but if you could see old grove, you wouldn't be worried as to my safety. with my hand on my heart--farewell. judy ps. isn't that a nice ending? i got it out of stevenson's letters. saturday good morning again! i didn't get this enveloped yesterday before the postman came, so i'll add some more. we have one mail a day at twelve o'clock. rural delivery is a blessing to the farmers! our postman not only delivers letters, but he runs errands for us in town, at five cents an errand. yesterday he brought me some shoe-strings and a jar of cold cream (i sunburned all the skin off my nose before i got my new hat) and a blue windsor tie and a bottle of blacking all for ten cents. that was an unusual bargain, owing to the largeness of my order. also he tells us what is happening in the great world. several people on the route take daily papers, and he reads them as he jogs along, and repeats the news to the ones who don't subscribe. so in case a war breaks out between the united states and japan, or the president is assassinated, or mr. rockefeller leaves a million dollars to the john grier home, you needn't bother to write; i'll hear it anyway. no sign yet of master jervie. but you should see how clean our house is--and with what anxiety we wipe our feet before we step in! i hope he'll come soon; i am longing for someone to talk to. mrs. semple, to tell you the truth, gets rather monotonous. she never lets ideas interrupt the easy flow of her conversation. it's a funny thing about the people here. their world is just this single hilltop. they are not a bit universal, if you know what i mean. it's exactly the same as at the john grier home. our ideas there were bounded by the four sides of the iron fence, only i didn't mind it so much because i was younger, and was so awfully busy. by the time i'd got all my beds made and my babies' faces washed and had gone to school and come home and had washed their faces again and darned their stockings and mended freddie perkins's trousers (he tore them every day of his life) and learned my lessons in between--i was ready to go to bed, and i didn't notice any lack of social intercourse. but after two years in a conversational college, i do miss it; and i shall be glad to see somebody who speaks my language. i really believe i've finished, daddy. nothing else occurs to me at the moment--i'll try to write a longer letter next time. yours always, judy ps. the lettuce hasn't done at all well this year. it was so dry early in the season. th august well, daddy, master jervie's here. and such a nice time as we're having! at least i am, and i think he is, too--he has been here ten days and he doesn't show any signs of going. the way mrs. semple pampers that man is scandalous. if she indulged him as much when he was a baby, i don't know how he ever turned out so well. he and i eat at a little table set on the side porch, or sometimes under the trees, or--when it rains or is cold--in the best parlour. he just picks out the spot he wants to eat in and carrie trots after him with the table. then if it has been an awful nuisance, and she has had to carry the dishes very far, she finds a dollar under the sugar bowl. he is an awfully companionable sort of man, though you would never believe it to see him casually; he looks at first glance like a true pendleton, but he isn't in the least. he is just as simple and unaffected and sweet as he can be--that seems a funny way to describe a man, but it's true. he's extremely nice with the farmers around here; he meets them in a sort of man-to-man fashion that disarms them immediately. they were very suspicious at first. they didn't care for his clothes! and i will say that his clothes are rather amazing. he wears knickerbockers and pleated jackets and white flannels and riding clothes with puffed trousers. whenever he comes down in anything new, mrs. semple, beaming with pride, walks around and views him from every angle, and urges him to be careful where he sits down; she is so afraid he will pick up some dust. it bores him dreadfully. he's always saying to her: 'run along, lizzie, and tend to your work. you can't boss me any longer. i've grown up.' it's awfully funny to think of that great big, long-legged man (he's nearly as long-legged as you, daddy) ever sitting in mrs. semple's lap and having his face washed. particularly funny when you see her lap! she has two laps now, and three chins. but he says that once she was thin and wiry and spry and could run faster than he. such a lot of adventures we're having! we've explored the country for miles, and i've learned to fish with funny little flies made of feathers. also to shoot with a rifle and a revolver. also to ride horseback--there's an astonishing amount of life in old grove. we fed him on oats for three days, and he shied at a calf and almost ran away with me. wednesday we climbed sky hill monday afternoon. that's a mountain near here; not an awfully high mountain, perhaps--no snow on the summit--but at least you are pretty breathless when you reach the top. the lower slopes are covered with woods, but the top is just piled rocks and open moor. we stayed up for the sunset and built a fire and cooked our supper. master jervie did the cooking; he said he knew how better than me and he did, too, because he's used to camping. then we came down by moonlight, and, when we reached the wood trail where it was dark, by the light of an electric bulb that he had in his pocket. it was such fun! he laughed and joked all the way and talked about interesting things. he's read all the books i've ever read, and a lot of others besides. it's astonishing how many different things he knows. we went for a long tramp this morning and got caught in a storm. our clothes were drenched before we reached home but our spirits not even damp. you should have seen mrs. semple's face when we dripped into her kitchen. 'oh, master jervie--miss judy! you are soaked through. dear! dear! what shall i do? that nice new coat is perfectly ruined.' she was awfully funny; you would have thought that we were ten years old, and she a distracted mother. i was afraid for a while that we weren't going to get any jam for tea. saturday i started this letter ages ago, but i haven't had a second to finish it. isn't this a nice thought from stevenson? the world is so full of a number of things, i am sure we should all be as happy as kings. it's true, you know. the world is full of happiness, and plenty to go round, if you are only willing to take the kind that comes your way. the whole secret is in being pliable. in the country, especially, there are such a lot of entertaining things. i can walk over everybody's land, and look at everybody's view, and dabble in everybody's brook; and enjoy it just as much as though i owned the land--and with no taxes to pay! it's sunday night now, about eleven o'clock, and i am supposed to be getting some beauty sleep, but i had black coffee for dinner, so--no beauty sleep for me! this morning, said mrs. semple to mr. pendleton, with a very determined accent: 'we have to leave here at a quarter past ten in order to get to church by eleven.' 'very well, lizzie,' said master jervie, 'you have the buggy ready, and if i'm not dressed, just go on without waiting.' 'we'll wait,' said she. 'as you please,' said he, 'only don't keep the horses standing too long.' then while she was dressing, he told carrie to pack up a lunch, and he told me to scramble into my walking clothes; and we slipped out the back way and went fishing. it discommoded the household dreadfully, because lock willow of a sunday dines at two. but he ordered dinner at seven--he orders meals whenever he chooses; you would think the place were a restaurant--and that kept carrie and amasai from going driving. but he said it was all the better because it wasn't proper for them to go driving without a chaperon; and anyway, he wanted the horses himself to take me driving. did you ever hear anything so funny? and poor mrs. semple believes that people who go fishing on sundays go afterwards to a sizzling hot hell! she is awfully troubled to think that she didn't train him better when he was small and helpless and she had the chance. besides--she wished to show him off in church. anyway, we had our fishing (he caught four little ones) and we cooked them on a camp-fire for lunch. they kept falling off our spiked sticks into the fire, so they tasted a little ashy, but we ate them. we got home at four and went driving at five and had dinner at seven, and at ten i was sent to bed and here i am, writing to you. i am getting a little sleepy, though. good night. here is a picture of the one fish i caught. ship ahoy, cap'n long-legs! avast! belay! yo, ho, ho, and a bottle of rum. guess what i'm reading? our conversation these past two days has been nautical and piratical. isn't treasure island fun? did you ever read it, or wasn't it written when you were a boy? stevenson only got thirty pounds for the serial rights--i don't believe it pays to be a great author. maybe i'll be a school-teacher. excuse me for filling my letters so full of stevenson; my mind is very much engaged with him at present. he comprises lock willow's library. i've been writing this letter for two weeks, and i think it's about long enough. never say, daddy, that i don't give details. i wish you were here, too; we'd all have such a jolly time together. i like my different friends to know each other. i wanted to ask mr. pendleton if he knew you in new york--i should think he might; you must move in about the same exalted social circles, and you are both interested in reforms and things--but i couldn't, for i don't know your real name. it's the silliest thing i ever heard of, not to know your name. mrs. lippett warned me that you were eccentric. i should think so! affectionately, judy ps. on reading this over, i find that it isn't all stevenson. there are one or two glancing references to master jervie. th september dear daddy, he has gone, and we are missing him! when you get accustomed to people or places or ways of living, and then have them snatched away, it does leave an awfully empty, gnawing sort of sensation. i'm finding mrs. semple's conversation pretty unseasoned food. college opens in two weeks and i shall be glad to begin work again. i have worked quite a lot this summer though--six short stories and seven poems. those i sent to the magazines all came back with the most courteous promptitude. but i don't mind. it's good practice. master jervie read them--he brought in the post, so i couldn't help his knowing--and he said they were dreadful. they showed that i didn't have the slightest idea of what i was talking about. (master jervie doesn't let politeness interfere with truth.) but the last one i did--just a little sketch laid in college--he said wasn't bad; and he had it typewritten, and i sent it to a magazine. they've had it two weeks; maybe they're thinking it over. you should see the sky! there's the queerest orange-coloured light over everything. we're going to have a storm. it commenced just that moment with tremendously big drops and all the shutters banging. i had to run to close the windows, while carrie flew to the attic with an armful of milk pans to put under the places where the roof leaks and then, just as i was resuming my pen, i remembered that i'd left a cushion and rug and hat and matthew arnold's poems under a tree in the orchard, so i dashed out to get them, all quite soaked. the red cover of the poems had run into the inside; dover beach in the future will be washed by pink waves. a storm is awfully disturbing in the country. you are always having to think of so many things that are out of doors and getting spoiled. thursday daddy! daddy! what do you think? the postman has just come with two letters. st. my story is accepted. $ . alors! i'm an author. nd. a letter from the college secretary. i'm to have a scholarship for two years that will cover board and tuition. it was founded for 'marked proficiency in english with general excellency in other lines.' and i've won it! i applied for it before i left, but i didn't have an idea i'd get it, on account of my freshman bad work in maths and latin. but it seems i've made it up. i am awfully glad, daddy, because now i won't be such a burden to you. the monthly allowance will be all i'll need, and maybe i can earn that with writing or tutoring or something. i'm longing to go back and begin work. yours ever, jerusha abbott, author of when the sophomores won the game. for sale at all news stands, price ten cents. th september dear daddy-long-legs, back at college again and an upper classman. our study is better than ever this year--faces the south with two huge windows and oh! so furnished. julia, with an unlimited allowance, arrived two days early and was attacked with a fever for settling. we have new wall paper and oriental rugs and mahogany chairs--not painted mahogany which made us sufficiently happy last year, but real. it's very gorgeous, but i don't feel as though i belonged in it; i'm nervous all the time for fear i'll get an ink spot in the wrong place. and, daddy, i found your letter waiting for me--pardon--i mean your secretary's. will you kindly convey to me a comprehensible reason why i should not accept that scholarship? i don't understand your objection in the least. but anyway, it won't do the slightest good for you to object, for i've already accepted it and i am not going to change! that sounds a little impertinent, but i don't mean it so. i suppose you feel that when you set out to educate me, you'd like to finish the work, and put a neat period, in the shape of a diploma, at the end. but look at it just a second from my point of view. i shall owe my education to you just as much as though i let you pay for the whole of it, but i won't be quite so much indebted. i know that you don't want me to return the money, but nevertheless, i am going to want to do it, if i possibly can; and winning this scholarship makes it so much easier. i was expecting to spend the rest of my life in paying my debts, but now i shall only have to spend one-half of the rest of it. i hope you understand my position and won't be cross. the allowance i shall still most gratefully accept. it requires an allowance to live up to julia and her furniture! i wish that she had been reared to simpler tastes, or else that she were not my room-mate. this isn't much of a letter; i meant to have written a lot--but i've been hemming four window curtains and three portieres (i'm glad you can't see the length of the stitches), and polishing a brass desk set with tooth powder (very uphill work), and sawing off picture wire with manicure scissors, and unpacking four boxes of books, and putting away two trunkfuls of clothes (it doesn't seem believable that jerusha abbott owns two trunks full of clothes, but she does!) and welcoming back fifty dear friends in between. opening day is a joyous occasion! good night, daddy dear, and don't be annoyed because your chick is wanting to scratch for herself. she's growing up into an awfully energetic little hen--with a very determined cluck and lots of beautiful feathers (all due to you). affectionately, judy th september dear daddy, are you still harping on that scholarship? i never knew a man so obstinate, and stubborn and unreasonable, and tenacious, and bull-doggish, and unable-to-see-other-people's-point-of-view, as you. you prefer that i should not be accepting favours from strangers. strangers!--and what are you, pray? is there anyone in the world that i know less? i shouldn't recognize you if i met you in the street. now, you see, if you had been a sane, sensible person and had written nice, cheering fatherly letters to your little judy, and had come occasionally and patted her on the head, and had said you were glad she was such a good girl--then, perhaps, she wouldn't have flouted you in your old age, but would have obeyed your slightest wish like the dutiful daughter she was meant to be. strangers indeed! you live in a glass house, mr. smith. and besides, this isn't a favour; it's like a prize--i earned it by hard work. if nobody had been good enough in english, the committee wouldn't have awarded the scholarship; some years they don't. also-- but what's the use of arguing with a man? you belong, mr. smith, to a sex devoid of a sense of logic. to bring a man into line, there are just two methods: one must either coax or be disagreeable. i scorn to coax men for what i wish. therefore, i must be disagreeable. i refuse, sir, to give up the scholarship; and if you make any more fuss, i won't accept the monthly allowance either, but will wear myself into a nervous wreck tutoring stupid freshmen. that is my ultimatum! and listen--i have a further thought. since you are so afraid that by taking this scholarship i am depriving someone else of an education, i know a way out. you can apply the money that you would have spent for me towards educating some other little girl from the john grier home. don't you think that's a nice idea? only, daddy, educate the new girl as much as you choose, but please don't like her any better than me. i trust that your secretary won't be hurt because i pay so little attention to the suggestions offered in his letter, but i can't help it if he is. he's a spoiled child, daddy. i've meekly given in to his whims heretofore, but this time i intend to be firm. yours, with a mind, completely and irrevocably and world-without-end made-up, jerusha abbott th november dear daddy-long-legs, i started down town today to buy a bottle of shoe blacking and some collars and the material for a new blouse and a jar of violet cream and a cake of castile soap--all very necessary; i couldn't be happy another day without them--and when i tried to pay the car fare, i found that i had left my purse in the pocket of my other coat. so i had to get out and take the next car, and was late for gymnasium. it's a dreadful thing to have no memory and two coats! julia pendleton has invited me to visit her for the christmas holidays. how does that strike you, mr. smith? fancy jerusha abbott, of the john grier home, sitting at the tables of the rich. i don't know why julia wants me--she seems to be getting quite attached to me of late. i should, to tell the truth, very much prefer going to sallie's, but julia asked me first, so if i go anywhere it must be to new york instead of to worcester. i'm rather awed at the prospect of meeting pendletons en masse, and also i'd have to get a lot of new clothes--so, daddy dear, if you write that you would prefer having me remain quietly at college, i will bow to your wishes with my usual sweet docility. i'm engaged at odd moments with the life and letters of thomas huxley--it makes nice, light reading to pick up between times. do you know what an archaeopteryx is? it's a bird. and a stereognathus? i'm not sure myself, but i think it's a missing link, like a bird with teeth or a lizard with wings. no, it isn't either; i've just looked in the book. it's a mesozoic mammal. i've elected economics this year--very illuminating subject. when i finish that i'm going to take charity and reform; then, mr. trustee, i'll know just how an orphan asylum ought to be run. don't you think i'd make an admirable voter if i had my rights? i was twenty-one last week. this is an awfully wasteful country to throw away such an honest, educated, conscientious, intelligent citizen as i would be. yours always, judy th december dear daddy-long-legs, thank you for permission to visit julia--i take it that silence means consent. such a social whirl as we've been having! the founder's dance came last week--this was the first year that any of us could attend; only upper classmen being allowed. i invited jimmie mcbride, and sallie invited his room-mate at princeton, who visited them last summer at their camp--an awfully nice man with red hair--and julia invited a man from new york, not very exciting, but socially irreproachable. he is connected with the de la mater chichesters. perhaps that means something to you? it doesn't illuminate me to any extent. however--our guests came friday afternoon in time for tea in the senior corridor, and then dashed down to the hotel for dinner. the hotel was so full that they slept in rows on the billiard tables, they say. jimmie mcbride says that the next time he is bidden to a social event in this college, he is going to bring one of their adirondack tents and pitch it on the campus. at seven-thirty they came back for the president's reception and dance. our functions commence early! we had the men's cards all made out ahead of time, and after every dance, we'd leave them in groups, under the letter that stood for their names, so that they could be readily found by their next partners. jimmie mcbride, for example, would stand patiently under 'm' until he was claimed. (at least, he ought to have stood patiently, but he kept wandering off and getting mixed with 'r's' and 's's' and all sorts of letters.) i found him a very difficult guest; he was sulky because he had only three dances with me. he said he was bashful about dancing with girls he didn't know! the next morning we had a glee club concert--and who do you think wrote the funny new song composed for the occasion? it's the truth. she did. oh, i tell you, daddy, your little foundling is getting to be quite a prominent person! anyway, our gay two days were great fun, and i think the men enjoyed it. some of them were awfully perturbed at first at the prospect of facing one thousand girls; but they got acclimated very quickly. our two princeton men had a beautiful time--at least they politely said they had, and they've invited us to their dance next spring. we've accepted, so please don't object, daddy dear. julia and sallie and i all had new dresses. do you want to hear about them? julia's was cream satin and gold embroidery and she wore purple orchids. it was a dream and came from paris, and cost a million dollars. sallie's was pale blue trimmed with persian embroidery, and went beautifully with red hair. it didn't cost quite a million, but was just as effective as julia's. mine was pale pink crepe de chine trimmed with ecru lace and rose satin. and i carried crimson roses which j. mcb. sent (sallie having told him what colour to get). and we all had satin slippers and silk stockings and chiffon scarfs to match. you must be deeply impressed by these millinery details. one can't help thinking, daddy, what a colourless life a man is forced to lead, when one reflects that chiffon and venetian point and hand embroidery and irish crochet are to him mere empty words. whereas a woman--whether she is interested in babies or microbes or husbands or poetry or servants or parallelograms or gardens or plato or bridge--is fundamentally and always interested in clothes. it's the one touch of nature that makes the whole world kin. (that isn't original. i got it out of one of shakespeare's plays). however, to resume. do you want me to tell you a secret that i've lately discovered? and will you promise not to think me vain? then listen: i'm pretty. i am, really. i'd be an awful idiot not to know it with three looking-glasses in the room. a friend ps. this is one of those wicked anonymous letters you read about in novels. th december dear daddy-long-legs, i've just a moment, because i must attend two classes, pack a trunk and a suit-case, and catch the four-o'clock train--but i couldn't go without sending a word to let you know how much i appreciate my christmas box. i love the furs and the necklace and the liberty scarf and the gloves and handkerchiefs and books and purse--and most of all i love you! but daddy, you have no business to spoil me this way. i'm only human--and a girl at that. how can i keep my mind sternly fixed on a studious career, when you deflect me with such worldly frivolities? i have strong suspicions now as to which one of the john grier trustees used to give the christmas tree and the sunday ice-cream. he was nameless, but by his works i know him! you deserve to be happy for all the good things you do. goodbye, and a very merry christmas. yours always, judy ps. i am sending a slight token, too. do you think you would like her if you knew her? th january i meant to write to you from the city, daddy, but new york is an engrossing place. i had an interesting--and illuminating--time, but i'm glad i don't belong to such a family! i should truly rather have the john grier home for a background. whatever the drawbacks of my bringing up, there was at least no pretence about it. i know now what people mean when they say they are weighed down by things. the material atmosphere of that house was crushing; i didn't draw a deep breath until i was on an express train coming back. all the furniture was carved and upholstered and gorgeous; the people i met were beautifully dressed and low-voiced and well-bred, but it's the truth, daddy, i never heard one word of real talk from the time we arrived until we left. i don't think an idea ever entered the front door. mrs. pendleton never thinks of anything but jewels and dressmakers and social engagements. she did seem a different kind of mother from mrs. mcbride! if i ever marry and have a family, i'm going to make them as exactly like the mcbrides as i can. not for all the money in the world would i ever let any children of mine develop into pendletons. maybe it isn't polite to criticize people you've been visiting? if it isn't, please excuse. this is very confidential, between you and me. i only saw master jervie once when he called at tea time, and then i didn't have a chance to speak to him alone. it was really disappointing after our nice time last summer. i don't think he cares much for his relatives--and i am sure they don't care much for him! julia's mother says he's unbalanced. he's a socialist--except, thank heaven, he doesn't let his hair grow and wear red ties. she can't imagine where he picked up his queer ideas; the family have been church of england for generations. he throws away his money on every sort of crazy reform, instead of spending it on such sensible things as yachts and automobiles and polo ponies. he does buy candy with it though! he sent julia and me each a box for christmas. you know, i think i'll be a socialist, too. you wouldn't mind, would you, daddy? they're quite different from anarchists; they don't believe in blowing people up. probably i am one by rights; i belong to the proletariat. i haven't determined yet just which kind i am going to be. i will look into the subject over sunday, and declare my principles in my next. i've seen loads of theatres and hotels and beautiful houses. my mind is a confused jumble of onyx and gilding and mosaic floors and palms. i'm still pretty breathless but i am glad to get back to college and my books--i believe that i really am a student; this atmosphere of academic calm i find more bracing than new york. college is a very satisfying sort of life; the books and study and regular classes keep you alive mentally, and then when your mind gets tired, you have the gymnasium and outdoor athletics, and always plenty of congenial friends who are thinking about the same things you are. we spend a whole evening in nothing but talk--talk--talk--and go to bed with a very uplifted feeling, as though we had settled permanently some pressing world problems. and filling in every crevice, there is always such a lot of nonsense--just silly jokes about the little things that come up but very satisfying. we do appreciate our own witticisms! it isn't the great big pleasures that count the most; it's making a great deal out of the little ones--i've discovered the true secret of happiness, daddy, and that is to live in the now. not to be for ever regretting the past, or anticipating the future; but to get the most that you can out of this very instant. it's like farming. you can have extensive farming and intensive farming; well, i am going to have intensive living after this. i'm going to enjoy every second, and i'm going to know i'm enjoying it while i'm enjoying it. most people don't live; they just race. they are trying to reach some goal far away on the horizon, and in the heat of the going they get so breathless and panting that they lose all sight of the beautiful, tranquil country they are passing through; and then the first thing they know, they are old and worn out, and it doesn't make any difference whether they've reached the goal or not. i've decided to sit down by the way and pile up a lot of little happinesses, even if i never become a great author. did you ever know such a philosopheress as i am developing into? yours ever, judy ps. it's raining cats and dogs tonight. two puppies and a kitten have just landed on the window-sill. dear comrade, hooray! i'm a fabian. that's a socialist who's willing to wait. we don't want the social revolution to come tomorrow morning; it would be too upsetting. we want it to come very gradually in the distant future, when we shall all be prepared and able to sustain the shock. in the meantime, we must be getting ready, by instituting industrial, educational and orphan asylum reforms. yours, with fraternal love, judy monday, rd hour th february dear d.-l.-l., don't be insulted because this is so short. it isn't a letter; it's just a line to say that i'm going to write a letter pretty soon when examinations are over. it is not only necessary that i pass, but pass well. i have a scholarship to live up to. yours, studying hard, j. a. th march dear daddy-long-legs, president cuyler made a speech this evening about the modern generation being flippant and superficial. he says that we are losing the old ideals of earnest endeavour and true scholarship; and particularly is this falling-off noticeable in our disrespectful attitude towards organized authority. we no longer pay a seemly deference to our superiors. i came away from chapel very sober. am i too familiar, daddy? ought i to treat you with more dignity and aloofness?--yes, i'm sure i ought. i'll begin again. my dear mr. smith, you will be pleased to hear that i passed successfully my mid-year examinations, and am now commencing work in the new semester. i am leaving chemistry--having completed the course in qualitative analysis--and am entering upon the study of biology. i approach this subject with some hesitation, as i understand that we dissect angleworms and frogs. an extremely interesting and valuable lecture was given in the chapel last week upon roman remains in southern france. i have never listened to a more illuminating exposition of the subject. we are reading wordsworth's tintern abbey in connection with our course in english literature. what an exquisite work it is, and how adequately it embodies his conceptions of pantheism! the romantic movement of the early part of the last century, exemplified in the works of such poets as shelley, byron, keats, and wordsworth, appeals to me very much more than the classical period that preceded it. speaking of poetry, have you ever read that charming little thing of tennyson's called locksley hall? i am attending gymnasium very regularly of late. a proctor system has been devised, and failure to comply with the rules causes a great deal of inconvenience. the gymnasium is equipped with a very beautiful swimming tank of cement and marble, the gift of a former graduate. my room-mate, miss mcbride, has given me her bathing-suit (it shrank so that she can no longer wear it) and i am about to begin swimming lessons. we had delicious pink ice-cream for dessert last night. only vegetable dyes are used in colouring the food. the college is very much opposed, both from aesthetic and hygienic motives, to the use of aniline dyes. the weather of late has been ideal--bright sunshine and clouds interspersed with a few welcome snow-storms. i and my companions have enjoyed our walks to and from classes--particularly from. trusting, my dear mr. smith, that this will find you in your usual good health, i remain, most cordially yours, jerusha abbott th april dear daddy, spring has come again! you should see how lovely the campus is. i think you might come and look at it for yourself. master jervie dropped in again last friday--but he chose a most unpropitious time, for sallie and julia and i were just running to catch a train. and where do you think we were going? to princeton, to attend a dance and a ball game, if you please! i didn't ask you if i might go, because i had a feeling that your secretary would say no. but it was entirely regular; we had leave-of-absence from college, and mrs. mcbride chaperoned us. we had a charming time--but i shall have to omit details; they are too many and complicated. saturday up before dawn! the night watchman called us--six of us--and we made coffee in a chafing dish (you never saw so many grounds!) and walked two miles to the top of one tree hill to see the sun rise. we had to scramble up the last slope! the sun almost beat us! and perhaps you think we didn't bring back appetites to breakfast! dear me, daddy, i seem to have a very ejaculatory style today; this page is peppered with exclamations. i meant to have written a lot about the budding trees and the new cinder path in the athletic field, and the awful lesson we have in biology for tomorrow, and the new canoes on the lake, and catherine prentiss who has pneumonia, and prexy's angora kitten that strayed from home and has been boarding in fergussen hall for two weeks until a chambermaid reported it, and about my three new dresses--white and pink and blue polka dots with a hat to match--but i am too sleepy. i am always making this an excuse, am i not? but a girls' college is a busy place and we do get tired by the end of the day! particularly when the day begins at dawn. affectionately, judy th may dear daddy-long-legs, is it good manners when you get into a car just to stare straight ahead and not see anybody else? a very beautiful lady in a very beautiful velvet dress got into the car today, and without the slightest expression sat for fifteen minutes and looked at a sign advertising suspenders. it doesn't seem polite to ignore everybody else as though you were the only important person present. anyway, you miss a lot. while she was absorbing that silly sign, i was studying a whole car full of interesting human beings. the accompanying illustration is hereby reproduced for the first time. it looks like a spider on the end of a string, but it isn't at all; it's a picture of me learning to swim in the tank in the gymnasium. the instructor hooks a rope into a ring in the back of my belt, and runs it through a pulley in the ceiling. it would be a beautiful system if one had perfect confidence in the probity of one's instructor. i'm always afraid, though, that she will let the rope get slack, so i keep one anxious eye on her and swim with the other, and with this divided interest i do not make the progress that i otherwise might. very miscellaneous weather we're having of late. it was raining when i commenced and now the sun is shining. sallie and i are going out to play tennis--thereby gaining exemption from gym. a week later i should have finished this letter long ago, but i didn't. you don't mind, do you, daddy, if i'm not very regular? i really do love to write to you; it gives me such a respectable feeling of having some family. would you like me to tell you something? you are not the only man to whom i write letters. there are two others! i have been receiving beautiful long letters this winter from master jervie (with typewritten envelopes so julia won't recognize the writing). did you ever hear anything so shocking? and every week or so a very scrawly epistle, usually on yellow tablet paper, arrives from princeton. all of which i answer with business-like promptness. so you see--i am not so different from other girls--i get letters, too. did i tell you that i have been elected a member of the senior dramatic club? very recherche organization. only seventy-five members out of one thousand. do you think as a consistent socialist that i ought to belong? what do you suppose is at present engaging my attention in sociology? i am writing (figurez vous!) a paper on the care of dependent children. the professor shuffled up his subjects and dealt them out promiscuously, and that fell to me. c'est drole ca n'est pas? there goes the gong for dinner. i'll post this as i pass the box. affectionately, j. th june dear daddy, very busy time--commencement in ten days, examinations tomorrow; lots of studying, lots of packing, and the outdoor world so lovely that it hurts you to stay inside. but never mind, vacation's coming. julia is going abroad this summer--it makes the fourth time. no doubt about it, daddy, goods are not distributed evenly. sallie, as usual, goes to the adirondacks. and what do you think i am going to do? you may have three guesses. lock willow? wrong. the adirondacks with sallie? wrong. (i'll never attempt that again; i was discouraged last year.) can't you guess anything else? you're not very inventive. i'll tell you, daddy, if you'll promise not to make a lot of objections. i warn your secretary in advance that my mind is made up. i am going to spend the summer at the seaside with a mrs. charles paterson and tutor her daughter who is to enter college in the autumn. i met her through the mcbrides, and she is a very charming woman. i am to give lessons in english and latin to the younger daughter, too, but i shall have a little time to myself, and i shall be earning fifty dollars a month! doesn't that impress you as a perfectly exorbitant amount? she offered it; i should have blushed to ask for more than twenty-five. i finish at magnolia (that's where she lives) the first of september, and shall probably spend the remaining three weeks at lock willow--i should like to see the semples again and all the friendly animals. how does my programme strike you, daddy? i am getting quite independent, you see. you have put me on my feet and i think i can almost walk alone by now. princeton commencement and our examinations exactly coincide--which is an awful blow. sallie and i did so want to get away in time for it, but of course that is utterly impossible. goodbye, daddy. have a nice summer and come back in the autumn rested and ready for another year of work. (that's what you ought to be writing to me!) i haven't any idea what you do in the summer, or how you amuse yourself. i can't visualize your surroundings. do you play golf or hunt or ride horseback or just sit in the sun and meditate? anyway, whatever it is, have a good time and don't forget judy. th june dear daddy, this is the hardest letter i ever wrote, but i have decided what i must do, and there isn't going to be any turning back. it is very sweet and generous and dear of you to wish to send me to europe this summer--for the moment i was intoxicated by the idea; but sober second thoughts said no. it would be rather illogical of me to refuse to take your money for college, and then use it instead just for amusement! you mustn't get me used to too many luxuries. one doesn't miss what one has never had; but it's awfully hard going without things after one has commenced thinking they are his--hers (english language needs another pronoun) by natural right. living with sallie and julia is an awful strain on my stoical philosophy. they have both had things from the time they were babies; they accept happiness as a matter of course. the world, they think, owes them everything they want. maybe the world does--in any case, it seems to acknowledge the debt and pay up. but as for me, it owes me nothing, and distinctly told me so in the beginning. i have no right to borrow on credit, for there will come a time when the world will repudiate my claim. i seem to be floundering in a sea of metaphor--but i hope you grasp my meaning? anyway, i have a very strong feeling that the only honest thing for me to do is to teach this summer and begin to support myself. magnolia, four days later i'd got just that much written, when--what do you think happened? the maid arrived with master jervie's card. he is going abroad too this summer; not with julia and her family, but entirely by himself i told him that you had invited me to go with a lady who is chaperoning a party of girls. he knows about you, daddy. that is, he knows that my father and mother are dead, and that a kind gentleman is sending me to college; i simply didn't have the courage to tell him about the john grier home and all the rest. he thinks that you are my guardian and a perfectly legitimate old family friend. i have never told him that i didn't know you--that would seem too queer! anyway, he insisted on my going to europe. he said that it was a necessary part of my education and that i mustn't think of refusing. also, that he would be in paris at the same time, and that we would run away from the chaperon occasionally and have dinner together at nice, funny, foreign restaurants. well, daddy, it did appeal to me! i almost weakened; if he hadn't been so dictatorial, maybe i should have entirely weakened. i can be enticed step by step, but i won't be forced. he said i was a silly, foolish, irrational, quixotic, idiotic, stubborn child (those are a few of his abusive adjectives; the rest escape me), and that i didn't know what was good for me; i ought to let older people judge. we almost quarrelled--i am not sure but that we entirely did! in any case, i packed my trunk fast and came up here. i thought i'd better see my bridges in flames behind me before i finished writing to you. they are entirely reduced to ashes now. here i am at cliff top (the name of mrs. paterson's cottage) with my trunk unpacked and florence (the little one) already struggling with first declension nouns. and it bids fair to be a struggle! she is a most uncommonly spoiled child; i shall have to teach her first how to study--she has never in her life concentrated on anything more difficult than ice-cream soda water. we use a quiet corner of the cliffs for a schoolroom--mrs. paterson wishes me to keep them out of doors--and i will say that i find it difficult to concentrate with the blue sea before me and ships a-sailing by! and when i think i might be on one, sailing off to foreign lands--but i won't let myself think of anything but latin grammar. the prepositions a or ab, absque, coram, cum, de e or ex, prae, pro, sine, tenus, in, subter, sub and super govern the ablative. so you see, daddy, i am already plunged into work with my eyes persistently set against temptation. don't be cross with me, please, and don't think that i do not appreciate your kindness, for i do--always--always. the only way i can ever repay you is by turning out a very useful citizen (are women citizens? i don't suppose they are.) anyway, a very useful person. and when you look at me you can say, 'i gave that very useful person to the world.' that sounds well, doesn't it, daddy? but i don't wish to mislead you. the feeling often comes over me that i am not at all remarkable; it is fun to plan a career, but in all probability i shan't turn out a bit different from any other ordinary person. i may end by marrying an undertaker and being an inspiration to him in his work. yours ever, judy th august dear daddy-long-legs, my window looks out on the loveliest landscape--ocean-scape, rather--nothing but water and rocks. the summer goes. i spend the morning with latin and english and algebra and my two stupid girls. i don't know how marion is ever going to get into college, or stay in after she gets there. and as for florence, she is hopeless--but oh! such a little beauty. i don't suppose it matters in the least whether they are stupid or not so long as they are pretty? one can't help thinking, though, how their conversation will bore their husbands, unless they are fortunate enough to obtain stupid husbands. i suppose that's quite possible; the world seems to be filled with stupid men; i've met a number this summer. in the afternoon we take a walk on the cliffs, or swim, if the tide is right. i can swim in salt water with the utmost ease you see my education is already being put to use! a letter comes from mr. jervis pendleton in paris, rather a short concise letter; i'm not quite forgiven yet for refusing to follow his advice. however, if he gets back in time, he will see me for a few days at lock willow before college opens, and if i am very nice and sweet and docile, i shall (i am led to infer) be received into favour again. also a letter from sallie. she wants me to come to their camp for two weeks in september. must i ask your permission, or haven't i yet arrived at the place where i can do as i please? yes, i am sure i have--i'm a senior, you know. having worked all summer, i feel like taking a little healthful recreation; i want to see the adirondacks; i want to see sallie; i want to see sallie's brother--he's going to teach me to canoe--and (we come to my chief motive, which is mean) i want master jervie to arrive at lock willow and find me not there. i must show him that he can't dictate to me. no one can dictate to me but you, daddy--and you can't always! i'm off for the woods. judy camp mcbride, th september dear daddy, your letter didn't come in time (i am pleased to say). if you wish your instructions to be obeyed, you must have your secretary transmit them in less than two weeks. as you observe, i am here, and have been for five days. the woods are fine, and so is the camp, and so is the weather, and so are the mcbrides, and so is the whole world. i'm very happy! there's jimmie calling for me to come canoeing. goodbye--sorry to have disobeyed, but why are you so persistent about not wanting me to play a little? when i've worked all the summer i deserve two weeks. you are awfully dog-in-the-mangerish. however--i love you still, daddy, in spite of all your faults. judy rd october dear daddy-long-legs, back at college and a senior--also editor of the monthly. it doesn't seem possible, does it, that so sophisticated a person, just four years ago, was an inmate of the john grier home? we do arrive fast in america! what do you think of this? a note from master jervie directed to lock willow and forwarded here. he's sorry, but he finds that he can't get up there this autumn; he has accepted an invitation to go yachting with some friends. hopes i've had a nice summer and am enjoying the country. and he knew all the time that i was with the mcbrides, for julia told him so! you men ought to leave intrigue to women; you haven't a light enough touch. julia has a trunkful of the most ravishing new clothes--an evening gown of rainbow liberty crepe that would be fitting raiment for the angels in paradise. and i thought that my own clothes this year were unprecedentedly (is there such a word?) beautiful. i copied mrs. paterson's wardrobe with the aid of a cheap dressmaker, and though the gowns didn't turn out quite twins of the originals, i was entirely happy until julia unpacked. but now--i live to see paris! dear daddy, aren't you glad you're not a girl? i suppose you think that the fuss we make over clothes is too absolutely silly? it is. no doubt about it. but it's entirely your fault. did you ever hear about the learned herr professor who regarded unnecessary adornment with contempt and favoured sensible, utilitarian clothes for women? his wife, who was an obliging creature, adopted 'dress reform.' and what do you think he did? he eloped with a chorus girl. yours ever, judy ps. the chamber-maid in our corridor wears blue checked gingham aprons. i am going to get her some brown ones instead, and sink the blue ones in the bottom of the lake. i have a reminiscent chill every time i look at them. th november dear daddy-long-legs, such a blight has fallen over my literary career. i don't know whether to tell you or not, but i would like some sympathy--silent sympathy, please; don't re-open the wound by referring to it in your next letter. i've been writing a book, all last winter in the evenings, and all the summer when i wasn't teaching latin to my two stupid children. i just finished it before college opened and sent it to a publisher. he kept it two months, and i was certain he was going to take it; but yesterday morning an express parcel came (thirty cents due) and there it was back again with a letter from the publisher, a very nice, fatherly letter--but frank! he said he saw from the address that i was still at college, and if i would accept some advice, he would suggest that i put all of my energy into my lessons and wait until i graduated before beginning to write. he enclosed his reader's opinion. here it is: 'plot highly improbable. characterization exaggerated. conversation unnatural. a good deal of humour but not always in the best of taste. tell her to keep on trying, and in time she may produce a real book.' not on the whole flattering, is it, daddy? and i thought i was making a notable addition to american literature. i did truly. i was planning to surprise you by writing a great novel before i graduated. i collected the material for it while i was at julia's last christmas. but i dare say the editor is right. probably two weeks was not enough in which to observe the manners and customs of a great city. i took it walking with me yesterday afternoon, and when i came to the gas house, i went in and asked the engineer if i might borrow his furnace. he politely opened the door, and with my own hands i chucked it in. i felt as though i had cremated my only child! i went to bed last night utterly dejected; i thought i was never going to amount to anything, and that you had thrown away your money for nothing. but what do you think? i woke up this morning with a beautiful new plot in my head, and i've been going about all day planning my characters, just as happy as i could be. no one can ever accuse me of being a pessimist! if i had a husband and twelve children swallowed by an earthquake one day, i'd bob up smilingly the next morning and commence to look for another set. affectionately, judy th december dear daddy-long-legs, i dreamed the funniest dream last night. i thought i went into a book store and the clerk brought me a new book named the life and letters of judy abbott. i could see it perfectly plainly--red cloth binding with a picture of the john grier home on the cover, and my portrait for a frontispiece with, 'very truly yours, judy abbott,' written below. but just as i was turning to the end to read the inscription on my tombstone, i woke up. it was very annoying! i almost found out whom i'm going to marry and when i'm going to die. don't you think it would be interesting if you really could read the story of your life--written perfectly truthfully by an omniscient author? and suppose you could only read it on this condition: that you would never forget it, but would have to go through life knowing ahead of time exactly how everything you did would turn out, and foreseeing to the exact hour the time when you would die. how many people do you suppose would have the courage to read it then? or how many could suppress their curiosity sufficiently to escape from reading it, even at the price of having to live without hope and without surprises? life is monotonous enough at best; you have to eat and sleep about so often. but imagine how deadly monotonous it would be if nothing unexpected could happen between meals. mercy! daddy, there's a blot, but i'm on the third page and i can't begin a new sheet. i'm going on with biology again this year--very interesting subject; we're studying the alimentary system at present. you should see how sweet a cross-section of the duodenum of a cat is under the microscope. also we've arrived at philosophy--interesting but evanescent. i prefer biology where you can pin the subject under discussion to a board. there's another! and another! this pen is weeping copiously. please excuse its tears. do you believe in free will? i do--unreservedly. i don't agree at all with the philosophers who think that every action is the absolutely inevitable and automatic resultant of an aggregation of remote causes. that's the most immoral doctrine i ever heard--nobody would be to blame for anything. if a man believed in fatalism, he would naturally just sit down and say, 'the lord's will be done,' and continue to sit until he fell over dead. i believe absolutely in my own free will and my own power to accomplish--and that is the belief that moves mountains. you watch me become a great author! i have four chapters of my new book finished and five more drafted. this is a very abstruse letter--does your head ache, daddy? i think we'll stop now and make some fudge. i'm sorry i can't send you a piece; it will be unusually good, for we're going to make it with real cream and three butter balls. yours affectionately, judy ps. we're having fancy dancing in gymnasium class. you can see by the accompanying picture how much we look like a real ballet. the one at the end accomplishing a graceful pirouette is me--i mean i. th december my dear, dear, daddy, haven't you any sense? don't you know that you mustn't give one girl seventeen christmas presents? i'm a socialist, please remember; do you wish to turn me into a plutocrat? think how embarrassing it would be if we should ever quarrel! i should have to engage a moving-van to return your gifts. i am sorry that the necktie i sent was so wobbly; i knit it with my own hands (as you doubtless discovered from internal evidence). you will have to wear it on cold days and keep your coat buttoned up tight. thank you, daddy, a thousand times. i think you're the sweetest man that ever lived--and the foolishest! judy here's a four-leaf clover from camp mcbride to bring you good luck for the new year. th january do you wish to do something, daddy, that will ensure your eternal salvation? there is a family here who are in awfully desperate straits. a mother and father and four visible children--the two older boys have disappeared into the world to make their fortune and have not sent any of it back. the father worked in a glass factory and got consumption--it's awfully unhealthy work--and now has been sent away to a hospital. that took all their savings, and the support of the family falls upon the oldest daughter, who is twenty-four. she dressmakes for $ . a day (when she can get it) and embroiders centrepieces in the evening. the mother isn't very strong and is extremely ineffectual and pious. she sits with her hands folded, a picture of patient resignation, while the daughter kills herself with overwork and responsibility and worry; she doesn't see how they are going to get through the rest of the winter--and i don't either. one hundred dollars would buy some coal and some shoes for three children so that they could go to school, and give a little margin so that she needn't worry herself to death when a few days pass and she doesn't get work. you are the richest man i know. don't you suppose you could spare one hundred dollars? that girl deserves help a lot more than i ever did. i wouldn't ask it except for the girl; i don't care much what happens to the mother--she is such a jelly-fish. the way people are for ever rolling their eyes to heaven and saying, 'perhaps it's all for the best,' when they are perfectly dead sure it's not, makes me enraged. humility or resignation or whatever you choose to call it, is simply impotent inertia. i'm for a more militant religion! we are getting the most dreadful lessons in philosophy--all of schopenhauer for tomorrow. the professor doesn't seem to realize that we are taking any other subject. he's a queer old duck; he goes about with his head in the clouds and blinks dazedly when occasionally he strikes solid earth. he tries to lighten his lectures with an occasional witticism--and we do our best to smile, but i assure you his jokes are no laughing matter. he spends his entire time between classes in trying to figure out whether matter really exists or whether he only thinks it exists. i'm sure my sewing girl hasn't any doubt but that it exists! where do you think my new novel is? in the waste-basket. i can see myself that it's no good on earth, and when a loving author realizes that, what would be the judgment of a critical public? later i address you, daddy, from a bed of pain. for two days i've been laid up with swollen tonsils; i can just swallow hot milk, and that is all. 'what were your parents thinking of not to have those tonsils out when you were a baby?' the doctor wished to know. i'm sure i haven't an idea, but i doubt if they were thinking much about me. yours, j. a. next morning i just read this over before sealing it. i don't know why i cast such a misty atmosphere over life. i hasten to assure you that i am young and happy and exuberant; and i trust you are the same. youth has nothing to do with birthdays, only with alivedness of spirit, so even if your hair is grey, daddy, you can still be a boy. affectionately, judy th jan. dear mr. philanthropist, your cheque for my family came yesterday. thank you so much! i cut gymnasium and took it down to them right after luncheon, and you should have seen the girl's face! she was so surprised and happy and relieved that she looked almost young; and she's only twenty-four. isn't it pitiful? anyway, she feels now as though all the good things were coming together. she has steady work ahead for two months--someone's getting married, and there's a trousseau to make. 'thank the good lord!' cried the mother, when she grasped the fact that that small piece of paper was one hundred dollars. 'it wasn't the good lord at all,' said i, 'it was daddy-long-legs.' (mr. smith, i called you.) 'but it was the good lord who put it in his mind,' said she. 'not at all! i put it in his mind myself,' said i. but anyway, daddy, i trust the good lord will reward you suitably. you deserve ten thousand years out of purgatory. yours most gratefully, judy abbott th feb. may it please your most excellent majesty: this morning i did eat my breakfast upon a cold turkey pie and a goose, and i did send for a cup of tee (a china drink) of which i had never drank before. don't be nervous, daddy--i haven't lost my mind; i'm merely quoting sam'l pepys. we're reading him in connection with english history, original sources. sallie and julia and i converse now in the language of . listen to this: 'i went to charing cross to see major harrison hanged, drawn and quartered: he looking as cheerful as any man could do in that condition.' and this: 'dined with my lady who is in handsome mourning for her brother who died yesterday of spotted fever.' seems a little early to commence entertaining, doesn't it? a friend of pepys devised a very cunning manner whereby the king might pay his debts out of the sale to poor people of old decayed provisions. what do you, a reformer, think of that? i don't believe we're so bad today as the newspapers make out. samuel was as excited about his clothes as any girl; he spent five times as much on dress as his wife--that appears to have been the golden age of husbands. isn't this a touching entry? you see he really was honest. 'today came home my fine camlett cloak with gold buttons, which cost me much money, and i pray god to make me able to pay for it.' excuse me for being so full of pepys; i'm writing a special topic on him. what do you think, daddy? the self-government association has abolished the ten o'clock rule. we can keep our lights all night if we choose, the only requirement being that we do not disturb others--we are not supposed to entertain on a large scale. the result is a beautiful commentary on human nature. now that we may stay up as long as we choose, we no longer choose. our heads begin to nod at nine o'clock, and by nine-thirty the pen drops from our nerveless grasp. it's nine-thirty now. good night. sunday just back from church--preacher from georgia. we must take care, he says, not to develop our intellects at the expense of our emotional natures--but methought it was a poor, dry sermon (pepys again). it doesn't matter what part of the united states or canada they come from, or what denomination they are, we always get the same sermon. why on earth don't they go to men's colleges and urge the students not to allow their manly natures to be crushed out by too much mental application? it's a beautiful day--frozen and icy and clear. as soon as dinner is over, sallie and julia and marty keene and eleanor pratt (friends of mine, but you don't know them) and i are going to put on short skirts and walk 'cross country to crystal spring farm and have a fried chicken and waffle supper, and then have mr. crystal spring drive us home in his buckboard. we are supposed to be inside the campus at seven, but we are going to stretch a point tonight and make it eight. farewell, kind sir. i have the honour of subscribing myself, your most loyall, dutifull, faithfull and obedient servant, j. abbott march fifth dear mr. trustee, tomorrow is the first wednesday in the month--a weary day for the john grier home. how relieved they'll be when five o'clock comes and you pat them on the head and take yourselves off! did you (individually) ever pat me on the head, daddy? i don't believe so--my memory seems to be concerned only with fat trustees. give the home my love, please--my truly love. i have quite a feeling of tenderness for it as i look back through a haze of four years. when i first came to college i felt quite resentful because i'd been robbed of the normal kind of childhood that the other girls had had; but now, i don't feel that way in the least. i regard it as a very unusual adventure. it gives me a sort of vantage point from which to stand aside and look at life. emerging full grown, i get a perspective on the world, that other people who have been brought up in the thick of things entirely lack. i know lots of girls (julia, for instance) who never know that they are happy. they are so accustomed to the feeling that their senses are deadened to it; but as for me--i am perfectly sure every moment of my life that i am happy. and i'm going to keep on being, no matter what unpleasant things turn up. i'm going to regard them (even toothaches) as interesting experiences, and be glad to know what they feel like. 'whatever sky's above me, i've a heart for any fate.' however, daddy, don't take this new affection for the j.g.h. too literally. if i have five children, like rousseau, i shan't leave them on the steps of a foundling asylum in order to insure their being brought up simply. give my kindest regards to mrs. lippett (that, i think, is truthful; love would be a little strong) and don't forget to tell her what a beautiful nature i've developed. affectionately, judy lock willow, th april dear daddy, do you observe the postmark? sallie and i are embellishing lock willow with our presence during the easter vacation. we decided that the best thing we could do with our ten days was to come where it is quiet. our nerves had got to the point where they wouldn't stand another meal in fergussen. dining in a room with four hundred girls is an ordeal when you are tired. there is so much noise that you can't hear the girls across the table speak unless they make their hands into a megaphone and shout. that is the truth. we are tramping over the hills and reading and writing, and having a nice, restful time. we climbed to the top of 'sky hill' this morning where master jervie and i once cooked supper--it doesn't seem possible that it was nearly two years ago. i could still see the place where the smoke of our fire blackened the rock. it is funny how certain places get connected with certain people, and you never go back without thinking of them. i was quite lonely without him--for two minutes. what do you think is my latest activity, daddy? you will begin to believe that i am incorrigible--i am writing a book. i started it three weeks ago and am eating it up in chunks. i've caught the secret. master jervie and that editor man were right; you are most convincing when you write about the things you know. and this time it is about something that i do know--exhaustively. guess where it's laid? in the john grier home! and it's good, daddy, i actually believe it is--just about the tiny little things that happened every day. i'm a realist now. i've abandoned romanticism; i shall go back to it later though, when my own adventurous future begins. this new book is going to get itself finished--and published! you see if it doesn't. if you just want a thing hard enough and keep on trying, you do get it in the end. i've been trying for four years to get a letter from you--and i haven't given up hope yet. goodbye, daddy dear, (i like to call you daddy dear; it's so alliterative.) affectionately, judy ps. i forgot to tell you the farm news, but it's very distressing. skip this postscript if you don't want your sensibilities all wrought up. poor old grove is dead. he got so that he couldn't chew and they had to shoot him. nine chickens were killed by a weasel or a skunk or a rat last week. one of the cows is sick, and we had to have the veterinary surgeon out from bonnyrigg four corners. amasai stayed up all night to give her linseed oil and whisky. but we have an awful suspicion that the poor sick cow got nothing but linseed oil. sentimental tommy (the tortoise-shell cat) has disappeared; we are afraid he has been caught in a trap. there are lots of troubles in the world! th may dear daddy-long-legs, this is going to be extremely short because my shoulder aches at the sight of a pen. lecture notes all day, immortal novel all evening, make too much writing. commencement three weeks from next wednesday. i think you might come and make my acquaintance--i shall hate you if you don't! julia's inviting master jervie, he being her family, and sallie's inviting jimmie mcb., he being her family, but who is there for me to invite? just you and lippett, and i don't want her. please come. yours, with love and writer's cramp. judy lock willow, th june dear daddy-long-legs, i'm educated! my diploma is in the bottom bureau drawer with my two best dresses. commencement was as usual, with a few showers at vital moments. thank you for your rosebuds. they were lovely. master jervie and master jimmie both gave me roses, too, but i left theirs in the bath tub and carried yours in the class procession. here i am at lock willow for the summer--for ever maybe. the board is cheap; the surroundings quiet and conducive to a literary life. what more does a struggling author wish? i am mad about my book. i think of it every waking moment, and dream of it at night. all i want is peace and quiet and lots of time to work (interspersed with nourishing meals). master jervie is coming up for a week or so in august, and jimmie mcbride is going to drop in sometime through the summer. he's connected with a bond house now, and goes about the country selling bonds to banks. he's going to combine the 'farmers' national' at the corners and me on the same trip. you see that lock willow isn't entirely lacking in society. i'd be expecting to have you come motoring through--only i know now that that is hopeless. when you wouldn't come to my commencement, i tore you from my heart and buried you for ever. judy abbott, a.b. th july dearest daddy-long-legs, isn't it fun to work--or don't you ever do it? it's especially fun when your kind of work is the thing you'd rather do more than anything else in the world. i've been writing as fast as my pen would go every day this summer, and my only quarrel with life is that the days aren't long enough to write all the beautiful and valuable and entertaining thoughts i'm thinking. i've finished the second draft of my book and am going to begin the third tomorrow morning at half-past seven. it's the sweetest book you ever saw--it is, truly. i think of nothing else. i can barely wait in the morning to dress and eat before beginning; then i write and write and write till suddenly i'm so tired that i'm limp all over. then i go out with colin (the new sheep dog) and romp through the fields and get a fresh supply of ideas for the next day. it's the most beautiful book you ever saw--oh, pardon--i said that before. you don't think me conceited, do you, daddy dear? i'm not, really, only just now i'm in the enthusiastic stage. maybe later on i'll get cold and critical and sniffy. no, i'm sure i won't! this time i've written a real book. just wait till you see it. i'll try for a minute to talk about something else. i never told you, did i, that amasai and carrie got married last may? they are still working here, but so far as i can see it has spoiled them both. she used to laugh when he tramped in mud or dropped ashes on the floor, but now--you should hear her scold! and she doesn't curl her hair any longer. amasai, who used to be so obliging about beating rugs and carrying wood, grumbles if you suggest such a thing. also his neckties are quite dingy--black and brown, where they used to be scarlet and purple. i've determined never to marry. it's a deteriorating process, evidently. there isn't much of any farm news. the animals are all in the best of health. the pigs are unusually fat, the cows seem contented and the hens are laying well. are you interested in poultry? if so, let me recommend that invaluable little work, eggs per hen per year. i am thinking of starting an incubator next spring and raising broilers. you see i'm settled at lock willow permanently. i have decided to stay until i've written novels like anthony trollope's mother. then i shall have completed my life work and can retire and travel. mr. james mcbride spent last sunday with us. fried chicken and ice-cream for dinner, both of which he appeared to appreciate. i was awfully glad to see him; he brought a momentary reminder that the world at large exists. poor jimmie is having a hard time peddling his bonds. the 'farmers' national' at the corners wouldn't have anything to do with them in spite of the fact that they pay six per cent. interest and sometimes seven. i think he'll end up by going home to worcester and taking a job in his father's factory. he's too open and confiding and kind-hearted ever to make a successful financier. but to be the manager of a flourishing overall factory is a very desirable position, don't you think? just now he turns up his nose at overalls, but he'll come to them. i hope you appreciate the fact that this is a long letter from a person with writer's cramp. but i still love you, daddy dear, and i'm very happy. with beautiful scenery all about, and lots to eat and a comfortable four-post bed and a ream of blank paper and a pint of ink--what more does one want in the world? yours as always, judy ps. the postman arrives with some more news. we are to expect master jervie on friday next to spend a week. that's a very pleasant prospect--only i am afraid my poor book will suffer. master jervie is very demanding. th august dear daddy-long-legs, where are you, i wonder? i never know what part of the world you are in, but i hope you're not in new york during this awful weather. i hope you're on a mountain peak (but not in switzerland; somewhere nearer) looking at the snow and thinking about me. please be thinking about me. i'm quite lonely and i want to be thought about. oh, daddy, i wish i knew you! then when we were unhappy we could cheer each other up. i don't think i can stand much more of lock willow. i'm thinking of moving. sallie is going to do settlement work in boston next winter. don't you think it would be nice for me to go with her, then we could have a studio together? i would write while she settled and we could be together in the evenings. evenings are very long when there's no one but the semples and carrie and amasai to talk to. i know in advance that you won't like my studio idea. i can read your secretary's letter now: 'miss jerusha abbott. 'dear madam, 'mr. smith prefers that you remain at lock willow. 'yours truly, 'elmer h. griggs.' i hate your secretary. i am certain that a man named elmer h. griggs must be horrid. but truly, daddy, i think i shall have to go to boston. i can't stay here. if something doesn't happen soon, i shall throw myself into the silo pit out of sheer desperation. mercy! but it's hot. all the grass is burnt up and the brooks are dry and the roads are dusty. it hasn't rained for weeks and weeks. this letter sounds as though i had hydrophobia, but i haven't. i just want some family. goodbye, my dearest daddy. i wish i knew you. judy lock willow, th september dear daddy, something has happened and i need advice. i need it from you, and from nobody else in the world. wouldn't it be possible for me to see you? it's so much easier to talk than to write; and i'm afraid your secretary might open the letter. judy ps. i'm very unhappy. lock willow, rd october dear daddy-long-legs, your note written in your own hand--and a pretty wobbly hand!--came this morning. i am so sorry that you have been ill; i wouldn't have bothered you with my affairs if i had known. yes, i will tell you the trouble, but it's sort of complicated to write, and very private. please don't keep this letter, but burn it. before i begin--here's a cheque for one thousand dollars. it seems funny, doesn't it, for me to be sending a cheque to you? where do you think i got it? i've sold my story, daddy. it's going to be published serially in seven parts, and then in a book! you might think i'd be wild with joy, but i'm not. i'm entirely apathetic. of course i'm glad to begin paying you--i owe you over two thousand more. it's coming in instalments. now don't be horrid, please, about taking it, because it makes me happy to return it. i owe you a great deal more than the mere money, and the rest i will continue to pay all my life in gratitude and affection. and now, daddy, about the other thing; please give me your most worldly advice, whether you think i'll like it or not. you know that i've always had a very special feeling towards you; you sort of represented my whole family; but you won't mind, will you, if i tell you that i have a very much more special feeling for another man? you can probably guess without much trouble who he is. i suspect that my letters have been very full of master jervie for a very long time. i wish i could make you understand what he is like and how entirely companionable we are. we think the same about everything--i am afraid i have a tendency to make over my ideas to match his! but he is almost always right; he ought to be, you know, for he has fourteen years' start of me. in other ways, though, he's just an overgrown boy, and he does need looking after--he hasn't any sense about wearing rubbers when it rains. he and i always think the same things are funny, and that is such a lot; it's dreadful when two people's senses of humour are antagonistic. i don't believe there's any bridging that gulf! and he is--oh, well! he is just himself, and i miss him, and miss him, and miss him. the whole world seems empty and aching. i hate the moonlight because it's beautiful and he isn't here to see it with me. but maybe you've loved somebody, too, and you know? if you have, i don't need to explain; if you haven't, i can't explain. anyway, that's the way i feel--and i've refused to marry him. i didn't tell him why; i was just dumb and miserable. i couldn't think of anything to say. and now he has gone away imagining that i want to marry jimmie mcbride--i don't in the least, i wouldn't think of marrying jimmie; he isn't grown up enough. but master jervie and i got into a dreadful muddle of misunderstanding and we both hurt each other's feelings. the reason i sent him away was not because i didn't care for him, but because i cared for him so much. i was afraid he would regret it in the future--and i couldn't stand that! it didn't seem right for a person of my lack of antecedents to marry into any such family as his. i never told him about the orphan asylum, and i hated to explain that i didn't know who i was. i may be dreadful, you know. and his family are proud--and i'm proud, too! also, i felt sort of bound to you. after having been educated to be a writer, i must at least try to be one; it would scarcely be fair to accept your education and then go off and not use it. but now that i am going to be able to pay back the money, i feel that i have partially discharged that debt--besides, i suppose i could keep on being a writer even if i did marry. the two professions are not necessarily exclusive. i've been thinking very hard about it. of course he is a socialist, and he has unconventional ideas; maybe he wouldn't mind marrying into the proletariat so much as some men might. perhaps when two people are exactly in accord, and always happy when together and lonely when apart, they ought not to let anything in the world stand between them. of course i want to believe that! but i'd like to get your unemotional opinion. you probably belong to a family also, and will look at it from a worldly point of view and not just a sympathetic, human point of view--so you see how brave i am to lay it before you. suppose i go to him and explain that the trouble isn't jimmie, but is the john grier home--would that be a dreadful thing for me to do? it would take a great deal of courage. i'd almost rather be miserable for the rest of my life. this happened nearly two months ago; i haven't heard a word from him since he was here. i was just getting sort of acclimated to the feeling of a broken heart, when a letter came from julia that stirred me all up again. she said--very casually--that 'uncle jervis' had been caught out all night in a storm when he was hunting in canada, and had been ill ever since with pneumonia. and i never knew it. i was feeling hurt because he had just disappeared into blankness without a word. i think he's pretty unhappy, and i know i am! what seems to you the right thing for me to do? judy th october dearest daddy-long-legs, yes, certainly i'll come--at half-past four next wednesday afternoon. of course i can find the way. i've been in new york three times and am not quite a baby. i can't believe that i am really going to see you--i've been just thinking you so long that it hardly seems as though you are a tangible flesh-and-blood person. you are awfully good, daddy, to bother yourself with me, when you're not strong. take care and don't catch cold. these fall rains are very damp. affectionately, judy ps. i've just had an awful thought. have you a butler? i'm afraid of butlers, and if one opens the door i shall faint upon the step. what can i say to him? you didn't tell me your name. shall i ask for mr. smith? thursday morning my very dearest master-jervie-daddy-long-legs pendleton-smith, did you sleep last night? i didn't. not a single wink. i was too amazed and excited and bewildered and happy. i don't believe i ever shall sleep again--or eat either. but i hope you slept; you must, you know, because then you will get well faster and can come to me. dear man, i can't bear to think how ill you've been--and all the time i never knew it. when the doctor came down yesterday to put me in the cab, he told me that for three days they gave you up. oh, dearest, if that had happened, the light would have gone out of the world for me. i suppose that some day in the far future--one of us must leave the other; but at least we shall have had our happiness and there will be memories to live with. i meant to cheer you up--and instead i have to cheer myself. for in spite of being happier than i ever dreamed i could be, i'm also soberer. the fear that something may happen rests like a shadow on my heart. always before i could be frivolous and care-free and unconcerned, because i had nothing precious to lose. but now--i shall have a great big worry all the rest of my life. whenever you are away from me i shall be thinking of all the automobiles that can run over you, or the sign-boards that can fall on your head, or the dreadful, squirmy germs that you may be swallowing. my peace of mind is gone for ever--but anyway, i never cared much for just plain peace. please get well--fast--fast--fast. i want to have you close by where i can touch you and make sure you are tangible. such a little half hour we had together! i'm afraid maybe i dreamed it. if i were only a member of your family (a very distant fourth cousin) then i could come and visit you every day, and read aloud and plump up your pillow and smooth out those two little wrinkles in your forehead and make the corners of your mouth turn up in a nice cheerful smile. but you are cheerful again, aren't you? you were yesterday before i left. the doctor said i must be a good nurse, that you looked ten years younger. i hope that being in love doesn't make every one ten years younger. will you still care for me, darling, if i turn out to be only eleven? yesterday was the most wonderful day that could ever happen. if i live to be ninety-nine i shall never forget the tiniest detail. the girl that left lock willow at dawn was a very different person from the one who came back at night. mrs. semple called me at half-past four. i started wide awake in the darkness and the first thought that popped into my head was, 'i am going to see daddy-long-legs!' i ate breakfast in the kitchen by candle-light, and then drove the five miles to the station through the most glorious october colouring. the sun came up on the way, and the swamp maples and dogwood glowed crimson and orange and the stone walls and cornfields sparkled with hoar frost; the air was keen and clear and full of promise. i knew something was going to happen. all the way in the train the rails kept singing, 'you're going to see daddy-long-legs.' it made me feel secure. i had such faith in daddy's ability to set things right. and i knew that somewhere another man--dearer than daddy--was wanting to see me, and somehow i had a feeling that before the journey ended i should meet him, too. and you see! when i came to the house on madison avenue it looked so big and brown and forbidding that i didn't dare go in, so i walked around the block to get up my courage. but i needn't have been a bit afraid; your butler is such a nice, fatherly old man that he made me feel at home at once. 'is this miss abbott?' he said to me, and i said, 'yes,' so i didn't have to ask for mr. smith after all. he told me to wait in the drawing-room. it was a very sombre, magnificent, man's sort of room. i sat down on the edge of a big upholstered chair and kept saying to myself: 'i'm going to see daddy-long-legs! i'm going to see daddy-long-legs!' then presently the man came back and asked me please to step up to the library. i was so excited that really and truly my feet would hardly take me up. outside the door he turned and whispered, 'he's been very ill, miss. this is the first day he's been allowed to sit up. you'll not stay long enough to excite him?' i knew from the way he said it that he loved you--and i think he's an old dear! then he knocked and said, 'miss abbott,' and i went in and the door closed behind me. it was so dim coming in from the brightly lighted hall that for a moment i could scarcely make out anything; then i saw a big easy chair before the fire and a shining tea table with a smaller chair beside it. and i realized that a man was sitting in the big chair propped up by pillows with a rug over his knees. before i could stop him he rose--rather shakily--and steadied himself by the back of the chair and just looked at me without a word. and then--and then--i saw it was you! but even with that i didn't understand. i thought daddy had had you come there to meet me or a surprise. then you laughed and held out your hand and said, 'dear little judy, couldn't you guess that i was daddy-long-legs?' in an instant it flashed over me. oh, but i have been stupid! a hundred little things might have told me, if i had had any wits. i wouldn't make a very good detective, would i, daddy? jervie? what must i call you? just plain jervie sounds disrespectful, and i can't be disrespectful to you! it was a very sweet half hour before your doctor came and sent me away. i was so dazed when i got to the station that i almost took a train for st louis. and you were pretty dazed, too. you forgot to give me any tea. but we're both very, very happy, aren't we? i drove back to lock willow in the dark but oh, how the stars were shining! and this morning i've been out with colin visiting all the places that you and i went to together, and remembering what you said and how you looked. the woods today are burnished bronze and the air is full of frost. it's climbing weather. i wish you were here to climb the hills with me. i am missing you dreadfully, jervie dear, but it's a happy kind of missing; we'll be together soon. we belong to each other now really and truly, no make-believe. doesn't it seem queer for me to belong to someone at last? it seems very, very sweet. and i shall never let you be sorry for a single instant. yours, for ever and ever, judy ps. this is the first love-letter i ever wrote. isn't it funny that i know how? available by internet archive (https://archive.org) note: project gutenberg also has an html version of this file which includes the original illustrations. see -h.htm or -h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/ / -h/ -h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/ / -h.zip) images of the original pages are available through internet archive. see https://archive.org/details/famousgiversthei bolt famous givers and their gifts * * * * * * mrs. bolton's famous books. "_mrs. bolton never fails to interest and instruct her readers._"--chicago inter-ocean. poor boys who became famous $ . girls who became famous . famous men of science . famous american statesmen . famous english statesmen . famous american authors . famous english authors . famous european artists . famous types of womanhood . famous voyagers and explorers . famous leaders among men . famous leaders among women . famous givers and their gifts . stories from life . _for sale by all booksellers. send for catalogue._ thomas y. crowell & co. new york & boston. * * * * * * [illustration: stephen girard. (used by courtesy of henry a. ingram.)] famous givers and their gifts by sarah knowles bolton author of "poor boys who became famous," "girls who became famous," "famous american authors," "famous american statesmen," "famous men of science," "famous european artists," "famous types of womanhood," "stories from life," "from heart and nature" (poems), "famous english authors," "famous english statesmen," "famous voyagers," "famous leaders among women," "famous leaders among men," "the inevitable, and other poems," etc. "_for none of us liveth to himself._" new york: east th street thomas y. crowell & company boston: purchase street copyright, , by thomas y. crowell & company. typography by c. j. peters & son, boston, u.s.a. to the memory of william frederick poole, the originator of "poole's index." preface. while it is interesting to see how men have built up fortunes, as a rule, through industry, saving, and great energy, it is even more interesting to see how those fortunes have been or may be used for the benefit of mankind. in a volume of this size, of course, it is impossible to speak of but few out of many who have given generously of their wealth, both in this country and abroad. the book has been written with the hope that others may be incited to give through reading it, and may see the results of their giving in their lifetime. a sketch of george peabody may be found in "poor boys who became famous;" a sketch of johns hopkins in "how success is won." s. k. b. contents. page john lowell, jr., and his free lectures stephen girard and his college for orphans andrew carnegie and his libraries thomas holloway; his sanatorium and college charles pratt and his institute thomas guy and his hospital sophia smith and her college for women james lick and his telescope leland stanford and his university captain thomas coram and his foundling asylum henry shaw and his botanical garden james smithson and the smithsonian institution pratt, lenox, mary macrae stuart, newberry, crerar, astor, reynolds and their libraries frederick h. rindge and his gifts anthony j. drexel and his institute philip d. armour and his institute leonard case and his school of applied science asa packer and lehigh university cornelius vanderbilt and vanderbilt university baron maurice de hirsch isaac rich and boston university daniel b. fayerweather and others catharine lorillard wolfe mary elizabeth garrett mrs. anna ottendorfer daniel p. stone and valeria g. stone samuel williston john f. slater and daniel hand george t. angell william w. corcoran john d. rockefeller and chicago university john lowell, jr., and his free lectures. there is often something pathetic about a great gift. the only son of leland stanford dies, and the millions which he would have inherited are used to found a noble institution on the pacific coast. the only son of henry f. durant, the noted boston lawyer, dies, and the sorrowing father and mother use their fortune to build beautiful wellesley college. the only son of amasa stone is drowned while at yale college, and his father builds adelbert college of western reserve university, to honor his boy, and bless his city and state. john lowell, jr., early bereft of his wife and two daughters, his only children, builds a lasting monument for himself, in his free lectures for the people, for all time,--the lowell institute of boston. john lowell, jr., was born in boston, mass., may , , of distinguished ancestry. his great-grandfather, the rev. john lowell, was the first minister of newburyport. his grandfather, judge john lowell, was one of the framers of the massachusetts constitution in . he inserted in the bill of rights the clause declaring that "all men are born free and equal," for the purpose, as he said, of abolishing slavery in massachusetts; and offered his services to any slave who desired to establish his right to freedom under that clause. his position was declared to be constitutional by the supreme court of the state in , since which time slavery has had no legal existence in massachusetts. in he was elected a member of the continental congress, and appointed by president washington a judge of the district court of massachusetts; in president adams appointed him chief justice of the circuit court. he was brilliant in conversation, an able scholar, and an honest and patriotic leader. he was for eighteen years a member of the corporation of harvard college. judge lowell had three sons, john, francis cabot, and charles. john, a lawyer, was prominent in all good work, such as the establishment of the massachusetts general hospital, the provident institution for savings in the city of boston, the massachusetts agricultural society, and other helpful projects. "he considered wealth," said edward everett, "to be no otherwise valuable but as a powerful instrument of doing good. his liberality went to the extent of his means; and where they stopped, he exercised an almost unlimited control over the means of others. it was difficult to resist the contagion of his enthusiasm; for it was the enthusiasm of a strong, cultivated, and practical mind." [illustration: john lowell, jr. (from "the lowell institute," by harriette knight smith, published by lamson, wolffe & co., boston.)] francis cabot, the second son, was the father of the noted giver, john lowell, jr. charles, the third son, became an eminent boston minister, and was the father of the poet, james russell lowell. on his mother's side the ancestors of john lowell, jr., were also prominent. his maternal grandfather, jonathan jackson, was a generous man of means, a member of the congress of , and at the close of the revolutionary war largely the creditor of the commonwealth of massachusetts. he was the treasurer of the state and of cambridge university. john lowell, jr., must have inherited from such ancestors a love of country, a desire for knowledge, and good executive ability. he was reared in a home of comfort and intelligence. his father, francis cabot, was a successful merchant, a man of great energy, strength of mind, and integrity of character. in , when young john was about eleven years old, the health of his father having become impaired, the lowell family went to england for rest and change. the boy was placed at the high school of edinburgh, where he won many friends by his lovable qualities, and his intense desire to gain information. when he came back to america with his parents, he entered harvard college in , when he was fourteen years old. he was a great reader, especially along the line of foreign travel, and had a better knowledge of geography than most men. after two years at cambridge, he was obliged to give up the course from ill health, and seek a more active live. when he was seventeen, and the year following, he made two voyages to india, and acquired a passion for study and travel in the east. his father, meantime, had become deeply interested in the manufacture of cotton in america. the war of had interrupted our commerce with europe, and america had been compelled to manufacture many things for herself. in mr. samuel slater had brought from england the knowledge of the inventions of arkwright for spinning cotton. these inventions were so carefully guarded from the public that it was almost impossible for any one to leave england who had worked in a cotton-mill and understood the process of manufacture. parliament had prohibited the exportation of the new machinery. without the knowledge of his parents, samuel slater sailed to america, carrying the complicated machinery in his mind. at pawtucket, r.i., he set up some arkwright machinery from memory, and, after years of effort and obstacles, became successful and wealthy. mr. lowell determined to weave cotton, and if possible use the thread already made in this country. he proposed to his brother-in-law, mr. patrick tracy jackson, that they put some money into experiments, and try to make a power-loom, as this newly invented machine could not be obtained from abroad. they procured the model of a common loom, and after repeated failures succeeded in reinventing a fairly good power-loom. the thread obtained from other mills not proving available for their looms, spinning machinery was constructed, and land was purchased on the merrimac river for their mills; in time a large manufacturing city gathered about them, and was named lowell, for the energetic and upright manufacturer. when the war of was over, mr. lowell knew that the overloaded markets of europe and india would pour their cotton and other goods into the united states. he therefore went to washington in the winter of , and after overcoming much opposition, obtained a protective tariff for cotton manufacture. "the minimum duty on cotton fabrics," says edward everett, "the corner-stone of the system, was proposed by mr. lowell, and is believed to have been an original conception on his part. to this provision of law, the fruit of the intelligence and influence of mr. lowell, new england owes that branch of industry which has made her amends for the diminution of her foreign trade; which has left her prosperous under the exhausting drain of her population to the west; which has brought a market for his agricultural produce to the farmer's door; and which, while it has conferred these blessings on this part of the country, has been productive of good, and nothing but good, to every other portion of it." at mr. lowell's death he left a large fortune to his four children, three sons and a daughter, of whom john lowell, jr., was the eldest. like his father, john was a successful merchant; but as his business was carried on largely with the east indies, he had leisure for reading. he had one of the best private libraries in boston, and knew the contents of his books. he did not forget his duties to his city. he was several times a member of the common council and the legislature of the state, believing that no person has a right to shirk political responsibility. in the midst of this happy and useful life, surrounded by those who were dear to him, in the years and , when he was thirty-two years of age, came the crushing blow to his domestic joy. his wife and both children died, and his home was broken up. he sought relief in travel, and in the summer of made a tour of the western states. in the autumn of the same year, november, , he sailed for europe, intending to be absent for some months, or even years. as though he had a premonition that his life would be a brief one, and that he might never return, he made his will before leaving america, giving about two hundred and fifty thousand dollars--half of his property--"to found and sustain free lectures," "for the promotion of the moral and intellectual and physical instruction or education of the citizens of boston." the will provides for courses in physics, chemistry, botany, zoölogy, mineralogy, the literature of our own and foreign nations, and historical and internal evidences in favor of christianity. the management of the whole fund, with the selection of lecturers, is left to one trustee, who shall choose his successor; that trustee to be, "in preference to all others, some male descendant of my grandfather, john lowell, provided there be one who is competent to hold the office of trustee, and of the name of lowell." the trustees of the boston athenæum are empowered to look over the accounts each year, but have no voice in the selection of the lecturers. "the trustee," says mr. lowell in his will, "may also from time to time establish lectures on any subject that, in his opinion, the wants and taste of the age may demand." none of the money given by will is ever to be used in buildings; mr. lowell probably having seen that money is too often put into brick and stone to perpetuate the name of the donor, while there is no income for the real work in hand. ten per cent of the income of the lowell fund is to be added annually to the principal. it is believed that through wise investing the fund is already doubled, and perhaps trebled. "the idea of a foundation of this kind," says edward everett, "on which, unconnected with any place of education, provision is made, in the midst of a large commercial population, for annual courses of instruction by public lectures, to be delivered gratuitously to all who choose to attend them, as far as it is practicable within our largest halls, is, i believe, original with mr. lowell. i am not aware that, among all the munificent establishments of europe, there is anything of this description upon a large scale." after mr. lowell reached europe in the fall of , he spent the winter in paris, and the summer in england, scotland, and ireland. he was all the time preparing for his eastern journey,--in the study of languages, and the knowledge of instruments by which to make notes of the course of winds, the temperature, atmospheric phenomena, the height of mountains, and other matters of interest in the far-off lands which he hoped to enter. lord glenelg, the secretary of state for the colonies, gave him special facilities for his proposed tour into the interior of india. the winter of was spent in the southwestern part of france, in visiting the principal cities of lombardy, in nice and genoa, reaching florence early in february, . in rome he engaged a swiss artist, an excellent draftsman and painter, to accompany him, and make sketches of scenery, ruins, and costumes throughout his whole journey. after some time spent in naples and vicinity, he devoted a month to the island of sicily. he writes to princess galitzin, the granddaughter of the famous marshal suvorof, whom he had met in florence: "clear and beautiful are the skies in sicily, and there is a warmth of tint about the sunsets unrivalled even in italy. it resembles what one finds under the tropics; and so does the vegetation. it is rich and luxuriant. the palm begins to appear; the palmetto, the aloe, and the cactus adorn every woodside; the superb oleander bathes its roots in almost every brook; the pomegranate and a large species of convolvulus are everywhere seen. in short, the variety of flowers is greater than that of the prairies in the western states of america, though i think their number is less. our rudbeckia is, i think, more beautiful than the chrysanthemum coronarium which you see all over sicily; but there are the orange and the lemon." mr. lowell travelled in greece, and july reached athens, "that venerable, ruined, dirty little town," he wrote, "of which the streets are most narrow and nearly impassable; but the poor remains of whose ancient taste in the arts exceed in beauty everything i have yet seen in either italy, sicily, or any other portions of greece." late in september mr. lowell reached smyrna, and visited the ruins of magnesia, tralles, nysa, laodicea, tripolis, and hierapolis. he writes to a friend in america; "i then crossed mount messogis in the rain, and descended into the basin of the river hermus, visited philadelphia, the picturesque site of sardis, with its inaccessible citadel, and two solitary but beautiful ionic columns." early in december mr. lowell sailed from smyrna in a greek brig, coasting along the islands of mitylene, samos, patmos, and rhodes, arrived in alexandria in the latter part of the month, and proceeded up the river nile. on feb. , , he writes to his friends from the top of the great pyramid:-- "the prospect is most beautiful. on the one side is the boundless desert, varied only by a few low ridges of limestone hills. then you have heaps of sand, and a surface of sand reduced to so fine a powder, and so easily agitated by the slightest breeze that it almost deserves the name of fluid. then comes the rich, verdant valley of the nile, studded with villages, adorned with green date-trees, traversed by the father of rivers, with the magnificent city of cairo on its banks; but far narrower than one could wish, as it is bounded, at a distance of some fifteen miles, by the arabian desert, and the abrupt calcareous ridge of mokattam. immediately below the spectator lies the city of the dead, the innumerable tombs, the smaller pyramids, the sphinx, and still farther off and on the same line, to the south, the pyramids of abou seer, sakkârà, and dashoor." while journeying in egypt, mr. lowell, from the effects of the climate, was severely attacked by intermittent, fever; but partially recovering, proceeded to thebes, and established his temporary home on the ruins of a palace at luxor. after examining many of its wonderful structures carved with the names and deeds of the pharaohs, he was again prostrated by illness, and feared that he should not recover. he had thought out more details about his noble gift to the people of boston; and, sick and among strangers, he completed in that ancient land his last will for the good of humanity. "the few sentences," says mr. everett, "penned with a tired hand, on the top of a palace of the pharaohs, will do more for human improvement than, for aught that appears, was done by all of that gloomy dynasty that ever reigned." mr. lowell somewhat regained his health, and proceeded to sioot, the capital of upper egypt, to lay in the stores needed for his journey to nubia. while at sioot, he saw the great caravan of darfour in central africa, which comes to the nile once in two years, and is two or three months in crossing the desert. it usually consists of about six hundred merchants, four thousand slaves, and six thousand camels laden with ivory, tamarinds, ostrich-feathers, and provisions for use on the journey. mr. lowell writes in his journal: "the immense number of tall and lank but powerful camels was the first object that attracted our attention in the caravan. the long and painful journey, besides killing perhaps a quarter of the original number, had reduced the remainder to the condition of skeletons, and rendered their natural ugliness still more appalling. their skins were stretched, like moistened parchment scorched by the fire, over their strong ribs. their eyes stood out from their shrunken foreheads; and the arched backbone of the animals rose sharp and prominent above their sides, like a butcher's cleaver. the fat that usually accompanies the middle of the backbone, and forms with it the camel's bunch, had entirely disappeared. they had occasion for it, as well as for the reservoir of water with which a bountiful nature has furnished them, to enable them to undergo the laborious journey and the painful fasts of the desert. their sides were gored with the heavy burdens they had carried. "the sun was setting. the little slaves of the caravan had just driven in from their dry pasture of thistles, parched grass, and withered herbage these most patient and obedient animals, so essential to travellers in the great deserts, and without which it would be as impossible to cross them as to traverse the ocean without vessels. their conductors made them kneel down, and gradually poured beans between their lengthened jaws. the camels, not having been used to this food, did not like it; they would have greatly preferred a bit of old, worn-out mat, as we have found to our cost in the desert. the most mournful cries, something between the braying of an ass and the lowing of a cow, assailed our ears in all directions, because these poor creatures were obliged to eat what was not good for them; but they offered no resistance otherwise. when transported to the nile, it is said that the change of food and water kills most of them in a little time." in june mr. lowell resumed his journey up the nile, and was again ill for some weeks. the thermometer frequently stood at degrees. he visited khartoom, and then travelled for fourteen days across the desert of nubia to sowakeen, a small port on the western coast of the red sea. near here, dec. , he was shipwrecked on the island of dassá, and nearly lost his life. in a rainstorm the little vessel ran upon the rocks. "all my people behaved well," mr. lowell writes. "yanni alone, the youngest of them, showed by a few occasional exclamations that it is hard to look death in the face at seventeen, when all the illusions of life are entire. as for swimming, i have not strength for that, especially in my clothes, and so thorough a ducking and exposure might of itself make an end of me." finally they were rescued, and sailed for mocha, reaching that place on the st of january, . mr. lowell was much exhausted from exposure and his recent illness. his last letters were written, jan. , at mocha, while waiting for a british steamer on her way to bombay, india. from mr. lowell's journal it is seen that the steamboat hugh lindsay arrived at mocha from suez, jan. ; that mr. lowell sailed on the d, and arrived at bombay, feb. . he had reached the east only to die. after three weeks of illness, he expired, march , , a little less than thirty-seven years of age. for years he had studied about india and china, and had made himself ready for valuable research; but his plans were changed by an overruling power in whom he had always trusted. mr. lowell had wisely provided for a greater work than research in the east, the benefits of which are inestimable and unending. free public lectures for the people of boston on the lowell foundation were begun on the evening of dec. , , by a memorial address on mr. lowell by edward everett, in the odeon, then at the corner of federal and franklin streets, before two thousand persons. the first course of lectures was on geology, given by that able scientist, professor benjamin silliman of yale college. "so great was his popularity," says harriette knight smith in the _new england magazine_ for february, , "that on the giving out of tickets for his second course, on chemistry, the following season, the eager crowds filled the adjacent streets, and crushed in the windows of the 'old corner bookstore,' the place of distribution, so that provision for the same had to be made elsewhere. to such a degree did the enthusiasm of the public reach at that time, in its desire to attend these lectures, that it was found necessary to open books in advance to receive the names of subscribers, the number of tickets being distributed by lot. sometimes the number of applicants for a single course was eight or ten thousand." the same number of the magazine contains a valuable list of all the speakers at the institute since its beginning. the usual method now is to advertise the lectures in the boston papers a week or more in advance; and then all persons desiring to attend meet at a designated place, and receive tickets in the order of their coming. at the appointed hour, the doors of the building where the lectures are given are closed, and no one is admitted after the speaker begins. not long since i met a gentleman who had travelled seven miles to attend a lecture, and failed to obtain entrance. harriette knight smith says, "this rule was at first resisted to such a degree that a reputable gentleman was taken to the lockup and compelled to pay a fine for kicking his way through an entrance door. finally the rule was submitted to, and in time praised and copied." for seven years the lowell institute lectures were given in the odeon, and for thirteen years in marlboro chapel, between washington and tremont, winter and bromfield streets. since they have been heard in huntington hall, boylston street, in the rogers building of the massachusetts institute of technology. since the establishment of the free lectures, over five thousand have been given to the people by some of the most eminent and learned men of both hemispheres,--lyell, tyndall, wallace, holmes, lowell, bryce, and more than three hundred others. sir charles lyell lectured on geology, professor asa gray on botany, oliver wendell holmes on english poetry of the nineteenth century, e. h. davis on mounds and earthworks of the mississippi valley, lieutenant m. f. maury on winds and currents of the sea, mark hopkins (president of williams college) on moral philosophy, charles eliot norton on the thirteenth century, henry barnard on national education, samuel eliot on evidences of christianity, burt g. wilder on the silk spider of south carolina, w. d. howells on italian poets of our century, professor john tyndall on light and heat, dr. isaac i. hayes on arctic discoveries, richard a. proctor on astronomy, general francis a. walker on money, hon. carroll d. wright on the labor question, h. h. boyesen on the icelandic saga literature, the rev. j. g. wood on structure of animal life, the rev. h. r. haweis on music and morals, alfred russell wallace on darwinism and some of its applications, the rev. g. frederick wright on the ice age in north america, professor james geikie on europe during and after the ice age, john fiske on the discovery and colonization of america, professor henry drummond on the evolution of man, president eliot of harvard college on recent educational changes and tendencies. professor tyndall, after his lowell lectures, gave the ten thousand dollars which he had received for his labors in america in scholarships to the university of pennsylvania, harvard university, and columbia college. mr. john amory lowell, a cousin of john lowell, jr., and the trustee appointed by him, at the suggestion of lyell, a mutual friend, invited louis agassiz to come to boston, and give a course of lectures before the institute in . he came; and the visit resulted in the building, by mr. abbott lawrence, of the lawrence scientific school in connection with harvard college, and the retaining of the brilliant and noble agassiz in this country as a professor of zoölogy and geology. the influence of such lectures upon the intellectual growth and moral welfare of a city can scarcely be estimated. it is felt through the state, and eventually through the nation. mr. lowell in his will planned also for other lectures, "those more erudite and particular for students;" and for twenty years there have been "lowell free courses of instruction in the institute of technology," given usually in the evening in the classrooms of the professors. these are the same lectures usually given to regular students, and are free alike to men and women over eighteen years of age. these courses of instruction include mathematics, mechanics, physics, drawing, chemistry, geology, natural history, navigation, biology, english, french, german, history, architecture, and engineering. through the generosity of mr. lowell, every person in boston may become educated, if he or she have the time and desire. over three thousand such lectures have been given. for many years the lowell institute has furnished instruction in science to the school-teachers of boston. it now furnishes lectures on practical and scientific subjects to workingmen, under the auspices of the wells memorial workingmen's institute. as the university extension lectures carry the college to the people, so more and more the lowell fund is carrying helpful and practical intelligence to every nook and corner of a great city. young people are stimulated to endeavor, encouraged to save time in which to gain knowledge, and to become useful and honorable citizens. when more "settlements" are established in all the waste places, we shall have so many the more centres for the diffusion of intellectual and moral aid. who shall estimate the power and value of such a gift to the people as that of john lowell, jr.? the hon. edward everett said truly, "it will be, from generation to generation, a perennial source of public good,--a dispensation of sound science, of useful knowledge, of truth in its most important associations with the destiny of man. these are blessings which cannot die. they will abide when the sands of the desert shall have covered what they have hitherto spared of the egyptian temples; and they will render the name of lowell in all-wise and moral estimation more truly illustrious than that of any pharaoh engraven on their walls." the gift of john lowell, jr., has resulted in other good work besides the public lectures. in a free drawing-school was established in marlboro chapel, and continued successfully for twenty-nine years, till the building was taken for business purposes. the pupils were required to draw from real objects only, through the whole course. in the lowell school of practical design, for the purpose of promoting industrial art in the united states, was established, and the massachusetts institute of technology assumed the responsibility of conducting it. the lowell institute bears the expenses of the school, and tuition is free to all pupils. there is a drawing-room and a weaving-room, though applicants must be able to draw from nature before they enter. in the weaving-room are two fancy chain-looms for dress-goods, three fancy chain-looms for woollen cassimeres, one gingham loom, and one jacquard loom. samples of brocaded silk, ribbons, alpacas, and fancy woollen goods are constantly provided for the school from paris and elsewhere. the course of study requires three years; and students are taught the art of designing, and making patterns from prints, ginghams, delaines, silks, laces, paper-hangings, carpets, oilcloths, etc. they can also weave their designs into actual fabrics of commercial sizes of every variety of material. the school has proved a most helpful and beneficent institution. it is an inspiration to visit it, and see the happy and earnest faces of the young workers, fitting themselves for useful positions in life. the lowell institute has been fortunate in its management. mr. john amory lowell was the able trustee for more than forty years; and the present trustee, mr. augustus lowell, like his father, has the great work much at heart. dr. benjamin e. cotting, the curator from the formation of the institute, a period of more than half a century, has won universal esteem for his ability, as also for his extreme courtesy and kindness. john lowell, jr., humanly speaking, died before his lifework was scarcely begun. the studious, modest boy, the thorough, conscientious man, planning a journey to africa and india, not for pleasure merely, but for helpfulness to science and humanity, died just as he entered the long sought-for land. a man of warm affections, he went out from a broken home to die among strangers. he was so careful of his moments that, says mr. everett, "he spared no time for the frivolous pleasures of youth; less, perhaps, than his health required for its innocent relaxations, and for exercise." whether or not he realized that the time was short, he accomplished more in his brief thirty-seven years than many men in fourscore and ten. it would have been easy to spend two hundred and fifty thousand dollars in houses and lands, in fine equipage and social festivities; but mr. lowell had a higher purpose in life. after five weeks of illness, thousands of miles from all who were dear to him, on the ruins of thebes, in an arab village built on the remains of an ancient palace, mr. lowell penned these words: "as the most certain and the most important part of true philosophy appears to me to be that which shows the connection between god's revelations and the knowledge of good and evil implanted by him in our nature, i wish a course of lectures to be given on natural religion, showing its conformity to that of our saviour. "for the more perfect demonstration of the truth of those moral and religious precepts, by which alone, as i believe, men can be secure of happiness in this world and that to come, i wish a course of lectures to be delivered on the historical and internal evidences in favor of christianity. i wish all disputed points of faith and ceremony to be avoided, and the attention of the lecturers to be directed to the moral doctrines of the gospel, stating their opinion, if they will, but not engaging in controversy, even on the subject of the penalty for disobedience. as the prosperity of my native land, new england, which is sterile and unproductive, must depend hereafter, as it has heretofore depended, first on the moral qualities, and second on the intelligence and information of its inhabitants, i am desirous of trying to contribute towards this second object also." the friend of the people, mr. lowell desired that they should learn from the greatest minds of the age without expense to themselves. it should be an absolutely free gift. the words from the theban ruins have had their ever broadening influence through half a century. what shall be the result for good many centuries from now? tens of thousands of fortunes have been and will be spent for self, and the names of the owners will be forgotten. john lowell, jr., did not live for himself, and his name will be remembered. others in this country have adopted somewhat mr. lowell's plan of giving. the hon. oakes ames, the great shovel manufacturer, member of congress for ten years, and builder of the union pacific railroad, left at his death, may , , a fund of fifty thousand dollars "for the benefit of the school children of north easton, mass." the income is thirty-five hundred dollars a year, part of which is used in furnishing magazines to children--each family having children in the schools is supplied with some magazine; part for an industrial school where they are taught the use of tools; and part for free lectures yearly to the school children, adults also having the benefit of them. thirty or more lectures are given each winter upon interesting and profitable subjects by able lecturers. some of the subjects already discussed are as follows: the great yellowstone park, a journey among the planets, the chemistry of a match, paris, its gardens and palaces, a basket of charcoal, tobacco and liquors, battle of gettysburg, the story of the jeannette, palestine, electricity, picturesque mexico, the sponge and starfish, sweden, physiology, history of a steam-engine, heroes and historic places of the revolution, the four napoleons, the world's fair, the civil war, and others. what better way to spend an evening than in listening to such lectures? what better way to use one's money than in laying the foundation of intelligent and good citizenship in childhood and youth? the press of north easton says, "the influence and educational power of such a series of lectures and course of instruction in a community cannot be measured or properly gauged. from these lectures a stream of knowledge has gone out which, we believe, will bear fruit in the future for the good of the community. of the many good things which have come from the liberality of mr. ames, this, we believe, has been the most potent for good of any." judge white of lawrence, mass., left at his death a tract of land in the hands of three trustees, which they were to sell, and use the income to provide a course of not less than six lectures yearly, especially to the industrial classes. the subjects were to be along the line of good morals, industry, economy, the fruits of sin and of virtue. the white fund amounts to about one hundred thousand dollars. mrs. mary hemenway of boston, who died march , , will always be remembered for her good works, not the least of which are the yearly courses of free lectures for young people at the old south church. when the meeting-house where benjamin franklin was baptized, where the town meeting was held after the boston massacre in , and just before the tea was thrown overboard in , and which the british troops used for a riding-school in ,--when this historic place was in danger of being torn down because business interests seemed to demand the location, mrs. hemenway, with other boston women, came forward in to save it. she once said to mr. larkin dunton, head master of the boston normal school, "i have just given a hundred thousand dollars to save the old south; yet i care nothing for the church on the corner lot. but, if i live, such teaching shall be done in that old building, and such an influence shall go out from it, as shall make the children of future generations love their country so tenderly that there can never be another civil war in this country." mrs. hemenway was patriotic. when asked why she gave one hundred thousand dollars to tileston normal school in wilmington, n.c.,--her maiden name was tileston,--and thus provide for schools in the south, she replied, "when my country called for her sons to defend the flag, i had none to give. mine was but a lad of twelve. i gave my money as a thank-offering that i was not called to suffer as other mothers who gave their sons and lost them. i gave it that the children of this generation might be taught to love the flag their fathers tore down." in december, , miss c. alice baker began at the old south church a series of talks to children on new england history, between eleven and twelve o'clock on saturdays, which she called, "the children's hour." from the relics on the floor and in the gallery, telling of colonial times, she riveted their attention, thus showing to the historical societies of this country how easily they might interest and profit the children of our public schools, if these were allowed to visit museums in small companies with suitable leaders. from this year, , the excellent work has been carried on. every year george washington's birthday is appropriately celebrated at the old south meeting-house, with speeches and singing of national patriotic airs by the children of the public schools. in mr. john fiske, the noted historical writer, gave a course of lectures on saturday mornings upon the discovery and colonization of america. these were followed in succeeding years by his lectures on the american revolution, and others that are now published in book form. these were more especially for the young, but adults seemed just as eager to hear them as young persons. regular courses of free lectures for young people were established in the summer of , more especially for those who did not leave the city during the long summer vacations. the lectures are usually given on wednesday afternoons in july and august. a central topic is chosen for the season, such as early massachusetts history, the war for the union, the war for independence, the birth of the nation, the american indians, etc.; and different persons take part in the course. with each lecture a leaflet of four or eight pages is given to those who attend, and these leaflets can be bound at the end of the season for a small sum. "these are made up, for the most part, from original papers treated in the lectures," says mr. edwin d. mead who prepares them, "in the hope to make the men and the public life of the periods more clear and real." these leaflets are very valuable, the subjects being, "the voyages to vinland, from the saga of eric the red," "marco polo's account of japan and java," "the death of de soto from the narrative of a gentleman of elvas," etc. they are furnished to the schools at the bare cost of paper and printing. mr. mead, the scholarly author, and editor of the _new england magazine_, has been untiring in the old south work, and has been the means of several other cities adopting like methods for the study of early history, especially by young people. every year since four prizes, two of forty dollars, and two of twenty-five dollars each, have been offered to high school pupils soon to graduate, and also to those recently graduated, for the best essays on assigned topics of american history. those who compete and do not win a prize receive a present of valuable books in recognition of their effort. from the first, mrs. hemenway was the enthusiastic friend and promoter of the old south work. she spent five thousand a year, for many years, in carrying it forward, and left provision for its continuation at her death. it is not too much to say that these free lectures have stimulated the study of our early history all over the country, and made us more earnest lovers of our flag and of our nation. the world has little respect for a "man without a country." "breathes there the man with soul so dead who never to himself hath said, 'this is my own, my native land!' whose heart hath ne'er within him burned as home his footsteps he hath turned from wandering on a foreign strand?" mrs. hemenway did not cease her good work with her free lectures for young people. it is scarcely easier to stop in an upward career than in a downward. when the heart and hand are once opened to the world's needs, they can nevermore be closed. mrs. hemenway, practical with all her wealth, believed that everybody should know how to work, and thus not only be placed above want, but dignify labor. she said, "in my youth, girls in the best families were accustomed to participate in many of the household affairs. some occasionally assisted in other homes. as for myself, i read not many books. they were not so numerous as now. i was reared principally on household duties, the bible, and shakespeare." mrs. hemenway began by establishing kitchen gardens in boston, opened on saturdays. i remember going to one of them at the north end, in , through the invitation of mrs. hemenway's able assistant, miss amy morris homans. in a large, plain room of the "mission" i found twenty-four bright little girls seated at two long tables. they were eager, interesting children, but most had on torn and soiled dresses and poor shoes. in front of each stood a tiny box, used as a table, on which were four plates, each a little over an inch wide; four knives, each three inches long, and forks to correspond; goblets, and cups and saucers of the same diminutive sizes. at a signal from the piano, the girls began to set the little tables properly. first the knives and forks were put in their places, then the very small napkins, and then the goblets. in front of the "lady of the house" were set the cups and saucers, spoon-holder, water-pitcher, and coffee-pot. then they listened to a useful and pleasant talk from the leader; and when the order was given to clear the tables, twenty-four pairs of little hands put the pewter dishes, made to imitate silver, into a pitcher, and the other things into dishpans, about four or five inches wide, singing a song to the music of the piano as they washed the dishes. these children also learned to sweep and dust, make beds, and perform other household duties. each pupil was given a complete set of new clothes by mrs. hemenway. many persons had petitioned to have sewing taught in the public schools of boston, as in london; but there was opposition, and but little was accomplished. mrs. hemenway started sewing-schools, obtained capable teachers, and in time sewing became a regular part of the public-school work, with a department of sewing in the boston normal school; so that hereafter the teacher will be as able in her department as another in mathematics. drafting, cutting, and fitting have been added in many schools, so that thousands of women will be able to save expense in their homes through the skill of their own hands. mrs. hemenway knew that in many homes food is poorly cooked, and health is thereby impaired. mr. henry c. hardon of boston tells of this conversation between two teachers: "name some one thing that would enable your boys to achieve more, and build up the school."--"a plate of good soup and a thick slice of bread after recess," was the reply. "i could get twice the work before twelve. they want new blood." mrs. hemenway started cooking-schools in boston, which she called school kitchens; and when it was found to be difficult to secure suitable teachers, she established and supported a normal school of cooking. boston, seeing the need of proper teachers in its future work in the schools, has provided a department of cooking in the city normal school. mrs. hemenway believed in strong bodies, aided to become such by physical training. she offered to the school committee of boston to provide for the instruction of a hundred teachers in the swedish system, on condition that they be allowed to use the exercises in their classes in case they chose to do so. the result proved successful, and now over sixty thousand in the public schools take the swedish exercises daily. mrs. hemenway established the boston normal school of gymnastics, from which teachers have gone to radcliffe college, cambridge; bryn mawr, pennsylvania; denver, colorado; drexel institute, philadelphia; their average salary being slightly less than one thousand dollars, the highest salary reaching eighteen hundred dollars. boston has now made the teaching of gymnastics a part of its normal-school work, so that every graduate goes out prepared to direct the work in the school. mrs. hemenway gave generously to aid the boston teachers' mutual benefit association; for she said, "nothing is too good for the boston teachers." she was a busy woman, with no time for fashionable life, though she welcomed to her elegant home all who had any helpful work to do in the world. she used her wealth and her social position to help humanity. she died leaving her impress on a great city and state, and through that upon the nation. new york state and city are now carrying out an admirable plan of free lectures for the people. the state appropriates twenty-five thousand dollars annually that free lectures may be given "in natural history, geography, and kindred subjects by means of pictorial representation and lectures, to the free common schools of each city and village of the state that has, or may have, a superintendent of free common schools." these illustrated lectures may also be given "to artisans, mechanics, and other citizens." this has grown largely out of the excellent work done by professor albert s. bickmore of the american museum of natural history, eighth avenue and seventy-seventh street, central park, new york. in , when the museum was founded, the teachers of the public schools were required to give object-lessons on animals, plants, human anatomy, and physiology, and came to the museum to the curator of the department of ethnology, professor bickmore, for assistance. his lectures, given on saturday forenoons, illustrated by the stereopticon, were upon the body,--the muscular system, nervous system, etc.; the mineral kingdom,--granite, marble, coal, petroleum, iron, etc.; the vegetable kingdom,--evergreens, oaks, elms, etc.; the animal kingdom,--the sea, corals, oysters, butterflies, bees, ants, etc.; physical geography,--the mississippi valley, yellowstone national park, mexico, egypt, greece, italy, west indies, etc.; zoölogy,--fishes, reptiles, and birds, the whale, dogs, seals, lions, monkeys, etc. these lectures became so popular and helpful that the trustees of the museum hired chickering hall for some of the courses, which were attended by over thirteen hundred teachers each week. professor bickmore also gives free illustrated lectures to the people on the afternoons of legal holidays at the museum, under the auspices of the state department of public instruction. new york state has done a thing which might well be copied in other states. each normal school of the state, and each city and village superintendent of schools, may be provided with a stereopticon, all needed lantern slides, and the printed lectures of professor bickmore, for use before the schools. in this way children have object-lessons which they never forget. the museum, in co-operation with the board of education of the city of new york, is providing free lectures for the people at the museum on saturday evenings, by various lecturers. the board, under the direction of dr. henry m. leipziger, is doing good work in its free illustrated lectures for the people in many portions of the city. these are given in the evenings, and often at the grammar-school buildings, a good use to which to put them. such subjects are chosen as the navy in the civil war, the progress of the telegraph, life in the arctic regions, emergencies and how to meet them (by some physician), iron and steel ship-building, the care of the eyes and teeth, burns and scotland, andrew jackson, etc. rich and poor are alike welcome to the lectures, and all classes are present. a city or state that does such work for the people will reap a hundred-fold in coming generations. stephen girard and his college for orphans. near the city of bordeaux, france, on may , , the eldest son of pierre girard and his wife, anne marie lafargue, was born. the family were well-to-do; and pierre was knighted by louis xv. for bravery on board the squadron at brest, in , when france and england were at war. the king gave pierre girard his own sword, which pierre at his death ordered to be placed in his coffin, and it was buried with him. although the girard family were devoted to the sea, pierre wished to have his boys become professional men; and this might have been the case with the eldest son, stephen, had not an accident changed his life. when the boy was eight years old, his right eye was destroyed. some wet oyster-shells were thrown upon a bonfire, and the heat breaking the shells, a ragged piece flew into the eye. to make the calamity worse, his playmates ridiculed his appearance with one eye closed; and he became sensitive, and disinclined to play with any one save his brother jean. he was a grave and dignified lad, inclined to be domineering, and of a quick temper. his mother tried to teach him self-control, and had she lived, would doubtless have softened his nature; but a second mother coming into the home, who had several children of her own, the effect upon stephen was disastrous. she seems not to have understood his nature; and when he rebelled, the father sided with the new love, and bade his son submit, or find a home as best he could. "i will leave your house," replied the passionate boy, hurt in feelings as well as angered. "give me a venture on any ship that sails from bordeaux, and i will go at once, where you shall never see me again." a business acquaintance, captain jean courteau, was about to sail to san domingo in the west indies. pierre girard gave his son sixteen thousand livres, about three thousand dollars; and the lad of fourteen, small for his age, went out into the world as a cabin-boy, to try his fortune. if his mother had been alive he would have been homesick, but as matters were at present the girard house could not be a home to him. his first voyage lasted ten months; the three thousand dollars had gained him some money, and the trip had made him in love with the sea. he returned for a brief time to his brothers and sisters, and then made five other voyages, having attained the rank of lieutenant of the vessel. when he was twenty-three, he was given authority to act as "captain of a merchant vessel," and sailed away from bordeaux forever. after stopping at st. marc's in the island of san domingo, young girard sailed for new york, which he reached in july, . with shrewd business ability he disposed of the articles brought in his ship, and in so doing attracted the interest of a prosperous merchant, mr. thomas randall, who was engaged in trade with new orleans and the west indies. mr. randall asked the energetic young frenchman to take the position of first officer in his ship l'aimable louise. this resulted so satisfactorily that girard was taken into partnership, and became master of the vessel in her trade with new orleans and the west indies. after nearly two years, in may, , girard was returning from the west indies, and in a fog and storm at sea found himself in delaware bay, and learned that a british fleet was outside. the pilot, who had come in answer to the small cannon fired from girard's ship, advised against his going to new york, as he would surely be captured, the revolutionary war having begun. as he had no american money with him, a philadelphia gentleman who came with the pilot loaned him five dollars. this five-dollar loan proved a blessing to the quaker city, when in after years she received millions from the merchant who came by accident into her borders. captain girard sold his interest in l'aimable louise, and opened a small store on water street, putting into it his cargo from the west indies. he hoped to go to sea again as soon as the war should be over, and conferred with mr. lum, a plain shipbuilder near him on water street, about building a ship for him. mr. lum had an unusually beautiful daughter, mary, a girl of sixteen, with black hair and eyes, and very fair complexion. though eleven years older than mary, stephen girard fell in love with her, and was married to her, june , , before his family could object, as they soon did strenuously, when they learned that she was poor and below him in social rank. about three years after the marriage, jean visited his brother stephen in america, and seems to have appreciated the beautiful and modest girl to whom the family were so opposed. henry atlee ingram, ll.b., in his life of girard, quotes several letters from jean after he had returned to france, or when at cape françois, san domingo: "be so kind as to assure my dear sister-in-law of my true affection.... say a thousand kind things to her for me, and assure her of my unalterable friendship.... thousands and thousands of friendly wishes to your dear wife. say to her that if anything from here would give her pleasure, to ask me for it. i will do everything in the world to prove to her my attachment.... i send by derussy the jar which your lovely wife filled for me with gherkins, full of an excellent guava jelly for you people, besides two orange-trees. he has promised me to take care of them. i hope he will, and embrace, as well as you, my ever dear mary." three or four months after his marriage, lord howe having threatened the city, mr. girard took his young wife to mount holly, n.j., to a little farm of five or six acres which he had purchased the previous year for five hundred dollars. here they lived in a one-story-and-a-half frame house for over a year, when they returned to philadelphia and he resumed his business. he had decided already to become a citizen of the republic, and took the oath of allegiance, oct. , . mr. lum at once began to build the sloop which mr. girard was planning when he first met mary, and she was named the water-witch. until she was shipwrecked, five or six years later, mr. girard believed she could never cause him loss. already he was worth over one hundred and fifty thousand dollars, made by his own energy, prudence, and ability; but he lived with great simplicity, and was accumulating wealth rapidly. in he built his second vessel, named, in compliment to jean, the two brothers. the next year, , when he was thirty-five years old, the great sorrow of his life came upon him. the beautiful wife, only a little beyond her teens, became melancholy, and then hopelessly insane. mr. ingram believes the eight years of mary girard's married life were happy years, though the contrary has been stated. without doubt mr. girard was very fond of her, though his unbending will and temper, and the ignoring of her relatives, were not calculated to make any woman continuously happy. evidently jean, who had lived in the family, thought no blame attached to his brother; for he wrote from cape françois: "it is impossible to express to you what i felt at such news. i do truly pity the frightful state i imagine you to be in, above all, knowing the regard and love you bear your wife.... conquer your grief, and show yourself by that worthy of being a man; for, dear friend, when one has nothing with which to reproach one's self, no blow, whatsoever it may be, should crush him." after a period of rest, mrs. girard seemed to recover. stephen and jean formed a partnership, and the former sailed to the mediterranean on business for the firm. after three years the partnership was dissolved by mutual consent, stephen preferring to transact business alone. as soon as these matters were settled, he and his wife were to take a journey to france, which country she had long been anxious to visit. probably the family would then see for themselves that the unassuming girl made an amiable, sensible wife for their eldest son. in the midst of preparations, the despondency again returned; and by the advice of physicians, mrs. girard was taken to the pennsylvania hospital, at eighth and spruce streets, aug. , , where she remained till her death in , insane for over twenty-five years. she retained much of the beauty of her girlhood, lived on the first floor of the hospital in large rooms, had the freedom of the grounds, and was "always sitting in the sunlight." her mind became almost a blank; and when the housekeeper came bringing the little daughters of jean, mrs. girard scarcely recognized her. to add still more to mr. girard's sorrow, after his wife had been at the hospital several months, on march , , a daughter was born to her, who was named for the mother, mary girard. the infant was taken into the country to be cared for, and lived but a few months. it was buried in the graveyard of the parish church. bereft of his only child, his home desolate, mr. girard plunged more than ever into the whirl of business. he built six large ships, naming some of them after his favorite authors,--voltaire, helvetius, montesquieu, rousseau, good friends, and north america,--to trade with china and india, and other eastern countries. he would send grain and cotton to bordeaux, where, after unloading, his ships would reload with fruit and wine for st. petersburg. there they would dispose of their cargo, and take on hemp and iron for amsterdam. from there they would go to calcutta and canton, and return, laden with tea and silks, to philadelphia. little was known about the quiet, taciturn frenchman; but every one supposed he was becoming very rich, which was the truth. he was not always successful. he says in one of his letters, "we are all the subjects of what you call 'reverses of fortune.' the great secret is to make good use of fortune, and when reverses come, receive them with _sang froid_, and by redoubled activity and economy endeavor to repair them." his ship montesquieu, from canton, china, arrived within the capes of delaware, march , , not having heard of the war between america and england, and was captured with her valuable cargo, the fruits of the two years' voyage. the ship was valued at $ , , and the cargo over $ , . he immediately tried to ransom her, and did so with $ , in coin. when her cargo was sold, the sales amounted to nearly $ , , so that girard's quickness and good sense, in spite of the ransom, brought him large gains. the teas were sold for over two dollars a pound, on account of their scarcity from the war. mr. girard rose early and worked late. he spent little on clothes or for daily needs. he evidently did not care simply to make money; for he wrote his friend duplessis at new orleans: "i do not value fortune. the love of labor is my highest ambition.... i observe with pleasure that you have a numerous family, that you are happy in the possession of an honest fortune. this is all that a wise man has a right to wish for. as to myself, i live like a galley-slave, constantly occupied, and often passing the night without sleeping. i am wrapped up in a labyrinth of affairs, and worn out with care." to another he wrote: "when i rise in the morning my only effort is to labor so hard during the day that when the night comes i may be enabled to sleep soundly." he had the same strong will as in his boyhood, but he usually controlled his temper. he kept his business to himself, and would not permit his clerks to gossip about his affairs. they had to be men of correct habits while in his employ. having some suspicion of one of the officers of his ship voltaire, he wrote to captain bowen: "i desire you not to permit a drunken or immoral man to remain on board of your ship. whenever such a man makes disturbance, or is disagreeable to the rest of the crew, discharge him whenever you have the opportunity. and if any of my apprentices should not conduct themselves properly, i authorize you to correct them as i would myself. my intention being that they shall learn their business, so after they are free they may be useful to themselves and their country." mr. girard gave minute instructions to all his employees, with the direction that they were to "break owners, not orders." miss louise stockton, in "a sylvan city, or quaint corners in philadelphia," tells the following incident, illustrative of mr. girard's inflexible rule: "he once sent a young supercargo with two ships on a two years' voyage. he was to go first to london, then to amsterdam, and so from port to port, selling and buying, until at last he was to go to mocha, buy coffee, and turn back. at london, however, the young fellow was charged by the barings not to go to mocha, or he would fall into the hands of pirates; at amsterdam they told him the same thing. everywhere the caution was repeated; but he sailed on until he came to the last port before mocha. here he was consigned to a merchant who had been an apprentice to girard in philadelphia; and he, too, told him he must not dare venture near the red sea. "the supercargo was now in a dilemma. on one side was his master's order; on the other, two vessels, a valuable cargo, and a large sum of money. the merchant knew girard's peculiarities as well as the supercargo did; but he thought the rule to "break owners, not orders" might this time be governed by discretion. 'you'll not only lose all you have made,' he said, 'but you'll never go home to justify yourself.' "the young man reflected. after all, the object of his voyages was to get coffee; and there was no danger in going to java, so he turned his prow, and away he sailed to the chinese seas. he bought coffee at four dollars a sack, and sold it in amsterdam at a most enormous advance, and then went back to philadelphia in good order, with large profits, sure of approval. soon after he entered the counting-room girard came in. he looked at the young fellow from under his bushy brows, and his one eye gleamed with resentment. he did not greet him, nor welcome him, nor congratulate him, but, shaking his angry hand, cried, 'what for you not go to mocha, sir?' and for the moment the supercargo wished he had. but this was all girard ever said on the subject. he rarely scolded his employees. he might express his opinion by cutting down a salary, and when a man did not suit him he dismissed him." when one of girard's bookkeepers, stephen simpson, apparently with little or no provocation, assaulted a fellow bookkeeper, injuring him so severely about the head that the man was unable to leave his home for more than a week, girard simply laid a letter on simpson's desk the next morning, reducing his salary from fifteen hundred dollars to one thousand per annum. the clerk was very angry, but did not give up his situation. when an errand-boy was caught in the act of stealing small sums of money from the counting-house, mr. girard put a more intricate lock on the money-drawer, and made no comment. the boy was sorry for his conduct, and gave no further occasion for complaint. girard believed in labor as a necessity for every human being. he used to say, "no man shall be a gentleman on _my_ money." if he had a son he should labor. he said, "if i should leave him twenty thousand dollars, he would be lazy or turn gambler." mr. ingram tells an amusing incident of an irishman who applied to mr. girard for work. "engaging the man for a whole day, he directed the removal from one side of his yard to the other of a pile of bricks, which had been stored there awaiting some building operations; and this task, which consumed several hours, being completed, he was accosted by the irishman to know what should be done next. 'why, have you finished that already?' said girard; 'i thought it would take all day to do that. well, just move them all back again where you took them from; that will use up the rest of the day;' and upon the astonished irishman's flat refusal to perform such fruitless labor, he was promptly paid and discharged, girard saying at the same time, in a rather aggrieved manner, 'i certainly understood you to say that you wanted _any_ kind of work.'" absorbed as mr. girard was in his business, cold and unapproachable as he seemed to the people of philadelphia, he had noble qualities, which showed themselves in the hour of need. in the latter part of july, , yellow fever in its most fatal form broke out in water street, within a square of mr. girard's residence. the city was soon in a panic. most of the public offices were closed, the churches were shut up, and people fled from the city whenever it was possible to do so. corpses were taken to the grave on the shafts of a chaise driven by a negro, unattended, and without ceremony. "many never walked in the footpath, but went in the middle of the streets, to avoid being infected in passing houses wherein people had died. acquaintances and friends avoided each other in the streets, and only signified their regard by a cold nod. the old custom of shaking hands fell into such disuse that many shrank back with affright at even the offer of a hand. the death-calls echoed through the silent, grass-grown streets; and at night the watcher would hear at his neighbor's door the cry, 'bring out your dead!' and the dead were brought. unwept over, unprayed for, they were wrapped in the sheet in which they died, and were hurried into a box, and thrown into a great pit, the rich and the poor together." "authentic cases are recorded," says henry w. arey in his "girard college and its founder," "where parent and child and husband and wife died deserted and alone, for want of a little care from the hands of absent kindred." in the midst of this dreadful plague an anonymous call for volunteer aid appeared in the _federal gazette_, the only paper which continued to be published. all but three of the "visitors of the poor" had died, or had fled from the city. the hospital at bush hill needed some one to bring order out of chaos, and cleanliness out of filth. two men volunteered to do this work, which meant probable death. to the amazement of all, one of these was the rich and reticent foreigner, stephen girard. the other man was peter helm. the former took the interior of the hospital under his charge. for two months mr. girard spent from six to eight hours daily in the hospital, and the rest of the time helped to remove the sick and the dead from the infected districts round about. he wrote to a friend in baltimore: "the deplorable situations to which fright and sickness have reduced the inhabitants of our city demand succor from those who do not fear death, or who at least do not see any risk in the epidemic which now prevails here. this will occupy me for some time; and if i have the misfortune to succumb, i will have at least the satisfaction to have performed a duty which we all owe to each other." mr. ingram quotes from the _united states gazette_ of jan. , , the account of girard at this time, witnessed by a merchant who was hurrying by with a camphor-saturated handkerchief pressed to his mouth: "a carriage, rapidly driven by a black servant, broke the silence of the deserted and grass-grown street. it stopped before a frame house in farmer's row, the very hotbed of the pestilence; and the driver, first having bound a handkerchief over his mouth, opened the door of the carriage, and quickly remounted to the box. a short, thick-set man stepped from the coach, and entered the house. "in a minute or two the observer, who stood at a safe distance watching the proceedings, heard a shuffling noise in the entry, and soon saw the visitor emerge, supporting, with extreme difficulty, a tall, gaunt, yellow-visaged victim of the pestilence. his arm was around the waist of the sick man, whose yellow face rested against his own, his long, damp, tangled hair mingling with his benefactor's, his feet dragging helpless upon the pavement. thus, partly dragging, partly lifted, he was drawn to the carriage door, the driver averting his face from the spectacle, far from offering to assist. after a long and severe exertion, the well man succeeded in getting the fever-stricken patient into the vehicle, and then entering it himself, the door was closed, and the carriage drove away to the hospital, the merchant having recognized in the man who thus risked his life for another, the foreigner, stephen girard." twice after this, in and , when the yellow fever again appeared in philadelphia, mr. girard gave his time and money to the sick and the poor. in january, , he wrote to a friend in france: "during all this frightful time i have constantly remained in the city, and without neglecting my public duties, i have played a part which will make you smile. would you believe it, my friend, that i have visited as many as fifteen sick people in one day, and what will surprise you still more, i have lost only one patient, an irishman, who would drink a little." busy, as a mariner, merchant, and helper of the sick and the poor, mr. girard found time to aid the republic, to which he had become ardently attached. besides serving for several terms in the city council, and as warden of the port for twenty-two years, during the war of he rendered valuable financial aid. in mr. girard, having about one million dollars in the hands of baring bros. & co., london, ordered the whole of it to be used in buying stock and shares of the bank of the united states. when the charter of the bank expired in , mr. girard purchased the whole outfit, and opened "the bank of stephen girard," with a capital of one million two hundred thousand dollars. about this time, , an attempt was made by two men to kidnap mr. girard by enticing him into a house to buy goods, then seize him, and carry him to a small ship in the delaware, where he would be confined till he had paid the money which they demanded. the plot was discovered. after the men were arrested, and in prison for several months, one was declared insane, and the other was acquitted on the ground of comparative ignorance of the plot. everybody believed in mr. girard's honesty, and in the safety of his bank. he made temporary loans to the government, never refusing his aid. when near the close of the war the government endeavored to float a loan of five million dollars, the bonds to bear interest at seven per cent per annum, and a bonus offered to capitalists, there was so much indifference or fear of future payment, or opposition to the war with great britain, that only $ , were subscribed for. mr. girard determined to stake his whole fortune to save the credit of his adopted country. he put his name opposite the whole of the loan still unsubscribed for. the effect was magical. people at once had faith in the government, professed themselves true patriots, and persisted in taking shares from mr. girard, which he gave them on the original terms. "the sinews of war were thus furnished," says mr. arey, "public confidence was restored, and a series of brilliant victories resulted in a peace, to which he thus referred in a letter written in to his friend morton of bordeaux: 'the peace which has taken place between this country and england will consolidate forever our independence, and insure our tranquillity.'" soon after the close of the war, on sept. , , word was sent to mr. girard that his wife, still insane, was dying. years before, when he found that she was incurable, he had sought a divorce, which those who admire him most must wish that he had never attempted; and the bill failed. he was now sixty-five, and growing old. his life had been too long in the shadow ever to be very full of light. he asked to be sent for when all was over. toward sunset, when mary girard was in her plain coffin, word was sent to him. he came with his household, and followed her to her resting-place, in the lawn at the north front of the hospital. "i shall never forget the last and closing scene," writes professor william wagner. "we all stood about the coffin, when mr. girard, filled with emotion, stepped forward, kissed his wife's corpse, and his tears moistened her cheek." she was buried in silence, after the manner of the friends, who manage the hospital. after the coffin was lowered, mr. girard looked in, and saying to mr. samuel coates, "it is very well," returned to his home. mary girard's grave, and that of another who died in , giving the hospital five thousand dollars on condition that he be buried there, are now covered by the clinic building, erected in . the bodies were not disturbed, as there is no cellar under the structure. as a reward for the care of his wife, soon after the burial mr. girard gave the hospital about three thousand dollars, and small sums of money to the attendants and nurses. it was his intention to be buried beside his wife, but this plan was changed later. the next year, , president madison having chartered the second bank of the united states, there were so few subscribers that it was evident that the scheme would fail. at the last moment mr. girard placed his name against the stock not subscribed for,--three million one hundred thousand dollars. again confidence was restored to a hesitating and timid public. some years later, in , when the state of pennsylvania was in pressing need for money to carry on its daily functions, the governor asked mr. girard to loan the state one hundred thousand dollars, which was cheerfully done. as it was known that mr. girard had amassed great wealth, and had no children, he was constantly besought to give, from all parts of the country. letters came from france, begging that his native land be remembered through some grand institution of benevolence. ambitious though mr. girard was, and conscious of the power of money, he had without doubt been saving and accumulating for other reasons than love of gain. his will, made feb. , , by his legal adviser, mr. william j. duane, after months of conference, showed that mr. girard had been thinking for years about the disposition of his millions. when persons seemed inquisitive during his life, he would say, "my deeds must be my life. when i am dead, my actions must speak for me." to the last mr. girard was devoted to business. "when death comes for me," he said, "he will find me busy, unless i am asleep in bed. if i thought i was going to die to-morrow, i should plant a tree, nevertheless, to-day." his only recreation from business was going daily to his farm of nearly six hundred acres, in passyunk township, where he set out choice plants and fruit-trees, and raised the best produce for the philadelphia market. his yellow-bodied gig and stout horse were familiar objects to the townspeople, though he always preferred walking to riding. his home in later years, a four-story brick house, was somewhat handsomely furnished, with ebony chairs and seats of crimson plush from france, a present from his brother Étienne; a tall writing-cabinet, containing an organ given him by joseph bonaparte, the brother of napoleon, and the ex-king of spain and naples, who usually dined with mr. girard on sunday; a turkey carpet, and marble statuary purchased in leghorn by his brother jean. the home was made cheerful by his young relatives. he had in his family the three daughters of jean, and two sons of Étienne, whom he educated. he loved animals, always keeping a large watch-dog at his home and on each of his ships, saying that his property was thus much more efficiently protected than through the services of those to whom he paid wages. he was very fond of children, horses, dogs, and canary-birds. in his private office several canaries swung in brass cages; and these he taught to sing with a bird organ, which he imported from france for that purpose. when mr. girard was seventy-six years of age a violent attack of erysipelas in the head and legs led him to confine himself thereafter to a vegetable diet as long as he lived. the sight of his one eye finally grew so dim that he was scarcely able to find his way about the streets, and he was often seen to grope about the vestibule of his bank to find the door. on feb. , , as he was crossing the road at second and market streets, he was struck and badly injured by a wagon, the wheel of which passed over his head and cut his face. he managed to regain his feet and reach his home. while the doctors were dressing the wound and cleansing it of the sand, he said, "go on, doctor, i am an old sailor; i can bear a good deal." after some months he was able to return to his bank; but in december, , nearly two years after the accident, an attack of influenza, then prevailing, followed by pneumonia, caused his death. he lay in a stupor for some days, but finally rallied, and walked across the room. the effort was too great, and putting his hand against his forehead, he exclaimed, "how violent is this disorder! how very extraordinary it is!" and soon died, without speaking again, at five o'clock in the afternoon of dec. , , nearly eighty-two years old. he was given a public funeral by the city which he had so many times befriended. a great concourse of people gathered to watch the procession or to join it, all houses being closed along the route, the city officials walking beside the coffin carried in an open hearse. so large a funeral had never been known in philadelphia, said the press. the body was taken to the holy trinity roman catholic church, and placed in the vault of baron henry dominick lallemand, general of artillery under napoleon i., who had married the youngest daughter of girard's brother jean. mr. girard was born in the romish church, and never severed his connection, although he attended a church but rarely. he liked the friends, and modelled his life after their virtues; but he said it was better for a man to die in the faith in which he was born. he gave generously to all religious denominations and to the poor. when mr. girard's will was read, it was apparent for what purpose he had saved his money. he gave away about $ , , , a remarkable record for a youth who left home at fourteen, and rose from a cabin-boy to be one of the wealthiest men of his time. the first gift in the will, and the largest to any existing corporation, was $ , to the pennsylvania hospital where mary girard died and was buried, the income to be used in providing nurses. to the institution for the deaf and dumb, mr. girard left $ , ; to the philadelphia orphan asylum, $ , ; public schools, $ , ; to purchase fuel forever, in march and august, for distribution in january among poor white housekeepers of good character, the income from $ , ; to the society for poor masters of ships and their families, $ , ; to the poor among the masonic fraternity of pennsylvania, $ , ; to build a schoolhouse at passyunk, where he had his farm, $ , ; to his brother Étienne, and to each of the six children of this brother, $ , ; to each of his nieces from $ , to $ , ; to each captain of his vessels $ , , and to each of his housekeepers an annuity or yearly sum of $ , besides various amounts to servants; to the city of philadelphia, to improve her delaware river front, to pull down and remove wooden buildings within the city limits, and to widen and pave water street, the income of $ , ; to the commonwealth of pennsylvania, for internal improvements by canal navigation, $ , ; to the cities of new orleans and philadelphia, "to promote the health and general prosperity of the inhabitants," , acres of land in the state of louisiana. the city of philadelphia has been fortunate in her gifts. the elias boudinot fund, for supplying the poor of the city with fuel, furnished over three hundred tons of coal last year; "and this amount will increase annually, by reason of the larger income derived from the , acres of land situated in centre county, the property of this trust." the investments and cash balance on dec. , , amounted to $ , . benjamin franklin, at his death, april , , gave to each of the two cities, philadelphia and boston, in trust, £ , ($ , ), to be loaned to young married mechanics under twenty-five years of age, to help them start in business, in sums not to exceed £ , nor to be less than £ , at five per cent interest, the money to be paid back by them in ten annual payments of ten per cent each. two respectable citizens were to become surety for the payment of the money. this franklin did because two men helped him when young to begin business in philadelphia by a loan, and thus, he said, laid the foundation of his fortune. a bequest somewhat similar was founded in london more than twenty years previously, in ,--the wilson's loan fund, "to lend sums of £ to £ to young tradesmen of the city of london, etc., at two per cent per annum." dr. franklin estimated that his $ , at interest for one hundred years would increase to over $ , (£ , ); and then the managers of the fund were to lay out $ , (£ , ) says the will, "in public works, which may be judged of most general utility to the inhabitants, such as fortifications, bridges, aqueducts, public buildings, baths, pavements, or whatever may make living in the town more convenient to its people, and render it more agreeable to strangers resorting hither for health or a temporary residence." in philadelphia dr. franklin hoped the £ , would be used in bringing by pipes the water of the wissahickon creek to take the place of well water, and in making the schuylkill completely navigable. if these things had been done by the end of the hundred years, the money could be used for other public works. the remaining £ , was to be put at interest for another hundred years, when it would amount to £ , , or $ , , . of this amount £ , , was to be given to philadelphia, and the same to boston, and the balance, £ , , or $ , , , paid to each state. the figures are of especial interest, as showing how fast money will accumulate if kept at interest. the descendants of franklin have tried to break the will, but have not succeeded. the board of directors of city trusts of philadelphia report for the year ending dec. , , that the fund of $ , for the first hundred years, though not equalling the sum which franklin hoped, has yet reached the large amount of $ , . . the boston fund, says mr. samuel f. mccleary, the treasurer, amounted, at the end of a hundred years, to $ , . . of this sum, $ , was paid to the city of boston, and $ , . was put at interest for another hundred years. this has already increased to $ , . . what an amount of good some other man or woman might do with $ , ! it remains to be seen to what use the two cities will put their gifts. perhaps they will provide work for the unemployed in making good roads or in some other useful labor, or instead of loaning money to mechanics, as franklin intended, perhaps they will erect tenement houses for mechanics or other working people, as is done by some cities in england and scotland, following the example so nobly set by george peabody, when he gave his $ , , , which has now doubled, to build houses for the london poor. he said, "if judiciously managed for two hundred years, its accumulation will amount to a sum sufficient to buy the city of london." if stephen girard's $ , to the state of pennsylvania had been given for the making of good roads, thousands of the unemployed might have been provided with labor, tens of thousands of poor horses saved from useless over-work in hauling loads over muddy roads where the wheels sink to the hubs, and the farmers saved thousands of dollars in carrying their produce to cities. stephen girard had a larger gift in mind than those to his adopted city and state. he said in his will, "i have been for a long time impressed with the importance of educating the poor, and of placing them, by the early cultivation of their minds, and the development of their moral principles, above the many temptations to which, through poverty and ignorance, they are exposed; and i am particularly desirous to provide for such a number of poor male white orphan children, as can be trained in one institution, a better education, as well as a more comfortable maintenance, than they usually receive from the application of the public funds." with this object in view, a college for orphan boys, mr. girard gave to "the mayor, aldermen, and citizens of philadelphia, all the residue and remainder of my real and personal estate" in trust; first, to erect and maintain a college for poor white male orphans; second, to establish "a competent police;" and third, "to improve the general appearance of the city itself, and, in effect, to diminish the burden of taxation, now most oppressive, especially on those who are the least able to bear it," "after providing for the college as my primary object." he left $ , , , allowing "as much of that sum as may be necessary in erecting the college," which was "to be constructed with the most durable materials, and in the most permanent manner, avoiding needless ornament." he gave the most minute directions in his will for its size, material, "marble or granite," and the training and education of the inmates. this residue "and remainder of my real and personal estate" had grown in to more than $ , , , with an income yearly of about $ , , . truly stephen girard had saved and labored for a magnificent and enduring monument! the girard estate is one of the largest owners of real estate in the city of philadelphia. outside of the city some of the girard land is valuable in coal production. in the year , , , tons of anthracite coal were mined from the girard land. more than $ , , received from its coal has been invested, that the college may be doubly sure of its support when the coal-mines are exhausted. girard college, of white marble, in the form of a greek temple, was begun in may, , two years after mr. girard's death, and was fourteen years and six months in building. a broad platform, reached by eleven marble steps, supports the main building. thirty-four corinthian columns form a colonnade about the structure, each column six feet in diameter and fifty-five feet high, and each weighing one hundred and three tons, and costing about $ , apiece. they are beautiful and substantial, and yet $ , would support several orphans for a year or more. the floors and roof are of marble; and the three-story building weighs over , tons, the average weight on each superficial foot of foundation being, according to mr. arey, about six tons. four auxiliary white marble buildings were required by the will of mr. girard for dormitories, schoolrooms, etc. the whole forty-five acres in which stand the college buildings are surrounded, according to the given instructions, by a wall ten feet high and sixteen inches thick, covered with a heavy marble capping. the five buildings were completed nov. , , at a cost of nearly $ , , ($ , , . ); and on jan. , , girard college was opened with one hundred orphans. in the autumn one hundred more were admitted, and on april , , one hundred more. those born in the city of philadelphia have the first preference, after them those born in the state, those born in new york city where mr. girard first landed in america, and then those born in new orleans where he first traded. they must enter between the ages of six and ten, be fatherless, although the mother may be living, and must remain in the college till they are between fourteen and eighteen, when they are bound out by the mayor till they are twenty-one, to learn some suitable trade in the arts, manufacture, or agriculture, their tastes being consulted as far as possible. each orphan has three suits of clothing, one for every day, one better, and one usually reserved for sundays. the first president of girard college was alexander dallas bache, a great-grandson of benjamin franklin, and head of the coast survey of the united states. he visited similar institutions in europe, and purchased the necessary books and apparatus for the school. while the college was building, the heirs, with the not unusual disregard of the testator's desires, endeavored to break the will. mr. girard had given the following specific direction in his will: "i enjoin and require that no ecclesiastic, missionary, or minister of any sect whatsoever shall ever hold or exercise any station or duty whatever in the said college, nor shall any such person ever be admitted for any purpose, or as a visitor, within the premises appropriated to the purposes of the said college:--in making this restriction i do not mean to cast any reflection upon any sect or person whatsoever; but as there is such a multitude of sects, and such a diversity of opinion amongst them, i desire to keep the tender minds of the orphans, who are to derive advantage from this bequest, free from the excitement which clashing doctrines and sectarian controversy are so apt to produce. my desire is that all the instructors and teachers in the college shall take pains to instil into the minds of the scholars the purest principles of morality, so that on their entrance into active life they may from inclination and habit evince benevolence toward their fellow-creatures, and a love of truth, sobriety, and industry, adopting at the same time such religious tenets as their matured reason may enable them to prefer." the heirs of mr. girard claimed that by reason of the above the college was "illegal and immoral, derogatory and hostile to the christian religion;" but it was the unanimous decision of the supreme court that there was in the will "nothing inconsistent with the christian religion, or opposed to any known policy of the state." on sept. , , the body of stephen girard was removed from the roman catholic church, but not without a lawsuit by the heirs on account of its removal, to the college, and placed in a sarcophagus in the vestibule. the ceremony was entirely masonic, the three hundred orphans witnessing it from the steps of the college. over fifteen hundred masons were in the procession, and each deposited his palm-branch upon the coffin. in front of the sarcophagus is a statue of mr. girard, by gevelot of paris, costing thirty thousand dollars. girard college now has ten white marble auxiliary buildings for its nearly or quite two thousand orphans. there are more applicants than there is room to accommodate. its handsome gothic chapel is also of white marble, erected in . here each day the pupils gather for worship morning and evening, the exercises, non-sectarian in character, consisting of a hymn, reading from the bible, and prayer. on sundays the pupils assemble in their section rooms at nine in the morning and two in the afternoon for religious reading and instruction; and at . and they attend worship in the chapel, addresses being given by the president, a. h. fetterolf, ph.d. ll.d., or some invited layman. in the technical building was erected in the western part of the grounds. here instruction is given in metal and woodwork, mechanical drawing, shoemaking, blacksmithing, carpentry, foundry, plumbing, steam-fitting, and electrical mechanics. here the pupils learn about the dynamo, motor, lighting by electricity, telegraphy, and the like. about six hundred boys in this department spend five hours a week in this practical work. at the world's columbian exposition at chicago, in the exhibit made by girard college, one could see the admirable work of the students in a single-span bridge, a four horse-power yacht steam-engine, a vertical engine, etc. the whole exhibit was given at the close of the exposition to armour institute, to which the founder, mr. philip d. armour, has given $ , , . to the west of the main college building is the monument erected by the board of directors to the memory of girard college boys killed in the civil war. a life-size figure of a soldier stands beneath a canopy supported by four columns of ohio sandstone. the granite base is overgrown with ivy. on one side are the names of the fallen; on the other, these words, from mr. girard's will, "and especially do i desire that, by every proper means, a pure attachment to our republican institutions, and to the sacred rights of conscience, as guaranteed by our happy constitutions, shall be formed and fostered in the minds of the scholars." on may , each year, the anniversary of mr. girard's birth, the graduates of girard college gather from all parts of the country to do honor to the generous giver. games are played, the cadets parade, and a dinner is provided for scholars and guests. the pupils seem happy and contented. their playgrounds are large; and they have a bathing-pool for swimming in summer, and skating in winter. they receive a good education in mathematics, astronomy, geology, history, chemistry, physics, french, spanish, with some latin and greek, with a course in business, shorthand, etc. through all the years they have "character lessons," which every school should have throughout our country,--familiar conversations on honesty, the dignity of labor, perseverance, courage, self-control, bad language, value and use of time, truthfulness, temperance, good temper, the good citizen and his duties, kindness to animals, patriotism, the study of the lives and deeds of noble men and women, the golden rule of play,--"no fun unless it is fun on both sides," and similar topics. oral and written exercises form a part of this work. there is also a department of military science, a two years' course being given, with one recitation a week. a united states army officer is one of the college faculty, and commandant of the battalion. the annual cost of clothing and educating each of the two thousand orphans, including current repairs on the buildings, is a little more than three hundred dollars. on leaving college, each boy receives a trunk with clothing and books, amounting to about seventy-five dollars. probably mr. girard, with all his far-sightedness, could not have foreseen the great good to the nation, as well as to the individual, in thus fitting, year after year, thousands of poor orphans for useful positions in life. mr. arey well says: "when in the fulness of time many homes have been made happy, many orphans have been fed, clothed, and educated, and many men rendered useful to their country and themselves, each happy home, or rescued child, or useful citizen, will be a living monument to perpetuate the name and embalm the memory of the dead 'mariner and merchant.'" andrew carnegie and his libraries. "this, then, is held to be the duty of the man of wealth: first, to set an example of modest, unostentatious living, shunning display or extravagance; to provide moderately for the legitimate wants of those dependent upon him; and after doing so, to consider all surplus revenues which come to him simply as trust funds, which he is called upon to administer, and strictly bound as a matter of duty to administer in the manner which, in his judgment, is best calculated to produce the most beneficial results for the community,--the man of wealth thus becoming the mere trustee and agent for his poorer brethren." thus wrote andrew carnegie in his "gospel of wealth," published in the _north american review_ for june, . this article so interested mr. gladstone that he asked the editor of the _review_ to permit its republication in england, which was done. when the world follows this "gospel," and those who have means consider themselves "trustees for their poorer brethren," and their money as "trust funds," we shall see little of the heartbreak and the poverty of the present age. [illustration: always your friend, andrew carnegie] "ring in the valiant man and free, the larger heart, the kindlier hand; ring out the darkness of the land, ring in the christ that is to be." andrew carnegie was born at dunfermline, scotland, nov. , , into a poor but honest home. his father, william carnegie, was a weaver, a man of good sense, strongly republican, though living under a monarchy, and well-read upon the questions of the day. the mother was a woman of superior mind and character, to whom andrew was unusually devoted, till her death in , when he had reached middle life. when andrew was twelve years of age and his brother thomas five, the parents decided to make their home in the new world, coming to new york in a sailing-vessel in . they travelled to pittsburg, penn., and lived for some time in allegheny city. andrew had been sent to school in dunfermline, and, having a fondness for books, was a bright, ambitious boy at twelve, ready to begin the struggle for a living so as to make the family burdens lighter. work was not easily found; but finally he obtained employment as a bobbin-boy in a cotton factory, at $ . a week. mr. carnegie, when grown to manhood, wrote in the _youth's companion_, april , :-- "i cannot tell you how proud i was when i received my first week's own earnings. one dollar and twenty cents made by myself, and given to me because i had been of some use in the world! no longer entirely dependent upon my parents, but at last admitted to the family partnership as a contributing member, and able to help them! i think this makes a man out of a boy sooner than almost anything else, and a real man too, if there be any germ of true manhood in him. it is everything to feel that you are useful. "i have had to deal with great sums. many millions of dollars have since passed through my hands. but the genuine satisfaction i had from that one dollar and twenty cents outweighs any subsequent pleasure in money-getting. it was the direct reward of honest manual labor; it represented a week of very hard work, so hard that but for the aim and end which sanctified it, slavery might not be much too strong a term to describe it. "for a lad of twelve to rise and breakfast every morning, except the blessed sunday morning, and go into the streets and find his way to the factory, and begin work while it was still dark outside, and not be released until after darkness came again in the evening, forty minutes' interval only being allowed at noon, was a terrible task. "but i was young, and had my dreams; and something within always told me that this would not, could not, should not last--i should some day get into a better position. besides this, i felt myself no longer a mere boy, but quite 'a little man;' and this made me happy." another place soon opened for the lad, where he was set to fire a boiler in a cellar, and to manage the small steam-engine which drove the machinery in a bobbin factory. "the firing of this boiler was all right," says mr. carnegie; "for fortunately we did not use coal, but the refuse wooden chips, and i always liked to work in wood. but the responsibility of keeping the water right and of running the engine, and the danger of my making a mistake and blowing the whole factory to pieces, caused too great a strain, and i often awoke and found myself sitting up in bed through the night trying the steam-gauges. but i never told them at home that i was having a 'hard tussle.' no! no! everything must be bright to them. "this was a point of honor; for every member of the family was working hard except, of course, my little brother, who was then a child, and we were telling each other only all the bright things. besides this, no man would whine and give up--he would die first. "there was no servant in our family, and several dollars per week were earned by 'the mother' by binding shoes after her daily work was done! father was also hard at work in the factory. and could i complain?" wages were small, and in every leisure moment andrew looked for something better to do. he went one day to the office of the atlantic and ohio telegraph company, and asked for work as a messenger. james douglas reid, the manager, was a scotchman, and liked the lad's manner. "i liked the boy's looks," said mr. reid afterwards; "and it was easy to see that though he was little he was full of spirit. his pay was $ . a week. he had not been with me a full month when he began to ask whether i would teach him to telegraph. i began to instruct him, and found him an apt pupil. he spent all his spare time in practice, sending and receiving by sound, and not by tape as was largely the custom in those days. pretty soon he could do as well as i could at the key, and then his ambition carried him away beyond doing the drudgery of messenger work." the boy liked his new occupation. he once wrote: "my entrance into the telegraph office was the transition from darkness to light; from firing a small engine in a dirty cellar to a clean office where there were books and papers. that was a paradise to me, and i bless my stars that sent me to be a messenger-boy in a pittsburg telegraph office." when andrew was fourteen his father died, leaving him the only support of his mother and brother, seven years old. he believed in work, and never shirked any duty, however hard. he soon found employment as telegraph operator with the pennsylvania railroad company. at fifteen he was train-despatcher, a place of unusual responsibility for a boy; but his energy, carefulness, and industry were equal to the demands on him. when he was sixteen andrew had thought out a plan by which trains could be run on single tracks, and the telegraph be used to govern their running. "his scheme was the one now in universal use on the single-tracked roads in the country; namely, to run trains in opposite directions until they approached within comparatively a few miles, and then hold one at a station until the other had passed." this thought about the telegraph brought andrew into notice among those above him; and he was transferred to altoona, the headquarters of the general manager. young carnegie had done what he recommends others to do in his "how to win fortune," in the new york _tribune_, april , . he says, "george eliot put the matter very pithily: 'i'll tell you how i got on. i kept my ears and my eyes open, and i made my master's interest my own.' "the condition precedent for promotion is that the man must first attract notice. he must do something unusual, and especially must this be beyond the strict boundary of his duties. he must suggest, or save, or perform some service for his employer which he could not be censured for not having done. when he has thus attracted the notice of his immediate superior, whether that be only the foreman of a gang, it matters not; the first great step has been taken, for upon his immediate superior promotion depends. how high he climbs is his own affair." carnegie "kept his eyes and ears open." in his "triumphant democracy" he relates the following incident: "well do i remember that, when a clerk in the service of the pennsylvania railroad company, a tall, spare, farmer-looking kind of man came to me once when i was sitting on the end seat of the rear car looking over the line. he said he had been told by the conductor that i was connected with the railway company, and he wished me to look at an invention he had made. with that he drew from a green bag (as if it were for lawyers' briefs) a small model of a sleeping-berth for railway cars. he had not spoken a minute before, like a flash, the whole range of the discovery burst upon me. 'yes,' i said, 'that is something which this continent must have.' i promised to address him upon the subject as soon as i had talked over the matter with my superior, thomas a. scott. "i could not get that blessed sleeping-car out of my head. upon my return i laid it before mr. scott, declaring that it was one of the inventions of the age. he remarked, 'you are enthusiastic, young man; but you may ask the inventor to come and let me see it.' i did so; and arrangements were made to build two trial cars, and run them on the pennsylvania railroad. i was offered an interest in the venture, which, of course, i gladly accepted. payments were to be made ten per cent per month after the cars were delivered, the pennsylvania railroad company guaranteeing to the builders that the cars should be kept upon its line and under its control. "this was all very satisfactory until the notice came that my share of the first payment was $ . . how well i remember the exact sum; but two hundred and seventeen dollars and a half were as far beyond my means as if it had been millions. i was earning fifty dollars per month, however, and had prospects, or at least i always felt that i had. what was to be done? i decided to call on the local banker, mr. lloyd, state the case, and boldly ask him to advance the sum upon my interest in the affair. he put his hand on my shoulder, and said, 'why, of course, andie, you are all right. go ahead. here is the money.' "it is a proud day for a man when he pays his last note, but not to be named in comparison with the day in which he makes his first one, and _gets a banker to take it_. i have tried both, and i know. the cars paid the subsequent payments from their earnings. i paid my first note from my savings, so much per month; and thus did i get my foot on fortune's ladder. it is easy to climb after that. a triumphant success was scored. and thus came sleeping-cars into the world. 'blessed be the man who invented sleep,' says sancho panza. thousands upon thousands will echo the sentiment, 'blessed be the man who invented sleeping-cars.' let me record his name, and testify my gratitude to him, my dear, quiet, modest, truthful, farmer-looking friend, t. t. woodruff, one of the benefactors of the age." mr. pullman later engaged in sleeping-car building, and carnegie advised his firm "to capture mr. pullman." "there was a capture," says mr. carnegie, "but it did not quite take that form. they found themselves swallowed by this ogre, and pullman monopolized everything." while a very young man, carnegie was appointed superintendent of the western division of the pennsylvania railroad. as superintendent he became the friend of colonel scott; and, together with some others, they bought several farms along the line of the road, which proved very valuable oil-lands. mr. carnegie says of the storey farm, oil creek, "we purchased the farm for $ , ; and so small was our faith in the ability of the earth to yield for any considerable time the hundred barrels per day which the property was then producing, that we decided to make a pond capable of holding one hundred thousand barrels of oil, which we estimated would be worth, when the supply ceased, $ , , . unfortunately for us the pond leaked fearfully, evaporation also caused much loss; but we continued to run oil in to make the losses good day after day, until several hundred thousand barrels had gone in this fashion. "our experience with the farm may be worth reciting. its value rose to $ , , ; that is, the shares of the company sold in the market upon this basis; and one year it paid in cash dividends $ , , --rather a good return upon an investment of $ , . so great was the yield in the district that in two years oil became almost valueless, often selling as low as thirty cents per barrel, and not infrequently it was suffered to run to waste as utterly worthless. "but as new uses were found for the oil, prices rose again; and to remove the difficulty of high freights, pipes were laid, first for short distances, and then to the seaboard, a distance of about three hundred miles. through these pipes, of which six thousand two hundred miles have been laid, the oil is now pumped from two thousand one hundred wells. it costs only ten cents to pump a barrel of oil to the atlantic. the value of petroleum and its products _exported_ up to january, , exceeds in value $ , , ." within ten years from the time when mr. carnegie and his friends bought the oil-farms, their investment had returned them four hundred and one per cent, and the young scotchman could count himself a rich man. before this, however, he had entered the iron and steel industry, in which his great wealth has been made. with a little money which he had saved, he borrowed $ , from a bank, and, with five other persons, established the keystone bridge works of pittsburg, with the small capital of $ , . this was a success from the first, and in latter years has had a capital of $ , , . it has built bridges all over the country, and structural frames for many public buildings in new york, chicago, and other cities. from this time forward mr. carnegie's career has been a most successful one. he has become chief owner in the union iron works, the edgar thomson steel works, the homestead steel works, formerly a rival company, the duquesne works of the allegheny bessemer steel company, and several other iron and coke companies. the capital of these companies is about $ , , , and about twenty-five thousand men are employed. "in carnegie bros. & co., limited," says the _engineering and mining journal_ for july , , "had a capacity to produce , tons of steel rails per annum, or over twenty-five per cent of the total capacity of all the rolling-mills of the united states, while its products of steel girders, plates, nails, and other forms of manufactured iron and steel are greater than at any other works in this country, and exceed the amount turned out at the famous krupp works in germany." the company has supplied the united states government with a large amount of armor plates for our new ships, and also filled a large order for the russian government. the edgar thomson steel works have an annual capacity of , , gross tons of ingots, , gross tons of rails and billets, and , gross tons of castings. the duquesne furnaces have a yearly capacity of , gross tons of pig-iron; the lucy furnaces, , gross tons yearly; the duquesne steel works, an annual capacity of , gross tons of ingots. the homestead steel works have an annual capacity of , gross tons of bessemer steel and ingots, and , gross tons of open-hearth steel ingots. the upper union mills have an annual output of , gross tons of steel bars and steel universal mill-plates, etc.; the lower union mills, an annual capacity of , gross tons of mill-plates, bridge-work, car-forgings, etc. the industrious, ambitious boy was not satisfied merely to amass wealth. he had always been a great reader and thinker. in charles scribner's sons published a book by this successful telegraph operator and iron manufacturer, "an american four-in-hand in britain." the trip was suggested by mr. black's novel, "the strange adventures of a phaeton," and extended from brighton to inverness, a distance of eight hundred and thirty-one miles. mr. carnegie and his party of chosen friends made the journey by coach in seven weeks, from july to aug. , , and had a most enjoyable as well as instructive trip. _the critic_ gives mr. carnegie well-merited praise, saying that "he has produced a book of travel as fresh as though he had been exploring thibet or navigating the river of golden sand." the book is dedicated to "my favorite heroine, my mother," who was the queen dowager of the volume, and whose happiness during the journey seemed to be the chief concern of her devoted son. this book had so cordial a reception that the following year, , another volume was published, "round the world," covering a trip made in - ; mr. carnegie having sailed from san francisco to japan, and thence through the lands of the east. as he starts, his mother puts in his hand shakespeare in thirteen small volumes; and these are his company and delight in the long ocean voyage. through china, india, and other countries, he observes closely, learns much, and tells it in a way that is always interesting. "life at the east," he says, "lacks two of its most important elements,--the want of intelligent and refined women as the companion of man, and a sunday. it has been a strange experience to me to be for several months without the society of some of this class of women,--sometimes many weeks without even speaking to one, and often a whole week without even seeing the face of an educated woman. and, bachelor as i am, let me confess what a miserable, dark, dreary, and insipid life this would be without their constant companionship." ten years later, in , mr. carnegie published a book that had a very wide reading, and at once placed the author prominently before the new world and the old world as well, "triumphant democracy, or fifty years' march of the republic." the book showed extensive research, a deep love for his adopted country, america, a warm heart, and an able mind. he wrote: "to the beloved republic, under whose equal laws i am made the peer of any man, although denied political equality by my native land, i dedicate this book, with an intensity of gratitude and admiration which the native-born citizen can neither feel nor understand." no one can read this book without being amazed at the power and possibilities of the republic, and without a deeper love for, and pride in the greatness and true worth of, his country. the style is bright and attractive, and the facts stated remarkable. americans must always be debtors to the scotchman who has shown them how to prize their native land. mr. carnegie wrote the book "as a labor of love," to show the people of the old world the advantages of a republic over a monarchical form of government, and to americans, "a juster estimate than prevails in some quarters of the political and social advantages which they so abundantly possess over the people of the older and less advanced lands, that they may be still prouder and even more devoted, if possible, to their institutions than they are." mr. carnegie shows by undisputed facts that america, so recently a colony of great britain, has now become "the wealthiest nation in the world," "the greatest agricultural nation," "the greatest manufacturing nation," "the greatest mining nation in the world." "in the ten years from to ," says mr. carnegie, "eleven and a half millions were added to the population of america. yet these only added three persons to each square mile of territory; and should america continue to double her population every thirty years, instead of every twenty-five years as hitherto, seventy years must elapse before she will attain the density of europe. the population will then reach two hundred and ninety millions." mr. carnegie has said in his "imperial federation," published in the _nineteenth century_, september, , "even if the united states increase is to be much less rapid than it has been hitherto, yet the child is born who will see more than , , under her sway. no possible increase of the race can be looked for in all the world combined comparable to this. green truly says that its 'future home is to be found along the banks of the hudson and the mississippi.'" it will surprise many to know that "the whole united kingdom (england, scotland, and ireland) could be planted in texas, and leave plenty of room around it." "the farms of america equal the entire territory of the united kingdom, france, belgium, germany, austria, hungary, and portugal. the corn-fields equal the extent of england, scotland, and belgium; while the grain-fields generally would overlap spain. the cotton-fields cover an area larger than holland, and twice as large as belgium." the growth of manufactures in america is amazing. in thirty years, from to , mr. carnegie says there was an increase of nearly six hundred per cent, while the increase in british manufactures was little more than a hundred per cent. the total in america in was $ , , , ; in the united kingdom, $ , , , . "probably the most rapid development of an industry that the world has ever seen," says mr. carnegie, "is that of bessemer steel in america." in america made , tons of bessemer; in , fifteen years later, she made , , tons, which was , tons more than great britain made. "this is advancing not by leaps and bounds, it is one grand rush--a rush without pause, which has made america the greatest manufacturer of bessemer steel in the world.... one is startled to find that more yards of carpet are manufactured in and around the city of philadelphia alone than in the whole of great britain. it is not twenty years since the american imported his carpets, and now he makes more at one point than the greatest european manufacturing nation does in all its territory." of the manufacture of boots and shoes by machinery, mr. carnegie says, "a man can make three hundred pairs of boots in a day, and a single factory in massachusetts turns out as many pairs yearly as thirty-two thousand bootmakers in paris.... twenty-five years ago the american conceived the idea of making watches by machinery upon a gigantic scale. the principal establishment made only five watches per day as late as . now thirteen hundred per day is the daily task, and six thousand watches per month are sent to the london agency." the progress in mining has been equally remarkable. "to the world's stock of gold," says mr. carnegie, "america has contributed, according to mulhall, more than fifty per cent. in he estimated the amount of gold in the world at , tons, worth $ , , , . of this the new world contributed , tons, or more than half. one of the most remarkable veins of metal known is the comstock lode in nevada.... in fourteen years this single vein yielded $ , , . in one year, , the product of the lode was $ , , in gold, and $ , , in silver,--a total of $ , , . here, again, is something which the world never saw before. "america also leads the world in copper, the united states and chili contributing nearly one-half the world's supply.... on the south shore of lake superior this metal is found almost pure, in masses of all sizes, up to many tons in weight. it was used by the native indians, and traces of their rude mining operations are still visible." mr. carnegie says the anthracite coal-fields of pennsylvania will produce , , tons per year for four hundred and thirty-nine years; and he thinks by that time "men will probably be burning the hydrogen of water, or be fully utilizing the solar rays or the tidal energy." the coal area of the united states comprises , square miles; and mr. carnegie "is almost ashamed to confess it, she has three-quarters of all the coal area of the earth." while mr. carnegie admires and loves the republic, he is devoted to the mother country, and is a most earnest advocate of peace between us. he writes: "of all the desirable political changes which it seems to me possible for this generation to effect, i consider it by far the most important for the welfare of the race, that every civilized nation should be pledged, as the republic is, to offer peaceful arbitration to its opponent before the senseless, inhuman work of human slaughter begins." in his "imperial federation" he writes: "war between members of our race may be said to be already banished; for english-speaking men will never again be called upon to destroy each other.... both parties in america, and each successive government, are pledged to offer peaceful arbitration for the adjustment of all international difficulties,--a position which it is to be hoped will soon be reached by britain, at least in regard to all the differences with members of the same race. "is it too much to hope that, after this stage has been reached, and occupied successfully for a period, another step forward will be taken, and that, having jointly banished war between themselves, a general council should be evolved by the english-speaking nations, to which may at first only be referred all questions of dispute between them?... "the supreme court of the united states is extolled by the statesmen of all parties in britain, and has just received the compliment of being copied in the plan for the australian commonwealth. building upon it, may we not expect that a still higher supreme court is one day to come, which shall judge between the nations of the entire english-speaking race, as the supreme court at washington already judges between states which contain the majority of the race?" mr. carnegie believes that the powers of the council would increase till the commanding position of the english-speaking race would make other races listen to its demands for peace, and so war be forever done away with. mr. carnegie rightly calls war "international murder," and, like tennyson, looks forward to that blessed time when-- "all men's good be each man's rule, and universal peace lie like a shaft of light across the land, and like a lane of beams athwart the sea." mr. carnegie has also written, in the _north american review_ for june, , "the a. b. c. of money," urging the republic to keep "its standard in the future, as in the past, not fluctuating silver, but unchanging gold." in his articles in the newspapers, and in his public addresses, he has given good advice to young men, in whom he takes the deepest interest. he believes there never were so many opportunities to succeed as now for the sober, frugal, energetic young man. "real ability, the capacity for doing things, never was so eagerly searched for as now, and never commanded such rewards.... the great dry-goods houses that interest their most capable men in the profits of each department succeed, when those fail that endeavor to work with salaried men only. even in the management of our great hotels it is found wise to take into partnership the principal men. in every branch of business this law is at work; and concerns are prosperous, generally speaking, just in proportion as they succeed in interesting in the profits a larger and larger proportion of their ablest workers. co-operation in this form is fast coming in all great establishments." to young men he says, "never enter a barroom.... it is low and common to enter a barroom, unworthy of any self-respecting man, and sure to fasten upon you a taint which will operate to your disadvantage in life, whether you ever become a drunkard or not." "don't smoke.... the use of tobacco requires young men to withdraw themselves from the society of women to indulge the habit. i think the absence of women from any assembly tends to lower the tone of that assembly. the habit of smoking tends to carry young men into the society of men whom it is not desirable that they should choose as their intimate associates. the practice of chewing tobacco was once common. now it is considered offensive. i believe the race is soon to take another step forward, and that the coming man is to consider smoking as offensive as chewing was formerly considered." "never speculate. never buy or sell grain or stocks upon a margin.... the man who gambles upon the exchanges is in the condition of the man who gambles at the gaming-table. he rarely, if ever, makes a permanent success." "don't indorse.... there are emergencies, no doubt, in which men should help their friends; but there is a rule that will keep one safe. no man should place his name upon the obligation of another if he has not sufficient to pay it without detriment to his own business. it is dishonest to do so." mr. carnegie has not only written books and made money, he has distinguished himself as a giver of millions, and that while he is alive. he has seen too many wills broken, and fortunes misapplied, when the money was not given away till death. he says of mr. tilden's bequest of over $ , , for a free library in the city of new york: "how much better if mr. tilden had devoted the last years of his own life to the proper administration of this immense sum; in which case neither legal contest nor any other cause of delay could have interfered with his aims." of course money is sometimes so tied up in business that it cannot be given during a man's life; "yet," says mr. carnegie, "the day is not far distant when the man who dies leaving behind him millions of available wealth, which was free for him to administer during life, will pass away 'unwept, unhonored, and unsung,' no matter to what uses he leaves the dross which he cannot take with him. of such as these the public verdict will then be, 'the man who dies thus rich dies disgraced.'" he believes large estates left at death should be taxed by the state, as is the case in pennsylvania and some other states. mr. carnegie does not favor large gifts left to families. "why should men leave great fortunes to their children?" he asks. "if this is done from affection, is it not misguided affection? observation teaches that, generally speaking, it is not well for the children that they should be so burdened. neither is it well for the state. beyond providing for the wife and daughters moderate sources of income, and very moderate allowances indeed, if any, for the sons, men may well hesitate; for it is no longer questionable that great sums bequeathed often work more for the injury than for the good of the recipients. there are instances of millionnaires' sons unspoiled by wealth, who, being rich, still perform great services to the community. such are the very salt of the earth, as valuable as unfortunately they are rare." again mr. carnegie says of wealth left to the young, "it deadens their energies, destroys their ambition, tempts them to destruction, and renders it almost impossible that they should lead lives creditable to themselves or valuable to the state. such as are not deadened by wealth deserve double credit, for they have double temptation." in the _north american review_ for december, , mr. carnegie suggests what he considers seven of the best uses for surplus wealth: the founding of great universities; free libraries; hospitals or any means to alleviate human suffering; public parks and flower-gardens for the people, conservatories such as mr. phipps has given to the park at allegheny city, which are visited by thousands; suitable halls for lectures, elevating music, and other gatherings, free, or rented for a small sum; free swimming-baths for the people; attractive places of worship, especially in poor localities. mr. carnegie's own great gifts have been largely along the line which he believes the "best gift to a community,"--a free public library. he thinks with john bright that "it is impossible for any man to bestow a greater benefit upon a young man than to give him access to books in a free library." "it is, no doubt," he says, "possible that my own personal experience may have led me to value a free library beyond all other forms of beneficence. when i was a working-boy in pittsburg, colonel anderson of allegheny--a name i can never speak without feelings of devotional gratitude--opened his little library of four hundred books to boys. every saturday afternoon he was in attendance at his house to exchange books. no one but he who has felt it can ever know the intense longing with which the arrival of saturday was awaited that a new book might be had. my brother and mr. phipps, who have been my principal business partners through life, shared with me colonel anderson's precious generosity; and it was when revelling in the treasures which he opened to us that i resolved, if ever wealth came to me, that it should be used to establish free libraries, that other poor boys might receive opportunities similar to those for which we were indebted to that noble man." "how far that little candle throws his beams! so shines a good deed in a naughty world." again mr. carnegie says, "i also come by heredity to my preference for free libraries. the newspaper of my native town recently published a history of the free library in dunfermline, and it is there recorded that the first books gathered together and opened to the public were the small collections of three weavers. imagine the feelings with which i read that one of these three men was my honored father. he founded the first library in dunfermline, his native town; and his son was privileged to found the last.... i have never heard of a lineage for which i would exchange that of the library-founding weaver." mr. carnegie has given for the edinburgh free library, scotland, $ , ; for one in his native town of dunfermline, $ , ; and several thousand dollars each to libraries in aberdeen, peterhead, inverness, ayr, elgin, wick and kirkwall, besides contributions towards public halls and reading-rooms at newburgh, aberdour, and many other places abroad. mr. carnegie's mother laid the corner-stone for the free library in dunfermline. he writes in his "american four-in-hand in britain," "there was something of the fairy-tale in the fact that she had left her native town, poor, thirty odd years before, with her loved ones, to found a new home in the great republic, and was to-day returning in her coach, to be allowed the privilege of linking her name with the annals of her beloved native town in one of the most enduring forms possible." when the corner-stone of the peterhead free library in scotland was laid, aug. , , the wife of mr. carnegie was asked to lay the stone with square and trowel, and endeared herself to the people by her hearty interest and attractive womanhood. she was presented with the silver trowel with ivory handle which she had used, and with a vase of peterhead granite from the employees of the great north of scotland granite works. mr. carnegie did not marry till he was fifty-two years of age, in , the year following the death of his mother and only brother thomas. the latter died oct. , . mr. carnegie's wife, who is thoroughly in sympathy with her husband's constant giving, was miss louise whitfield, the daughter of the late mr. john whitfield of new york, of the large importing firm of whitfield, powers, & co. mr. carnegie had been an intimate friend of the family for many years, and knew well the admirable qualities and cultivation of the lady he married. he once wrote: "there is no improving companionship for man in an ignorant or frivolous woman." miss whitfield acted upon the advice which mr. carnegie has given in some of his addresses: "to the young ladies i say, 'marry the man who loves most his mother.'" mr. carnegie now has two homes, one in new york city, the other at cluny castle, kingussie, scotland. he gives little personal attention to business, having delegated those matters to others. "i throw the responsibility upon others," he once said, "and allow them full swing." mr. carnegie is a man of great energy, with cheerful temperament, sound judgment, earnestness, and force of character. he has a large, well-shaped head, high forehead, brown hair and beard, and expressive face. mr. carnegie's gifts in his adopted country have been many and large. to the johnstown free library, pennsylvania, he has given $ , . to the jefferson county library at fairfield, iowa, he has given $ , , which provides an attractive building for books, museum, and lecture-hall. the late senator james f. wilson gave the ground for the fire-proof building. the library owes much of its success to its librarian, mr. a. t. wells, who has given his life to the work, having held the position for thirty-two years. for many years he labored without salary, giving both time and money. to the braddock free library, mr. carnegie has given $ , . braddock, ten miles east of pittsburg, has a population of , , mainly the employees of the edgar thomson steel works; and the village of homestead lies just opposite. the handsome library building has a very attractive reading-room, which is filled in the evening and much used during the day by the families of the employees. there is also a large reading-room exclusively for boys and girls, where are found juvenile books and periodicals. the librarian, miss helen sperry, writes: "there is a great deal of local pride in the library, and it grows constantly in the affection of the people." the building was much enlarged in to accommodate the carnegie club of six hundred men and boys. the new portion contains a hall capable of seating eleven hundred persons, a large gymnasium, bathrooms, swimming-pool, bowling-alleys, etc. "in order to encourage public spirit in braddock," says the _review of reviews_ for october, , "a selection of books on municipal improvement, streets and roads, public health, and other subjects in which the community should be interested, was placed on the library shelves; and it is said that these books have been consulted by the municipal officers, and results are already apparent." this is a good example for other librarians. much work is being done in local history and in co-operation with the public schools. to the carnegie free library of allegheny city, mr. carnegie has given $ , , the city making an annual appropriation of $ , to carry on its work. the building is of gray granite, romanesque in style, with a shelving capacity of about , volumes. the library has a delivery-room, a general reading-room, women's reading-room, reference-room, besides trustees' and librarians' rooms. the building also contains, on the first floor, a music-hall, with a seating-capacity of eleven hundred, where free concerts are given every saturday afternoon on a ten-thousand-dollar organ; there is an art-gallery on the second floor, and a lecture-room. the latter seats about three hundred persons, and is used for university extension lectures, meetings of the historical society, etc. a room adjoining is for the accommodation of scientific societies. the city appropriates about $ , yearly for the music-hall, fuel, repairs, etc. the allegheny free library was formally opened by president harrison on feb. , . mr. carnegie said, in presenting the gift of the library, "my wife,--for her spirit and influence are here to-night,--my wife and i realize to-night how infinitely more blessed it is to give than to receive.... i wish that the masses of working men and women, the wage-earners of all allegheny, will remember and act upon the fact that this is their library, their gallery, and their hall. the poorest citizen, the poorest man, the poorest woman, that toils from morn till night for a livelihood, as, thank heaven, i had that toil to do in my early days, as he walks this hall, as he reads the books from these alcoves, as he listens to the organ, and admires the works of art in this gallery, equally with the millionnaire and the foremost citizen, i want him to exclaim in his own heart, 'behold, all this is mine. i support it, and i am proud to support it. i am joint proprietor here.'" "since the library opened four years ago," says mr. william m. stevenson, the librarian, "over , , books and periodicals have been put into the hands of readers.... the concerts have been exceedingly popular, and incidentally have helped the library by drawing people to the library who might otherwise have remained in ignorance of the popularity and usefulness of the institution." mr. carnegie's greatest gift has been the pittsburg library. it is a magnificent building of gray ohio sandstone, in the italian renaissance style of architecture, with roof of red tile. the architects were longfellow, alden, and harlow, their plan being chosen from the one hundred and two sets of plans offered. the library building is feet long and feet wide, with two graceful towers, each feet high, and has capacity for , volumes. the entire "stack" or set of shelves for books is made of iron in six stories, and is as nearly fireproof as possible. the lower stories are for the circulating-books; the upper stories for reference-books. the library proper is in the centre of the building, reached by a broad flight of stone steps. above, cut in stone, are the words, "carnegie library; free to the people." the vestibule, finished in marble with mosaic floors, is handsomely decorated. on the first floor are the circulating-library, "its blue-ceiling panels bordered with an interlace in orange and white," a periodical room on either side, one for scientific and technical, the other for popular and literary magazines, with rooms for cataloguing and for the library officials. "the reference reading-room on the second floor, large, beautiful, and well-lighted," says the efficient librarian, mr. edwin h. anderson, "is for quiet study. here reference-books, such as encyclopædias, dictionaries, atlases, etc., are at hand, on the shelves along the walls, to be freely consulted." this room is of a greenish tone, with ivory-colored pilasters and arches, and a _fleur-de-lis_ pattern painted in the wall-panels, from the "mark" of a famous florentine printer and engraver four centuries ago. across the corridor from the reference reading-room are five smaller rooms for special collections of books. one is occupied by a musical library of two thousand volumes, of the late karl merz, which was bought and presented to the library by several citizens of pittsburg. another will contain the collection to be purchased from the fund left by mr. j. d. bernd, and will bear his name. another will be used for art-books, and another for science. the children are to have a reading-room, made attractive by juvenile books, magazines, and copies of good pictures. a large and well-lighted room in the basement is used for the leading newspapers of the country. the library has a wing on either side, one containing the art-gallery, and the other the science museum. the former has three large picture-rooms on the second floor, painted in dull red, with a wall-space of , feet for the exhibition of paintings and prints. a corridor feet long, in which statuary will be placed, is decorated with copies of the frieze of the parthenon. the basement of this wing will be devoted to the various departments of the art-schools of pittsburg. in the science museum three large, well-lighted rooms on the second floor will be used for collections in zoölogy, botany, and mineralogy. "the closely allied branches of geology, the study of the earth's crust; paleontology, the study of life in former ages; anthropology, the natural history of the human species; archæology, the science of antiquity; and ethnology and ethnography, treating of the origin, relation, characteristic costumes and habits of the human races, will, no doubt, receive as much attention as space and funds will permit." it is also expected that works of skill and invention will be gathered into an industrial museum for the benefit especially of the many artisans of pittsburg. courses of free lectures will be given to teachers, to pupils, and to the public, as in the american museum of natural history of new york. below the three rooms in the museum are three lecture-rooms, which can be used separately or as one room. in one end of the large library building, and separated from it by a thick wall so as to deaden sound, is the music-hall, semi-circular in plan, with seats for two thousand one hundred persons, and a stage for sixty musicians and a chorus of two hundred. much sienna marble is used, the floor is mosaic, the walls are painted a deep rose-color, and the architecture proper in a soft ivory tone, with gilded ornamentation. two free concerts, or organ recitals, are given each week through the year, on the large modern concert organ, built expressly for this hall. musical lectures are also given, free from technicalities, illustrated by choir, organ, and piano. this is certainly taking music, art, and science to the people as a free gift. to this noble work mr. carnegie has given $ , , . of this amount, $ , was for the main building, $ , for the seven branch libraries or distributing stations, and $ , , as an endowment fund for the art-gallery. from the annual income of this art-fund, which will be about $ , , at least three of the pictures purchased are to be the work of american artists exhibited that year, preferably in the pittsburg gallery. the city of pittsburg agrees to appropriate $ , annually for the maintenance of the library system. mr. carnegie has always felt that the people should bear a part of the burden. he said at the opening of the library, nov. , , "every citizen of pittsburg, even the very humblest, now walks into this, his own library; for the poorest laborer contributes his mite indirectly to its support. the man who enters a library is in the best society this world affords; the good and the great welcome him, surround him, and humbly ask to be allowed to become his servants; and if he himself, from his own earnings, contributes to its support, he is more of a man than before.... if library, hall, gallery, or museum be not popular, and attract the manual toilers and benefit them, it will have failed in its mission; for it was chiefly for the wage-earners that it was built, by one who was himself a wage-earner, and who has the good of that class at heart." mr. carnegie has said elsewhere, "every free library in these days should contain upon its shelves all contributions bearing upon the relations of labor and capital from every point of view,--socialistic, communistic, co-operative, and individualist; and librarians should encourage visitors to read them all." the library stands near the entrance of the valuable park of about acres given to the city by mrs. schenley in . "this lady," says mr. carnegie, "although born in pittsburg, married an english gentleman while yet in her teens. it is forty years and more since she took up her residence in london among the titled and wealthy of the world's metropolis; but still she turns to the home of her childhood, and by means of schenley park links her name with it forever. a noble use this of great wealth by one who thus becomes her own administrator." near the library are the $ , conservatories given to the people by mr. phipps, and a source of most elevating pleasure. mr. carnegie's gifts in and about pittsburg amount already to $ , , ; yet he is soon to build a library for homestead, and one each for duquesne and the town of carnegie. "such other districts as may need branch libraries," says mr. carnegie, "we ardently hope we may be able to supply; for to provide free libraries for all the people of pittsburg is a field which we would fain make our own, as chief part of our life-work. i have dropped into the plural, for there is one always with me to prompt, encourage, suggest, discuss, and advise, and fortunately, sometimes, when necessary, gently to criticise; whose heart is as keenly in this work as my own, preferring it to any other as the best possible use of surplus wealth, and without whose wise and zealous co-operation i often feel little useful work could be done." mr. carnegie has given $ , to bellevue hospital medical college, new york, for a histological laboratory. he is also the founder of the magnificent music hall on the corner of fifty-second street and seventh avenue, new york city. the press says his investment in the music hall company limited equals nine-tenths of the full cost of the hall. "it was the dearest wish of the elder damrosch that a grand concert-hall suitable for oratorio, choral, and symphony performances might be built in new york. the questions of cost, endowment, etc., have been discussed many times by his associates and successors, without definite result. it was the liberality and public spirit of andrew carnegie which finally made possible the establishment of a completely equipped home for music." the main hall, exquisite in its decorations of ivory white, gold, and old rose, will seat about three thousand persons, with standing-room for a thousand more. in the decorations , lamps are placed. of these, are in the ceiling and the walls of the stage, around the boxes and balconies, and in the main ceiling. when the electric current is turned on at night the effect is magical. the electric-light plant consists of four dynamos, each weighing , pounds. besides the main hall, there are several smaller rooms for recitals, lectures, readings, receptions, and studios. mr. carnegie will need no other monument than his great libraries, the influence of which will increase in the coming centuries. thomas holloway: his sanatorium and college. thomas holloway, one of england's most munificent givers, was born in devonport, england, sept. , . his father, who had been a warrant officer in a militia regiment, had become a baker in devonport. finding that he could support his several children better by managing an inn, he removed to penzance, and took charge of turk's head inn on chapel street. his son thomas went to school at camborne and penzance until he was sixteen. he was a saving lad, for the family were obliged to be economical. he must also have been energetic, for this quality he displayed remarkably through life. after his father died, he and his mother and his brother henry opened a grocery and bakery shop in the marketplace at penzance. mrs. holloway, the mother, was the daughter of a farmer at trelyon, lelant parish, cornwall, and knew how to help her sons make a living in the penzance shop. when thomas was twenty-eight he seems to have tired of this kind of work or of the town, for he went to london to struggle with its millions in making a fortune. it seemed extremely improbable that he would make money; but if he did not make, he was too poor to lose much. for twelve years he worked in various situations, some of the time being "secretary to a gentleman," showing that he had improved his time while in school to be able to hold such a position. in he had established himself as "a merchant and foreign commercial agent" at broad street buildings. one of the men for whom mr. holloway, then thirty-six years old, did business, was felix albinolo, an italian from turin, who sold leeches and the "st. come et st. damien ointment." mr. holloway introduced the italian to the doctors at st. thomas's hospital, who liked the ointment, and gave testimonials in its favor. mr. holloway, hoping that he could make some money out of it, prepared an ointment somewhat similar, and announced it for sale, oct. , . he stated in his advertisement in the paper that "holloway's family ointment" had received the commendation of herbert mayo, senior surgeon at middlesex hospital, aug. , . albinolo warned the people in the same paper that the surgeon's letter was given in connection with his ointment, the composition of which was a secret. whether this was true or not, the surgeon made no denial of mr. holloway's statement. a year later, as albinolo could not sell his wares, and was in debt, he was committed to the debtors' prison, and nothing more is known of him or his ointment. there were various reports about the holloway ointment, and the pills which he soon after added to his stock. it was said that for the making of one or both of these preparations an old german woman had confided her knowledge to mr. holloway's mother, and she in turn had told her son. mr. holloway as long as he lived had great faith in his medicines, and believed they would sell if they could be brought to the notice of the people. every day he took his pills and his ointment to the docks to try to interest the captains and passengers sailing to all parts of the world. people, as usual, were indifferent to an unknown man and unknown medicines, and mr. holloway went back to his rooms day after day with little money or success. he advertised in the press as much as he was able, indeed, more than he was able; for he got into debt, and, like albinolo, was thrust into a debtors' prison on white cross street. he effected a release by arranging with his creditors, whom he afterwards paid in full, with ten per cent interest, it is said, to such as willingly granted his release. mr. holloway had married an unassuming girl, miss jane driver, soon after he came to london; and she was assisting in his daily work. mr. holloway used to labor from four o'clock in the morning till ten at night, living, with his wife, over his patent-medicine warehouse at strand. he told a friend years afterwards that the only recreation he and his wife had during the week was to take a walk in that crowded thoroughfare. speaking of the great labor and anxiety in building up a business, he said, "if i had then offered the business to any one as a gift they would not have accepted it." the constant advertising created a demand for the medicines. in , five years after he began to make his pills and ointment, mr. holloway spent £ , in advertising; in he spent £ , ; in , £ , ; in , £ , ; in , £ , ; in , £ , , and later £ , , or $ , , each year. mr. holloway published directions for the use of his medicines in nearly every known language,--chinese, turkish, armenian, arabic, and most of the vernaculars of india. he said he "believed he had advertised in every respectable newspaper in existence." the business had begun to pay well evidently in , about twelve years after he started it; for in that year mr. holloway obtained an injunction against his brother, who had commenced selling "holloway's pills and ointment at strand." probably the brother thought a partnership in the bakery in their boyish days had fitted him for a partnership in the sale of the patent medicines. in mr. holloway sent a physician to france to introduce his preparations; but the laws not being favorable to secret remedies, not much was accomplished. when the new law courts were built in london, mr. holloway moved his business to new oxford street, since renumbered , where he employed one hundred persons, besides the scores in his branch offices. "of late years," says the manchester _guardian_, "his business became a vast banking-concern, to which the selling of patent medicines was allied; and he was understood to say some few years ago that his profits as a dealer in money approached the enormous sum of £ , a year.... the ground-floor of his large establishment in oxford street was occupied with clerks engaged in bookkeeping. on the first and second floors one might gain a notion of the profits of pill-making by seeing young women filling boxes from small hillocks of pills containing a sufficient dose for a whole city. on the topmost floor were mr. holloway's private apartments." later in life mr. holloway moved to a country home, tittenhurst, sunninghill, which is about six miles from windsor, and on the borders of the great park of eighteen hundred acres, where he lived without any display, and where his wife died, sept. , , at the age of seventy-one. he never had any desire for title or public prominence, and when, after his gifts had made him known and honored, a baronetcy was suggested to him, he would not consent to it. mr. holloway had worked untiringly; he had not spent his money in extravagant living; and now, how should he use it for the best good of his country? the noble earl of shaftesbury had been giving much of his early life to the amelioration of the insane. he had visited asylums in england, and seen lunatics chained to their beds, living on bread and water, or shut up in dark, filthy cells, neglected, and often abused. he ascertained that over seventy-five per cent may be cured if treatment is given in the first twelve months; only five per cent if given later. he was astonished to find that no one seemed to care about these unfortunates. he longed to see an asylum built for the insane of the middle classes. he addressed public meetings in their behalf; and mr. holloway was in one of these meetings, and listened to lord shaftesbury's fervent appeal. his heart was greatly moved; and he visited shaftesbury, and together they conferred about the great gift which was consummated later. it is said also that at mr. gladstone's breakfast-table, mrs. gladstone advised with mr. holloway about the need of convalescent homes. in the year mr. holloway put aside nearly £ , ($ , , ) for an institution for the insane of the middle classes, such as professional men, clerks, teachers, and governesses, as the lower classes were quite well provided for in public asylums. a picturesque spot was chosen for the holloway sanatorium,--forty acres of ground near virginia water, which is six miles from windsor, though within the royal domains. virginia water is a beautiful artificial lake, about seven miles in circumference, a mile and a half long, and one-third of a mile wide. the lake was formed in , in order to drain the moorland, by william, duke of cumberland, uncle of george iii. near by is an obelisk with this inscription: "this obelisk was raised by the command of george ii., after the battle of culloden, in commemoration of the services of his son william, duke of cumberland, the success of his arms, and the gratitude of his father." this lake, with its adjacent gardens, pavilions, and cascades, was the favorite summer retreat of george iv., who built there a fishing-temple richly decorated. a royal barge, thirty-two feet long, for the use of royalty, is stationed on the lake. in the midst of this attractive scenery mr. holloway caused his forty acres to be laid out with tasteful flower-beds, walks, and thousands of trees and shrubs. occupied with his immense business, he yet had time to watch the growth of his great benevolent project. mr. w. h. crossland, who had built the fine town hall at rochdale, was chosen as the architect, and began at virginia water the stately and handsome sanatorium in the english renaissance style of architecture, of red brick with stone trimmings. there is a massive and lofty tower in the centre. the interior is finished in gray marble, which is enriched with cheerful colors and plentiful gilding. the great lecture or concert hall, adorned with portraits of distinguished persons by mr. girardot and other artists, has a very richly gilded roof. the refectory is decorated by a series of beautiful fancy groups after watteau, forming a frieze. the six hundred rooms of the building, great and small, on the four floors, are exquisitely finished and furnished, all made as attractive as possible, that those of both sexes who are weary and broken in mind may have much to interest them in their long days of absence from home and friends. students of the national art training school, under mr. poynter, did much of the art work. there are no blank walls. the holloway sanatorium, which is five hundred feet by two hundred feet in extent, has a model laundry in a separate building, pretty red brick houses for the staff and those who are not obliged to sleep in the building, a pleasure-house for rest and recreation for the inmates, and a handsome chapel. four hundred or more patients can be accommodated. a moderate charge is made for those who can afford to pay, and only those persons thought to be curable are received. as much freedom is allowed as possible, that the inmates may not unnecessarily feel the surveillance under which they are obliged to live. the sanatorium was opened june , , by the prince of wales, accompanied by the princess, their three daughters, and the duke of cambridge. mr. martin holloway, the brother-in-law of mr. thomas holloway, spoke of the uses of the sanatorium, and the prince of wales replied in a happy manner. many inmates were received at once, and the institution has proved a great blessing. to what other uses should mr. holloway put his large fortune? he and mrs. holloway had long thought of a college for women, and after her death he determined to build one as a memorial to her who had helped him through all those days of poverty and self-sacrifice. in mr. holloway held a conference with the blind professor henry fawcett, member of parliament, and his able wife, mrs. millicent garrett fawcett, mr. samuel morley, m.p., sir james kay-shuttleworth, bart., mr. david chadwick, m.p., dr. hague of new york, and others interested in the higher education of women. mr. holloway foresaw, with these educators, that in the future women would seek a university education like their brothers. "for many years," says mr. martin holloway, "his mind was dominated by the idea that if a higher form of education would ennoble women, the sons of such mothers would be nobler men." on may , , mr. holloway purchased, and conveyed in trust to mr. henry driver holloway and mr. george martin holloway, his brother-in-law, and mr. david chadwick, m.p., ninety-five acres on the southern slope of egham hill, surrey, for his college for women. it is in the midst of most picturesque and beautiful scenery, rich in historical associations. egham is five miles from windsor, near the thames, and on the borders of runnymede, so called from the saxon runemede, or council meadow, where the barons, june , , compelled king john to sign the magna charta. a building was erected to commemorate this important event, and the table on which the charter was signed is still preserved. near by is windsor great park, with seven thousand fallow deer in its eighteen hundred acres, and its noted long walk, an avenue of elms three miles in length, extending from the gateway of george iv., the principal entrance to windsor castle, to snow hill, crowned by a statue of george iii., by westmacott. not far away from egham are lovely virginia water and staines, from stana, the saxon for stone, where one sees the city boundary stone, on which is inscribed, "god preserve the city of london, a.d. ." this marks the limit of jurisdiction of the lord mayor of london over the thames. after mr. holloway had decided to build his college, he visited the chief cities of europe with mr. martin holloway to ascertain what was possible about the best institutions of learning, and the latter made a personal inspection of colleges in the united states. mr. holloway was seventy-six, and too old for a long journey to america. plans were prepared by mr. w. h. crossland of london, who spent much time in france studying the old french châteaux before he began his work on the college. the first brick was laid sept. , . mr. holloway wished this structure to be the best of its kind in england, if not in the world. the _annual register_ says in regard to mr. holloway's two great gifts, "when their efficiency or adornment was concerned, his customary principle of economy failed to restrain him." the college is a magnificent building in the style of the french renaissance, reminding one of the louvre in paris, of red brick with portland stone dressings, with much artistic sculpture. "it covers," says a report prepared by the college authorities, "more ground than any other college in the world, and forms a double quadrangle, measuring feet by feet. the general design is that of two long, lofty blocks running parallel to each other, and connected in the middle and at either end by lower cross buildings.... the quadrangles each measure about feet by feet. cloisters run from east to west on two sides of each quadrangle, with roofs whose upper sides are constructed as terraces, the capitals being arranged as triplets." no pains or expense have been spared to finish and furnish this college with every comfort, even luxury. there are over , rooms, and accommodations for about students. each person has two rooms, one for sleeping and one for study; and there is a sitting-room for every six persons. the dining-hall is feet long, wide, and high. the semi-circular ceiling is richly ornamented. the recreation-hall, which is in reality a picture-gallery, is feet long, wide, and high, with beautiful ceiling and floor of polished marquetry. the pictures here were collected by mr. martin holloway, and cost about £ , , or half a million dollars. sir edwin landseer's famous picture, "man proposes, god disposes," was purchased for £ , . it was painted in by landseer, who received £ , for it. it represents an arctic incident suggested by the finding of the relics of sir john franklin. here are "the princes in the tower" and "princess elizabeth in prison at st. james," by sir john millais; "the babylonian marriage market" and "the suppliants," by edwin long; "the railway station," by w. p. frith; and other noted works. the gallery is open to the public every thursday afternoon, and in the summer months on saturdays also. there are several thousand visitors each year. the college has twelve rooms with deadened walls for practising music, a gymnasium, six tennis-courts (three of asphalt and three of grass), a large swimming-bath, a lecture theatre, museum, a library with carved oak bookcases reaching nearly to the ceiling, and an immense kitchen which serves for a school for cookery. electric lights and steam heat are used throughout the buildings, and there are open fireplaces for the students' rooms. the chapel, feet long by feet wide, says the london _graphic_ for july , , "is a singularly elaborate building in the renaissance style.... in its decoration a strong tendency to the italian school of the latter part of the sixteenth century is apparent. this is especially the case with the roof, which bears a kind of resemblance to that of the sistine chapel at rome, though it cannot in any way be said to be a copy of that magnificent work.... the choir, or nave, is seated with oak benches arranged stall-ways, as is usual in the college chapels of oxford and cambridge.... the roof is formed of an elliptic barrel-vault, the lower portions of which are adorned with statues and candelabra in high relief, and the upper portion by painted enrichments. the former are a very remarkable series of works by the italian sculpture fucigna, who had learned his art in the studios of tenerani and rauch at rome. these were his last works, and he did not live to complete them. the figures represent the prophets and other personages from the old testament on the left side, and apostles, evangelists, and saints from the new testament on the right. the baldachino is constructed of walnut and oak, richly carved; and the organ front, at the opposite end of the chapel, is a beautiful example of wood-carving." the building and furnishing of the college cost £ , , the endowment £ , , the pictures £ , , making in all about one million sterling, or five million dollars. the deed of foundation states that "the college is founded by the advice and counsel of the founder's dear wife." when mrs. holloway was toiling with her husband over the shop in the strand, with no recreation during the week except a walk, as he said, in that crowded thoroughfare, how little she could have realized that this beautiful monument would be built to her memory! mr. holloway did not live to see his college completed; as he died, after a brief illness of bronchitis, at tittenhurst, wednesday, dec. , , aged eighty-three, and was buried in st. michael's churchyard, sunninghill, jan. , . mr. martin holloway faithfully carried out his relative's wishes; and when the college was ready for occupancy, it was opened by queen victoria in person, on wednesday, june , . the day was fine; and egham was gayly decorated for the event with flowers, banners, and arches. the queen, with princess beatrice and her husband, the late prince henry of battenberg, the duke of connaught, and other members of the royal family, drove over from windsor through frogmore, where prince albert is buried, and runnymede to egham, in open carriages, each carriage drawn by four gray horses ridden by postilions. outriders in scarlet preceded the procession, which was accompanied by an escort of life guards. reaching the college at . p.m., the queen and princess beatrice were each presented with a bouquet by miss driver holloway, and were conducted to the chapel, where a throne had been prepared for her majesty. princess beatrice, prince henry of battenberg, and the duke of cambridge stood on her left, with the duke of connaught, the archbishop of canterbury, and others on her right. the choir sang an ode composed by mr. martin holloway, and the archbishop of canterbury offered prayer. the queen then admired the decorations of the chapel, and proceeded to the picture gallery, where the architect presented to her an album with illustrations of the college, and the contractor, mr. j. thompson, offered her a beautiful key of gold. the top of the stem is encircled by two rows of diamonds; and the bow at the top is an elegant piece of gold, enamel, and diamonds. a laurel wreath of diamonds surrounds the words, "opened by h. m. the queen, june , ." the queen was then conducted to the upper quadrangle, where she seated herself in a chair of state on a dais, under a canopy of crimson velvet. a great concourse of people were gathered to witness the formal opening of the college. the lawn was also crowded, six hundred children being among the people. after the band of the royal artillery played to the singing of the national anthem, "god save the queen," mr. martin holloway presented an address to her majesty in a beautiful casket of gold. "the casket rests on four pediments, on each of which is seated a female figure," says the london _times_, "which are emblematical of education, science, music, and painting. on the front panel is a view of royal holloway college, on either side of which is a medallion containing the royal and imperial monogram, v.r.i., executed in colored enamel. underneath the view is the monogram of the founder, mr. thomas holloway, in enamel." at one end of the casket are the royal arms, and at the opposite end the holloway arms and motto, "nil desperandum," richly emblazoned in enamel. the casket is surmounted by a portrait model of mr. holloway, seated in a classic chair, being a reduction from the model from life taken by signor fucigna. after the address in the casket was presented to queen victoria, the earl of kimberley, the minister in attendance, stepped forward, and said, "i am commanded by her majesty to declare the college open." trumpets were blown by the royal scots' greys, cheers were given, the archbishop pronounced the benediction, and the choir sang "rule britannia." the queen before her departure expressed her pleasure and satisfaction in the arrangement of the institution, and commanded that it be styled, "the royal holloway college." more than a year later, on friday, dec. , , a statue of the queen was unveiled in the upper quadrangle of the college by prince christian. a group of the founder and his wife in the lower quadrangle was also unveiled. both statues are of tyrolese marble, and are the work of prince victor of hohenlohe-langenburg. the rt. hon. earl granville, k.g., made a very interesting address. the college has done admirable work during the ten years since its opening. the founder desired that ultimately the college should confer degrees, but at present the students qualify for degrees at existing universities. in the report for of miss bishop, the principal, she says, "we have now among our students, past and present, fifty-one graduates of the university of london (twenty-one in honors), and twenty-one students who have obtained oxford university honors.... this is the second year that a holloway student has won the gilchrist medal, which is awarded to the first woman on the london b.a. list, provided she obtains two-thirds of the possible marks." in a holloway student was graduated from the royal university of ireland with honors. students are received who do not wish to work for a university examination, "provided they are _bona fide_ students, with a definite course of work in view," says the college report for . they must be over seventeen, pass an entrance examination, and remain not less than one year. there are twelve entrance scholarships of the value of £ to £ a year, and twelve founder's scholarships of £ a year, besides bursaries of the same value. the charge for board, lodging, and instruction is £ or $ a year. courses of practical instruction are given in cookery, ambulance-work, sick-nursing, wood-carving, and dressmaking. mr. holloway states in his deed: "the curriculum of the college shall not be such as to discourage students who desire a liberal education apart from the greek and latin languages; and proficiency in classics shall not entitle students to rewards of merit over others equally proficient in other branches of knowledge." while the governors, some of whom rightly must always be women, may provide instruction in subjects which seem most suitable, mr. holloway expresses his sensible belief that "the education of women should not be exclusively regulated by the traditions and methods of former ages." the students at holloway, according to an article in harper's _bazar_, march , , by miss elizabeth c. barney, have a happy as well as busy life. she says, "the girls have a running-club, which requires an entrance examination of each candidate for election, the test being a rousing sprint around the college--one-third of a mile--within three minutes, or fail. after this has been successfully passed, the condition of continued membership is a repetition of this performance eight times every two weeks, on pain of a penny fine for every run neglected. on stormy days the interior corridors are not a bad course, inasmuch as each one measures one-tenth of a mile in length." "nor are in-door amusements less in vogue than out-door sports. there are the 'shakespeare evenings' and the 'french evenings,' the 'fire brigade' and the 'debating society,' and a host of other more or less social events.... the debating society is an august body, which holds its sittings in the lecture theatre, and deals with all the questions of the united kingdom in the most irreproachable parliamentary style. they divide into government and opposition, and pass and reject bills in a way which would do credit to the nation in parliament assembled." the girls also, she says, "have a string orchestra of violins and 'celli, numbering about fifteen performers. the girls meet one evening a week in the library for practice, and enter into it more as recreation before study than as serious work. they play very well indeed together, and sometimes give concerts for the rest of the college." a writer in the atlanta _constitution_ for april , , thus describes the drill of the fair fire brigade: "'the holloway volunteer brigade' formed in three sections of ten students each, representing the occupants of different floors. they were drawn up in line at 'right turn! quick march! position!' then each section went quite through with two full drills. "a fire in sitting-room no. was supposed. at command 'get to work!' the engine was run down to the doorway, a 'chain' of recruits was formed to the nearest source of water-supply, and the buckets were handed in line that the engine might be kept in full play. the pump was vigorously applied by two girls, while another worked the small hose quickly and ingeniously, so that the engine was at full speed in less than a minute. when the drill was concluded with the orders 'knock off!' and 'make up!' everything had been put in its own place. "then came the 'hydrant drill,' which was conducted at the hydrant nearest the point of a supposed outbreak of fire. in this six students from each section took part. directly the alarm was given one hundred feet of canvas hose was run out, and an additional length (regulated, of course, by the distance) was joined to it. at the words 'turn on!' by the officer known as 'branch hoseman,' the hose was directed so that, had there been water in it, it must have streamed onto the supposed fire. this drill was also accomplished in only a minute; and at the commands 'knock off!' and 'make up!' the hose-pipes were promptly disconnected, the pipe that is always kept attached to the hydrant was 'flaked down,' and an extra one hundred feet 'coiled up' on the bight with astonishing rapidity. the drills are genuine realities, and the students thoroughly enjoy them." there is also a way of escape for the students in case of fire. the "merryweather chute," a large tube of specially woven fire-proof canvas, is attached to a wrought-iron frame that fits the window opening. there is also a drill with this chute. when the word is given, "make ready to go down chute," the young woman draws her dress around her, steps feet foremost into the tube, and regulates her speed by means of a rope made fast to the frame, and running through the chute to the ground. fifty students can descend from a window in five minutes with no fear after they have practised. mr. holloway and his wife worked hard to accumulate their fortune, but they placed it where it will do great good for centuries to come. in so doing they made for themselves an honored name and lasting remembrance. charles pratt and his institute. "it is a good thing to be famous, provided that the fame has been honestly won. it is a good thing to be rich when the image and superscription of god is recognized on every coin. but the sweetest thing in the world is to be _loved_. the tears that were shed over the coffin of charles pratt welled up out of loving hearts.... i count his death to have been the sorest bereavement brooklyn has ever suffered; for he was yet in his vigorous prime, with large plans and possibilities yet to be accomplished. "charles pratt belonged to the only true nobility in america,--the men who do not inherit a great name, but make one for themselves." thus wrote the rev. dr. theodore l. cuyler of brooklyn, after mr. pratt's death in . charles pratt, the founder of pratt institute, was born at watertown, mass., oct. , . his father, asa pratt, a cabinet-maker, had ten children to support, so that it became necessary for each child to earn for himself whenever that was possible. [illustration: charles pratt.] when charles was ten years old, he left home, and found a place to labor on a neighboring farm. for three years the lad, slight in physique, but ambitious to earn, worked faithfully, and was allowed to attend school three months in each winter. at thirteen he was eager for a broader field, and, going to boston, was employed for a year in a grocery store. soon after he went to newton, and there learned the machinist's trade, saving every cent carefully, because he had a plan in his mind; and that plan was to get an education, even if a meagre one, that he might do something in the world. finally he had saved enough for a year's schooling, and going to wilbraham academy, at wilbraham, mass., "managed," as he afterwards said, "to live on one dollar a week while i studied." fifty dollars helped to lay the foundation for a remarkably useful and noble life. when the year was over and the money spent, having learned already the value of depending upon himself rather than upon outside help, the youth became a clerk in a paint-and-oil store in boston. here the thirst for knowledge, stimulated but only partially satisfied by the short year at the academy, led him to the poor man's blessing,--the library. here he could read and think, and be far removed from evil associations. when he was twenty-one, in , charles pratt went to new york as a clerk for messrs. schanck & downing, fulton street, in the oil, paint, and glass business. the work was constant; but he was happy in it, because he believed that work should be the duty and pleasure of all. he never changed in this love for labor. he said years afterwards, when he was worth millions, "i am convinced that the great problem which we are trying to solve is very much wrapped up in the thought of educating the people to find happiness in a busy, active life, and that the occupation of the hour is of more importance than the wages received." he found "happiness in a busy, active life," when he was earning fifty dollars a year as well as when he was a man of great wealth. years later mr. pratt's son charles relates the following incident, which occurred when his father came to visit him at amherst college: "he was present at a lecture to the senior class in mental science. the subject incidentally discussed was 'work,' its necessary drain upon the vital forces, and its natural and universal distastefulness. on being asked to address the class, my father assumed to present the matter from a point of view entirely different from that of the text-book, and maintained that there was no inherent reason why man should consider his daily labor, of whatever nature, as necessarily disagreeable and burdensome, but that the right view was the one which made of work a delight, a source of real satisfaction, and even pleasure. such, indeed, it was to him; he believed it might prove to be such to all others." after mr. pratt had worked three years for his new york firm, in connection with two other gentlemen he bought the paint-and-oil business of his employers, and the new firm became raynolds, devoe, & pratt. for thirteen years he worked untiringly at his business; and in the firm was divided, the oil portion of the business being carried on by charles pratt & co. in the midst of this busy life the influence of the mercantile library of boston was not lost. he had become associated with the mercantile library of new york, and both this and the one in boston had a marked influence on his life and his great gifts. when the immense oil-fields of pennsylvania began to be developed, about , mr. pratt was one of the first to see the possibilities of the petroleum trade. he began to refine the crude oil, and succeeded in producing probably the best upon the market, called "pratt's astral oil." mr. pratt took a just pride in its wide use, and was pleased, says a friend, "when the rev. dr. buckley told him that he had found that the russian convent on mount tabor was lighted with pratt's astral oil. he meant that the stamp 'pratt' should be like the stamp of the mint,--an assurance of quality and quantity." for years he was one of the officers of the standard oil company, and of course a sharer in its enormous wealth. nothing seemed more improbable when he was spending a year at wilbraham academy, living on a dollar a week, than this ownership of millions. now, as then, he was saving of time as well as money. says mr. james mcgee of new york, "he brought to business a hatred of waste. he disliked waste of every kind. he was not willing that the smallest material should be lost. he did not believe in letting time go to waste. he was punctual at his engagements, or gave good excuse for his tardiness. speaking of an evening spent in congratulations, he said that it was time lost; it would have been better spent in reviewing mistakes, that they might be corrected. it is said that a youth who had hurried into business applied to mr. pratt for advice as to whether he should go west. he questioned the young man as to how he occupied his time; what he did before business hours, and what after; what he was reading or doing to improve his mind. finding that the young man was taking no pains to educate himself, he said emphatically, 'no; don't go west. they don't want you.'" active as mr. pratt was in the details of a great business, he found time for other work. desiring an education, which he in his early days could not obtain, he provided the best for his children. he became deeply interested in adelphi academy, brooklyn, was a trustee, and later president of the board. in he erected the wing of the main building; and six years later, in , he gave $ , for the erection of a new building. he gave generously to the baptist church in brooklyn in which he worshipped, and from the pews of which he was seldom absent on the sabbath. he bestowed thousands upon struggling churches. he generously aided rochester theological seminary. he gave to amherst college, through his son charles m. pratt, about $ , for a gymnasium, and through his son frederick b. pratt thirteen acres for athletic grounds. he helped foreign missions and missions at home with an open hand. "there were," says dr. cuyler, "innumerable little rills of benevolence that trickled into the homes of the needy and the hearts of the straitened and suffering. i never loved charles pratt more than when he was dealing with the needs of a bright orphan girl, whose case appealed strongly to his sympathies. after inquiring into it carefully, he said to me, 'we must be careful when trying to aid this young lady, not to cripple her energies, or lower her sense of independence.' "the last time his hand ever touched paper was to sign a generous check for the benefit of our brooklyn bureau of charities. almost the last words that he ever wrote was this characteristic sentence: 'i feel that life is so short that i am not satisfied unless i do each day the best i can.'" mr. pratt was not willing to spend his life in accumulating millions except for a purpose. he once told dr. cuyler, "the greatest humbug in this world is the idea that the mere possession of money can make any man happy. i never got any satisfaction out of mine until i began to do good with it." he did not wish his wealth to build fine mansions for himself, for he preferred to live simply. he had no pleasure in display. "he needed," says his minister, dr. humpstone, "neither club nor playhouse to afford him rest; his home sufficed. for those who use such diversions he had no criticism. in these matters he was neither narrow nor ascetic. he was the brother of his own children. his home was to him the fairest spot on earth. he filled it with sunshine. outside of his business, his church, and his philanthropy, it was his only sphere." he was a man of few words and much self-control. dr. humpstone relates this incident, told him by a friend: "some one made upon mr. pratt, openly, a bitter personal attack. the future revealed that this charge was entirely unmerited, and the man who made it lived to regret his act; but the moment revealed the greatness of our dead friend's love. he said no word; only a face pale with pain revealed how determined was his effort at self-control, and how keen was his suffering. when his accuser turned to go, he bade him good-morning, as though he had left a blessing and not a bane behind him. as i recall the past at this moment, i think of no word he ever spoke in my hearing that was proof of an unloving spirit in him." for years mr. pratt had been thinking about industrial education; "such education as enables men and women to earn their own living by applied knowledge and the skilful use of their hands in the various productive industries." he knew that the majority of young men and women are born poor, and must struggle for a livelihood, and, whether poor or rich, ought to know how to be self-supporting, and not helpless members of the community. the study of algebra and english literature might be a delight, but not all can be teachers or clerks in stores; some must be machinists, carpenters, and skilled workmen in various trades. mr. pratt never forgot that he had been a poor boy. he never grew cold in manner and selfish in life. "he presented," says mr. james macalister, president of the drexel institute, philadelphia, "the rare spectacle of a rich man in strong sympathy with the industrial revolution that was progressing around him. his ardent desire was to recognize labor, to improve it, to elevate it; and his own experience taught him that the best way to do this was to put education into the handiwork of the laborer." mr. pratt gained information from all possible sources about the kind of an institution which should be built to provide the knowledge of books and the knowledge of earning a living. he travelled widely in his own country, corresponded with the heads of various schools, such as the rose polytechnic institute at terre haute, ind., the institute of technology in boston, and with dr. john eaton, then commissioner of education, dr. felix adler of new york, and others. then mr. pratt took his son, mr. f. b. pratt, and his private secretary, mr. heffley, to twenty of the leading cities in england, france, austria, switzerland, and germany, to see what the old world was doing to educate her people in self-help. he found great industrial schools on the continent supported by the city or state, where every boy or girl could learn the theory or practice, or both, of the trade to be followed for a livelihood. on leaving the schools the pupils could earn a dollar or more a day. our own country was sadly backward in such matters. the public schools had introduced manual training only to a very limited extent. mr. pratt determined to build an institute where any who wished to engage in "mechanical, commercial, and artistic pursuits" should have a thorough "theoretic and practical knowledge." it should dignify labor, because he believed there should be no idlers among rich or poor. it should teach "that personal character is of greater consequence than material productions." mr. pratt, on sept. , , bought a large piece of land on ryerson street, brooklyn, a total of , square feet, and began to carry out in brick and stone his noble thought for the people. he not only gave his millions, but he gave his time and thought in the midst of his busy life. he said, "_the giving which counts, is the giving of one's self_. the faithful teacher who gives his strength and life without stint or hope of reward, other than the sense of fidelity to duty, gives most; and so the record will stand when our books are closed at the day of final accounting." mr. pratt at first erected the main building six stories high, feet by , brick with terra-cotta and stone trimmings, and the machine-shop buildings, consisting of metal-working and wood-working shops, forge and foundry rooms, and a building feet by for bricklaying, stone-carving, plumbing, and the like. later the high-school building was added; and a library building has recently been erected, the library having outgrown its rooms. in the main building, occupying the whole fourth floor as well as parts of several other floors, is the art department of the institute. here, in morning, afternoon, and evening classes, under the best instructors, a three years' course in art may be taken, in drawing, painting, and clay-modelling; also courses in architectural and mechanical drawing, where in the adjacent shops the properties of materials and their power to bear strain can be learned. many students take a course in design, and are thus enabled to win good positions as designers of book-covers, tiles, wall-papers, carpets, etc. the normal art course of two years fits for teaching. of those who left the institute between and , having finished the course, seventy-six became supervisors of drawing in public schools, or teach art elsewhere, with salaries aggregating $ , . courses are also given in wood-carving and art needlework. though there were but twelve in the class in the art department at the opening of the institute in , in three years the number of pupils had increased to about seven hundred. mr. pratt instituted another department in the main building,--that of domestic science. there are morning, afternoon, and evening classes in sewing, cooking, and other household matters. a year's course, two lessons a week, is given in dressmaking, cutting, fitting, and draping, or the course may be taken in six months if time is limited; a course in millinery with five lessons a week, and the full course in three months if the person has little time to give; lectures in hygiene and home nursing, that women in their homes may know what to do in cases of sickness; classes in laundry work, in plain and fancy cooking, and preparing food for invalids. there are normal courses to fit teachers for schools and colleges to give instruction in house sanitation, ventilation, heating, cooking, etc. this department of domestic science has been most useful and popular. as many as , pupils have been enrolled in a single year. a club of men came to take lessons in cooking preparatory to camp-life. nurses come from the training-schools in hospitals to learn how to cook for invalids. many teachers have gone out from this department. the institute has not been able to supply the demand for sewing-women and dressmakers during the busy season. mr. pratt rightly thought "that a knowledge of household employments is thoroughly consistent with the grace and dignity and true womanliness of every american girl.... the housewife who knows how to manage the details of her home has more courage than one who is dependent upon servants, no matter how faithful they may be. she is a better mistress; for she can sympathize with them, and appreciate their work when well done." mr. pratt had another object in view, as he said, "to help those families who must live on small incomes,--say, not over $ or $ per year,--teaching the best disposition of this money in wise purchase, economical use of material, and little waste. one aim of this department is to make the home of the workingman more attractive." mr. pratt said in the last address which he ever made to his institute: "home is the centre from which the life of the nation emanates; and the highest product of modern civilization is a contented, happy home. how can we help to secure such homes? by teaching the people that happiness, to some extent at least, consists in having something to occupy the head and hand, and in doing some useful work." in the department of commerce, there are day and evening classes in phonography, typewriting, bookkeeping, commercial law, german, and spanish, as the latter language, it is believed, will be used more in our commercial relations in the future. there is a department of music to encourage singing among the people, with courses in vocal music, and in the art of teaching music; this has over four hundred students. in the department of kindergartens in the institute mr. pratt took a deep interest. a model kindergarten is conducted with training-classes, and classes for mothers, who may thus be able to introduce it into their homes. the high-school department, a four years' course, combining the academic and the manual training, has proved very valuable. it was originally intended to make the institute purely manual, but later it was felt to be wise to give an opportunity for a completer education by combining head-work and hand-work. the school day is from nine o'clock till three. of the seven periods into which this time is divided, three are devoted to recitations, one to study,--the lessons are prepared at home,--one to drawing, and two to the workshop, in wood, forging, tinsmithing, machine-tool work, etc. when the high school was opened, mr. pratt said, "we believe in the value of co-education, and are pleased to note the addition of more than twenty young women to this entering class." the high school has some excellent methods. "for making the machinery of national and state elections clear," says mr. f. b. pratt, the secretary of the institute and son of the founder, "the school has conducted a campaign and election in close imitation of the actual process.... every morning the important news of the preceding day has been announced and explained by selected pupils." the institute annually awards ten scholarships to ten graduates of the brooklyn grammar schools, five boys and five girls, who pass the best entrance examinations for the high school of pratt institute. the pupils after leaving the high school are fitted to enter any scientific institution of college grade. mr. pratt was "so much impressed with the far-reaching influence of good books as distributed through a free library," that he established a library in the institute for the use of the pupils, and for the public as well. it now has fifty thousand volumes, with a circulation of over two hundred thousand volumes. in connection with it, there are library training-classes, graduates of which have found good positions in various libraries. a museum was begun by mr. pratt in , as an aid to the students in their work. the finest specimens of glass, earthenware, bronzes, iron-work, and minerals were obtained from the old world, specimens of iron and steel from our own country to illustrate their manufacture in the various articles of use; much attention will be given to artistic work in iron after the manner of quentin matsys; lace, ancient and modern; all common cloth, with kind of weave and price; various wools and woollen goods from many countries. in the basement of the main building mr. pratt opened a lunch-room, a most sensible department, especially for those who live at some distance from the institute. dinners at a reasonable price are served from twelve to two o'clock, and suppers three nights a week from six to seven p.m. over forty thousand meals are served yearly. soups, cold meats, salads, sandwiches, tea, coffee, milk, and fruit are usually offered. another thought of mr. pratt, who seemed not to overlook anything, was the establishing of an association known as "the thrift." mr. pratt said, "pupils are taught some useful work by which they can earn money. it seems a natural thing that the next step should be to endeavor to teach them how to save this money; or, in other words, how to make a wise use of it. it is not enough that one be trained so that he can join the bands of the world's workers and become a producer; he needs quite as much to learn habits of economy and thrift in order to make his life a success." "the thrift" was divided into the investment branch and the loan branch. the investment shares were $ , payable at the rate of one dollar a month for ten years. the investor would then have $ . any person could loan money to purchase a home, and make small monthly payments instead of rent. as many persons were unable to save a dollar a month, stamps were sold as in europe; and a person could buy them at any time, and these could be redeemed for cash. in less than four years, the thrift had depositors, with a total investment of over $ , . twenty-four loans had been made, aggregating over $ , . the total deposits up to were $ , . most interesting to me of all the departments of pratt institute are the machine-shops and the trade school building, where boys can learn a trade. "the aim of these trade classes," says mr. f. b. pratt, in the _independent_ for april , , "is to afford a thorough grounding in the principles of a mechanical trade, and sufficient practice in its different operations to produce a fair amount of hand skill." the old apprenticeship system has been abandoned, and our boys must learn to earn a living in some other way. the trades taught at pratt institute are carpentry, forging, machine-work, plastering, plumbing, blacksmithing, bricklaying, house and fresco painting, etc. there is an evening class of sheet-metal workers, who study patterns for cornices, elbows, and other designs in sheet-metal. much attention is given to electrical construction and to electricity in general. the day and evening classes are always full. some of the master-mechanics' associations are cordial in their co-operation and examination of students through their committees. after leaving the institute, work seems to be readily obtained at good wages. mr. pratt wished the instruction here to be of the best. he said, "the demand is for a better and better quality of work, and our american artisans must learn that to claim first place in any trade they must be intelligent.... they must learn to have pride in their work, and to love it, and believe in our motto, 'be true to your work, and your work will be true to you.'" the sons of the founder are alive to the necessities of the young in this direction. if it is true that out of the , white male prisoners in the prisons and reformatory institutions of the united states in nearly three-fourths were native born, and , had learned no trade whatever, it is evident that one of the most pressing needs of our time is the teaching of trades to boys and young men. mr. charles m. pratt, the president of the institute, says in his founder's day address in concerning technical instruction: "our possible service here seems almost limitless. the president of the board of education of boston in a recent address congratulated his fellow-citizens upon the fact that boston has her system of public schools and kindergartens, and now, and but lately, her public school of manual training; but what is needed, he said, 'is a school of _technical training in the trades_, such as pratt institute and other similar institutions furnish. i sincerely trust that the next five years of life and growth here will develop much in this direction.... we are willing to enlarge our present special facilities, or provide new ones for new trade-class requirements, as long as the demand for such opportunities truly exists.'" one rejoices in such institutions as the new york trade schools on first avenue, between sixty-seventh and sixty-eighth streets, with their day and evening classes in plumbing, gasfitting, bricklaying, plastering, stone-cutting, fresco-painting, wood-carving, carpentry, and the like. a printing department has also been added. this work owes its inception and success to the brain and devotion of the late lamented richard tylden auchmuty, who died in new york, july , . mrs. auchmuty, the wife of the founder, has given the land and buildings to the school, valued at $ , , and a building-fund of $ , . mr. j. pierpont morgan has endowed the school with a gift of $ , . mr. pratt did not cease working when his great institute was fairly started. he built in greenpoint, long island, a large apartment building called the "astral," five stories high, of brick and stone, with suites of rooms, each suite capable of accommodating from three to six persons. the building cost $ , , and is rented to workingmen and their families, the income to be used in helping to maintain the institute. a public library was opened in the astral, with the thought at first of using it only for the people in the building; but it was soon opened to all the inhabitants of greenpoint, and has been most heartily appreciated and used. cut in stone over the fireplace in the reading-room of the astral are the words, "waste neither time nor money." when mr. pratt made his first address to the students of pratt institute on founder's day, oct. , , his birthday, taking the bible from the desk, he said, before reading it and offering prayer, "whatever i have done, whatever i hope to do, i have done trusting in the power from above." before he built the institute many persons asked him to use his wealth in other ways; some urged a theological school, others a medical school, but his interest in the workingman and the home led him to found the institute. he rejoiced in the work and its outlook for the future. he said, "i am so grateful, so grateful that the almighty has inclined my heart to do this thing." on the second and third founder's days, mr. pratt spoke with hope and the deepest interest in the work of the institute. he had been asked often what he had spent for the work, and had prepared a statement at considerable cost of time, but with characteristic modesty he could never bring himself to make it public. "i have asked myself over and over again what good could result from any statement we could make of the amount of money we have spent. the quality and amount of service rendered by the institute is the only fair estimate of its real value." in closing his address mr. pratt said, "to my sons and co-trustees, who will have this work to carry on when i am gone, i wish to say, 'the world will overestimate your ability, and will underestimate the value of your work; will be exacting of every promise made or implied; will be critical of your failings; will often misjudge your motives, and hold you to strict account for all your doings. many pupils will make demands, and be forgetful of your service to them. ingratitude will often be your reward. when the day is dark, and full of discouragement and difficulty, you will need to look on the other side of the picture, which you will find full of hope and gladness.'" when the next founder's day came, mr. pratt was gone, and the institute was in the hands of others. at the close of a day of work and thought in his new york office, mr. pratt fell at his post, may , , and was carried to his home in clinton avenue, brooklyn. after the funeral, may , memorial services were held in the emmanuel baptist church on sunday afternoon, may , with addresses by distinguished men who loved and honored him. a beautiful memorial chapel was erected by his family on his estate at dosoris, glen cove, long island; and there the body of mr. pratt was buried, july , . the chapel is of granite, in the romanesque style, with exquisite stained glass windows. the main room is wainscoted with polished red granite, the arching ceiling lined with glass mosaic in blue, gold, and green. at the farther end, in a semi-circular apse reached by two steps through an imposing arch, stands the sarcophagus of siena marble, with the name, charles pratt, and dates of birth and death. the campanile contains the chime of bells so admired by everybody who visited the columbian exposition at chicago, and heard it ring out from the central clock tower in the building of manufactures and liberal arts. few, comparatively, will ever see this monument erected by a devoted family to a husband and father; but thousands upon thousands will see the monument which mr. pratt built for himself in his noble institute. every year thousands come to learn its methods and to copy some of its features, even from africa and south america. the earl of meath, who has done so much for the improvement of his race, said to dr. cuyler, "of all the good things i have seen in america, there is none that i would so like to carry back to london as this splendid establishment." one may read in baedeker's "guide book of the united states" instructions how to find "the extensive buildings of pratt institute, one of the best-equipped technical institutions in the world. none interested in technical education should fail to visit this institution." during his life, mr. pratt gave to the institute about $ , , , and thus had the pleasure of seeing it bear fruit. of this, $ , , is the endowment fund. small charges are made to the pupils, but not nearly enough to pay the running expenses. mr. pratt's sons are nobly carrying forward the work left to their care by their father, who died in the midst of his labors. playgrounds have been laid out, a gymnasium provided, new buildings erected, and other measures adopted which they feel that their father would approve were he alive. courses of free lectures are given at pratt institute to the public as well as the students; a summer school is provided at glen cove, long island, for such as wish to learn about agriculture, with instruction given in botany, chemistry, physiology, raising and harvesting crops, and the care of animals; nurses are trained in the care and development of children; a bright monthly magazine is published by the institute; a neighborship association has been formed of alumni, teachers, and pupils, which meets for the discussion of such topics as "the relation of the rich to the poor," "the ethics of giving," "citizenship," etc., and to carry out the work and spirit of the institute wherever opportunity offers. already the influence of pratt institute has been very great. public schools all over the country are adopting some form of manual training whereby the pupils shall be better fitted to earn their living. mr. chas. m. pratt, in one of his founder's day addresses, quotes the words of a successful teacher and merchant: "there is nothing under god's heaven so important to the individual as to acquire the power to earn his own living; to be able to stand alone if necessary; to be dependent upon no one; to be indispensable to some one." about four thousand students receive instruction each year at the institute. many go out as teachers to other schools all over the country. as the founder said in his last address, "the world goes on, and pratt institute, if it fulfils the hopes and expectations of its founder, must go on, and as the years pass, the field of its influence should grow wider and wider." on the day that he died, mr. herbert s. adams, the sculptor, had finished a bust of mr. pratt in clay. it was put into bronze by the teachers and pupils, and now stands in the institute, with these words of the founder cut in the bronze: "_the giving which counts is the giving of one's self_." thomas guy and his hospital. one day the rich matthew vassar stood before the great london hospital founded by thomas guy, and read these words on the pedestal of the bronze statue:-- thomas guy, sole founder of this hospital in his lifetime a.d. mdccxxi. the last three words made a deep impression. matthew vassar had no children. he wished to leave his fortune where it would be of permanent value; and lest something might happen to thwart his plan, he had to do it _in his lifetime_. sir isaac newton said, "they who give nothing till they die, never give at all." several years before his death, matthew vassar built vassar college near poughkeepsie, n.y.; for he said, "there is not in our country, there is not in the world so far as known, a single fully endowed institution for the education of women. it is my hope to be the instrument, in the hands of providence, of founding and perpetuating an institution _which shall accomplish for young women what our colleges are accomplishing for young men_." to this end he gave a million dollars, and was happy in the results. his birthday is celebrated each year as "founder's day." on one of these occasions he said, "this is almost more happiness than i can bear. this one day more than repays me for all i have done." and what of thomas guy, whose example led to matthew vassar's noble gift while the latter was alive? he was an economical, self-made bookbinder and bookseller, who became the "greatest philanthropist of his day." thomas guy was born in horselydown, southwark, in the outskirts of london, in or . his father, thomas guy, was a lighterman and coalmonger, one who transferred coal from the colliers to the wharves, and also sold it to customers. he was a member of the carpenters' company of the city of london, and probably owned some barges. his wife, anne vaughton, belonged to a family of better social position than her husband, as several of her relatives had been mayors in tamworth, or held other offices of influence. when the boy thomas was eight years old, his father died, leaving mrs. guy to bring up three small children, thomas, john, and anne. the eldest probably went to the free grammar school of tamworth, and when fifteen or sixteen years of age was apprenticed for eight years to john clarke the younger, bookseller and bookbinder in cheapside, london. john clarke was ruined in the great fire of sept. , , which, says h. r. fox bourne in his "london merchants," "destroyed eighty-nine churches, and more than thirteen thousand houses in four hundred streets. of the whole district within the city walls, four hundred and thirty-six acres were in ruins, and only seventy-five acres were left covered. property worth £ , , was wasted, and thousands of starving londoners had to run for their lives, and crouch for days and weeks on the bare fields of islington and hampstead, southwark and lambeth." what thomas guy was in his later life he probably was as a boy,--hard-working, economical, of good habits, and determined to succeed. when the eight years of apprenticeship were over he was admitted a freeman of the stationers' company; and having a little means, he began a business at the junction of cornhill and lombard streets, where he resided through his whole life. his stock of books at the beginning was worth about two hundred pounds. at this time many english bibles were printed in holland on account of the better paper and types found there, and vast numbers were imported to england with large profits. young guy, with business shrewdness, soon became an importer of bibles, and very probably prayer-books and psalms. the king's printers were opposed to such importations, and caused the arrest of booksellers and publishers, so that this holland trade was largely broken up. it is said that the king's printers so raised the price of bibles that the poor were unable to buy them. the privilege of printing was limited to london, york, and the universities of oxford and cambridge. then london and oxford quarrelled over bible printing, and each tried to undersell the other. [illustration: thomas guy.] thomas guy and peter parker printed bibles for oxford, had four presses in use within four months of their undertaking the oxford work, and showed the greatest activity, skill, and energy in the enterprise. their work was excellent, and some of their bibles and other volumes are still found in the english libraries. these university printers, parker & guy, had many lawsuits with other firms, who claimed that the former had made £ , , or even £ , , by their connection with oxford. doubtless they had made money; but they had done their work well, and deserved their success. concerning oxford bibles, a writer in _mcclure's magazine_ says, "in these days the privilege of printing a bible is hardly less jealously guarded in the united kingdom than the privilege of printing a banknote. it is accorded by license to the queen's printers, and by charter to the universities of oxford and cambridge; and it is, as a matter of fact, at the university of oxford that the greatest bulk of the work is done. from this famous press there issue annually about one million copies of the sacred book; copies ranging in price from tenpence to ten pounds, and in form from the brilliant bible, which weighs in its most handsome binding less than four ounces, and measures ½ by - / by ¾ inches, to the superb folio bible for church use, the page of which measures by inches, which is the only folio bible in existence--seventy-eight editions in all; copies in all manner of languages, even the most barbarous." the choicest paper is used, and the utmost care taken with setting the type. it is computed that to set up and "read" a reference bible costs £ , . "the first step is to make a careful calculation, showing what, in the particular type employed, will be the exact contents of each page, from the first page to the last. it must be known before a single type is set just what will be the first and last word on each page. it is not enough that this calculation shall be approximate, it must be exact to the syllable. "the proofs are then read again by a fresh reader, from a fresh model; and this process is repeated until, before being electrotyped, they have been read five times in all. any compositor who detects an error in the model gets a reward; but only two such rewards have ever been earned. any member of the public who is first to detect an error in the authorized text is entitled to one guinea, but the average annual outlay of the press under this head is almost nil." as soon as thomas guy prospered, he gave to various causes. he gave five pounds to help rebuild the schoolhouse at tamworth, where he had been a student a few years before; and when a little over thirty years of age, in , he bought some land in tamworth, and erected an almshouse for seven poor women. a good-sized room was used for their library. the whole cost was £ , a worthy beginning for a young man. a little later mr. guy gave ten pounds yearly to a "spinning school," where the children of the poor were taught how to work, probably some kind of industrial training. also ten pounds yearly to a dissenting minister, and the same amount to one of the established church. when mr. guy was a little over forty, he gave another £ for almshouses for poor men at tamworth; and the town called him, "our incomparable benefactor." when mr. guy was forty-five years of age, in , he attempted to enter parliament from tamworth, but was defeated. this was the second parliament under william and mary. in he was elected sheriff of london, but refused to serve, perhaps on account of the expense, as he disliked display, and paid the penalty of refusing, £ . in the third parliament, , mr. guy tried again, and succeeded. he was re-elected after an exciting contest in , and again in and , and in two parliaments under queen anne. while in parliament he built a town hall for the people of tamworth. in , after thirteen years of service, mr. guy was rejected. it is said that he promised the people of tamworth, so much did he enjoy parliamentary life, that if they would elect him again he would leave his whole fortune to the town, so they should never have a pauper; but for once they forgot their "incomparable benefactor," and thomas guy in turn forgot them. "the cause of guy's rejection," says the history of tamworth, "is said to have been his neglect of the gastronomic propensities of his worthy, patriotic, and enlightened constituents, by whom the virtues of fasting appear to have been entirely forgotten. in the anger of the moment he threatened to pull down the town hall which he had built, and to abolish the almshouses. the burgesses, repenting of their rash act, sent a deputation to wait upon him with the offer of re-election in the ensuing parliament, ; but he rejected all conciliation. he always considered that he had been treated with great ingratitude, and he deprived the inhabitants of tamworth of the advantage of his almshouses." his will provided that persons from certain towns might find a home in his almshouses, his own relatives to be preferred, should any offer themselves; but tamworth was left out of the list of towns. mr. guy already had become very wealthy. during the wars of william and anne with louis xiv., the soldiers and seamen were sometimes unpaid for years, from lack of funds. tickets were given them, and they were willing to sell these at whatever price they would bring. mr. guy bought largely from the seamen, and has been blamed for so doing; but his latest biographers, messrs. wilks and bettany, in their interesting and valuable "biographical history of guy's hospital," think he did it with a spirit of kindness rather than of avarice. "it is at least consistent with his general philanthropy to suppose that, compassionating the poor seamen who could not get their money, he offered them more than they could get elsewhere, and that this accounts for his being so large a purchaser of seamen's tickets. instead of being to his discredit, we think rather that it is to his credit, and that he managed to benefit a large number of necessitous men, while at the same time, in the future, benefiting himself." mr. guy also made a great amount of money in the south sea company. with regard to the south sea stock, says the _saturday magazine_, "mr. guy had no hand in framing or conducting that scandalous fraud; he obtained the stock when low, and had the good sense to sell it at the time it was at its height." chambers's "book of days" gives a very interesting account of this "south sea bubble." harley, earl of oxford, who had helped queen anne to get rid of her advisers, the duke of marlborough and the proud duchess, sarah, with a desire to "restore public credit, and discharge ten millions of the floating debt, agreed with a company of merchants that they should take the debt upon themselves for a certain time, at the interest of six per cent, to provide for which, amounting to £ , per annum, the duties for certain articles were rendered permanent. at the same time was granted the monopoly of trade to the south seas, and the merchants were incorporated as the south sea company; and so proud was the minister of his scheme that it was called by his flatterers, 'the earl of oxford's masterpiece.'" the south sea company, after a time, agreed to take upon themselves the whole of the national debt, £ , , , about $ , , . sir john blount, a speculator, first propounded the scheme. it was rumored that spain, by treaty with england, would grant free trade to all her colonies, and that silver would thus be brought from potosi, and become as plentiful as iron; and that mexico would part with gold in abundance for english cotton and woollen goods. it was also said that spain, in exchange for gibraltar and port mahon, would give up places on the coast of peru. it was promised that each person who took £ of stock would make fifty per cent, and probably much more. mr. guy took £ , of stock, probably the amount which the government owed him for seamen's tickets. others who had claims "were empowered to subscribe the several sums due to them ... for which he and the rest of the subscribers were to receive an annual interest of six per cent upon their respective subscriptions, until the same were discharged by parliament." the speculating mania spread widely. great ladies pawned their jewels in order to invest. lords were eager to double and treble their money. a journalist of the time writes: "the south sea equipages increase daily; the city ladies buy south sea jewels, hire south sea maids, take new country south sea houses; the gentlemen set up south sea coaches, and buy south sea estates." the people seemed wild with speculation. all sorts of companies were established; one with ten million dollars capital to import walnut-trees from virginia; one with five million dollars capital for a "wheel for perpetual motion." an unknown adventurer started "a company for carrying on an undertaking of great advantage, but nobody to know what it is." next morning this great man opened an office in cornhill, and before three o'clock one thousand shares had been subscribed for at ten dollars a share, and the deposits paid. he put the ten thousand dollars in his pocket, set off the same evening for the continent, and was never heard of again. he had assured them that nobody would know what the undertaking was, and he had kept his word. the south sea stock rose in one day from per cent to , and finally to , per cent. it then became known that sir john blount, the chairman, and some others had sold out, making vast fortunes. the price of stock began to fall, and at last the crisis brought ruin to thousands. the poet gay, who had been given £ , of stock, and had thought himself rich, lost all, and was so ill in consequence that his life was in danger. some men committed suicide on account of their losses, and some became insane. prior said, "i am lost in the south sea. the roaring of the waves and the madness of the people are justly put together." the people were now as wild with anger as they had been intoxicated with hope for gain. they demanded redress, and the punishment of the directors of the south sea company. men high in position were thrown into the tower after it was found that the books of the company had been tampered with or destroyed, and large amounts of stock used to bribe men in office. the directors were fined over ten million dollars, and their fortunes distributed among the sufferers. sir john blount was allowed but £ , out of a fortune of £ , . the fortune of another, a million and a half pounds, was given to the losers. one man was treated with especial severity because he was reported to have said that "he would feed his carriage horses off gold." mr. guy, fearing that there was trickery when the stock rose so rapidly, sold out when the prices were from three to six hundred, and thereby saved himself from financial ruin. he was now very rich, having always lived economically. when he was a bookseller it is said that he always ate his dinner on his counter, using a newspaper for a tablecloth. the following story is told by walter thornbury in his "old and new london:"-- "'vulture' hopkins, so called from his alleged desire to seize upon gains, and who had become rich in south sea stock, once called upon mr. guy to learn a lesson, as he said, in the art of saving. being introduced into the parlor, guy, not knowing his visitor, lighted a candle; but when hopkins said, 'sir, i always thought myself perfect in the art of getting and husbanding money, but being informed that you far exceed me, i have taken the liberty of waiting upon you to be satisfied on this subject.' guy replied, 'if that is all your business, we can as well talk it over in the dark,' and immediately put out the candle. this was evidence sufficient for hopkins, who acknowledged guy to be his master, and took his leave." notwithstanding mr. guy's penuriousness, he had the grace of gratitude. thousands forget their helpers after prosperity comes to them. not so thomas guy. the _saturday magazine_ for aug. , , relates this incident: "the munificent founder of guy's hospital was a man of very humble appearance, and of a melancholy cast of countenance. one day, while pensively leaning over one of the bridges, he attracted the attention and commiseration of a bystander, who, apprehensive that he meditated self-destruction, could not refrain from addressing him with an earnest entreaty not to let his misfortunes tempt him to commit any rash act; then, placing in his hand a guinea, with the delicacy of genuine benevolence he hastily withdrew. "guy, roused from his revery, followed the stranger, and warmly expressed his gratitude, but assured him that he was mistaken in supposing him to be either in distress of mind or of circumstances, making an earnest request to be favored with the name of the good man, his intended benefactor. the address was given, and they parted. some years later guy, observing the name of his friend in the bankrupt list, hastened to his house, brought to his recollection their former interview; found upon investigation that no blame could be attached to him under his misfortunes; intimated his ability and also his intention to serve him; entered into immediate arrangements with his creditors; and finally re-established him in a business which ever after prospered in his hands, and in the hands of his children's children, for many years in newgate street." those who knew mr. guy best declared that "his chief design in getting money seems to have been with a view of employing the same in good works." he gave five guineas to mr. bowyer, a printer, who had lost everything by fire, "not knowing," said mr. guy, "how soon it may be our own case." he also gave in to the stationer's company £ , , to be distributed to poor members and widows at the rate of £ per annum. "many of his poor though distant relations had stated allowances from him of £ or £ a year, and occasionally larger sums; and to two of them he gave £ apiece to advance them in the world. he has several times given £ for discharging insolvent debtors. he has readily given £ at a time on application to him on behalf of a distressed family." in mr. guy was asked to become the governor of st. thomas's hospital, partly because he was a prominent and able citizen, and partly because he might thus become interested and give some money. mr. guy accepted the office, and soon built three new wards at a cost of £ , , and provided the hospital with £ a year for the benefit of its poor. when patients left the hospital they were often unfit for work, and this money would provide food for them for a time. he had given already to the steward money and clothes for such cases of need. he also built, in , a new entrance to st. thomas's hospital, improved the front, and erected two large brick houses, these works costing him £ , . mr. guy seems to have given constantly from his youth, and always with good sense in his gifts. he was growing old. he probably had meditated long and carefully as to what use he should put his wealth. highmore, in his "history of the public charities of london," tells this rather improbable story: "for the application of this fortune to charitable uses the public are indebted to a trifling circumstance. he employed a female servant whom he had agreed to marry. some days previous to the intended ceremony he had ordered the pavement before his door to be mended up to a particular stone which he had marked, and then left his house on business. "the servant, in his absence, looking at the workmen, saw a broken stone beyond this mark which they had not repaired; and on pointing to it with that design, they acquainted her that mr. guy had not ordered them to go so far. she, however, directed it to be done, adding, with the security incidental to her expectation of soon becoming his wife, 'tell him i bade you, and he will not be angry.' but she soon learnt how fatal it is for one in a dependent position to exceed the limits of his or her authority; for her master, on his return, was angered that they had gone beyond his orders, renounced his engagement to his servant, and devoted his ample fortune to public charity." in , when mr. guy was seventy-six years of age, he leased a large piece of ground of st. thomas's hospital for a thousand years at £ a year, to erect upon it a great hospital for incurables; "to receive and entertain therein four hundred poor persons, or upwards, laboring under any distempers, infirmities, or disorders, thought capable of relief by physic or surgery; but who, by reason of the small hopes there may be of their cure, or the length of time which for that purpose may be required or thought necessary, are or may be adjudged or called incurable, and as such not proper subjects to be received into or continued in the present hospital, in and by which no provision has been made for distempers deemed or called incurable." while mr. guy had primarily in mind the poor and incurable, and the insane as well, in his will he directed the trustees to use their judgment about the length of time patients should remain, either for life or for a short period. mr. guy at once procured a plan for his hospital, and in the spring of laid the foundations. he went to the work "with all the expedition of a youth of fortune erecting a house for his own residence." the original central building of stone cost £ , . the eastern wing, begun in , was completed at a cost of £ , ; the western wing, in , at a cost of £ , . mr. guy lived to see his treasured gift roofed in before his death, which occurred dec. , , in his eightieth year. in a little more than a week afterwards, jan. , , his hospital was opened, and sixty patients were admitted. after the death of mr. guy one thousand guineas were found in his iron chest; and as it was imagined that these were placed there to defray his funeral expenses, they were used for that purpose. his body lay in state at mercer's hall, cheapside, and was taken with "great funeral pomp" to the parish church of st. thomas, southwark, to rest there till the chapel at the hospital should be completed. two hundred blue-coat boys from christ's hospital walked in the procession, and sang before the hearse, which was followed by forty coaches, each drawn by six horses. mr. guy had not forgotten these "blue-coat boys" in his will, and left a perpetual annuity of £ to educate four children yearly, with preference for his own relatives. the boys from christ's hospital always interest tourists in london. they wear long blue gowns, yellow stockings, and knee-breeches. no cover is worn on their heads, even in winter. this school was founded by the boy king, edward vi., for poor boys, though his father, henry viii., gave the building, which belonged to the grey friars, to the city of london, but edward caused the school to be established. it is a quaint and most interesting spot, where four queens and scores of lords and ladies are buried,--margaret, second wife of edward i.; isabella, the infamous wife of edward ii.; joan, daughter of edward ii., and wife of david bruce, king of scotland; and others. twelve hundred boys study at the hospital. lamb, coleridge, and other famous men were among the blue-coats. the latter tells some interesting things about the school in his "table-talk." "the discipline at christ's hospital in my time was ultra-spartan; all domestic ties were to be put aside. 'boy!' i remember boyer saying to me once when i was crying the first day of my return after the holidays, 'boy! the school is your father; boy! the school is your mother; boy! the school is your brother; the school is your sister; the school is your first cousin, and your second cousin, and all the rest of your relatives. let's have no more crying!' "no tongue can express good mrs. boyer. val le grice and i were once going to be flogged for some domestic misdeed, and boyer was thundering away at us by way of prologue, when mrs. b. looked in and said, 'flog them soundly, sir, i beg!' this saved us. boyer was so nettled by the interruption that he growled out, 'away, woman! away!' and we were let off." while mr. guy remembered the blue-coat orphans, he seemed to have remembered everybody else in his will. so much were the people interested in the lengthy document with its numerous gifts, that the will went through three editions the first year of its publication. mr. guy gave to every living relative, even to distant cousins--in all over £ , . these were mainly gifts of £ , each at four per cent, so that each one received £ a year. these legacies were called "guy's thousands." if the recipients were under age, the interest was to be used for his or her education and apprenticeship. one thousand pounds were given for the release of poor prisoners for debt in london, middlesex, or surrey, in sums not to exceed five pounds each. about six hundred persons were thus set at liberty. another thousand pounds were left to the trustees to relieve "such poor people, being housekeepers, as in their judgments shall be thought convenient." the interest on more than £ , was left for "putting out children apprentices, nursing, or such like charitable deed." then followed the great gift of nearly a million and a half dollars for the hospital. after the buildings were erected, the remainder was to be used "in the purchase of lands or reversions in fee simple, so that the rents might be a perpetual provision for the sick." considerably over a million dollars were thus expended in purchasing over , acres in essex, a large estate of the duke of chandos, for £ , , and other tracts of land and houses. about six years after the death of the founder, a bronze statue of him by scheymaker was erected in the open square in front of the hospital, costing five hundred guineas. on the pedestal are representations of the good samaritan, christ healing the sick, and mr. guy's armorial bearings. in the chapel a marble statue of mr. guy, costing £ , , was erected by mr. bacon in . the founder is represented as holding out one hand to raise a poor invalid lying on the earth, and pointing with the other hand to a person carried on a litter into one of the hospital wards. on the pedestal is an inscription beginning with these words,-- underneath are deposited the remains of thomas guy, citizen of london, member of parliament, and the sole founder of this hospital in his lifetime. in the noble john howard visited guy's hospital; and while he found some of the wards too low, being only nine feet and a half high, in the new wards he praised the iron bedsteads and hair beds as being clean and wholesome. for over one hundred and seventy years guy's hospital has done its noble work. departments have been added for special treatment of the eye, the ear, the teeth, the throat, etc., while thousands of mothers are cared for at their homes at the birth of their children. in , at his death, another governor of guy's hospital, mr. william hunt, left £ , to the hospital. he was buried in the vault under the chapel by the side of thomas guy. after some years, hunt's house, a large central block, with north and south wings of brick with stone facings, was erected, the whole costing nearly £ , . from time to time other needed buildings have been added, such as laboratories, museums, etc. there are now in the hospital over seven hundred beds. only a few beds are reserved for those who can afford to pay; with this exception patients are admitted to all parts of the hospital free of charge. "the royal guide to london charities," compiled by herbert fry, says, "no recommendation is needed for admission to this hospital. sickness allied to poverty is an all-sufficient qualification." a fund has been established for relieving the families of deserving and poor patients while they are in the hospital. this is not only a blessing to the dependent ones, but prevents the anxiety and worry of the suffering inmates. guy's hospital now receives into its wards yearly over , patients, and affords medical relief to about , . the annual income of the hospital is about £ , . saving, industrious thomas guy wrought even better things for humanity than he could have hoped. it paid him to use a newspaper on his counter instead of a tablecloth for his meals, if every year thousands of poor men and women could be cared for in sickness without money, walk about his pleasant six acres during convalescence, and bless forever the name of thomas guy. what a contrast such a life to that of one who spends his wealth in fine houses, parties, expensive yachts, and self-indulgence! in guy's medical school was opened in connection with the hospital, and has proved a great success. "it has become world-famed," write messrs. wilks and bettany, "and has received pupils from all english-speaking lands, and not a few foreigners." of guy's hospital reports which began to be published in , they say, "nothing, perhaps, has done more to establish the reputation of guy's hospital abroad than these reports. they may be found in the best libraries in europe and in america, and have been well perused by many of the leading men on the continent." those who wish to study medicine at guy's have to pass a preliminary examination in arts, and take a five years' course. during four years "the time is equally divided between the study of the elements of medical science and clinical instruction in the practice of the profession." the last year is chiefly devoted to hospital practice. with this amount of study it is easily seen why guy's medical school takes high rank. on march , , a college built of red brick was formally opened by mr. gladstone. it cost £ , , and is for the resident staff and students. a gymnasium was built also in . guy's hospital has been fortunate in the noted men who have been connected with it. one of its early surgeons, john belchier, lies buried in the same vault with thomas guy. he fell in his office; and his servant, not being able to lift him, as he was a heavy man, offered to go for assistance. "no, john, i am dying," he said. "fetch me a pillow; i may as well die here as anywhere else." it is related of him that, seeing the vanity of all earthly riches, he desired to be buried in the hospital, with iron nails in his coffin, which was to be filled with sawdust. the learned dr. walter moxon, who has been called from his combination of tenderness and ability "the perfect physician," was associated with guy's hospital for twenty years. dr. wilks says, in the garden of dr. moxon, "in the winter lumps of suet and cocoanut sawn in rings were hung upon the arches and boughs for the benefit of the tits, and loaves of bread were broken up for the blackbirds, thrushes, finches, and sparrows. always before taking his own breakfast on a winter's morning, moxon first saw to the feeding of his feathered friends." dr. richard bright, whose name is given to the disease which he so carefully studied, was for years connected with guy's hospital. he wrote valuable books, and was an untiring student. "he was sincerely religious, both in doctrine and in practice, and of so pure a mind that he never was heard to utter a sentiment or to relate an anecdote that was not fit to be heard by the merest child or the most refined woman." sir astley paston cooper was associated with guy's for twenty-five years. his father was a clergyman, and his mother an author. it is said that he was first attracted towards surgery by an accident to one of his foster-brothers. the youth fell from a heavy wagon, the wheels of which passed over his body, tearing the flesh from the thigh and injuring an artery, from which the blood flowed freely. nobody seemed to know how to stop the blood, when astley, a boy scarcely more than twelve, took out his handkerchief, and tied it tightly around the thigh and above the wound, thus staying the blood till a surgeon could be brought. sir astley used to say this accident, which resulted so well, created in his mind a love for surgery. his uncle, william cooper, was a surgeon at guy's, and encouraged his nephew's inclination for the medical profession. at twenty-three sir astley married a lady of wealth, lecturing on surgery on the evening of his wedding-day without any of the pupils being aware of his marriage. the first year of his practice he received £ _s._; the second year, £ ; the third year, £ ; the fourth year, £ ; the fifth year, £ ; the sixth year, £ ; the seventh, £ ; the eighth, £ ; the ninth, £ , . when he was in the zenith of his fame he received £ , in one year. one merchant paid him £ yearly. for a successful operation he was sometimes paid one thousand guineas. each year he is said to have given £ , or £ , to poor relations. "in his busy years," writes dr. samuel wilks, "he rose at six, dissected privately until eight, and from half-past eight saw large numbers of patients gratuitously. at breakfast he ate only two well-buttered hot rolls, drank his tea cool, at a draught, read his paper a few minutes, and then was off to his consulting-room, turning round with a sweet, benign smile as he left the room." at one o'clock he would scarcely see another patient. "sometimes the people in the hall and the anteroom were so importunate that mr. cooper was driven to escape through his stables and into a passage by bishopsgate church. at guy's he was awaited by a crowd of pupils on the steps, and at once went into the wards, addressing the patients with such tenderness of voice and expression that he at once gained their confidence. his few pertinent questions and quick diagnosis were of themselves remarkable, no less than the judicious, calm manner in which he enforced the necessity for operations when required." at two o'clock sir astley cooper went across the street to st. thomas's hospital to lecture on anatomy. "after the lecture, which was often so crowded that men stood in the gangways and passages near to gain such portion of his lecture as they might fortunately pick up, he went round the dissecting-room, and afterwards left the hospital to visit patients or to operate privately, returning home at half-past six or seven. every spare minute in his carriage was occupied with dictating to his assistants notes or remarks on cases or other subjects on which he was engaged. at dinner he ate rapidly, and not very elegantly, talking and joking; after dinner he slept for ten minutes at will, and then started to his surgical lecture, if it were a lecture night. in the evening he was usually again on a round of visits till midnight." sir astley received a baronetcy and a fee of £ for successfully removing a small tumor from the head of george iv. he wrote several books, and was president of various societies. he was as famous abroad as at home. the king of the french bestowed upon him the decoration of the legion of honor. he died of dropsy in in his chair, surrounded by his friends, saying, as he passed away, "god bless you; adieu to you all," and was buried under the chapel near thomas guy. his only child died in infancy. there is a statue of sir astley in st. paul's cathedral, and a bust of him in the museum of guy's. he said of himself: "my own success depended upon my zeal and industry; but for this i take no credit, as it was given to me from above." he is said to have left a fortune of half a million of dollars. the beloved frederick denison maurice was elected chaplain of guy's hospital in , when he was thirty-one. he wrote to a friend, "if i could get any influence over the medical students i should indeed think myself honored; and though some who have had experience think such a hope quite a dream, i still venture to entertain it." there seems no reason why a medical student, or any student indeed, should be rough in manner or hard of heart. a true man will be a gentleman not less in the dissecting-room than in the parlor. he will be humane to the lowest animal, and tender and considerate in the presence of suffering. sir william withey gull, the son of a barge-owner and wharfinger in essex, who rose to eminence by his power of work and will, was for twenty years physician and lecturer at guy's hospital. going there as a student when he was twenty-one, he was told by the treasurer, "i can help you if you will help yourself." he used to say that his real education was given him by his sweet-faced mother. he won many prizes, acted as tutor to gain the means of living, and made friends by his winsome manner as well as his knowledge. the lady to whom he was engaged died, but her father was so attached to young gull that he left him a considerable legacy. mr. gull afterwards married a sister of his friend dr. lacy. he rose rapidly in his profession, and was made f.r.s. in , having been made ll.d. of oxford and cambridge the previous year. his knowledge was profound on many subjects,--poetry, philosophy, and of course medicine. his industry was astonishing to all, and his personal influence remarkable. "not many years ago," says dr. wilks, "we heard an old student of guy's descant on his beautiful lectures, and especially those on fever. on being questioned as to what gull said which most struck him, he said he could not remember anything in particular, but he would come to london any day to hear gull reiterate the words in very slow measure, 'now typhoid, gentlemen.' ... when gull left the bedside of his patient, and said in measured tones, 'you will get well,' it was like a message from above.... it was not penetration only which gull possessed, but endurance. it was ever being remarked with what deliberate care he went over every case, as if that particular one was his sole charge for the day." dr. gull attended the prince of wales in his very severe illness from typhoid fever in , when his life was despaired of; and for this he was created a baronet, and physician extraordinary to the queen. he died of apoplexy, jan. , , leaving a fortune of £ , (over a million and a half of dollars), largely earned by his own industry and ability. his son, sir cameron gull, has founded a studentship of pathology at guy's, worth about £ per annum. sir william was buried, by his own desire, in his native village, thorpe-le-soken, beside his father and mother. thomas guy has slept for over a century in the midst of the great work which his fortune began and still carries forward. who shall estimate the good done every year to six thousand suffering persons, mostly poor, who need the care and skill of a great hospital, and to seventy thousand, or two hundred daily, who come for medical treatment? the fact that thomas guy became rich through industry, economy, and business sagacity will be forgotten; the fact that he was a member of parliament for thirteen years is of little moment; but the fact that he gave his wealth to bless the world will be remembered as long as england lasts, or humanity suffers. sophia smith and her college for women. miss sophia smith, the founder of smith college, came from a family of savers as well as givers. self-indulgent persons rarely give. she was the niece of oliver smith, whose unique charities have been a blessing to many towns. mr. smith, who died at hatfield, mass., dec. , , left to the towns of northampton, hadley, hatfield, amherst, and williamsburg, in the county of hampshire, and deerfield, greenfield, and whately, in the county of franklin, about a million dollars to a board of trustees, to be used as follows:-- to be set aside for sixty years from the time of his death, so as to double and treble itself, for an agricultural school at northampton, $ , . in , forty-nine years after mr. smith died, this fund had become $ , . , so rapidly does interest accumulate. this will be used to purchase two farms, one a pattern farm, to become a model to all farmers; the other an experimental farm, to aid the pattern farm in the art and science of husbandry and agriculture. buildings are to be erected on the grounds suitable for mechanics, and workshops for the manufacture of implements of husbandry of the most approved models. if the income will warrant it, tools for other trades may be manufactured. there is also to be a school of industry on the farms for the benefit of the poor. the boys to be aided must be from the poorest in the town, are to receive a good common education, and be taught in agriculture or in some mechanic art in the shops on the premises. when twenty-one years of age they are to be loaned $ each, and after paying interest for five years at five per cent are to receive the $ as a gift, if they have proved themselves worthy. three years before they are twenty-one, each is to have a portion of his time to earn for himself. after a bequest of $ , to the american colonization society, mr. smith's will provided that his property should go to poor boys and girls, poor young women and widows. the boy, not under twelve, of good moral character, should be bound out to some respectable family, and receive at twenty-one, if he had been a faithful apprentice, a loan of $ , and after five years the gift in full to help him make a start in the world. the girl so bound out, if maintaining a good moral character, should receive $ as a marriage portion, if the man she was to marry seemed a worthy man. if he was unworthy, the girl was to be aided in sickness or mental derangement up to the full amount of the marriage portion. [illustration: sophia smith.] each young woman in indigent or moderate circumstances, if she were to marry a sober man, could, by applying to the trustees, receive a marriage portion of fifty dollars, to be expended for necessary articles of household furniture. each widow, with a child or children dependent on her for support, could receive fifty dollars; and this might be given yearly if the trustees thought wise. mr. smith lived and died unmarried; but he knew that the pathway of many struggling lovers would be made easier if the young woman had even fifty dollars, or, if the girl had been bound out with strangers, $ would make many a little home after marriage comfortable. mr. smith has been dead over half a century, but his quaint and beautiful gift has been doing its work. during the year , boys and girls were placed in good homes, and reared for useful lives. nine received their marriage portion, and sixteen were helped in sickness. thirty boys received their loan of $ each, and thirty their gift of a like amount. there are now apprenticed boys and girls. marriage gifts were made to young women, and $ were paid to each of widows. last year persons received gifts to the amount of $ , . what happiness this money means to those for the most part just looking out into the cares and work of life! how many fortunes are built on that first $ so difficult to accumulate! how many homes kept from dire poverty by that first $ with which to make the place attractive as well as comfortable! what an incentive for a boy or girl to be industrious, saving, temperate, and upright! what a comfort to feel that after we are silent our work can speak for us through a whole state, and even a whole nation! mr. oliver smith depended much upon his nephew, austin smith, a successful and wealthy man, to carry out his wishes. austin and his brother joseph were members of the general court of massachusetts. when their father died, though he was not wealthy like oliver, he left his two sons the larger part of his fortune, and his two daughters, harriet and sophia, enough to support them with close economy. the father was a soldier in the revolutionary war; and the grandfather, samuel smith, was commissioned lieutenant in by governor phipps. sophia, who must have been a sweet-faced girl, judging from her appearance in later life, was eager for study; but there was little chance for a girl to obtain an education, and little sympathy, as a rule, with those girls who desired it. she was born in hatfield, mass., aug. , . when sophia was a little girl, abigail adams, the noble wife of john adams, our second president, wrote to a friend in england, "you need not be told how much, in this country, female education is neglected, nor how fashionable it is to ridicule female learning." mrs. samuel d. (locke) stow, in a history of mount holyoke seminary, shows how meagre were the early advantages for girls. "boston did not permit girls to attend the public schools till , and then only during the summer months, when there were not boys enough to fill them. this lasted till , when boston became a city. an aged resident of hatfield used to tell of going to the schoolhouse when she was a girl, and sitting on the doorstep to hear the boys recite their lessons. no girl could cross the threshold as a scholar. the girls of northampton were not admitted to the public schools till . in the centennial _hampshire gazette_ it was stated: 'in the question was before the town, and it was voted not to be at any expense for schooling girls.' the advocates of the measure were persistent, however, and appealed to the courts; the town was indicted and fined for this neglect. in it was voted by a large majority to admit girls between the ages of eight and fifteen to the schools from may to oct. . it was not till that all restrictions were removed." these summer schools from may to october were of comparatively little worth. all children brought their work, braiding, sewing, and knitting, and were taught to read and write, and to have "good manners," according to the accepted notions of the time. "at first arithmetic and geography were taught only in the winter, for a knowledge of numbers or ability to cast accounts was deemed quite superfluous for girls. when colburn's mental arithmetic was introduced, some of our mothers who desired to study it were told derisively, 'if you expect to become widows, and have to carry pork to market, it may be well enough to study mental arithmetic.' "the first school in new england," says mrs. stow, "designed exclusively for the instruction of girls in branches not taught in the common schools, is said to have been an evening school conducted by william woodbridge, who was a graduate of yale in . his theme on graduation was, 'improvement in female education.' reducing his theory to practice, in addition to his daily occupation he gave his evenings to the instruction of girls in lowth's grammar, guthrie's geography, and the art of composition. the popular sentiment deemed him visionary. 'who,' it said, 'shall cook our food and mend our clothes if the girls are to be taught philosophy and astronomy?' in waterford, n.y., in , occurred the public examination of a young lady in geometry. it was the first instance of the kind in the state, and perhaps in the country, and called forth a storm of ridicule. her teacher was mrs. emma willard." sophia smith's girlhood was passed during this indifference or opposition to education for women. when she was fourteen, in , she went to school in hartford, conn., for twelve weeks; and four years later, at eighteen, she was for a short time a pupil in the hopkins academy in hadley. she studied diligently with her quick, eager mind, and was thankful for these crumbs of knowledge, though she lamented through her life that her opportunities had been so limited. year by year went by in the quiet new england home, her sister harriet taking upon herself the burden of household cares and business, as sophia was frail, and at forty had become very deaf. her mind had been broadened, and her heart kept tender to every sorrow, by her christian faith and devotion to duty. the town of hatfield had capable ministers, who were intellectual as well as spiritual helpers, and sophia smith enjoyed cultivated minds. "by reading mostly," says the rev. john m. greene of lowell, mass., "she kept herself familiar with the common events and occurrences of the day. probably what she and others called a calamity was a blessing to her. she had fortitude to bear the trial, and the wisdom to improve the reflective and meditative powers of her mind, far beyond what the fashionable and gossiping woman attains. deafness is an admirable remedy for insincerity, shallowness, and foolish talking. it sifts what we hear, and compels us to try to say what is worth attention." miss smith attended the services of the congregational church, of which she was a member; and though she could not hear a word of the sermon perhaps, she felt accountable for the influence of her presence. she loved the bible, and would quote the words of sir william jones: "the bible contains more true sublimity, more exquisite beauty, more pure morality, more important history, and finer strains of poetry and eloquence, than can be collected from all other books, in whatever age or language they have been written." she had the strength of character of the typical new england woman, yet possessing gentle manners and most refined tastes. she loved nature; and in hatfield, with its magnificent elms and beautiful river, miss smith had much to enjoy. some of these great elms measure twenty-eight feet in circumference, three yards from the ground. in this charming scenery, reading her books, and doing good as she had opportunity, miss smith was growing old. her sister harriet had died a little before the time of our civil war, and the lonely woman bent her energies towards helping other aching hearts. she worked with her own hands to aid the soldiers and their families, and when she had the means used it generously. her brother austin died march , ; and very unexpectedly sophia smith became the possessor, through his gift, of over $ , . "god permitted him," says the rev. mr. greene, to "gather the gold, preparing all the while the heart of a devout and christlike sister to dispense it." miss smith at once felt her great responsibility. some persons living all their lives most carefully would have rejoiced at the opportunity to buy comforts,--a carriage for daily riding, attractive clothes, more books, or take a journey to the old world or elsewhere. but miss smith said at once, "this is a large property put into my hands, but i am only the steward of god in respect to it." she very wisely sought the advice of her pastor, the rev. john m. greene, a man of broad scholarship and generous nature. dr. greene was a lover of books; and finding so much happiness for himself in a student's life, he rightly thought that woman should have the bliss of possessing knowledge for her own sake, as well as for her increased influence in the world. miss smith desired so to give as would accord with the wishes of her brother austin were he alive, but could not be sure what were his preferences. she wished to give the money for education; for that was her great joy, mingled with regret that her way, as that of every other woman at that time, had been so hedged up by mistaken public opinion. she longed to build a college for women, even when learned doctors wrote books to show that girls would be ruined in health by study, and that they were mentally inferior to the other sex. it was said that women would not care for higher education; that if they went to college they would not marry, and would cease to be attractive to men; that in any event the intellectual standard would be lowered if women were admitted to any college. miss smith said, "there is no justice in denying women equal educational advantages with men. women are the natural educators and physicians of the race, and they ought to be fitted for their work." when the foolish and untrue argument was used, that educated women do not make good wives and mothers, miss smith would say, "then they are wrongly educated--some law is violated in the process." miss smith had read history, and she knew that the aspasias and the de maintenons are the women who have had the strongest power with men. she knew that an educated woman is the companion of her children and their intellectual guide. she knew that women ought to be interested in the welfare of the state, rather than in a round of parties and amusements. she had no love for display, though she had taste in dress and in her home; and she longed to see all women have a purpose in life other than frivolity and pleasure-seeking. but miss smith feared that $ , would not be sufficient to found a college for women, and gave up the idea. two months after her brother died she made her will, giving $ , for an academy at hatfield, $ , to a deaf mute institution in hatfield, and $ , to a scientific school in connection with amherst college. six years later mr. john clarke provided a deaf mute institution for the commonwealth, and miss smith was at liberty to turn her fortune into another channel. the old idea of a _real college_ for women, a project as dear to dr. greene as to herself, was again upon her mind. she read all she could find upon the subject. she loved and believed in her own sex, and knew the low intellectual standard of the ordinary boarding-school. she said, "we should educate the whole woman, physical, intellectual, moral, and spiritual." she insisted that the education given in the college which she hoped to found should be _equal_ to that obtained in a college for men. "there is a good deal that is heroic," says a writer in _scribner's monthly_, may, , "in the spectacle of this lonely woman, shut out in a great measure by her infirmity and secluded life from so many human interests and pleasures, quietly elaborating a plan by which she could broaden and enrich the lives of multitudes of her sex, and give increased dignity and power to woman in the generations to come." in july, , miss smith made her last will, stating the object for which she wished her money to be used: "the establishment and maintenance of an institution for the higher education of young women, with the design to furnish them means and facilities for education equal to those which are afforded in our colleges for young men." "the formal wording," says m. a. jordan in the _new england magazine_ for january, , "hardly tells the story of self-denial, painful industry, commonplace restriction and isolation, that lies behind it in the lives of this brother and sister." miss smith wished the college to be christian, "not congregational," she said, "or baptist, or methodist, or episcopalian, but _christian_." she hoped the bible would be studied in the hebrew and greek in her college, so that the students could know for themselves the truth of the translations which we have to-day. miss smith gave about $ , for the founding of smith college,--the fortune left by her brother had increased,--with the express condition that not more than half the amount should be used in buildings and grounds. it required much urging to allow the college to bear her name. after counselling with friends, miss smith decided that the college should be built at northampton, which george bancroft thought "the most beautiful town in new england, where no one can live without imbibing love for the place," with the provision that the town should raise $ , , which was done. northampton seemed preferable to hatfield, because more easy of access, and possessed of a public library and other intellectual attractions. after her brother's money came into her hands, miss smith continued to economize for herself, but gave generously to others. often in her journal she wrote, "i feel the responsibility of this great property." she subscribed $ , to the massachusetts agricultural college if it should be located at northampton, $ for a library for the young people's literary association in hatfield, $ , towards the organ in the church, $ , for the endowment of a professorship in andover theological seminary, and to many other objects. "she gave to them _all_," says dr. greene, "home missions and foreign missions, the bible society and tract society, the seamen and freedmen,--to all the objects presented. in her journal she writes: 'i desire to give where duty calls.' ... before her death she had great satisfaction and comfort in her andover donation.... when she was considering whether or not to make her donation to andover theological seminary, professor park asked her if he might consult a mutual friend, an eminent lawyer and business man, about it. with uplifted hands and almost a rebuking gesture she replied, 'no, no; i'll make up my mind myself.' one of her most intimate friends, a graduate of mount holyoke seminary, remarked, 'i never was acquainted with a person who felt more deeply than miss smith her accountability to god.'" miss smith's life declined pleasantly and happily. in she wrote in her journal: "sunday afternoon. it is a most splendid day; have been to church, although i have not heard. i feel the presence of him who is everywhere, and who is all love to him that seeketh him and serves him.... i resolve with his blessing to give myself unreservedly anew to him, to watch over my thoughts and words, and to strive after a more perfect life in all my dealings with my fellow-men, and strive to make this great affliction [deafness] a means of sanctification, and make it a means of improvement in the divine life." may , , she made her last record in her journal: "i resolve to begin anew to strive to be better in everything; to guard against carelessness in talking; to strive for more patience and sense, and to strive for more earnestness, to do more good; to strive against selfishness, and to cultivate good feelings in all; to live to god's glory, that others, seeing our good works, may glorify our father in heaven." such golden words might well be cut on the walls of smith college, that the students might imitate the resolve of the founder, who believed, as she said in her will, "that all education should be for the glory of god and the good of man.... it is not my design to render my sex any the less feminine, but to develop as fully as may be the powers of womanhood, and furnish women with the means of usefulness, happiness, and honor, now withheld from them." one month after writing in her journal, june , , sophia smith passed to her reward, at the age of seventy-five. she was in her usual health till four days before her death, when she was prostrated by paralysis. she was buried in the hatfield cemetery under a simple monument of her own erecting. she had provided for a better and more enduring monument in smith college, and she knew that no other was needed. the seventy-five-thousand-dollar academy at hatfield would also keep her in blessed remembrance. the thought of miss smith, after her death, began to shape itself into brick and stone. thirteen acres of ground were purchased for the site of the college, commanding a view of the beautiful valley of the connecticut river; and the main building, of brick and freestone, was erected in secular gothic style, the interior finished in unpainted native woods. on the large stained-glass window over the entrance of the building is a copy of the college seal, a woman radiant with light, with the motto underneath in greek which expressed the desire of the founder: "add to your virtue knowledge." the homestead which was on the estate when purchased was made over for a home for the students, as the plan of small dwellings to accommodate from twenty to fifty young women had been decided upon in preference to several hundreds gathered under one roof. the right person for the right place had been chosen as president, the rev. dr. l. clark seelye, at that time a professor in amherst college. he had made a careful inspection of the principal educational institutions both in this country and in europe, and his plans as to buildings and courses of study were adopted. smith college was dedicated july , , and opened to students in the following september. president seelye in his admirable inaugural address said, "one hundred years ago a female college would have been simply an object of ridicule.... you have seen machines invented to do the work which formerly absorbed the greater portion of woman's time and strength. factories have supplanted the spinning-wheel and distaff. sewing-machines will stitch in an hour more than our grandmothers could in a day. i need not ask you what we are to do with force which has thus been set free. the answer comes clearly from an enlightened public opinion, saying, 'put it to higher uses; train it to think correctly; to work intelligently; to do its share in bringing the human mind to the perfection for which it was designed.'" dr. seelye emphasized the fact that this college was to give women "an education as high and thorough and complete as that which young men receive in harvard, yale, and amherst." "i believe," he said, "this is the only female college that insists upon substantially the same requisites for admission which have been found practicable and essential in male colleges." he disapproved of a preparatory department, and other colleges for women have wisely followed the standard and example of smith. secondary schools have seen the necessity of a higher fitting for their students, that they may enter our best colleges. greek and the higher mathematics were made an essential part of the course. to this, exception was taken; and dr. seelye was frequently asked, "what use have young women of greek?" he answered, "a study of greek brings us into communion with the best scholarship and the acutest intellects of all european countries.... it would simply justify its place in our college curriculum upon the relation which it has had, and ever must have, to the growth of the human intellect." dr. seelye favored the teaching of music and art, but not to the exclusion of other things, unless one had special gifts along those lines. "musical entertainments," he said, "have generally been the grand parade-ground of female boarding-schools. all of us are familiar with the many wearisome hours which young ladies ordinarily are required to spend at the piano,--time enough to master most of the sciences and languages; and all of us are familiar with the remark, heard so frequently after school-days are over, 'i cannot play; i am out of practice.'" president seelye had to meet all sorts of objections to higher education for women. when he told a friend that greek was to be studied in smith college, the friend replied, "nonsense! girls cannot bear such a strain;" "and yet his own daughters," says dr. seelye, "were going, with no remonstrance from him, night after night, through the round of parties and fashionable amusements in a great city. we question whether any greater expenditure of physical force is necessary to master greek than to endure ordinary fashionable amusements. woman's health is endangered far more by balls and parties than by schools. for one ruined by over-study, we can point to a hundred ruined by dainties and dances." another said to president seelye, "think of a wife who forced you to talk perpetually about metaphysics, or to listen to greek and latin quotations!" this would be much more agreeable conversation to some men than to hear about dress and servants and gossip. when smith college was opened in , there were many applicants; but with requirements for admission the same as at harvard, yale, brown, and amherst, only fifteen could pass the examinations. the next year eighteen were accepted. each year the number has increased, till in the year there were students at smith college. the professorships are about equally divided between men and women. the chair of greek, on the john m. greene foundation, "is founded in honor of the rev. john m. greene, d.d., who first suggested to miss smith the idea of the college, and was her confidential adviser in her bequest," says the college calendar. there are three courses of study, each extending through four years,--the classical course leading to the degree of bachelor of arts, the scientific to bachelor of science, the literary to bachelor of letters. the maximum of work allowed to any student in a regular course is sixteen hours of recitation each week. year by year miss smith's noble gift has been supplemented by the gifts of others. in the lilly hall of science was dedicated, the gift of mr. alfred theodore lilly. this building contains lecture rooms, and laboratories for chemistry, physics, geology, zoölogy, and botany. in mr. winthrop hillyer gave the money to erect the hillyer art gallery, which now contains an extensive collection of casts, engravings, and paintings, and is provided with studios. one corridor of engravings and an alcove of original drawings were given by the century company. mr. hillyer gave an endowment of $ , for his gallery. a music-hall was also erected in . the observatory, given by two donors unknown to the public, has an eleven-inch refracting telescope, a spectroscope, siderial clock, chronograph, a portable telescope, and a meridian circle, aperture four inches. the alumnæ gymnasium contains a swimming-bath, and a large hall for gymnastic exercises and in-door sport. a large greenhouse has been erected to aid in botanical work, with an extensive collection of tropical plants. there are eight or more dwelling-houses for the students, each presided over by a competent woman, where the scholars find cheerful, happy homes. the tenney house, bequeathed by mrs. mary a. tenney, for experiments in co-operative housekeeping, enables the students to adapt their expenses to their means, if they choose to make the experiment together. tuition is $ a year, with $ for board and furnished room in the college houses. smith college is fortunately situated. opposite the grounds is the beautiful forbes library, with an endowment of $ , for books alone, and not far away a public library with several thousand volumes, and a permanent endowment of $ , for its increase. the students have access to the collections at amherst college and the massachusetts agricultural college, also at mount holyoke college, about seven miles distant. there are no secret societies at smith. "instead of hazing newcomers," says president seelye, "the second or sophomore class will give them a reception in the art-gallery, introduce them to the older students with the courteous hospitality which good breeding dictates." there are several literary and charitable societies in smith college. great interest is taken in the working-girls of new york, and in the college settlement of that city. none of the evil effects predicted for young women in college have been realized. "some of our best scholars," says president seelye, "have steadily improved in health since entering college. some who came so feeble that it was doubtful whether they could remain a term have become entirely well and strong.... we have had frequently professors from male institutions to give instruction; and their testimony is to the effect that the girls study better than the boys, and that the average scholarship is higher." "the general atmosphere of the college is one of freedom," writes louise walston, in the "history of higher education in massachusetts," by george gary bush, ph.d. "the written code consists of one law,--lights out at ten; the unwritten is that of every well-regulated community, and to the success of this method of discipline every year is a witness. "this freedom is not license.... the system of attendance upon recitation at smith is in this respect unique. it is distinctively a 'no-cut' system. in the college market that commodity known as indulgences is not to be found; and no student is expected to absent herself from lecture or recitation except for good reasons, the validity of which, however, is left to her own conscience. knowledge is offered as a privilege, and is so received." as miss smith directed in her will, "the holy scriptures are daily and systematically read and studied in the college." a chapel service is held in the morning of week-days, and a vesper service on sunday. students attend the churches of their preference in northampton. all honor to sophia smith, the quiet christian woman, who, forgetting herself, became a blessing to tens of thousands by her gifts. at the request of the trustees of smith college, dr. greene is preparing a volume on her life and character. all honor, too, to the rev. john m. greene, who for twenty-five years has been the beloved pastor of the eliot church in lowell, mass. his quarter century of service was fittingly celebrated at lowell, sept. , . out of five hundred congregational ministers in massachusetts, only ten have held so long a pastorate as he over one church. among the hundreds of congratulations and testimonies to dr. greene's successful ministry, the able professor edwards a. park of andover, wrote to the congregation: "the city of lowell has been favored with clergymen who will be remembered by a distant posterity, but not one of them will be remembered longer than the present pastor of eliot church. he was the father of smith college, now so flourishing in northampton, mass. had it not been for him that great institution would never have existed. for this great benefaction to the world, he will be honored a hundred years hence." james lick and his telescope. james lick, one of the great givers of the west, was born in fredericksburg, penn., aug. , . little is known of his early life, except that his ancestors were germans, and that he was born in poverty. his grandfather served in the revolutionary war. james learned to make organs and pianos in hanover, penn., and in worked for joseph hiskey, a prominent piano manufacturer of baltimore. one day conrad meyer, a poor lad, came into the store and asked for work. young lick gave him food and clothing, and secured a place for him in the establishment. they became fast friends, and continued thus for life. later conrad meyer was a wealthy manufacturer of pianos in philadelphia. james lick in , when he was twenty-four, went to new york, hoping to begin business for himself, but finding his capital too limited, in the following year, , went to buenos ayres, south america, where he lived for ten years. at the end of that time he went to philadelphia, and met his old friend conrad meyer. he had brought with him for sale $ , worth of hides and nutria skins. the latter are obtained from a species of otter found along the la plata river. he intended settling in philadelphia, and rented a house on eighth street, near arch, but soon abandoned his purpose, probably because the business outlook was not hopeful, and returned to buenos ayres to sell pianos. from the east side of south america he went to the west side, and remained in valparaiso, chili, for four years. he spent eleven years in peru, making and selling pianos. once, when his workmen left him suddenly to go to mexico, rather than break a contract he did all the work himself, and accomplished it in two years. in he went to san francisco, which had only one thousand inhabitants. he was then about fifty years old, and took with him over $ , , which, foreseeing california's wonderful prospects, he invested in land in san francisco, and farther south in santa clara valley. [illustration: james lick. (used by courtesy of "the overland monthly.")] in , to the surprise of everybody, the quiet, parsimonious james lick built a magnificent flour-mill six miles from san josé. he tore down an old structure, and erected in its place a mill, finished within in solid mahogany highly polished, and furnished it with the best machinery possible. it was called "the mahogany mill," or more frequently "lick's folly." he made the grounds about the mill very attractive. "upon it," says the san josé _daily mercury_, june , , "he began early to set out trees of various kinds, both for fruit and ornament. he held some curious theories of tree-planting, and believed in the efficiency of a bone deposit about the roots of every young tree. many are the stories told by old residents of james lick going along the highway in an old rattletrap, rope-tied wagon, with a bearskin robe for a seat cushion, and stopping every now and then to gather in the bones of some dead beast. people used to think him crazy until they saw him among his beloved trees, planting some new and rare variety, and carefully mingling about its young roots the finest of loams with the bones he had gathered during his lonely rides. "there is a story extant, and probably well-founded, which illustrates the odd means he employed to secure hired help at once trustworthy and obedient. one day while he was planting his orchard a man applied to him for work. mr. lick directed him to take the trees he indicated to a certain part of the grounds, and then to plant them with the tops in the earth and the roots in the air. the man obeyed the directions to the letter, and reported in the evening for further orders. mr. lick went out, viewed his work with apparent satisfaction, and then ordered him to plant the trees the proper way and thereafter to continue in his employ." nineteen years after mr. lick built his mill, jan. , , he surprised the people of san josé again, by giving it to the paine memorial society of boston, half the proceeds of sale to be used for a memorial hall, and half to sustain a lecture course. he had always been an admirer of thomas paine's writings. the mill was annually inundated by the floods from the guadalupe river, spoiling his orchards and his roads, so that he tired of the property. an agent of the boston society went to california, sold the mill for $ , cash, and carried the money back to boston. mr. lick was displeased that the property which had cost him $ , should be sold at such a low price, and without his knowledge, as he would willingly have bought it in at $ , . it is said by some that mr. lick built his mill as a protest against the cheap and flimsy style of building on the pacific coast, but it is much more probable that he built it for another reason. in early life it is believed that young lick fell in love with the daughter of a well-to-do miller for whom he worked. when the young man made known his love, which was reciprocated by the girl, the miller was angry, and is said to have replied, "out, you beggar! dare you cast your eyes upon my daughter, who will inherit my riches? have you a mill like this? have you a single penny in your purse?" to this lick replied "that he had nothing as yet, but one day he would have a mill beside which this one would be a pigsty." lick caused his elegant mill to be photographed without and within, and sent the pictures to the miller. it was, however, too late to win the girl, if indeed he ever hoped to do so; for she had long since married, and mr. lick went through life a lonely and unresponsive man. he never lived in his palatial mill, but occupied for a time a humble abode near by. after mr. lick disposed of his mill, he began to improve a tract of land south of san josé known as "the lick homestead addition." "day after day," says the san josé _mercury_, "long trains of carts and wagons passed slowly through san josé carrying tall trees and full-grown shrubbery from the old to the new location. winter and summer alike the work went on, the old man superintending it all in his rattletrap wagon and bearskin robe. his plans for this new improvement were made regardless of expense. tradition tells that he had imported from australia rare trees, and in order to secure their growth had brought with them whole shiploads of their native earth. he conceived the idea of building conservatories superior to any on the pacific coast, and for that purpose had imported from england the materials for two large conservatories after the model of those in the kew gardens in london. his death occurred before he could have these constructed; and they remained on the hands of the trustees until a body of san francisco gentlemen contributed funds for their purchase and donation to the use of the public in golden gate park, where they now stand as the wonder and delight of all who visit that beautiful resort." mr. lick also built in san francisco a handsome hotel called the lick house. with his own hands he carved some of the rosewood frames of the mirrors. he caused the walls to be decorated with pictures of california scenery. the dining-room has a polished floor made of many thousand pieces of wood of various kinds. when mr. lick was seventy-seven years old, and found himself the owner of millions, with a laudable desire to be remembered after death, and a patriotism worthy of high commendation, he began to think deeply how best to use his property. on feb. , , mr. lick offered to the california academy of sciences a piece of land on market street, the site of its present building. professor george davidson, then president of the academy, called to thank him, when mr. lick unfolded to him his purpose of giving a great telescope for future investigation of the heavenly bodies. he had become deeply interested from reading, it is said, about possible life on other planets. it is supposed by some that while mr. lick lived his lonely life in peru, a priest, who gained his friendship, interested him in astronomy. others think his mind was drawn towards it by reading about the washington observatory, completed in , and noticed widely by the press. mr. lick was not a scientist nor an astronomer; he had been too absorbed in successful business life for that; but he earned money that others might have the time and opportunity to devote their lives to science. mr. lick appears to have had a passion for statuary, as shown by his gifts. at one time he thought of having expensive memorial statues of himself and family erected on the heights overlooking the ocean and the bay, but was dissuaded by one of his pioneer friends, according to miss m. w. shinn's account in the _overland monthly_, november, . "mr. d. j. staples felt it his duty to tell mr. lick frankly that his bequests for statues of himself and family would be utterly useless as a memorial; that the world would not be interested in them; and when mr. lick urged that such costly statues would be preserved for all time, as the statues of antiquity now remained the precious relics of a lost civilization, answered, almost at random, 'more likely we shall get into a war with russia or somebody, and they will come around here with warships, and smash the statues to pieces in bombarding the city.'" mr. lick conferred with his friends, but had his own decided wishes and plans which usually he carried out. on july , , he conveyed all his property, real and personal, over $ , , , by deed of trust to seven men; but becoming dissatisfied with some members of the board of lick trustees, he made a new deed, sept. , , under which his property has been used as he directed. a year later he changed some of the members, but the deed itself remained as before. one of the first bequests under his deed of trust was for the telescope and observatory, $ , . another, to the protestant orphan asylum of san francisco, $ , . for an orphan asylum in san josé, "free to all orphans without regard to creed or religion of parents," $ , . to the ladies' protective and belief society of san francisco, $ , . to the mechanics' institute of san francisco, "to be applied to the purchase of scientific and mechanical works for such institute," $ , . to the trustees of the society for prevention of cruelty to animals, of san francisco, $ , , with the hope expressed by him, "that the trustees of said society may organize such a system as will result in establishing similar societies in every city and town in california, to the end that the rising generations may not witness or be impressed with such scenes of cruelty and brutality as constantly occur in this state." to found in san francisco "an institution to be called the old ladies' home," $ , . for the erection and the maintenance of that extremely useful public charity, free public baths, $ , . these baths went into use nov. , . for the erection of a monument to be placed in golden gate park, "to the memory of francis scott key, the author of 'the star-spangled banner,'" $ , . this statue was unveiled july , . to endow an institution to be called the california school of mechanical arts, "to be open to all youths born in california," $ , . for statuary emblematical of three important epochs in the history of california, to be placed in front of the san francisco city hall, $ , . to john h. lick, his son, born in pennsylvania, june , , $ , . the latter contested the will; and a compromise was effected whereby he received $ , , the expense of the suit being a little over $ , . this son, at his death, founded lick college, fredericksburg, penn., giving it practically all his fortune. it is now called schuylkill seminary, and had pupils in , according to the report of the commissioner of education. a family monument was erected at fredericksburg, penn., mr. lick's birthplace, at a cost of $ , . mr. lick set aside some personal property for his own economical use during his life. after all these bequests had been attended to, the remainder of his fortune was to be given in "equal proportions to the california academy of sciences and the society of california pioneers," to be expended in erecting buildings for them, and in the purchase of a "suitable library, natural specimens, chemical and philosophical apparatus, rare and curious things useful in the advancement of science, and generally in the carrying out of the objects and purposes for which said societies were respectively established." each society has received about $ , from the lick estate. these were very remarkable gifts from a man who had been a mechanic, brought up in narrow circumstances, and with limited education. the california school of mechanical arts was opened in january, , and now, in the spring of , has pupils. the substantial brick buildings are in spanish architecture, and cost, with machinery and furniture, about $ , , leaving $ , for endowment. the academic building is three stories high, and the shops one and two stories. the requirements for pupils in entering the school are substantially the same as for the last of the grammar grades of the public schools. there is no charge for tuition. mr. lick in making this bequest stated its object: "to educate males and females in the practical arts of life, such as working in wood, iron, and stone, or any of the metals, and in whatever industry intelligent mechanical skill now is or can hereafter be applied." in view of this desire on the part of the giver, a careful survey of industrial education was made; and it was decided to "give each student a thorough knowledge of the technique of some one industrial pursuit, from which he may earn a living." the school course is four years. at the beginning of the third year the student must choose his field of work for the last year and a half, and give his time to it. besides the ordinary branches, carpentry, forging, moulding, machine and architectural drawing, wood-carving, dressmaking, millinery, cookery, etc., are taught. it is expected that graduates will be able to earn good wages at once after leaving the school, and the teachers endeavor to find suitable situations for their pupils. miss caroline willard baldwin, at the head of the science department, who is herself a bachelor of science from the university of california, and a doctor of science from cornell university, writes me: "the grade of work is much the same as that given in the pratt institute in brooklyn, and the entire equipment of the school is excellent." the lick bronze statuary at the city hall in san francisco was unveiled on thanksgiving day, thursday, nov. , . mr. lick had specified in his deed of trust that it should "represent by appropriate designs and figures the history of california; first, from the early settlement of the missions to the acquisition of california by the united states; second, from such acquisition by the united states to the time when agriculture became the leading interest of the state; third, from the last-named period to the first day of january, ." he knew that there is no more effective way to teach history and inculcate love of city and nation than by object-lessons. a great gift is a continual suggestion to others to give also. the statue of a noble man or woman is a constant educator and inspirer to good deeds. the lick statuary is of granite, surmounted by bronze figures of heroic proportions. the main column is forty-six feet high, with a bronze figure twelve feet high, weighing , pounds, on the top, representing eureka, a woman typical of california, with a grizzly bear by her side. beneath are four panels, depicting a family of immigrants crossing the sierras, a vaquero lassoing a steer, traders with the indians, and california under american rule. below these panels are the heads in bronze of james lick, father junipero serra, sir francis drake, and john c. frémont; and below these, the names of men famous in the history of california,--james w. marshall, the discoverer of gold at sutter's mill, and others. there are granite wings to the main pedestal, the bronze figures of which represent early times,--a native indian over whom bends a catholic priest, and a spaniard throwing his lasso; a group of miners in ' , and figures denoting commerce and agriculture. the artist was mr. frank happersberger, a native of california. members of the california pioneers made eloquent addresses at the unveiling of the beautiful statue, the band played "the star-spangled banner," and the children of the public schools sang "america." "the benefactions of james lick were not of a posthumous character," said the hon. willard b. farwell in his address. "there was no indication of a desire to accumulate for the sake of accumulation alone, and to cling with greedy purpose and tenacity to the last dollar gained, until the heart had ceased its pulsations, and the last breath had been drawn, before yielding it up for the good of others. on the contrary, he provided for the distribution of his wealth while living.... there was no room for cavil then over the manner of his giving. he fulfilled in its broadest measure the injunction of the aphorism, 'he gives well who gives quickly.'" the gift nearest to mr. lick's heart was his great telescope, to be, as he said in his deed of trust, "superior to and more powerful than any telescope yet made, with all the machinery appertaining thereto, and appropriately connected therewith." this telescope with its building was to be conveyed to the university of california, and to be known as the "lick astronomical department of the university of california." various sites were suggested for the great telescope. a gentleman relates the following story: "one of the sites suggested was a mountain north of san francisco. mr. lick was ill, but determined upon visiting this mountain; so he was taken on a cot to the station; and on arriving at the town nearest the mountain, the cot was removed to a wagon, and they started towards the summit. by some accident the rear of the wagon gave way, and the cot containing the old gentleman slid out on the mountain-side. this so angered him that he said he would never place the telescope on a mountain that treated him in that way, and ordered the party to turn back towards san francisco." during the summer of mr. lick sent mr. fraser, his trusted agent, to report on mount st. helena, monte diablo, mount hamilton, and others. in many respects the latter, in sight of his old mill at san josé, seemed the best situated of all the mountain peaks. "yet the possibility that a complete astronomical establishment might one day be planted on its summit seemed more like a fairy-tale than like sober fact," says professor edward s. holden, director of the lick observatory. "it was at that time a wilderness. a few cattle-ranches occupied the valleys around it. its slopes were covered with chaparral or thickets of scrub oak. not even a trail led over it. the nearest house was eleven miles away." it was and is the home of many rattlesnakes. they live upon squirrels, and small birds and their eggs, and come up to the top of the mountain in quest of water. sir edwin arnold, who visited mount hamilton, tells this incident of the "road-runner," the bird sometimes called "chaparral cock," as it was told to him. "the rattlesnake is the deadly enemy of its species, always hunting about in the thickets for eggs and young birds, since the 'road-runner' builds its nest on the ground. when, therefore, the 'chaparral cocks' find a 'rattler' basking in the sun, they gather, i was assured, leaves of the prickly cactus, and lay them in a circle all around the serpent, which cannot draw its belly over the sharp needles of these leaves. thus imprisoned, the reptile is set upon by the birds, and pecked or spurred to death." mount hamilton, fifty miles southeast of san francisco, is near san josé, twenty-six miles eastward, and thus easy of access, save the difficulty of reaching its summit, , feet above the sea. this was overcome by the willingness of santa clara county to construct a road to its top; which road was completed in december, , at a cost of about $ , . the road rises , feet in twenty-two miles; and the grade nowhere exceeds six and one-half feet in one hundred, or feet to the mile. towards the top it winds round and round the flanks of the mountain itself. the view from the top of the mountain is most inspiring. "the lovely valley of santa clara and the santa cruz mountains to the west, a bit of the pacific and the bay of monterey to the southwest, the sierra nevada ( , - , feet) with countless ranges between to the southeast, the san joaquin valley with the sierras beyond to the east, while to the north lie many lower ranges of hills, and on the horizon mount shasta, or lassens' butte ( , feet), miles away. the bay of san francisco lies flat before you, and beyond it is mount tamalpais at the entrance to the golden gate." "one of the gorges in the vicinity of mount hamilton," writes taliesin evans in the may, , _century_, "is reputed to have been a favorite retreat of joaquin murietta, the famous bandit, whose name was a terror to the early settlers of the state. a spring, situated a mile and a half east of observatory peak, at which he is said to have drawn water, now bears the name of 'joaquin's spring.'" on june , , congress gave the land for the site, , acres; and other land was given and purchased, till the observatory now has , acres. it was necessary to remove , tons of solid rock from the mountain summit, which was lowered as much as thirty-two feet in places, that the buildings might have a level foundation. clay for making the brick was found about two and one-half miles below the observatory (by the road), thus saving over $ , in the , , bricks used. springs also were fortunately discovered about feet below the present level of the summit. in , after the site had been decided upon, professor s. w. burnham of chicago was asked by the lick trustees to test it for astronomical purposes. he took his telescope, and remained there during august, september, and october. out of sixty nights he found forty-two were of the very highest class for making observations, while eleven were foggy or cloudy. he discovered forty-two new double stars while on the top of the mountain. professor burnham said in his report, "the remarkable steadiness of the air, and the continued succession of nights of almost perfect definition, are conditions not to be hoped for in any place with which i am acquainted, and judging from the previous reports of the various observatories, are not to be met with elsewhere." meantime, even before congress gave the land in , mr. d. o. mills, one of the first trustees, had visited professor holden and professor newcomb at washington to determine about the general plans for the observatory. it was agreed that the latter should go to europe to investigate the matter of procuring the glass necessary for a large reflector or refractor. it was finally decided that a refracting telescope was the best for the study of double stars and nebulæ, the moon's surface, etc., giving more distinctness and brilliancy, and being less subject to atmospheric disturbance. professor newcomb experienced much difficulty in europe in finding a firm ready to undertake to make a glass for a telescope larger and more powerful than any yet made. the firm of m. feil & sons, paris, was finally chosen. professor newcomb wrote an interesting report of the process of making the glass. "the materials," he said, "are mixed and melted in a clay pot holding from five hundred pounds to a ton, and are constantly stirred with an iron rod until the proper combination is obtained. the heat is then slowly diminished until the glass becomes too stiff to be stirred longer. then the mass, pot and all, is placed in the annealing furnace. here it must remain undisturbed for a period of a month or more, when it is taken out; the pot and the outside parts of the glass are broken away to find whether a lump suitable for the required disk can be found in the interior. "if the interior were perfectly solid and homogeneous, there would be no further difficulty; the lump would be softened by heat, pressed into a flat disk, and reannealed, when the work would be complete. but in practice, the interior is always found to be crossed in every direction by veins of unequal density, which will injure the performance of the glass; and the great mechanical difficulty in the production of the disk is to cut these veins out and still leave a mass which can be pressed into a disk without any folding of the original surface." the glass for a telescope is usually composed of a double convex lens of crown glass, and a plano-concave lens of flint glass. m. feil & sons made and shipped the latter, which weighed three hundred and seventy-five pounds, but broke the crown glass in packing it. then during three years they made twenty unsuccessful trials before obtaining a perfect glass. the cutting away of the clay pot and outside glass is a tedious process, requiring weeks and even months. no ordinary tools can be used. the pieces are "sawed by a wire working in sand and water.... when it is done," says professor newcomb, "the mass must be pressed into the shape of a disk, like a very thin grindstone, and in order to do this the lump must first be heated to the melting-point, so as to become plastic. but when feil began to heat this large mass it flew to pieces." he took more and more time for heating, and finally succeeded. the noted firm of alvan clark & sons of cambridge, mass., did the polishing and shaping of the lenses, a labor requiring great skill and delicacy of workmanship. the objective glass was ordered in , and reached mount hamilton late in , having cost $ , . it weighs with its cell pounds. the clarks would not undertake any larger objective than thirty-six inches. this was six inches larger than the great glass which they had made for the imperial observatory at pulkowa, near st. petersburg in russia. the glass, though an important part of the telescope, was only one of many things to be obtained. in captain richard s. floyd, president of the lick trustees, himself a graduate of the united states naval academy, met professor holden in london; and the latter became the planner and adviser, throughout the construction of the buildings and the telescope. captain floyd visited many observatories, and carried on a vast correspondence, amounting to several thousand letters, with astronomers and opticians all over the world. professor holden was a graduate of west point, had been a professor of mathematics in the navy, one of the astronomers at the washington observatory, in charge of several eclipse expeditions sent out by the government for observation, a member of various scientific societies in europe as well as america, and associate member of the royal astronomical society of england, and well-fitted for the position he was afterwards called to fill,--the directorship of the lick observatory. for some time he was also president of the university of california. between the years and the large astronomical buildings were erected on the top of mount hamilton. the main building of red brick consists of two domes, one twenty-five feet and six inches in diameter; the other seventy-six feet in diameter, connected by a hall over one hundred and ninety-one feet long. this hall is paved and wainscoted with marble. the rooms for work and study open towards the east into this hall. the library, a handsome room with white polished ash cases and tables, also opens into it. near the main entrance is the visitors' room, where the visitors register their names, among them many noted scientists from various parts of the world. j. h. fickel in the _chautauquan_, june, , says, "in this room stands the workbench which mr. lick used in his trade, that of piano-making, while in peru. though not an elaborate affair, nothing attracts the attention of visitors more than this article of furniture." the large rotating dome at the south end of the building, made by the union iron works of san francisco, is covered with sheet steel, and the movable parts weigh about eighty-nine tons. it is easily handled by means of a small engine in the basement. the small dome weighs about eight tons. near the main building are the meridian circle house, with its instrument for measuring the declination of stars, the transit house, the astronomers' dwellings, the shops, etc. [illustration: the lick observatory. (used by courtesy of "the overland monthly.")] in the smaller dome is a twelve-inch equatorial telescope made by alvan clark & sons, mounted at the lick observatory in october, . there are also at mount hamilton, a six-and-one-half-inch equatorial telescope, a six-and-one-half-inch meridian circle, a four-inch transit and zenith telescope, a four-inch comet-seeker, a five-inch horizontal photoheliograph, the crocker photographic telescope, and numerous clocks, spectroscopes, chronographs, meteorological instruments, and seismometers for measuring the time and intensity of earthquake shocks. the buildings and instruments at mount hamilton are imbedded in the solid rock, so as not to be affected by the high winds on the top of the mountain. in the _century_ for march, , professor holden gives an interesting account of earthquakes, and the instruments for measuring them at the lick observatory. in the charleston earthquake of , it is computed that , square miles trembled, besides a vast ocean area. the effects of the shock were noted from florida to vermont, and from the carolinas to ontario, iowa, and arkansas. the science of the measurement of earthquakes had its birth in tokio, japan, in which country there are, on an average, two earthquake shocks daily. "every part of the upper crust of the earth is in a state of constant change," says professor holden. "these changes were first discovered by their effects on the position of astronomical instruments.... the earthquake of iquique, a seaport town of south america, in , was shown at the imperial observatory near st. petersburg, an hour and fourteen minutes later, by its effects on the delicate levels of an astronomical instrument. i myself have watched the changes in a hill ( feet above a frozen lake which was feet distant) as the ice bent and buckled, and changed the pressure on the adjacent shore. the level would faithfully indicate every movement: ... "in italy and in japan microphones deeply buried in the earth make the earth tremors audible in the observatory telephones. during the years - there were shocks recorded in san francisco. the severest earthquake felt within the city of san francisco was that of . this shock threw down chimneys, broke glass along miles of streets, and put a whole population in terror." the lick observatory has a complete set of professor ewing's instruments for earthquake measurements. accurate time signals are sent from the observatory every day at noon, and are received at every railway station between san francisco and ogden, and many other cities. the instrumental equipment of the observatory is declared to be unrivalled. interest centres most of all in the great telescope under the rotating dome, for which the -inch objective was made with so much difficulty. the great steel tube, a little over feet long, holding the lens, and weighing with all its attachments four and one-half tons, the iron pier feet high, the elaborate yet delicate machinery, were all made by warner & swasey of cleveland, ohio, whose skill has brought them well-deserved fame. the entire weight of the instrument is tons. its magnifying power ranges from to , diameters. on june , , the observatory, with its instruments, was transferred by the lick trustees to the university of california. the whole cost was $ , , leaving $ , for endowment out of the $ , given by mr. lick. fourteen years had passed since mr. lick made his deed of trust. he lived long enough to see the site chosen and the plans made for the telescope, but died at the lick house, oct. , , aged eighty. the body lay in state in pioneer hall, and on oct. was buried in lone mountain cemetery, having been followed to the grave by a long procession of state and city officials, faculty and students of the university, and members of the various societies to which mr. lick had given so generously. he had expressed a desire to be buried on mount hamilton, either within or near the observatory. therefore a tomb was made in the base of the pier of the great -inch telescope; "such a tomb," says professor holden, "as no old world emperor could have commanded or imagined." on sunday, jan. , , the body of james lick having been removed from the cemetery, the casket was enclosed in a lead-lined white maple coffin, and laid in the new tomb with appropriate ceremonies, witnessed by a large gathering of people. a memorial document stating that "this refracting telescope is the largest which has ever been constructed, and the astronomers who have used it declare that its performance surpasses that of all other telescopes," was engrossed on parchment in india ink, and signed by the officials. it was then placed between two finely tanned skins, backed by black silk, and soldered in a leaden box eighteen inches in length, the same in width, and one inch in thickness. this was placed upon the iron coffin, and the outer casket was soldered up air-tight. after the vault had been built up to the level of the foundation stone, a great stone weighing two and one-half tons was let down slowly upon the brick-work, beneath which was the casket. three other stones were placed in position, and then one section was laid of the iron pier, which weighs tons. sir edwin arnold, who in went to see the great telescope, and "by a personal pilgrimage to do homage to the memory of james lick," writes: "with my hand upon the colossal tube, slightly managing it as if it were an opera-glass, and my gaze wandering around the splendidly equipped interior, full of all needful astronomical resources, and built to stand a thousand storms, i think with admiration of its dead founder, and ask to see his tomb. it is placed immediately beneath the big telescope, which ascends and descends directly over the sarcophagus wherein repose the mortal relics of this remarkable man,--a marble chest, bearing the inscription, 'here lies the body of james lick.' "truly james lick sleeps gloriously under the bases of his big glass! four thousand feet nearer heaven than any of his dead fellow-citizens, he is buried more grandly than any king or queen, and has a finer monument than the pyramids furnished to cheops and cephrenes." mr. lick wished both to help the world and to be remembered, and his wish has been gratified. from to the lick telescope, with its -inch object-glass, was the largest refracting telescope in the world. the yerkes telescope, with its -inch object-glass, is now the largest in the world. it is on the shore of lake geneva, wis., seventy-five miles from chicago, and belongs to the chicago university. it will be remembered by those who visited the world's fair at chicago, and saw it in the manufactures and liberal arts building. professor george e. hale is the director of this great observatory. the glass was furnished by mantois of paris, from which the lenses were made by alvan g. clark, the sole survivor of the famous firm of alvan clark & sons. the crown-glass double convex lens weighs pounds; the plano-concave lens of flint glass, nearest the eye end of the telescope, weighs over pounds. the telescope and dome were made by warner & swasey, who made also the -inch telescope at washington, the -inch at the university of pennsylvania, the ½-inch at the university of minnesota, the -inch at columbus, ohio, and others. of this firm professor c. a. young, in the _north american review_ for february, , says, "it is not too much to say that in design and workmanship their instruments do not suffer in comparison with the best foreign make, while in 'handiness' they are distinctly superior. there is no longer any necessity for us to go abroad for astronomical instruments, which are fully up to the highest standards." the steel tube of the yerkes telescope is feet long, and the -foot rotating dome, also of steel, weighs nearly tons. the observatory, of gray roman brick with gray terra-cotta and stone trimmings, is in the form of a roman cross, with three domes, the largest dome at the western end covering the great telescope. of the two smaller domes, one will contain a -inch telescope, and the other a -inch. professor young says of the yerkes telescope, "it gathers three times as much light as the -inch instrument at princeton; two and three-eighths as much as the -inch telescopes of washington and charlottesville; one and four-fifths as much as the -inch at pulkowa; and per cent more than the gigantic, and hitherto unrivalled, -inch telescope of the lick observatory. possibly in this one quality of 'light,' the six-foot reflector of lord rosse, and the later five-foot reflector of mr. common, might compete with or even surpass it; but as an instrument for seeing things, it is doubtful whether either of them could hold its own with even the smallest of the instruments named above, because of the reflector's inherent inferiority in distinctness of definition." professor young thinks the yerkes telescope can hardly hope for the exceptional excellence of the "seeing" at mount hamilton, nice, or ariquipa, at least at night. the magnifying power of the yerkes telescope is so great, being from to , , that the moon can be brought optically within sixty miles of the observer's eye. "any lunar object five or six hundred feet square would be distinctly visible,--a building, for instance, as large as the capitol at washington." since the death of mr. lick others have added to his generous gifts for the purchase of special instruments, for sending expeditions to foreign countries to observe total solar eclipses, and the like. mrs. phoebe hearst has given the fund which will yield $ , or more each year for hearst fellowships in astronomy or other special work. colonel c. f. crocker has given a photographic telescope and dome, and provided a sum sufficient to pay the expenses of an eclipse expedition to be sent from mount hamilton to japan, in august, , under charge of professor schæberle. mr. edward crossley, a wealthy member of parliament for halifax, england, has given a reflector and forty-foot dome, which reached mount hamilton from liverpool in the latter part of . mr. lick's gift of the telescope has stimulated a love for astronomical study and research, not only in california, but throughout the world. the astronomical society of the pacific was founded feb. , ; and any man or woman with genuine interest in the science was invited to join. it has a membership of over five hundred, and its publications are valuable. the society holds its summer meetings on mount hamilton. very wisely, for the sake of diffusing knowledge, visitors are made welcome to mount hamilton every saturday evening between the hours of seven and ten o'clock, to look through the big telescope and through the smaller ones when not in use. in five years, from june , , to june , , there were , visitors. each person is shown the most interesting celestial objects, and the whole force of the observatory is on duty, and spares no pains to make the visits both interesting and profitable. james lick planned wisely when he thought of his great telescope, even if he had no other wish than to be remembered and honored. undoubtedly he did have other motives; for professor holden says, "a very extensive course of reading had given him the generous idea that the future well-being of the race was the object for a good man to strive to forward. towards the end of his life, at least, the utter futility of his money to give any inner satisfaction oppressed him more and more." the results of scientific work of the lick observatory have been most interesting and remarkable. professor edward e. barnard discovered, sept. , , the fifth satellite of jupiter, one hundred miles in diameter. he discovered nineteen comets in ten years, and has been called the "comet-seeker." he has also, says professor holden, made a very large number of observations "upon the physical appearance of the planets venus, jupiter, and saturn; upon the zodiacal light, etc.; upon meteors, lunar eclipses, double stars, occultations of stars, etc.; and he has discovered a considerable number of new nebulæ also." professor barnard resigned oct. , , to accept the position of professor of astronomy in the university of chicago, and is succeeded by professor wm. j. hussey of the leland stanford junior university. sir edwin arnold, during his visit to the observatory, at the suggestion of professor campbell, looked through the great telescope upon the nebula in orion. "i saw," he writes, "in the well-known region of 'beta orionis,' the vast separate system of that universe clearly outlined,--a fleecy, irregular, mysterious, windy shape, its edges whirled and curled like those of a storm-cloud, with stars and star clusters standing forth against the milky white background of the nebula like diamonds lying upon silver cloth. the central star, which to the naked eye or to a telescope of lower power looks single and of no great brilliancy, resolved itself, under the potent command of the lick glass, into a splendid trapezium of four glittering worlds, arranged very much like those of the southern cross. "at the lower right-hand border of the beautiful cosmic mist, there opens a black abyss of darkness, which has the appearance of an inky cloud about to swallow up the silvery filigree of the nebula; but this the great glass fills up with unsuspecting worlds when the photographic apparatus is fitted to it. i understood professor holden's views to be that we were beholding, in that almost immeasurably remote silvery haze, an entirely separated system of worlds and clusters, apart from all others, as our own system is, but inconceivably grander, larger, and more populous with suns and planets and their starry allies." professor john m. schæberle, formerly of michigan university, has discovered two or more comets, written much on solar eclipses, the "canals" of mars, and the sun's corona. he, with professor s. w. burnham, went to south america to observe the solar eclipse of dec. - , ; and the former took observations on the solar eclipse april , , at mina bronces, chili. professor burnham catalogued over one hundred and ninety-eight new double stars, which he discovered while at mount hamilton. he, with professor holden and others, have taken remarkable photographs of the moon; and the negatives have been sent to professor weinek of prague, who makes enlarged drawings and photographs of them. astronomers in copenhagen, vienna, great britain, and other parts of europe, are working with the lick astronomers. star maps, in both northern and southern hemispheres, have been made at the lick observatory, and photographs of the milky way, the sun and its spots, comets, nebulæ, mars, jupiter, etc. professor holden has written much in the magazines, the _century_, _mcclure's_, _the forum_, and elsewhere, concerning these photographs, "what we really know about mars," and kindred topics. professor perrine discovered a new comet in february, , which for some time travelled towards the earth at the rate of , , miles per day. professor david p. todd of amherst college was enabled to make at the lick observatory the finest photographs ever made of the transit of venus, dec. , . as there will not be another transit of venus till jan. , , so that no living astronomer will ever behold another, this transit was of special importance. the transit of mercury was also observed in by professor holden and others. the equipment at the lick observatory is admirable, and the sight excellent; but the income from the $ , endowment is too small to allow the desired work. there are but seven observers at mount hamilton, while at greenwich, at paris, and other observatories, there are from forty to fifty men. the total income for salaries and all other expenses is $ , at the lick observatory; at paris, greenwich, harvard college, the united states naval observatory at washington, etc., from $ , to $ , is spent yearly, and is all useful. fellowships producing $ a year are greatly needed, to be named after the givers, and the money to provide a larger force of astronomers. mr. lick's great gift has been nobly begun, but funds are necessary to carry on the work. leland stanford and his university. "the biographer of leland stanford will have to tell the fascinating story of a career almost matchless in the splendor of its incidents. it was partly due to the circumstances of his time, but chiefly due to the largeness and boldness of his nature, that this plain, simple man succeeded in cutting so broad a swath. he lived at the top of his possibilities." thus wrote dr. albert shaw in the _review of reviews_, august, . leland stanford, farmer-boy, lawyer, railroad builder, governor, united states senator, and munificent giver, was born at watervliet, n.y., eight miles from albany, march , . he was the fourth son in a family of seven sons and one daughter, the latter dying in infancy. his father, josiah stanford, was a native of massachusetts, but moved with his parents to the state of new york when he was a boy. he became a successful farmer, calling his farm by the attractive name of elm grove. he had the energy and industry which it seems leland inherited. he built roads and bridges in the neighborhood, and was an earnest advocate of dewitt clinton's scheme of the erie canal, connecting the great lakes with new york city by way of the hudson river. "gouverneur morris had first suggested the erie canal in ," says t. w. higginson, "and washington had indeed proposed a system of such waterways in . but the first actual work of this kind in the united states was that dug around turner's falls in massachusetts soon after . in dewitt clinton again proposed the erie canal. it was begun in , and opened july , , being cut mainly through a wilderness. the effect produced on public opinion was absolutely startling. when men found that the time from albany to buffalo was reduced one-half, and that the freight on a ton of merchandise was cut down from $ to $ , and ultimately to $ , similar enterprises sprang into being everywhere." [illustration: leland stanford.] people were not excited over canals only; everybody was interested about the coming railroads. george stephenson, in the midst of the greatest opposition, landowners even driving the surveyors off their grounds, had built a road from liverpool to manchester, england, which was opened sept. , . the previous month, august, the mohawk and hudson river railroad from albany to schenectady, sixteen miles, was commenced, a charter having been granted sometime before this. josiah stanford was greatly interested in this enterprise, and took large contracts for grading. men at the stanford home talked of the great future of railroads in america, and even prophesied a road to oregon. "young as he was when the question of a railroad to oregon was first agitated," says a writer, "leland stanford took a lively interest in the measure. among its chief advocates at that early day was mr. whitney, one of the engineers in the construction of the mohawk and hudson river railway. on one occasion, when whitney passed the night at elm grove, leland being then thirteen years of age, the conversation ran largely on this overland railway project; and the effect upon the mind of such a boy may be readily imagined. the remembrance of that night's discussion between whitney and his father never left him, but bore the grandest fruits." the cheerful, big-hearted boy worked on his father's farm with his brothers, rising at five o'clock, even on cold winter mornings, that he might get his work done before school hours. he himself tells how he earned his first dollar. "i was about six years old," he said. "two of my brothers and i gathered a lot of horseradish from the garden, washed it clean, took it to schenectady, and sold it. i got two of the six shillings received. i was very proud of my money. my next financial venture was two years later. our hired man came from albany, and told us chestnuts were high. the boys had a lot of them on hand which we had gathered in the fall. we hurried off to market with them, and sold them for twenty-five dollars. that was a good deal of money when grown men were getting only two shillings a day." perhaps the boy felt that he should not always like to work on the farm, for he had made up his mind to get an education if possible. when he was eighteen his father bought a piece of woodland, and told him if he would cut off the timber he might have the money received for it. he immediately hired several persons to help him, and together they cut and piled , cords of wood, which leland sold to the mohawk and hudson river railroad at a profit of $ , . after using some of this money to pay for his schooling at an academy at clinton, n.y., he went to albany, and for three years studied law with the firm of wheaton, doolittle, & hadley. he disliked greek and latin, but was fond of science, particularly geology and chemistry, and was a great reader, especially of the newspapers. he attended all the lectures attainable, and was fond of discussion upon all progressive topics. later in life he studied sociological matters, and read john stuart mill and herbert spencer. young stanford determined to try his fortune in the west. he went as far as chicago, and found it low, marshy, and unattractive. this was in , when he was twenty-four years old. the town had been organized but fifteen years, and did not have much to boast of. there were only twenty-eight voters in chicago in . in the entire population was , . chicago had grown rapidly by ; but mosquitoes were abundant, and towns farther up lake michigan gave better promise for the future. mr. stanford finally settled at port washington, wis., above milwaukee, which place it was thought would prove a rival of chicago. forty years later, in , port washington had a population of , , while chicago had increased to , , . mr. stanford did well the first year at port washington, earning $ , . he remained another year, and then, at twenty-six, went back to albany to marry miss jane lathrop, daughter of mr. dyer lathrop, a respected merchant. they returned to port washington, but mr. stanford did not find the work of a country lawyer congenial. he had chosen his profession, however, and would have gone on to a measure of success in it, probably, had not an accident opened up a new field. he had been back from his wedding journey but a year or more, when a fire swept away all his possessions, including a quite valuable law library. the young couple were really bankrupt, but they determined not to return to albany for a home. several of mr. stanford's brothers had gone to california in , after the gold-fields were discovered, and had opened stores near the mining-camps. if leland were to join them, it would give him at least more variety than the quiet life at port washington. the young wife went back to albany to care for three years for her invalid father, who died in april, . the husband sailed from new york, spending twelve days in crossing the isthmus, and in thirty-eight days reached san francisco, july , . for four years he had charge of a branch store at michigan bluffs, placer county, among the miners. he engaged also in mining, and was not afraid of the labor and privations of the camp. he said some years later, "the true history of the argonauts of the nineteenth century has to be written. they had no jason to lead them, no oracles to prophesy success nor enchantments to avert dangers; but, like self-reliant americans, they pressed forward to the land of promise, and travelled thousands of miles, when the greek heroes travelled hundreds. they went by ship and by wagon, on horseback and on foot; a mighty army, passing over mountains and deserts, enduring privations and sickness; they were the creators of a commonwealth, the builders of states." mr. stanford had the energy of his father; he had learned how to work while on the farm, and he had a pleasant and kindly manner to all. said a friend of his, after mr. stanford had become the governor of a great state, and the possessor of many millions, "the man who held the throttle of the locomotive, he who handled the train, worked the brake, laid the rail, or shovelled the sand, was his comrade, friend, and equal. his life was one of tender, thoughtful compassion for the man less fortunate in life than himself." the young lawyer was making money, and a good reputation as well, in the mining-camps. says an old associate, "mr. stanford in an unusual degree commanded the respect of the heterogeneous lot of men who composed the mining classes, and was frequently referred to by them as a sort of arbitrator in settling their disputes for them. while at michigan bluffs he was elected a justice of the peace, which office was the court before which all disputes and contentions of the miners and their claims were settled. it is a singular fact, with all the questions that came before him for settlement, not one of them was appealed to a higher court. "leland stanford was at this time just as gentle in his manner and as cordial and respectful to all as in his later years. yet he was possessed of a courage which, when tested, as occasion sometimes required, satisfied the rough element that he was not a man who could be imposed upon. his principle seemed to be to stand up for the right at all times. he never indulged in profanity or coarse words of any kind, and was as considerate in his conduct when holding intercourse with the rough element as though in the midst of the highest refinement." mr. stanford had prospered so well that in he purchased the business of his brothers in sacramento, and went east to bring his wife to the pacific coast. he studied his business carefully. he made himself conversant with the statistics of trade, the tariff laws, the best markets and means of transportation. he read and thought, while some others idled away their hours. he was deeply interested in the new republican party, which was then in the minority in california. he believed in it, and worked earnestly for it. when the party was organized in the state in , he was one of the founders of it. he became a candidate for state treasurer, and was defeated. three years later he was nominated for governor; "but the party was too small to have any chance, and the contest lay between opposing democratic factions." mr. stanford was to learn how to win success against fires and political defeats. a year later he was a delegate at large to the republican national convention; and instead of supporting mr. seward, who was from his own state of new york, he worked earnestly for abraham lincoln, with whom he formed a lasting friendship. after mr. lincoln was inaugurated, mr. stanford remained in washington several weeks, at the request of the president and secretary seward, to confer with them about the surest means of keeping california loyal to the union. mr. blaine says of california and oregon at this time: "jefferson davis had expected, with a confidence amounting to certainty, and based, it is believed, on personal pledges, that the pacific coast, if it did not actually join the south, would be disloyal to the union, and would, from its remoteness and its superlative importance, require a large contingent of the national forces to hold it in subjection. "it was expected by the south that california and oregon would give at least as much trouble as kentucky and missouri, and would thus indirectly, but powerfully, aid the southern cause." in the spring of mr. stanford was again nominated by the republicans for governor. though he declined at first, after he had consented, with his usual vigor, earnestness, and perseverance, with faith in himself and his fellow-men as well, he and his friends made a thorough and spirited canvass; and mr. stanford received , votes, about six times as many as were given him two years before. "the period," says the san francisco _chronicle_, "was one of unexampled difficulty of administration; and to add to the embarrassments occasioned by the civil war, the city of sacramento and a vast area of the valley were inundated. on the day appointed for the inauguration the streets of sacramento were swept by a flood, and mr. stanford and his friends were compelled to go and return to the capitol in boats. the messages of governor stanford, and indeed all his state papers, indicated wide information, great common-sense, and a comprehensive grasp of state and national affairs, remarkable in one who had never before held office under either the state or national government. during his administration he kept up constant and cordial intercourse with washington, and had the satisfaction of leaving the chair of state at the close of his term of office feeling that no state in the union was more thoroughly loyal." there was much disloyalty in california at first, but mr. stanford was firm as well as conciliatory. the militia was organized, a state normal school was established, and the indebtedness of the state reduced one-half under his leadership as governor. after the war was over, governor stanford cherished no animosities. when mr. lamar's name was sent to the senate as associate justice of the supreme court, and many were opposed, mr. stanford said, "no man sympathized more sincerely than myself with the cause of the union, or deprecated more the cause of the south. i would have given fortune and life to have defeated that cause. but the war has terminated, and what this country needs now is absolute and profound peace. lamar was a representative southern man, and adhered to the convictions of his boyhood and manhood. there never can be pacification in this country until these war memories are obliterated by the action of the executive and of congress." mr. stanford declined a re-election to the governorship, because he wished to give his time to the building of a railroad across the continent. he had never forgotten the conversation in his father's home about a railroad to oregon. when he went back to albany for mrs. stanford, after being a storekeeper among the mines, and she was ill from the tiresome journey, he cheered her with the promise, "never mind; a time will come when i will build a railroad for you to go home on." every one knew that a railroad was needed. vessels had to go around cape horn, and troops and produce had to be transported over the mountains and across the plains at great expense and much hardship. some persons believed the building of a road over the snow-capped sierra nevada mountains was possible; but most laughed the project to scorn, and denounced it as "a wild scheme of visionary cranks." "the huge snow-clad chain of the sierra nevadas," says mr. perkins, the senator from california who succeeded mr. stanford, "whose towering steeps nowhere permitted a thoroughfare at an elevation less than seven thousand feet above the sea, must be crossed; great deserts, waterless, and roamed by savage tribes, must be made accessible; vast sums of money must be raised, and national aid secured at a time in which the credit of the central government had fallen so low that its bonds of guaranty to the undertaking sold for barely one-third their face value." in the presence of such obstacles no one seemed ready to undertake the work of building the railroad. one of the persistent advocates of the plan was theodore j. judah, the engineer of the sacramento valley and other local railroads. he had convinced mr. stanford that the thing was possible. the latter first talked with c. p. huntington, a hardware merchant of sacramento; then with mark hopkins, mr. huntington's partner, and later with charles crocker and others. a fund was raised to enable mr. judah and his associates to perfect their surveys; and the central pacific railroad company was formed, june , , with mr. stanford as president. in mr. stanford's inaugural address as governor he had dwelt upon the necessity of this railroad to unite the east and the west; and now that he had retired from the gubernatorial office, he determined to push the enterprise with all his power. neither he nor his associates had any great wealth at their command, but they had faith and force of character. the aid of congress was sought and obtained by a strictly party vote, republicans being in the majority; and the bill was signed by president lincoln, july , . the government agreed to give the company the alternate sections of acres in a belt of land ten miles wide on each side of the railroad, and $ , per mile in bonds for the easily constructed portion of the road, and $ , and $ , per mile for the mountainous portions. the company was to build forty miles before it received government aid. it was so difficult to raise money during the civil war that congress made a more liberal grant july , , whereby the company received alternate sections of land within a belt twenty miles on each side of the road, or the large amount of , acres per mile, making for the company nearly , , acres of land. the government was to retain, to apply on its debt, only half the money it owed the company for transportation instead of the whole. the most important provision of the new act was the authority of the company to issue its own first-mortgage bonds to an amount not exceeding those of the united states, and making the latter take a second mortgage. there is no question but the united states has given lavishly to railroads, as the cities have given their streets free to street railroads; but during the civil war the need of communication between east and west seemed to make it wise to build the road at almost any sacrifice. mr. blaine says, "many capitalists who afterwards indulged in denunciations of congress for the extravagance of the grants, were urged at the time to take a share in the scheme, but declined because of the great risk involved." mr. stanford broke ground for the railroad by turning the first shovelful of earth early in . "at times failure seemed inevitable," says the new york _tribune_, june , . "even the stout-hearted crocker declared that there were times when he would have been glad to 'lose all and quit;' but the iron will of stanford triumphed over everything. as president of the road he superintended its construction over the mountains, building miles in days. on the last day, crocker laid the rails on more than ten miles of track. that the great railroad builders survived the ordeal is a marvel. crocker, indeed, never recovered from the effects of the terrific strain. he died in . hopkins died twelve years before, in ." with a silver hammer governor stanford drove a golden spike at promontory point, utah, may , , which completed the line of the central pacific, and joined it with the union pacific railroad, and the telegraph flashed the news from the atlantic to the pacific. the union pacific was built from omaha, neb., to promontory point, though ogden, utah, fifty-two miles east of promontory point, is now considered the dividing line. after this road was completed, mr. stanford turned to other labors. he was made president or director of several railroads,--the southern pacific, the california & oregon, and other connecting lines. he was also president of the oriental and occidental steamship company, which plied between san francisco and chinese ports, and was interested in street railroads, woollen mills, and the manufacture of sugar. foreseeing the great future of california, he purchased very large tracts of land, including vina with nearly , acres, the gridley ranch with , acres, and his summer home, palo alto, thirty miles from san francisco, with , acres. he built a stately home in san francisco costing over $ , , , and in his journeys abroad collected for it costly paintings and other works of art. but his chief delight was in his palo alto estate. here he sought to plant every variety of tree, from the world over, that would grow in california. many thousands were set out each year. he was a great lover of trees, and could tell the various kinds from the bark or leaf. he loved animals, especially the horse, and had the largest horse farm for raising horses in the world. some of his remarkable thoroughbreds and trotters were electioneer, arion, palo alto, sunol, "the flying filly," racine, piedmont that cost $ , , and many others. he spent $ , , it is said, in experiments in instantaneous photography of the horse; and a book resulted, "the horse in motion," which showed that the ideas of painters about a horse at high speed were usually wrong. no one was ever allowed to kick or whip a horse or destroy a bird on the estate. mr. george t. angell of boston tells of the remark made to general francis a. walker by mr. stanford. the horses of the latter were so gentle that they would put their noses on his shoulder, or come up to visitors to be petted. "how do you contrive to have your horses so gentle?" asked general walker. "i never allow a man to _speak_ unkindly to one of my horses; and if a man _swears_ at one of them, i discharge him," was the reply. there were large greenhouses and vegetable gardens at palo alto, and acres of wheat, rye, oats, and barley. but the most interesting and beautiful and highly prized of all the charms at palo alto was an only child, a lad named leland stanford, jr. he was never a rugged boy; but his sunny, generous nature and intellectual qualities gave great promise of future usefulness. mrs. sallie joy white, in the january, , _wide awake_, tells some interesting things about him. she says, "his chosen playmate was a little lame boy, the son of people in moderate circumstances, who lived near the stanfords in san francisco. the two were together almost constantly, and each was at home in the other's house. he was very considerate of his little playfellow, and constituted himself his protector." when mrs. sarah b. cooper was making efforts to raise money for the free kindergarten work in san francisco suggested by felix adler in , she called on mrs. stanford, and the boy leland heard the story of the needs of poor children. putting his hand in his mother's, he said, "mamma, we must help those children." "well, leland," said his mother, "what do you wish me to do?" "give mrs. cooper $ now, and let her start a school, then come to us for more." and leland's wish was gratified. "between this time, , and ," says miss m. v. lewis in the _home maker_ for january, , "mrs. leland stanford has given $ , , including a permanent endowment fund of $ , for the san francisco kindergartens." she supports seven or more, five in san francisco, and two at palo alto. a writer in the press says, "her name is down for $ , a year for these schools, and i am told she spends much more. i attended a reception given her by the eight schools under her patronage; and it was a very affecting sight to watch these four hundred children, all under four years of age, marching into the hall and up to their benefactor, each tiny hand grasping a fragrant rose which was deposited in mrs. stanford's lap. these children are gathered from the slums of the city. it is far wiser to establish schools for the training of such as these, than to wait until sin and crime have done their work, and then make a great show of trying to reclaim them through reformatory institutions." leland, jr., was very fond of animals. mrs. white tells this story: "one day, when he was about ten years of age, he was standing looking out of the window, and his mother heard a tumult outside, and saw leland suddenly dash out of the house, down the steps, into a crowd of boys in front of the house. presently he reappeared covered with dust, holding a homely yellow dog in his arms. quick as a flash he was up the steps and into the house with the door shut behind him, while a perfect howl of rage went up from the boys outside. "before his mother could reach him he had flown to the telephone, and summoned the family doctor. thinking from the agonized tones of the boy that some of the family had been taken suddenly and violently ill, the doctor hastened to the house. "he was a stately old gentleman, who believed fully in the dignity of his profession; and he was somewhat disconcerted and a good deal annoyed at being confronted with a very dusty, excited boy, holding a broken-legged dog that was evidently of the mongrel family. at first he was about to be angry; but the earnest, pleading look on the little face, and the perfect innocence of any intent of discourtesy, disarmed the dignified doctor, and he explained to leland that he did not understand the case, not being accustomed to treating dogs, but that he would take him and the dog to one who was. so they went, doctor, boy, and dog, in the doctor's carriage to a veterinary surgeon, the leg was set, and they returned home. leland took the most faithful care of the dog until it recovered, and it repaid him with a devotion that was touching." leland, knowing that he was to be the heir of many millions, was already thinking how some of the money should be used. he had begun to gather materials for a museum, to which the parents devoted two rooms in their san francisco home. he was fitting himself for yale college, was excellent in french and german, and greatly interested in art and archæology. before entering upon the long course of study at college, he travelled with his parents abroad. in athens, in london, on the bosphorus, everywhere, with an open hand, his parents allowed him to gather treasures for his museum, and for a larger institution which he had in mind to establish sometime. while staying for a while in rome, symptoms of fever developed in young leland, and he was taken at once to florence. the best medical skill was of no avail; and he soon died, march , , two months before his sixteenth birthday. his parents telegraphed this sad message home, "our darling boy went to heaven this morning." the story is told that while watching by the bedside of his son, worn with care and anxiety, governor stanford fell asleep, and dreamed that his son said to him, "father, don't say you have nothing to live for; you have a great deal to live for. live for humanity, father," and that this dream proved a comforter. the almost prostrated parents brought home their beloved boy to bury him at palo alto. on thanksgiving day, thursday, nov. , , the doors of the tomb which had been prepared near the house were opened at noon, and leland stanford, jr., was laid away for all time from the sight of those who loved him. the bearers were sixteen of the oldest employees on the palo alto farm. the sarcophagus in which leland, jr., sleeps is eight feet four inches long, four feet wide, and three feet six inches high, built of pressed bricks, with slabs of white carrara marble one inch thick firmly fastened to the bricks with cement. in the front slab of this sarcophagus are cut these words:-- born in mortality may , , leland stanford, jr. passed to immortality march , . electric wires were placed in the walls of the tomb, in the doors of iron, and even in the foundations, so that no sacrilegious hand should disturb the repose of the sleeper without detection. memorial services for young leland were held in grace church, san francisco, on the morning of sunday, nov. , , the rev. dr. j. p. newman of new york preaching an eloquent sermon. the floral decorations were exquisite; one bower fifteen feet high with four floral posts supporting floral arches, a cross six feet high of white camellias, lilies, and tuberoses, relieved by scarlet and crimson buds, and pillows and wreaths of great beauty. "nature had highly favored him for some noble purpose," said dr. newman. "although so young, he was tall and graceful as some apollo belvidere, with classic features some master would have chosen to chisel in marble or cast in bronze; with eyes soft and gentle as an angel's, yet dreamy as the vision of a seer; with broad, white forehead, home of a radiant soul.... he was more than a son to his parents,--he was their companion. he was as an angel in his mother's sick room, wherein he would sit for hours and talk of all he had seen, and would cheer her hope of returning health by the assurance that he had prayed on his knees for her recovery on each of the twenty-four steps of the scala santa in rome, and that when he was but eleven years old.... "he had selected, catalogued, and described for his projected museum seventeen cases of antique glass vases, bronze work, and terra-cotta statuettes, dating back far into the centuries, and which illustrate the creative genius of those early ages of our race." such a youth wasted no time in foolish pleasures or useless companions. like his father he loved history, and sought out, says dr. newman, the place where pericles had spoken, and socrates died; "reverently pausing on mars hill where st. paul had preached 'jesus and the resurrection;' and lingering with strange delight in the temple of eleusis wherein death kissed his cheek into a consuming fire." at the close of dr. newman's memorial address the favorite hymn of young leland was sung, "tell me the old, old story." from this crushing blow of his son's death mr. stanford never recovered. for years young leland's room in the san francisco home was kept ready and in waiting, the lamp dimly lighted at night, and the bedclothes turned back by loving hands as if he were coming back again. the horses the boy used to ride were kept unused in pasture at palo alto, and cared for, for the sake of their fair young owner. the little yellow dog whose broken leg was set was left at palo alto when the boy went to europe with his parents. when he was brought back a corpse, the dog knew all too well the story of the bereavement. after the body was placed in the tomb, the faithful creature took his place in front of the door. he could not be coaxed away even for his food, and one morning he was found there dead. he was buried near his devoted human friend. "toots," an old black and tan whom young leland had brought from albany, was much beloved. "mr. stanford would not allow a dog in the house save this one," says a writer in the san francisco _chronicle_. "'toots' was an exception, and he had full run of the house. he was the envy of all the dogs, even of the noble old great dane. 'toots' would climb upon the sofa alongside of mr. stanford, and forgetting a well-known repugnance he would pet him and say, 'there is always a place for you; always a place for you.'" the year following the death of young leland, on nov. , , mr. stanford and his wife founded and endowed their great university at palo alto. in conveying the estates to the trustees, mr. stanford said, "since the idea of establishing an institution of this kind for the benefit of mankind came directly and largely from our son and only child, leland, and in the belief that had he been spared to advise us as to the disposition of our estate he would have desired the devotion of a large portion thereof to this purpose, we will that for all time to come the institution hereby founded shall bear his name, and shall be known as the 'leland stanford, jr., university.'" mr. stanford and his wife visited various institutions of learning throughout the country, and found consolation in raising this noble monument to a noble son--infinitely to be preferred to shafts or statues of marble and bronze. this same year, , mr. stanford's friends, fearing the effect of his sorrow, and hoping to divert him somewhat from it, secured his election by the california legislature to the united states senate. he took his seat march , , just a year after the death of his son. he did not make many speeches, but he proved a very useful member from his good sense and counsel and kindly leaning toward all helpful legislation for the poor and the unfortunate. he was re-elected march , , for a second term of six years. he will be most remembered in congress for his land-loan bill which he originated and presented to the senate. "the bill proposed that money should be issued upon land to half the amount of its value, and for such loan the government was to receive an annual interest of two per cent per annum." "whatever may be thought by some of the practical utility of his financial scheme," says mr. mitchell, a senator from oregon, "which he so earnestly and ably advocated, and which was approved by millions of his countrymen, for the loaning of money by the united states direct to the people at a low rate of interest, taking mortgages on farms as security, all will now agree it indicated in unmistakable terms a philanthropic spirit, an earnest desire to aid, through the instrumentality of what he regarded as constitutional and proper governmental influence, not the great moneyed institutions of the country, not the vast corporations of the land, with several of which he was prominently identified in a business way, but rather the great masses of producers,--the farmers, the planters, and the wage-workers of his country." in this connection the suggestion of professor richard t. ely in his book on "socialism and social reform," page , might well be heeded. after showing that germany and other countries have used government credit to some extent in behalf of the farming community, and that new york state has been making loans to farmers for a generation or more, he says, "a sensible demand on the part of farmers' organizations would be that congress should appoint a commission of experts to investigate thoroughly the use of government credit in various countries and at different times, in behalf of the individual citizen, especially the farmer, and to make a full and complete report, in order that anything which is done should be based upon the lessons to be derived from actual experience." mr. and mrs. stanford were much beloved in washington for their cordiality and generosity. they gave an annual dinner to the senate pages, with a gift for each boy of a gold scarf-pin, or something attractive, and at christmas a five-dollar gold-piece to each. also a luncheon each winter, and gifts of money, gloves, etc., to the telegraph and messenger boys. every orphan asylum and charity hospital in washington was remembered at christmas. mr. sibley, representative for pennsylvania, relates this incident showing mr. stanford's habit of giving. "my partner and myself had purchased a young colt of him, for which we paid him $ , . he took out his check-book, drew two checks of $ , each, and sent them to two different city homes for friendless children; and with a twinkle in his eye, and broadly beaming benevolence in his features, said, 'electric bell ought to make a great horse; he starts in making so many people happy in the very beginning of his life.'" mr. daniels of virginia tells how mr. stanford was observed one day by a friend to give $ , to an inventor who was trying to apply an electric motor to the sewing-machine. mr. stanford remarked, "this is the thirtieth man to whom i have given a like sum to develop that idea." after mr. stanford had been in the senate two years, on may , , he and mrs. stanford laid the corner-stone of their university at palo alto, on the th anniversary of the birthday of leland stanford, jr. in less than four years, on october , , the doors of the university were opened to receive five hundred students, young men and women; for mr. stanford had written in his grant of endowment "to afford equal facilities and give equal advantages in the university to both sexes." in his address to the trustees he said, "the rights of one sex, political or otherwise, are the same as those of the other sex, and this equality of rights ought to be fully recognized." mrs. stanford said to mrs. white as they sat in her library at palo alto, "whatever the boys have, the girls have as well. we mean that the girls of our country shall have a fair chance. there shall be no dividing line in the studies. if a girl desires to become an electrician, she shall have the opportunity, and that opportunity shall be the same as the young men's. if she wishes to study mechanics, she may do it." mr. stanford said in his address on the day of opening, "i speak for mrs. stanford as well as for myself, for she has been my active and sympathetic coadjutor, and is co-grantor with me in the endowment and establishment of this university." they had been urged to give their fortune in other directions, as some persons believed that much education would unfit people for labor. "we do not believe," said mr. stanford, and the world honors him for his belief, "there can be superfluous education. as man cannot have too much health and intelligence, so he cannot be too highly educated. whether in the discharge of responsible or humble duties he will ever find the knowledge he has acquired through education, not only of practical assistance to him, but a factor in his personal happiness, and a joy forever." mr. stanford desired that the students should "not only be scholars, but have a sound practical idea of commonplace, every-day matters, a self-reliance that will fit them, in case of emergency, to earn their own livelihood in an humble as well as an exalted sphere." to this end he provided, besides the usual studies in colleges, for "mechanical institutes, laboratories, etc." there are departments of civil engineering, mechanical engineering, electrical engineering, besides shorthand and typewriting, agriculture, and other practical work. he wished to have taught in the university "the right and advantages of association and co-operation. ... laws should be formed to protect and develop co-operative associations. laws with this object in view will furnish to the poor man complete protection against the monopoly of the rich; and such laws, properly administered and availed of, will insure to the workers of the country the full fruits of their industry and enterprise." he gave directions that "no drinking saloons shall be opened upon any part of the premises." he "prohibited sectarian instruction," but wished "to have taught in the university the immortality of the soul, the existence of an all-wise and benevolent creator, and that obedience to his laws is the highest duty of man." mr. stanford said, "it seems to us that the welfare of man on earth depends on the belief in immortality, and that the advantages of every good act and the disadvantages of every evil one follow man from this life into the next, there attaching to him as certainly as individuality is maintained." the object of the university is, he said, "to qualify students for personal success and direct usefulness in life." again he said, "the object is not alone to give the student a technical education, fitting him for a successful business life, but it is also to instil into his mind an appreciation of the blessings of this government, a reverence for its institutions, and a love for god and humanity." mr. stanford wished plain and substantial buildings, "built as needed and no faster," urging the trustees to bear in mind "that extensive and expensive buildings do not make a university; that it depends for its success rather upon the character and attainments of its faculty." mr. stanford chose for the president of his university david starr jordan, well-known for his scientific work and his various books. though a comparatively young man, being forty years of age, dr. jordan had had wide experience. he was graduated from cornell university in , and for two years was professor at institutions in illinois and wisconsin. in he was lecturer in marine botany at the anderson school at penikese, and the following year at the harvard summer school at cumberland gap. during the next four years, while holding the chair of biology in butler university, indianapolis, he was the naturalist of two geological surveys in indiana and ohio. for six years he was professor of zoölogy in indiana university, and for the six years following its president. for fourteen years he had been assistant to the united states fish commission, exploring many of our rivers, and part of that time agent for the united states census bureau in investigating the marine industries of the pacific coast. he had studied also in the large museums abroad. dr. albert shaw tells this interesting incident. "president jordan had once met the young stanford boy on the seashore, and won the lad's gratitude by telling him of shells and submarine life. it was a singular coincidence that the parents afterwards heard dr. jordan make allusions in a public address which gave them the knowledge that this was the interesting stranger who had taught their son so much, and had so enkindled the boy's enthusiasm. his choice as president was an eminently wise one." mr. stanford wished ten acres to be set aside "as a place of burial and of last rest on earth for the bodies of the grantors and of their son, leland stanford, jr., and, as the board may direct, for the bodies of such other persons who may have been connected with the university." mr. stanford lived to see his university opened and doing successful work. the plan of its buildings, suggested by the old spanish missions of california, was originally that of richardson, the noted architect of boston; but as he died before it was completed, the work was done by his successors, shepley, rutan, & coolidge. the plan contemplates a number of quadrangles in the midst of , acres. "the central group of buildings will constitute two quadrangles, one entirely surrounding the other," says the _university register_ for -- . "of these the inner quadrangle, with the exception of the chapel, is now completed. its twelve one-story buildings are connected by a continuous open arcade, facing a paved court feet long by feet wide, or three and a quarter acres. the buildings are of a buff sandstone, somewhat varied in color. the stone-work is of broken ashlar, with rough rock face, and the roofs are covered with red tile." within the quadrangle are several circular beds of semi-tropical trees and plants. miss milicent w. shinn, in the _overland monthly_ for october, , says, "i should think it hard to say too much of the simple dignity, the calm influence on mind and mood, of the great, bright court, the deep arcade with its long vista of columns and arches, the heavy walls, the unchanging stone surfaces. they seemed to me like the rock walls of nature; they drew me back, and made me homesick for them when i had gone away." behind the central quadrangle are the shops, foundry, and boiler-house. on the east side is encina hall, a dormitory for men, provided with electric lights, steam heat, and bathrooms on each floor. it is four stories high, and, like the quadrangle, of buff almaden sandstone. on the west side of the quadrangle is roble hall, for one hundred young women, and is built of concrete. there are two gymnasiums, called encina and roble gymnasiums. perhaps the most interesting of all the buildings, the especial gift of mrs. stanford, is the leland stanford junior museum, of concrete, in greek style of architecture, by feet, including wings, situated a quarter of a mile from the quadrangle, and between the university and the stanford residence. the collection made by young leland is placed here, and his own arrangement reproduced. the collection includes egyptian bronzes, greek and roman glass and statues. the cesnola collection contains five thousand pieces of greek and roman pottery and glass. the egyptian collection, made by brugsch bey, curator of the gizeh museum, for mrs. stanford, comprises casts of statuary, mummies, scarabees, etc. mr. timothy hopkins of san francisco, one of the trustees, has given for the egyptian collection embroideries dating from the sixth to the twenty-first dynasty. he has also given a collection of ancient and modern coins and costumes, household goods, etc., from corea. there are stone implements from copenhagen, denmark, and relics from the mounds of america. mrs. stanford is making the collection of fine arts, and a very large number of copies of great paintings is intended. much attention will be given to local history, indian antiquities, and spanish settlements of early california. the library has , volumes and , pamphlets. mr. hopkins has given a valuable collection of railway books, unusually rich in the early history of railways in europe and america, with generous provision for its increase. mr. hopkins has also founded the hopkins seaside laboratory at pacific grove, two miles west of monterey, to provide for investigations in marine biology, as a branch of the biological work of the university. students are not received into the university under sixteen years of age, and if special students, not under twenty, and must present certificates of good moral character. if from other colleges they must bring letters of honorable dismissal. they are offered a choice of twenty-two subjects for entrance examination, and must pass in twelve subjects. _tuition in all departments is free._ "the degree of bachelor of arts is granted to students who have satisfactorily completed the equivalent of four years' work of hours of lecture or recitation weekly, or a total of hours, and who have also satisfied the requirements in major and minor subjects." president jordan says, in the _educational review_ for june, : "in the arrangement of the courses of study two ideas are prominent: first, that every student who shall complete a course in the university must be thoroughly trained in some line of work. his education must have as its central axis an accurate and full knowledge of something. the second is that the degree to be received is wholly a subordinate matter, and that no student should be compelled to turn out of his way in order to secure it. the elective system is subjected to a single check. in order to prevent undue scattering, the student is required to select the work in general of some one professor as major subject or specialty, and to pursue this subject or line of subjects as far as the professor in charge may deem it wise or expedient. in order that all courses and all departments may be placed on exactly the same level, the degree of bachelor of arts is given in all alike for the equivalent of the four years' course. should his major subject, for instance, be greek, then the title is given that of bachelor of arts in greek; should the major subject be chemistry, bachelor of arts in chemistry, and so on." in there were , students in the university, of whom were men, and women. several of the students are from the new england states. mr. stanford spent over a million dollars in the university buildings, and gave as an endowment over , acres of land valued at more than five million dollars. the palo alto estate has , acres; the vina estate, , acres, with over , acres planted to grapes which are made into wine--those of us who are total abstainers regret such use; and the gridley estate , acres, one of california's great wheat farms. in years to come it is hoped that these properties, which are never to be sold, will so increase in value that they will be worth several times five millions. mr. and mrs. stanford made their wills, giving to the university "additional property," that the endowment, as mr. stanford said, "will be ample to establish and maintain a university of the highest grade." it has been stated, frequently, that the "full endowment" in land and money will be $ , , or more. senator stanford's death came suddenly at the last, at palo alto, tuesday, june - , . he had not been well for some time; but tuesday he had driven about the estate, with his usual interest and good cheer. he retired to rest about ten o'clock; and at midnight his wife, who occupied an adjoining apartment, heard a movement as if mr. stanford were making an effort to rise. she spoke to him, but received no answer. his breathing was unnatural; and in a few minutes he passed away, apparently without pain. mr. stanford was buried at palo alto, saturday, june . the body lay in the library of his home, in a black cloth-covered casket, with these words on the silver plate:-- leland stanford. born to mortality march , . passed to immortality, june , . aged yrs., mos., days. flowers filled every part of the library. the union league club sent a floral piece representing the stars and stripes worked in red and white in "everlasting," with star lilies on a ground of violets. there was a triple arch of white and pink flowers representing the central arch of the main university building. there were wreaths and crosses and a broken wheel of carnations, hollyhocks, violets, white peas, and ferns. at half-past one, after all the employees had taken their last look of the man who had always been their friend,--one, seventy-six years old, who had worked with mr. stanford in the mine, broke down completely,--the body was borne to the quadrangle of the university by eight of the oldest engineers in point of service on the southern pacific railroad. the funeral _cortège_ passed through a double line of the two hundred or more employees at palo alto, several chinese laborers being at the end of the line. senator stanford was always opposed to any legislation against the chinese. the body was placed on a platform at one end of the quadrangle, the remaining space being filled with several thousand persons. about sixteen hundred chairs were provided, but these could accommodate only a small portion of those present. the platform was decorated with ferns, smilax, white sweet peas, and thousands of st. joseph's lilies. the temporary chancel was flanked by two remarkable flower pieces: on the left, a _fac-simile_ of the first locomotive ever purchased and operated on the central pacific railroad, the "governor stanford," sent by the employees of the company. the boiler and smoke-stack were of mauve-colored sweet peas; the headlight and bell were of yellow pansies; the cab of white sweet peas bordered by yellow pansies; the tender of white sweet peas edged by pansies and lined with ivy; on the side of the cab, in heliotrope, the name governor stanford. on the right of the bier was the gift of the employees of the palo alto stock-farm, a representation in sweet peas of the senator's favorite bay horse. after the burial service of the episcopal church, a solo, "o sweet and blessed country," and address by dr. horatio stebbins of the first unitarian church of san francisco, the choir sang "lead kindly light," and the body of senator stanford was conveyed through the cypress avenue to the mausoleum in the ten acres adjoining the residence grounds. the tomb is in the form of a greek temple lined with white marble, guarded by a sphinx on either side of the entrance. here beside the open doors stood another beautiful floral tribute, a shield eight feet high, of roses, lilies, and other flowers sent by the employees of the sacramento railroad shops. worked in violets were the words "the laborers' tribute to the laborers' friend." the choir sang, "abide with me," the body was laid in the tomb, and the bronze doors were closed. a few days later the body of leland stanford, junior, the boy whose death, as dr. stebbins said at the senator's funeral, "drew the sunbeams out of the day," was laid beside that of his father. some time the mother will sleep here with her precious dead. mr. stanford's heart was bound up in his university. he said, after his son died, "the children of california shall be our children." mr. sibley of pennsylvania tells how, three years after leland junior died, he and mr. stanford "went together to the tomb of the boy, and the father told amid tears and sobs how, since the death of his son, he had adopted and taken to his heart and love every friendless boy and girl in all the land, and that, so far as his means afforded, they should go to make the path of every such an one smoother and brighter." mr. stanford told dr. stebbins, in speaking of the university: "we feel [he always used the plural, thus including that womanly heart from whose fountains his life had ever been refreshed] that we have good ground for hope. we are very happy in our work. we do not feel that we are making great sacrifices. we feel that we are working with and for the almighty providence." by the will of mr. stanford the university receives two and a half million dollars, but this bequest is not yet available. he always felt, and rightly, that his wife owned all their large fortune equally with himself; therefore he placed no restrictions upon her disposal of it. inasmuch as she is a co-founder of the university, she will doubtless add largely to its endowment. should she do this, the power of leland stanford junior university for good will be almost unlimited. even granite mausoleums crumble away; but great deeds last forever, and make their doers immortal. captain thomas coram and his foundling asylum. one of the best of england's charities is the foundling asylum in london, founded in by captain thomas coram. he was not a man of family or means, but he had a warm heart and great perseverance. for seventeen years he labored against indifference and prejudice, till finally his home for little waifs and outcasts became a visible fact, and for more than a century has been doing its noble work. captain coram was born at lyme regis, in dorsetshire, in , a seaport town which carried on some trade with newfoundland. it is probable that his father was a seafaring man, as the lad early followed that occupation. when he was twenty-six years old we hear of him in the new world at taunton, mass., earning his living as a shipwright. [illustration: captain thomas coram] he did not wait to become rich--as indeed he never was--before he began to plan good works. he had saved some money by the year , when he was thirty-five; for we see by the early records that he conveyed to the governor and other authorities in taunton, fifty-nine acres to be used whenever the people so desired, for an episcopal church or a schoolhouse. this gift, the deed alleges, was made "in consideration of the love and respect which the donor had and did bear unto the said church, as also for divers other good causes and considerations him especially at that present moving." later he gave to taunton a quite valuable library, a portion of which remains at present. a book of common prayer is now in the church, on whose title-page it is stated that it was the gift "by the right honorable arthur onslow, speaker of the honourable house of commons of great britain, one of his majesty's most honourable privy council, and treasurer of his majesty's navy, etc., to thomas coram, of london, gentleman, for the use of a church, lately built at taunton, in new england." about this time, , mr. coram moved to boston, and became the master of a ship. he was deeply interested in the colonies of the mother country, and though in a comparatively humble station, began to project plans for their increase in commerce, and growth in wealth. in he helped to procure an act of parliament for encouraging the making of tar in the northern colonies of british america by a bounty to be paid on the importation. before this all the tar was brought from sweden. the colonies were thereby saved five million dollars. in , when on board the ship sea flower for hamburgh, that he might obtain supplies of timber and other naval stores for the royal navy, captain coram was stranded off cuxhaven and his cargo plundered. some years later, in , having become much interested in the settlement of georgia, captain coram was appointed one of the trustees by a charter from george ii. three years after this, in , the energetic captain coram addressed a memorial to george ii., about the settlement of nova scotia, as he had found there "the best cod-fishing of any in the known parts of the world, and the land is well adapted for raising hemp and other naval stores." one hundred laboring men signed this memorial, asking for free passage thither, and protection after reaching nova scotia. captain coram was so interested in the project that he appeared on several occasions before the lords commissioners for trade and plantations, and was, says horace walpole, "the most knowing person about the plantations i ever talked with." for several years nothing was done about his memorial, but before his death england took action about her now valuable colony. about captain coram lived in rotherhithe, and going often to london early in the morning and returning late at night, became troubled about the infants whom he saw exposed or deserted in the public streets, sometimes dead, or dying, or perhaps murdered to avoid publicity. sometimes these foundlings, if not deserted, were placed in poor families to whom a small sum was paid for their board; and often they were blinded or maimed as they grew older, and sent on the streets to beg. the young mother, usually homeless and friendless, was almost as helpless as her child if she tried to keep it and earn a living. people scorned her, or arrested her and threw her into prison: the shipmaster tried to find a remedy for the evil. he talked with his friends and acquaintances, but no one seemed to care. he besought those high in authority, but few seemed to think that foundlings were worth saving. the poor and the disgraced should bear their sorrows alone. some from all ranks thought the charity a noble one, and wondered that it had been so long neglected; but none gave a penny, or put forth any effort. "his arguments," wrote coram's most intimate friend, dr. brocklesby, "moved some, the natural humanity of their own temper more, his firm but generous example most of all; and even people of rank began to be ashamed to see a man's hair become gray in the course of a solicitation by which he was to get nothing. those who did not enter far enough into the case to compassionate the unhappy infants for whom he was a suitor, could not help pitying him." captain coram finally turned to woman for aid, and obtained the names of "twenty-one ladies of quality and distinction" who were willing to help in his project of a foundling asylum. not all "ladies of quality" were willing to help, however; for in the foundling hospital may be seen this note, attached to a memorial addressed to "h.r.h., the princess amelia." "on innocents' day, the th december, , i went to st. james' palace to present this petition, having been advised first to address the lady of the bedchamber in waiting to introduce it. but the lady isabella finch, who was the lady in waiting, gave me rough words, and bid me gone with my petition, which i did, without opportunity of presenting it." finally captain coram's incessant labors bore fruit. on tuesday, nov. , , at somerset house, london, a meeting of the nobility and gentry was held, appointed by his majesty's royal charter to be governors and guardians of the hospital. captain coram, now seventy-one years of age, addressed the president, the duke of bedford, with great feeling. "my lord," he said, "although my declining years will not permit me to hope seeing the full accomplishment of my wishes, yet i can now rest satisfied; and it is what i esteem an ample reward of more than seventeen years' expensive labor and steady application, that i see your grace at the head of this charitable trust, assisted by so many noble and honorable governors." the house for the foundlings was opened in hatton garden in , no child being received over two months old. no questions as to parentage were to be asked; and when no more infants could be taken in, the sign, "the house is full," was hung over the door. sometimes one hundred women would be at the door with babies in their arms; and when only twenty could be received, the poor creatures would fight to be first at the door, that their child might find a home. finally the infants were admitted by ballot, by means of balls drawn by the mothers out of a bag. if they drew a white ball, the child was received; if a black ball, it was turned away. the present foundling hospital was begun in , and the western wing finished and occupied in , on the north side of guilford street, london, the governors having bought the land, fifty-five acres, from the earl of salisbury. hogarth, the painter, was deeply interested in captain coram's benevolent object. he painted for the hospital some of his finest pictures, and influenced his brother artists to do the same. hogarth's "march to finchley" was intended to be dedicated to george ii. a proof print was accordingly presented to the king for his approval. the picture gives "a view of a military march, and the humors and disorders consequent thereon." the king was indignant, and exclaimed, "does the fellow mean to laugh at my guards?" "the picture, please your majesty," said one of the bystanders, "must be considered as a burlesque." "what! a painter burlesque a soldier? he deserves to be picketed for his insolence," replied the king. the picture was returned to the mortified artist, who dedicated it to "the king of prussia, an encourager of the arts." so many fine paintings were presented to the hospital,--one of raphael's cartoons, a picture by benjamin west, and others,--and such a crowd of people came daily to see them in splendid carriages and gilt sedan chairs, that the institution "became the most fashionable morning lounge in the reign of george ii." this exhibition of pictures of the united artists was the precursor of the royal academy, founded in . before this time the artists had their annual reunion and dinner together at the foundling hospital, the children entertaining them with music. hogarth, notwithstanding his busy life, requested that several of the infants should be sent to chiswick, where he resided; and he and mrs. hogarth looked carefully after their welfare. it was the custom to send the babies into the country to be nursed by some mother, as soon as they were received at the hospital. handel, as well as hogarth, was interested in the foundlings. the chapel had been erected by subscription in . george ii subscribed £ , towards its erection, and £ , towards supplying a preacher. handel offered a performance in vocal and instrumental music to raise money in building the chapel. the most distinguished persons in the realm came to hear the music. over a thousand were present, the tickets being half a guinea each. each year, as long as handel was able to do so, he superintended the performance of his great oratorio of the messiah in the chapel, which netted the treasury £ , . when he died he made the following bequest: "i give a fair copy of the score, and all the parts of my oratorio called the messiah, to the foundling hospital." a singular gift to the hospital was from omychund, a black merchant of calcutta, who bequeathed to that and the magdalen hospital , current rupees, to be equally divided between them. captain coram lived ten years after his good work was begun. he loved to visit the hospital, and looked upon the children as if they were his own. he rejoiced in every gift, although he had no money of his own to give. he had buried his wife, eunice, after whom the first girl at the hospital was named. the first boy was called thomas coram, after the founder. during the last two years of captain coram's life, when it was known by his friends that he was without funds, dr. brocklesby called to ask him if a subscription in his behalf would offend him. he replied, "i have not wasted the little wealth of which i was formerly possessed in self-indulgence and vain expenses, and am not ashamed to confess that, in this my old age, i am poor." mr. gideon, his friend, obtained various sums from those interested. the late prince of wales subscribed twenty guineas yearly. captain coram, content with supplying his barest needs, turned his thoughts to more benevolence. he desired to unite the indians in north america more closely to british interests, by establishing among them a school for girls. he lived long enough to make some progress in this work, but he was too old to be very active. he died at his lodgings near leicester square, on friday, march , , at the age of eighty-four, his last request being that he might be buried in the chapel of his foundling hospital. he was buried there april , at the east end of the vault, in a lead coffin enclosed in stone. his funeral was attended by a great concourse of people. the choir of st. paul's cathedral, with many notables, were at the hospital to receive the body, and pay it suitable honors. the shipmaster had won renown, not by learning or wealth, but by disinterested benevolence. seventeen years of patient and persistent labor brought its reward. in the southern arcade of the chapel one may read a long inscription to the memory of captain thomas coram, whose name will never want a monument as long as this hospital shall subsist. in front of the hospital is a fine statue of the founder by william calder marshall, r.a.; and within, in the girls' dining-room, is coram's portrait by hogarth. after fifteen years from the time of opening the hospital, the governors, their land having risen in value so that their income was larger, and parliament having given £ , , determined that their institution should be carried on in an unrestricted manner, as is the case in russia and some other countries on the continent. in moscow the foundling hospital admits , children yearly. the mother may reclaim her child at any time before it is ten years of age. the state knows that the child has received a better start in life than it could have done with the poor mother. the foundling asylum at st. petersburg, established by catherine the great, is the largest and finest in the world. the buildings cover twenty-eight acres, and the institution has an annual revenue from the government and from private sources of nearly $ , , . thirteen thousand babies are sometimes brought in one year, who but for this blessed charity would probably have been put out of the way. twenty-five thousand foundlings are constantly enrolled. in russia infanticide is said to be almost unknown. married people, if poor, may bring their child for one year. if not able to provide for it at the end of that time, then it belongs to the state. the boys become mechanics, or enter the army and navy; and the girls become teachers, nurses, etc. the foundling hospital in london determined to welcome all deserted or destitute infants, and save as many as possible from sin and want. a basket was hung outside the gate of the hospital, and one hundred and seventeen infants were put in it the first day. abuses of this kind intention soon crept in. parents too poor to care for their children sent them from the country to london, and they died often on the way thither. one man, who carried five infants in a basket, got drunk on the journey, lay all night on a common, and three out of the five babies were found dead in the morning. often the carriers stole all the clothing of the little ones, and they were thrown into the basket naked. within four years about fifteen thousand babies were received, but only forty-four hundred lived to be sent out into homes. the mothers hated to part with their infants, and would often follow them for miles on foot. the poor mother would leave some token by which her child could be identified. sometimes it was a coin or a ribbon, or possibly the daintiest cap the poverty of the mother would permit her to make. sometimes a verse of poetry was pinned on the dress:-- "if fortune should her favors give, that i in better plight might live, i'd try to have my boy again, and train him up the best of men." "the court-room of the foundling," says a writer in "chambers's journal," "has probably witnessed as painful scenes as any chamber in great britain; and again, when the children, at five years old, are brought up to london, and separated from their foster-mothers, these scenes are renewed." "the stratagems resorted to by women to identify their children," says "old and new london," "and to assure themselves of their well-being, are often singularly touching. sometimes notes are found pinned to the infant's garments, beseeching the nurse to tell the mother her name and residence, that the latter may visit the child during its stay in the country. they will also attend the baptism in the chapel, in the hope of hearing the name conferred upon the infant; for, if they succeed in identifying the child during its stay at nurse, they can always preserve its identification during its subsequent abode in the hospital, since the children appear in chapel twice on sunday, and dine in public on that day, which gives opportunity of seeing them from time to time, and preserving the recollection of their features." so many children were brought to the hospital after all restrictions were removed, in , the death-roll was so large, and the expenses so great, that after four years different methods were adopted. there are now about five hundred children in the foundling hospital, who remain till they are fifteen years old, when they are apprenticed till of age at some kind of labor. none are received at the hospital except when a vacancy occurs, as the size of the buildings and funds will not permit more inmates. usually about forty are received, one-sixth of those who apply. there is a fund provided to help those in later life who prove idiotic or blind, or unfitted to earn their support. sundays visitors in london go often to hear the trained voices of the foundlings. the girls, in their white caps and white kerchiefs, sit on one side of the organ, a gift from the great handel, and the boys, neatly dressed, on the other side. there is a juvenile band of musicians among the boys; and so well do they play, that, on leaving the institution, they often find positions in the bands of her majesty's household troops or in the navy. lieutenant-colonel james c. hyde presented the boys with a set of brass instruments, and some valuable drawings of native artists of india, for the adornment of their walls. some time ago i visited with much interest the new york foundling hospital, on sixty-eighth street, six stories high, founded by and in charge of the sisters of charity. during the year there were cared for , infants and little children, and needy and homeless mothers. on one side of the foundling hospital is the maternity hospital, and on the other side the children's hospital. the cradle to receive the baby is placed within the vestibule, so that the sister, when the bell is rung, may talk kindly with the person bringing it, and often persuades her to remain for some months and care for her child. no information is sought as to names, family, etc. other infants are taken into the country to be nursed by foster-mothers, and the institution does not lose its close oversight of the little ones. when these infants are unclaimed, they are usually sent to homes in the west to be adopted. since the opening of the foundling hospital in , twenty-six years ago, , waifs have been received and cared for. the "nursery and child's hospital," fifty-first street and lexington avenue, carries on a work similar to the foundling asylum, and, though under protestant control, is not a denominational enterprise. in cleveland, ohio, one of the most interesting charities is the "lida baldwin infants' rest," for which mr. h. r. hatch has given an admirable building, at cedar avenue, costing $ , or $ , . babies, if over two years old, are taken to the protestant orphan asylum on st. clair street. the "rest" is named after the first wife of mr. hatch, an enterprising and philanthropic merchant, who, among other gifts, has just presented a handsome granite library building, costing nearly $ , , to adelbert college of western reserve university. when reuben runyan springer died in cincinnati, ohio, dec. , , at the age of eighty-four years, he did not forget to give the sisters of charity $ , for a foundling asylum. his family were originally from sweden. when a youth he was clerk on a steamboat from cincinnati to new orleans, and soon acquired an interest in the boat, and began his fortune. later, he was partner in a grocery house. mr. springer gave to the little sisters of the poor $ , , good samaritan hospital $ , , st. peter's benevolent society $ , , besides many other gifts. to music and art he gave $ , . to his two faithful domestics and friends, he gave $ , each, and to his coachman his horses, carriages, harness, and $ , . his various charities amounted to a million dollars or more. most cities have, or ought to have, a foundling asylum, though often it bears a different name. the roman catholics seem to be wiser in this respect, and more careful to save infant life, than we of the protestant faith. henry shaw and his botanical garden. it is rare that a poor boy comes to america from a foreign land, with almost no money in his pocket, and leaves to his adopted town and state a million four hundred thousand dollars to beautify a city, to elevate its taste, and to help educate its people. henry shaw of st. louis, mo., was born in sheffield, england, july , . he was the oldest of four children, having had a brother who died in infancy and two sisters. his father, joseph shaw, was a manufacturer of grates, fire-irons, etc., at sheffield. the boy obtained his early education at thorne, a village not far from his native town, and used to get his lessons in an arbor, half hidden by vines, and surrounded by trees and flowers. from childhood he had a passion for a garden, and worked with his two little sisters in planting anemones and buttercups. from the school at thorne the lad was transferred to mill hill, about twenty miles from london, to a "dissenting" school, the father being a baptist. here he studied for six years, latin, french, and probably other languages, as he knew in later life german, italian, and spanish. he became especially fond of french literature, and in manhood read and wrote french as easily and correctly as english. he was for a long time regarded as the best mathematician in st. louis. in , when henry was eighteen, he and the rest of the family came to canada. the same year his father sent him to new orleans to learn how to raise cotton; but the climate did not please him, and he removed to a small french trading-post, called st. louis, may , . the youth had a little stock of cutlery with him, the capital for which his uncle, mr. james hoole, had furnished. his nephew was always grateful for this kind act. he rented a room on the second floor of a building, and cooked, slept, ate, and sold his goods in this one room. he went out very little in the evening, preferring to read books, and sometimes played chess with a friend. it is thought that he rather avoided meeting young ladies, as he perhaps naturally preferred to marry an english girl, when able to support her; but when the fortune was earned he was wedded to his gardens, his flowers, and his books, so that he never married. the young man showed great energy in his hardware business, was very economical, honest, and always punctual. he had little patience with persons who were not prompt, and failed to keep an engagement. though usually self-poised, possessing almost perfect control over a naturally quick temper, a gentleman relates that he once saw him angry because a man failed to keep an appointment; but mr. shaw regretted that he had allowed himself to speak sharply, and asked the offending person to dine with him. his head-gardener, mr. james gurney, from the royal botanical garden in regent's park, london, said many years ago of mr. shaw, "in twenty-three years i never heard him speak a harsh or an irritable word. no matter what went wrong,--and on such a place, and with so many men, things will go wrong occasionally,--he was always pleasant and cheerful, making the best of what could not be helped." mr. shaw gave close attention to business in the growing town of st. louis, and in , after he had been there twenty years, was astonished to find that his annual profits were $ , . he said, "this was more money than any man in my circumstances ought to make in a single year;" and he resolved to go out of business as soon as a good opportunity presented itself. this occurred the following year, in ; and at forty years of age, mr. shaw retired from business with a fortune of $ , , equivalent to a million, probably, at the present day. after twenty years of constant labor he determined to take a little rest and change. in september, , he went to europe, stopping in rochester, n.y., where his parents and sisters then resided, and took his younger sister with him. he was absent two years, and coming home in , soon arranged for another term of travel abroad. he remained in europe three years, travelling in almost all places of interest, including constantinople and egypt. he kept journals, and wrote letters to friends, showing careful observation and wide reading. he made a third and last visit to europe in , to attend the first world's fair, held in london. during this visit he conceived the plan of what eventually became his great gift. while walking through the beautiful grounds of chatsworth, the magnificent home of the duke of devonshire, mr. shaw said to himself, "why may not i have a garden too? i have enough land and money for something of the same sort in a smaller way." the old love for flowers and trees, as in boyhood, made the man in middle life determine to plant not so much for himself as for posterity. he had finished a home in the suburbs of st. louis, tower grove, in ; and another was in process of building in the city on the corner of seventh and locust streets, when mr. shaw returned from europe in . for five or six years he beautified the grounds of his country home, and in commissioned dr. engelmann, then in europe, to examine botanical gardens and select proper books for a botanical library. correspondence was begun with sir william j. hooker, the distinguished director of the famous kew gardens in london, our own beloved botanist, professor asa gray of harvard college, and others. dr. engelmann urged mr. shaw to purchase the large herbarium of the then recently deceased professor bernhardi of erfurt, germany, which was done, hooker writing, "the state ought to feel that it owes you much for so much public spirit, and so well directed." march , , mr. shaw secured from the state legislature an act enabling him to convey to trustees seven hundred and sixty acres of land, "in trust, upon a portion thereof to keep up, maintain, and establish a botanic garden for the cultivation and propagation of plants, flowers, fruit and forest trees, and for the dissemination of the knowledge thereof among men, by having a collection thereof easily accessible; and the remaining portion to be used for the purpose of maintaining a perpetual fund for the support and maintenance of said garden, its care and increase, and the museum, library, and instruction connected therewith." for the next twenty-five years mr. shaw gave his time and strength to the development of his cherished garden and park. "he lived for them," says mr. thomas dimmock, "and, as far as was practicable, _in_ them; walking or driving every day, when weather and health allowed, and permitting no work of importance to go on without more or less of his personal inspection and direction. the late dr. asa gray, than whom there can be no higher authority, once said, 'this park and the botanical garden are the finest institutions of the kind in the country; in variety of foliage the park is unequalled.'" once when mr. shaw was escorting a lady through his gardens, she said, "i cannot understand, sir, how you are able to remember all these different and difficult names."--"madam," he replied, with a courtly bow, "did you ever know a mother who could forget the names of her children? these plants and flowers are my children. how can i forget them?" so devoted was mr. shaw to his work, that he did not go out of st. louis for nearly twenty years, except for a drive to the neighboring village of kirkwood to dine with a friend. nine years after the garden had been established, in , mr. shaw began to create tower grove park, of two hundred and seventy-six acres, planting from year to year over twenty thousand trees, all raised in the arboretum of the garden. walks were gravelled, flower-beds laid out, ornamental water provided, and artistic statues of heroic size, made by baron von mueller of munich, of shakespeare, humboldt, and columbus. the niece of humboldt, who saw the statue of her uncle at munich, wrote to mr. shaw, saying that "europe had done nothing comparable to it for the great naturalist." mr. shaw used to say, when setting out these trees, that he was "planting them for posterity," as he did not expect to live to see them reach maturity. they were, however, of good size when he died in his ninetieth year, sunday, aug. , . "the death, peaceful and painless," says mr. dimmock, "occurred in his favorite room on the second floor of the old homestead, by the window of which he sat nearly every night for more than thirty years until the morning hours, absorbed in the reading which had been the delight of his life. this room was always plainly furnished, containing only a brass bedstead, tables, chairs, and the few books he loved to have near him. the windows looked out upon the old garden which was the first botanical beginning at tower grove. "on saturday, aug. , after such ceremonial as st. louis never before bestowed upon any deceased citizen, henry shaw was laid to rest in the mausoleum long prepared in the midst of the garden he had created--not for himself merely, but for the generations that shall come after him, and who, enjoying it, will 'rise up and call him blessed.'" mr. shaw was beloved by his workmen for his uniform kindness to them. once when a young boy who was visiting him, and walking with him in the garden, passed a lame workman, and did not speak, although mr. shaw said "good-morning, henry," the courteous old gentleman said, "charles, you did not speak to henry. go back and say 'good-morning' to him." mr. shaw employed many bohemians, because he said, "they do not seem to be very popular with us, and i think i ought to help them all i can." mr. shaw was always simple in his tastes and economical in his habits. he drove his one-horse barouche till his friends, owing to his infirmities from increasing age, prevailed upon him to have a carriage and a driver. four years before the death of mr. shaw he endowed a school of botany as a department of washington university, giving improved real estate yielding over $ , annually. he desired "to promote education and investigation in that science, and in its application to horticulture, arboriculture, medicine, and the arts, and for the exemplification of the divine wisdom and goodness as manifested throughout the vegetable kingdom." dr. asa gray had been deeply interested in this movement, and twice visited st. louis to consult with mr. shaw. by the recommendation of dr. gray, mr. william trelease, professor of botany in wisconsin university at madison, a graduate of cornell university, and associated for some time with professor gray in various labors, was made englemann professor in the henry shaw school of botany. professor trelease was also made director of the missouri botanical garden, and has proved his fitness for the position by his high rank in scholarship, his contributions to literature, and his devotion to the work which mr. shaw felt satisfaction in committing to his care. his courtesy as well as ability have won him many friends. mr. shaw left by will various legacies to relatives and institutions, his property, invested largely in land, having become worth over a million dollars. he gave to hospitals, several orphan asylums, old ladies' home, girls' industrial home, young men's christian association, etc., but by far the larger part to his beloved garden. he wished it to be open every day of the week to the public, except on sundays and holidays, the first sunday in june and the first sunday in september being exceptions to the rule. when the garden was opened the first sunday of june, , there were , visitors, and in september, though showery, , . mr. shaw bequeathed $ , annually for a banquet to the trustees of the garden, and literary and scientific men whom they choose to invite, thus to spread abroad the knowledge of the useful work the garden and schools of botany are doing; also $ for a banquet to the gardeners of the institution, with the florists, nurserymen, and market-gardeners of st. louis and vicinity. each year $ is to be used in premiums at flower-shows, and $ for an annual sermon "on the wisdom and goodness of god as shown in the growth of flowers, fruits, and other products of the vegetable kingdom." the missouri botanical garden, shaw's garden as it is more commonly called, covering about forty-five acres, is situated on tower grove avenue, about three miles southwest of the new union station. the former city residence of mr. shaw has been removed to the garden, in which are the herbarium and library, with , volumes. the herbarium contains the large collection of the late dr. george engelmann, about , specimens of pressed plants; and the general collection contains even more than this number of specimens from all parts of the world. the palms, the cacti, the tree-ferns, the fig-trees, etc., are of much interest. there is an observatory in the centre of the garden; and south of this, in a grove of shingle-oaks and sassafras-trees, is the mausoleum of henry shaw, containing a life-like reclining marble statue of the founder of the garden, with a full-blown rose in his hand. during the past year several ponds have been made in the garden for the victoria regia, or amazon water-lily, and other lilies. on the approach of winter, over a thousand plants are taken from the ground, potted, and distributed to charitable institutions and poor homes in the city. much practical good has resulted from the great gift of henry shaw. according to his will, there are six scholarships provided for garden pupils. three hundred dollars a year are given to each, with tuition free, and lodging in a comfortable house adjacent to the garden. so many persons have applied for instruction, that as many are received as can be taught conveniently, each paying $ yearly tuition fee. the culture of flowers, small fruits, orchards, house-plants, etc., is taught; also landscape-gardening, drainage, surveying, and kindred subjects. "it is safe to predict," says the hon. wm. t. harris, commissioner of education, "that the future will see a large representation of specialists resorting to st. louis to pursue the studies necessary for the promotion of agricultural industry." dr. trelease gives two courses of evening lectures at washington university each year, and at the garden he gives practical help to his learners. he investigates plant diseases and the remedies, and aids the fruit-grower, the florist, and the farmer, in the best methods with grasses, seeds, trees, etc. he deprecates the reckless manner in which troublesome weeds are scattered from farm to farm with clover and grass seed. he and his assistants are making researches concerning plants, flowers, etc., which are published annually. the memory of henry shaw, "the first great patron of botanical science in america," is held in honor and esteem by the scientific world. the flowers and trees which he loved and found pleasure in cultivating, each year make thousands happier. nature was to him a great teacher. in his garden, over a statue of "victory," these words are engraved in stone: "o lord, how manifold are thy works: in wisdom hast thou made them all." the seasons will come and go; the flowers will bud and blossom year after year, and the trees spread out their branches: they will be a continual reminder of the white-haired man who planted them for the sake of doing good to others. harvard college received a valuable gift may, , through the munificence of the late benjamin bussey of roxbury, mass., in property estimated at $ , . , "for a course of instruction in practical agriculture, and the various arts subservient thereto." the superb estate is near jamaica plain. the students of the bussey institute generally intend to become gardeners, florists, landscape-gardeners, and farmers. the arnold arboretum occupies a portion of the bussey farm in west roxbury. the fund given by the late james arnold of new bedford, mass., for this purpose now amounts to $ , . . james smithson and the smithsonian institution. another englishman besides henry shaw to whom america is much indebted is james smithson, the giver of the smithsonian institution at washington. born in in france, he was the natural son of hugh, third duke of northumberland, and mrs. elizabeth macie, heiress of the hungerfords of audley, and niece of charles, duke of somerset. at pembroke college, oxford, he was devoted to science, especially chemistry, and spent his vacations in collecting minerals. he was graduated may , , and thereafter gave his time to study and original research. in he was elected a fellow of the royal society, and became the friend of many distinguished men, both in england and on the continent, where he lived much of the time. among his friends and correspondents, were sir humphry davy, berzelius (the noted chemist of sweden), gay-lussac the chemist, thomson, wollaston, and others. [illustration: james smithson.] he wrote and published in the _philosophical transactions of the royal society_, and also in thomson's _annals of philosophy_, many valuable papers on the "composition of zeolite," "on a substance procured from the elm tree, called ulmine," "on a saline substance from mount vesuvius," "on facts relating to the coloring matter of vegetables," etc. at his death he left about two hundred manuscripts. he was deeply interested in geology, and made copious notes in his journal on rocks and mining. his life seems to have been a quiet one, devoted to intellectual pursuits. professor henry carrington bolton, in the _popular science monthly_ for january and february, , relates this incident of smithson: "it is said that he frequently narrated an anecdote of himself which illustrated his remarkable skill in analyzing minute quantities of substances, an ability which rivalled that of dr. wollaston. happening to observe a tear gliding down a lady's cheek, he endeavored to catch it on a crystal vessel. one-half the tear-drop escaped; but he subjected the other half to reagents, and detected what was then called microcosmic salt, muriate of soda, and some other saline constituents held in solution." when mr. smithson was over fifty years of age, in or , he had a misunderstanding with the royal society, owing to their refusal to publish one of his papers. it is said that prior to this he intended to leave all his wealth, over $ , to the society. about three years before his death, he made a brief will, giving the income of his fortune to his nephew, henry james hungerford, and the whole fortune to the children of his nephew, if he should marry. in case he did not marry, smithson bequeathed the whole of his property "to the united states of america, to found at washington, under the name of the smithsonian institution, an establishment for the increase and diffusion of knowledge among men." mr. smithson, says professor simon newcomb, "is not known to have had the personal acquaintance of an american, and his tastes were supposed to have been aristocratic rather than democratic. we thus have the curious spectacle of a retired english gentleman bequeathing the whole of his large fortune to our government, to found an establishment which was described in ten words, without a memorandum of any kind by which his intentions could be divined, or the recipient of the gift guided in applying it." mr. smithson died june , , in genoa, italy, at the age of sixty-four. his nephew survived him only six years, dying unmarried at pisa, italy, june , . he used the income from his uncle's estate while he lived, and upon his death it passed to the united states. hungerford's mother, who had married a frenchman, madame théodore de la batut, claimed a life-interest in the estate of smithson, which was granted till her death in . to meet this annuity $ , was retained in england until she died. for several years it was difficult to decide in what way congress should use the money "for the increase and diffusion of knowledge among men." john quincy adams desired a great astronomical observatory; rufus choate of massachusetts urged a grand library; a senator from ohio wished a botanical garden; another person a college for women; another a school for indigent children of the district of columbia; still another a great agricultural school. after seven years of indecision and discussion the smithsonian institution was organized by act of congress, aug. , , which provided for a suitable building to contain objects of natural history, a chemical laboratory, a library, gallery of art, and geological and mineralogical collections. the minerals, books, and other property of james smithson, were to be preserved in the institution. professor joseph henry, whose interesting life i have sketched in my "famous men of science," was called to the headship of the new institution. for thirty-three years he devoted his life to make smithson's gift a blessing to the world and an honor to the name of the generous giver. the present secretary is the well-known professor samuel p. langley. the library was after a time transferred to the library of congress, the art department to the corcoran art gallery, and the smithsonian institution began to do its specific work of helping men to make original scientific research, to aid in explorations, and to send scientific publications all over the world. its first publication was a work on the mounds and earthworks found in the mississippi valley. much time has also been given to the study of the character and pursuits of the earliest races on this continent. the smithsonian institution now owns two large buildings, one completed in , costing about $ , , and the great national museum, which congress helped to build. this building has a floor space of , square feet, and contains over three and one-half million specimens of birds, fishes, oriental antiquities, minerals, fossils, etc. so much of value has been gathered by government surveys, as well as by contributions from other nations by way of exchange, that halls twice as large as those now built could be filled by the specimens. so popular is the museum as a place to visit, that in the year ending june , , over , persons enjoyed its interesting accumulations. correspondence is carried on with learned societies and men of science all over the world. the official list of correspondents is over , . the transactions of learned societies and some other scientific works are exchanged with those abroad. the weight of matter sent abroad by the smithsonian institution at the end of the first decade was , pounds for ; at the end of the third decade , pounds for the year . the official documents of congress, or by the government bureaus, are exchanged for similar works of foreign nations. in one year, - , over tons of books were handled. the "smithsonian contributions to knowledge" now number over thirty volumes, and are valuable treatises on various branches of science. the scholarly william b. taylor said these books "distributed over every portion of the civilized or colonized world constitute a monument to the memory of the founder, james smithson, such as never before was builded on the foundation of £ , ." the smithsonian institution has been a blessing in many ways. it organized a system of telegraphic meteorology, and gave to the world "that most beneficent national application of modern sciences,--the storm warnings." in the year the institution received valuable aid from mr. thomas g. hodgkins of setauket, n.y., by the gift of $ , . the income from $ , is to be used in prizes for essays relating to atmospheric air. mr. hodgkins, also an englishman, died nov. , , nearly ninety years old. he gave $ , to the royal institution of great britain, and $ , each to the society for prevention of cruelty to children, and to animals. he made his fortune, and having no family, spent it for "the diffusion of knowledge among men." a very interesting feature was added to the work of the smithsonian institution in , when congress appropriated $ , for the purchase of land for the national zoölogical park. as no native wild animals in america seem safe from the cupidity of the trader, or the slaughter of the pleasure-loving sportsman, it became necessary to take measures for their preservation. about acres were purchased on rock creek, near washington; and there are already more than animals--bisons, etc.--in these picturesque grounds. these will be valuable object-lessons to the people, and help still further to carry out james smithson's idea, "the increase and diffusion of knowledge among men." pratt, lenox, mary macrae stuart, newberry, crerar, astor, reynolds, and their libraries. enoch pratt. enoch pratt was born in north middleborough, mass., sept. , . he graduated at bridgewater academy when he was fifteen; and a position was found for him in a leading house in boston, where he remained until he was twenty-one years of age. he had written to a friend in boston two weeks before his school closed, "i do not want to stay at home long after it is out." the eager, ambitious boy, with good habits, constant application to business, the strictest honesty, and good common-sense, soon made himself respected by his employers and his acquaintances. he removed to baltimore in , when he was twenty-three years old, without a dollar at his command, and established himself as a commission merchant. he founded the wholesale iron house of pratt & keith, and subsequently that of enoch pratt & brother. "prosperity soon followed," says the hon. george wm. brown, "not rapidly but steadily, because it was based on those qualities of honesty, industry, sagacity, and energy, which, mingled with thrift, although they cannot be said to insure success, are certainly most likely to achieve it." six years after coming to baltimore, when he was twenty-nine years old, mr. pratt married maria louisa hyde, aug. , . her paternal ancestors were among the earliest settlers of massachusetts; her maternal, a german family who settled in baltimore over a century and a half ago. as years went by, and the unobtrusive, energetic man came to middle life, he was sought to fill various positions of honor and trust in baltimore. he was made director and president of a bank, which position he has held for over twoscore years, director and vice-president of railroads and steamboat lines, president of the house of reformation at cheltenham (for colored children), and of the maryland school for the deaf and dumb at frederick. he has also taken active interest in the maryland institute for the promotion of the mechanic arts, and is treasurer of the peabody institute. for years he has been one of the finance commissioners elected by the city council, without regard to his political belief, but on account of his ability as a financier, and his wisdom. he is an active member of the unitarian church. for several years mr. pratt had thought about giving a free public library to the people of baltimore. in , when he was seventy-four, mr. pratt gave to the city $ , , for the establishing of his library, the building to cost about $ , , and the remainder, a little over $ , , to be invested by the city, which obligated itself to pay $ , yearly forever for the maintenance of the free library. mr. pratt also provided for four branch libraries, which cost $ , , located wisely in different parts of the city. the main library was opened jan. , , with appropriate ceremonies. the romanesque building of baltimore county white marble is feet frontage, with a depth of feet. a tower feet high rises in the centre of the front. the floor of the vestibule is in black and white marble, and the wainscoting of tennessee and vermont marbles, principally of a dove color. the reading-room in the second story is feet long, feet wide, and feet high. the walls are frescoed in buff and pale green tints, the wainscoting is of marble, and the floor is inlaid with cherry, pine, and oak. the main building will hold , volumes. the romanesque branch libraries are by feet, one story in height, built of pressed brick laid with red mortar, with buff stone trimmings. the large reading-room in each is light and cheerful, and the book-room has shelving for , volumes. the librarian's report shows that in nine years, ending with jan. , , over , , books have been circulated among the people of baltimore. over a half-million books are circulated each year. the library possesses about , volumes. "the usefulness of the branch libraries cannot be stated in too strong terms," says the librarian, mr. bernard c. steiner. fifty-seven persons are employed in the library,--fourteen men and forty-three women. mr. pratt is now eighty-eight years old, and has not ceased to do good works. in he founded the pratt free school at middleborough, mass., where he was born. ex-mayor james hodges tells this incident of mr. pratt: "some years ago he sold a farm in virginia to a worthy but poor young man for $ , . the purchaser had paid from time to time one-half the purchase money, when a series of bad seasons and failure of crops made it impossible to meet the subsequent payments. mr. pratt sent for him, and learned the facts. "after expressing sympathy for the young man's misfortunes, and encouraging him to persevere and hope, he cancelled his note for the balance due,--$ , ,--and handed him a valid deed for the property. astonished and overwhelmed by this princely liberality, the recipient uttered a few words, and retired from his benefactor's presence. not until he had reached his virginia home was he able to find words to express his gratitude." the great gift of enoch pratt in his free library has stimulated like gifts all over the country; and in his lifetime he is enjoying the fruits of his generosity. james lenox. the founder of lenox library on seventy-second street, overlooking central park, was born in new york city, aug. , , and died there feb. , . his father, robert, was a wealthy scotch merchant of new york, who left to his only son and seven daughters several million dollars. robert purchased from the corporation of new york a farm of thirty acres of land in fourth and fifth avenues, near seventy-second street. for twelve acres on one side he gave $ , and for the rest on the other side, $ , . he thought the land might "at no distant day be the site of a village," and left it to his son on condition that it be kept from sale for several years. the son was educated at princeton and columbia colleges, studied law, but, being devoted to literary matters, spent much time abroad in collecting valuable books and works of art. the only lady to whom he was ever attached, it is stated, refused him, and both remained single. he was a quiet, retiring man, a member of the presbyterian church, and a most generous giver, though his benefactions were kept from publicity as much as possible. he once sent $ , to a lady for a deserving charity, and refused her second application because she had told of his former gift. he built lenox library of lockport limestone, and gave to it $ , in cash, and ten city lots of great value, on which the building stands. the collection of books, marbles, pictures, etc., which he gave is valued at a million dollars. he gave probably a million in money and land to the presbyterian hospital, of which he was for many years the president. he was also president of the american bible society, to which he gave liberally. to the presbyterian home for aged women he gave land assessed at $ , . he gave to princeton college and theological seminary, to his own church, and to needy men of letters. after his death, his last surviving sister, henrietta lenox, in gave to the library ten valuable adjoining lots, and $ , for the purchase of books. the nephew of mr. lenox, robert lenox kennedy, who succeeded his uncle as president of the board of trustees of the library, presented to the institution, in , munkacsy's great picture of "blind milton dictating 'paradise lost' to his daughter." he died at sea, sept. , . the lenox library has a remarkable collection of works, which will always be an honor to america. its early american newspapers bear dates from to , and include examples of nearly every important gazette of the colonial and revolutionary times. the library received in over , papers. the _boston news letter_, the first regular newspaper printed in america, is an object of interest. several of the newspapers appeared in mourning on account of the stamp act in october, . the library has large collections in american history, bibles, early educational books, and old english literature. "the souldier's pocket bible" is one of two known copies--the other being in the british museum--of the famous pocket bible used by cromwell's soldiers. many of the bibles are extremely rare, and of great value. there are five copies of eliot's indian bible. there are , english bibles from , and , bibles in other languages. one of the oldest american publications in the library is "spiritual milk for boston babes in either england," by john cotton, b.d., in . an old english work has this title: "the boke of magna carta, with divers other statutes, etc., (colophon:) thus endyth the boke called magna carta, translated out of latyn and frenshe into englyshe by george ferrers." there are several interesting books concerning witchcraft. the original book of testimony taken in the trial of hugh parsons for witchcraft at springfield, in , is mostly in the handwriting of william pynchon, but with some entries by secretary edward rawson. the library possesses the manuscript of henry harrisse's work on the "discovery of america," forming ten folio volumes. the library of the hon. george bancroft was purchased by the lenox library in . the milton collection in the library contains about volumes, nearly every variety of the early editions. several volumes have milton's autograph and annotations. there are about volumes of bunyan's "pilgrim's progress," and books relating to the writer, containing nearly editions in many languages. there are also about volumes of spanish manuscripts relating to america. the set of "jesuit relations," the journals of the early jesuit missionaries in this country, is the most complete in existence. many thousands of persons come each year to see the books and pictures, as well as to read, and all are aided by the courteous librarian, mr. wilberforce eames, who loves his work, and has the scholarship necessary for it. mary macrae stuart. at her death in new york city, dec. , , gave the robert l. stuart fine-art collections valued at $ , , her shells, minerals, and library, to the lenox library, on condition that they should never be exhibited on sunday. to nine charitable institutions in new york she gave $ , each; to cooper union, $ , ; to the cancer hospital, $ , ; and about $ , , to home and foreign missions of the presbyterian church, hospitals, disabled ministers, freedmen, church extension society, aged women, etc., of the same church, and also the young men's christian association, woman's hospital, society for prevention of cruelty to children, society for relief of poor widows with small children, city mission and tract society, bible society, colored orphans, juvenile asylum, and other institutions in new york. mrs. stuart was the daughter of a wealthy new york merchant, robert macrae, and married robert l. stuart, the head of the firm of sugar-refiners, r. l. & a. stuart. both brothers were rich, and gave away before alexander's death a million and a half. robert left an estate valued at $ , , to his wife, as they had no children; and she, in his behalf, gave away his fortune and also her own. she would have given largely to the museum of natural history and museum of art in new york, but from a fear that they would be opened to the public on sundays. walter l. newberry. chicago has been recently enriched by two great gifts, the newberry and crerar libraries. walter loomis newberry was born at east windsor, conn., sept. , . he was educated at clinton, n.y., and fitted for the united states military academy, but could not pass the physical examination. after a time spent with his brother in commercial life in buffalo, n.y., he removed to detroit in , and engaged in the dry-goods business. he went to chicago in , when that city had but three thousand inhabitants, and became first a commission merchant, and later a banker. he invested some money which he brought with him in forty acres on the "north side," which is now among the best residence property in the city, and of course very valuable. mr. newberry helped to found the merchants' loan & trust companies' bank, and was one of its directors. he was also the president of a railroad. he was always deeply interested in education; was for many years on the school-board, and twice its chairman. he was president of the chicago historical society, and was the first president of the young men's library association, which he helped to found. mr. newberry died at sea, nov. , , at the age of sixty-four, leaving about $ , , to his wife and two daughters. if these children died unmarried, half the property was to go to his brothers and sisters, or their descendants, after the death of his wife, and half to the founding of a library. both daughters died unmarried,--mary louisa on feb. , , at pau, france; and julia rosa on april , , at rome, italy. mrs. julia butler newberry, the wife, died at paris, france, dec. , . the newberry library building, feet by , of granite, is on the north side of chicago, facing the little park known as washington square. it is spanish-romanesque in style, and has room for , , books. there will be space for , , volumes when the other portions of the library are added. a most necessary part of the work of the trustees was the choosing of a librarian with ability and experience to form a useful reference library, which it was decided that the newberry library should be, the public library, with its annual income of over $ , , seeming to meet the needs of the people at large. dr. william frederick poole, for fourteen years the efficient librarian of the chicago public library, was chosen librarian of the newberry library. dictionaries, bibliographies, cyclopædias, and the like, were at once purchased. the first gift made to the library was the caxton memorial bible, presented sept. , , by the oxford university press, through the late henry stevens, esq., of london. the edition was limited to one hundred copies, and the copy presented to the newberry library is the ninety-eighth. mr. george p. a. healey, the distinguished artist, also gave about fifty of his valuable paintings to the library. several thousand volumes on early american and local history, collected by mr. charles h. guild of somerville, mass., were purchased by dr. poole for the library. a collection of volumes of bound american newspapers, covering the period of the civil war, - , were procured. an extremely useful medical library has been given by dr. nicholas senn, professor of surgery in rush medical college. a valuable collection on fish, fish culture, and angling, made during forty years by the publisher, robert clarke of cincinnati, has been bought for the library. a very interesting collection of early books and manuscripts was purchased from mr. henry probasco of cincinnati. the collection of bibles is very rich; also of shakespeare, homer, dante, horace, and petrarch. there were in over , volumes in the library, and over , pamphlets. to the great regret of scholars everywhere, dr. poole died march , . born in salem, mass., dec. , , descended from an old english family, young poole attended the common school in danvers till he was twelve, helped his father on the farm, and learned the tanner's trade. he loved his books, and his good mother determined that he should have an opportunity to go back to his studies. in he entered yale college, at the close of the freshman year, spent three years in teaching, and was graduated in . while in college, he was appointed assistant librarian of his college society, the "brothers in unity," which had , volumes. he soon saw the necessity of an index for the bound sets of periodicals in the library, if they were to be of practical use, and began to make such an index. the little volume of one hundred and fifty-four pages appeared in , and the edition was soon exhausted. a volume of five hundred and thirty-one pages appeared in ; and "poole's index" at once secured fame for its author, both at home and abroad. dr. poole was the librarian of the boston athenæum for thirteen years, and accepted a position in chicago, october, , to form the public library. in dr. poole issued the third edition of his famous "index to periodical literature," having , pages. in this work he had the co-operation of the american library association, the library association of great britain and ireland, and the able assistance of wm. i. fletcher, m.a., librarian of amherst college. since dr. poole's death, mr. fletcher and mr. r. r. bowker have carried forward the index, aided by many other librarians. dr. poole was president of the american historical society, , of the american library association - , and had written much on historical and literary topics. the boston _herald_ says, "dr. poole was a bibliographer of world-wide reputation, and one whose extended knowledge of books was simply wonderful." his "index to periodical literature," invaluable to both writers and readers, will perpetuate his name. dr. poole was succeeded by the well-known author, mr. john vance cheney, who had been eight years at the head of the san francisco public library. john crerar. was born in new york city, the son of john crerar, his parents both natives of scotland. he was educated in a common school, and at the age of eighteen became a clerk in a mercantile house. in he went to chicago, and associated himself with j. mcgregor adams in the iron business. he was also interested in railroads, and was the president of a company. he was an upright member of the second presbyterian church, and his first known gift was $ , to that church. unmarried, he lived quietly at the grand pacific hotel until his death, oct. , . in his will he said, "i ask that i may be buried by the side of my honored mother, in greenwood cemetery, brooklyn, n.y., in the family lot, and that some of my many friends see that this request is complied with. i desire a plain headstone, similar to that which marks my mother's grave, to be raised over my head." the income of $ , was left to care for the family lot. he left various legacies to relatives. to first cousins he gave $ , each; to second cousins, $ , ; and to third cousins, $ , each. to one second cousin, on account of kindness to his mother, an additional $ , ; to the widow of a cousin, $ , for kindness to his only brother, peter, then dead. to several other friends sums from $ , to $ , each. to his partner he gave $ , , and the same to his junior partner. to his own church, $ , , and a like amount to the missions of the church. to the church in new york to which his family formerly belonged, and where he was baptized, $ , . to the chicago orphan asylum, the chicago nursery, the american sunday-school union, the chicago relief society, the illinois training-school for nurses, the chicago manual training-school, the old people's home, the home for the friendless, the young men's christian association, each $ , . to the chicago historical society, the st. luke's free hospital, and the chicago bible society, each $ , . to st. andrew's society of new york and of chicago, each $ , . to the chicago literary club, $ , . for a statue of abraham lincoln, $ , . all the rest of the property, about three millions, was to be used for a free public library, to be called "the john crerar library," located on the south side, inasmuch as the newberry was to be on the north side. mr. crerar said in his will, "i desire the books and periodicals selected with a view to create and sustain a healthy moral and christian sentiment in the community. i do not mean by this that there shall not be anything but hymn-books and sermons; but i mean that dirty french novels, and all sceptical trash, and works of questionable moral tone, shall never be found in this library. i want its atmosphere that of christian refinement, and its aim and object the building up of character." mr. crerar was fond of reading the best books. his liberality and love of literature helped to bring thackeray to this country to lecture. some of the cousins of mr. crerar tried to break the will on the grounds put forth for breaking mr. tilden's will, whereby new york city failed to receive five or six millions for a public library. fortunately the courts accepted the plain intention of the giver, and the property is now devoted to the public good through a great library largely devoted to science. john jacob astor. from the little village of waldorf, near heidelberg, germany, came the head of the astor family to america when he was twenty years old. born july , , the fourth son of a butcher, he helped his father until he was sixteen, and then determined to join an elder brother in london, who worked in the piano and flute factory of their uncle. having no money, he set out on foot for the rhine; and resting under a tree, he made this resolution, which he always kept, "to be honest, industrious, and never gamble." finding employment on a raft of timber, he earned enough money to procure a steerage passage from holland to london, where he remained till , helping his brother, and learning the english language. having saved about seventy-five dollars at the end of three or four years, john jacob invested about twenty-five in seven flutes, purchased a steerage ticket across the water for a like amount, and put about twenty-five in his pocket. on the journey over he met a furrier, who told him that money could be made in buying furs from the indians and men on the frontier, and selling them to large dealers. as soon as he reached new york, he entered the employ of a quaker furrier, and learned all he could about the business, meantime selling his flutes, and using the money to buy furs from the indians and hunters. he opened a little shop in new york for the sale of furs and musical instruments, walked nearly all over new york state in collecting his furs, and finally went back to london to sell his goods. he married, probably in , sarah todd, who brought as her marriage portion $ , and what was better still, economy, energy, and a willingness to share her husband's constant labors. as fast as a little money was saved he invested it in land, having great faith in the future of new york city. he lived most simply in the same house where he carried on his business, and after fifteen years found himself the owner of $ , . [illustration: john jacob astor] in he organized the american fur company, and established trade in furs with france, england, germany, and russia, and engaged in trade with china. he used to say in his old age, "the first hundred thousand dollars--that was hard to get; but afterward it was easy to make more." he died march , , leaving a fortune estimated at $ , , , much of it the result of increased values of land, on which he had built houses for rent. by will mr. astor conveyed the large sum, at that time, of $ , to found a public library; his friends, washington irving, dr. joseph g. cogswell, and fitz-greene halleck, the poet, who was his secretary for seventeen years, having advised the gift of a library when he expressed a desire to do something helpful for the city of new york. he also left $ , for the benefit of the poor in his native town of waldorf. john jacob astor's eldest son, and third of his seven children, william b. astor, left and gave during his lifetime $ , to astor library. his estate of $ , , was divided between his two sons, john jacob and william. the son of john jacob, william waldorf astor, a graduate of columbia college, ex-minister to italy, is a scholarly man, and the author of several books. the son of william astor, john jacob astor, a graduate of harvard, lives on fifth avenue, new york. he has also written one or more books. in john jacob, the grandson of the first astor in this country, a graduate of columbia college, a student of the university of göttingen, and a graduate of the harvard law school, erected a third structure for the library similar to those built by his father and grandfather, and gave in all $ , to astor library. the entire building now has a frontage of two hundred feet, with a depth of one hundred feet. it is of brown-stone and brick, and is byzantine in style of architecture. in its total number of volumes was , . astor library possesses some very rare and valuable books. "here is one of the very few extant copies of wyckliffe's translation of the new testament in manuscript," writes frederick k. saunders, the librarian, in the _new england magazine_ for april, , "so closely resembling black-letter type as almost to deceive even a practised eye. it is enriched with illuminated capitals, and its supposed date is . it is said to have been once the property of duke humphrey. there is an ethiopic manuscript on vellum, the service book of an abyssinian convent at jerusalem. there are two richly illuminated persian manuscripts on vellum which once belonged to the library of the mogul emperors of delhi; also two exquisitely illuminated missals or books of hours, the gift of the late mr. j. j. astor. one of the glories of the collection is the splendid salisbury missal, written with wonderful skill, and profusely emblazoned with burnished gold. here also may be found the second printed bible, on vellum, folio, , which cost $ , ." mrs. astor gave a valuable collection of autographs of eminent persons; and the family also gave "a magnificent manuscript written with liquid gold, on purple vellum, entitled 'evangelistarium,' of almost unrivalled beauty, but no less remarkable for its great age, the date being a.d. . this is probably the oldest book in america." ptolemy's geography is represented by fifteen editions, the earliest printed in . john jacob astor, the grandson of the first john jacob, died in new york, feb. , . he presented to trinity church the reredos and altar, costing $ , , as a memorial of his father, william b. astor. through his wife, who was a miss gibbs of south carolina, he virtually built the new york cancer hospital, and gave largely to the woman's hospital. he gave $ , to st. luke's hospital, $ , to the metropolitan museum of art, with his wife's superb collection of laces after her death in . the paintings of john jacob astor costing $ , were presented to astor library by his son, william waldorf astor, after his father's death. mortimer fabricius reynolds. "on the d of december, , there was born, in the narrow clearing that skirted the ford of the genesee river, the first child of white parents to see the light upon that 'hundred-acre tract' which was the primitive site of the present city of rochester. mortimer fabricius reynolds was the name given, for family reasons, to the first-born of this backwoods settlement." thus states the "semi-centennial history of the city of rochester, n.y.," published in . this boy, grown to manhood and engaged in commerce, was the sole survivor of the six children of his father, abelard reynolds. he was proud of the family name; but "his childlessness, and the consciousness that with him the name was to be extinct, had come to weigh with a painful gravity." abelard reynolds had made a fortune from the increase in land values, and both he and his son william had interested themselves deeply in the intellectual and moral advance of the community in which they lived. mortimer f. reynolds desired to leave a memorial of his father, of his brother, william abelard reynolds, and of himself. he wisely chose to found a library, that the name might be forever remembered. he died june , , leaving nearly one million to found and endow the reynolds library of rochester, n.y., alfred s. collins, librarian. it is stated in the press that president seth low of columbia college has given over a million dollars for the new library in connection with that college. in "public libraries of america," page , a most useful book by william i. fletcher, librarian of amherst college, may be found a suggestive list of the principal gifts to libraries in the united states. among the larger bequests are dr. james rush, philadelphia, $ , , ; henry hall, st. paul, minn., $ , ; charles e. forbes, northampton, mass., $ , ; mr. and mrs. converse, malden, mass., $ , ; hiram kelley, chicago, to public library, $ , ; silas bronson, waterbury, conn., $ , ; dr. kirby spencer, minneapolis, minn., $ , ; mrs. maria c. robbins of brooklyn, n.y., to her former home, arlington, mass., for public library building and furnishing, $ , . frederick h. rindge and his gifts. mr. rindge, born in cambridge, mass., in , but at present residing in california, has given his native city a public library, a city hall, a manual training-school, and a valuable site for a high school. the handsome library, romanesque in style, of gray stone with brown stone trimmings, was opened to the public in . one room of especial interest on the first floor contains war relics, manuscripts, autographs and pictures of distinguished persons, and literary and historical matter connected with the history of cambridge. the european note-book of margaret fuller is seen here, the lock, key, and hinges of the old holmes mansion, removed to make way for the law school, etc. the library has six local stations where books may be ordered by filling out a slip; and these orders are gathered up three times a day, and books are sent to these stations the same day. the city hall, a large building also of gray stone with brown stone trimmings, is similar to the old town halls of brussels, bruges, and others of mediæval times. its high tower can be seen at a great distance. the other important gift to cambridge from mr. rindge is a manual training-school for boys. ground was broken for this school in the middle of july, , and pupils were received in september. the boys work in wood, iron, blacksmithing, drawing, etc. the system is similar to that adopted by professor woodward at st. louis. the boys, to protect their clothes, wear outer suits of dark brown and black duck, and round paper caps. the fire-drill is especially interesting to strangers. hose-carriages and ladders are kept in the building, and the boys can put streams of water to the top in a very brief time. mr. rindge supports the school. _the instruction is free_, and is a part of the public-school work. the pupils may take in the english high school a course of pure head-work, or part head-work and part hand-work. if they elect the latter, they drop one study, and in its place take three hours a day in manual training. the course covers three years. mr. rindge inherited his wealth largely from his father. he made these gifts when he was twenty-nine years of age. being an earnest christian, he made it a condition of his gifts that verses of scripture and maxims of conduct should be inscribed upon the walls of the various buildings. these are found on the library building; and the inscription on the city hall reads as follows: "god has given commandments unto men. from these commandments men have framed laws by which to be governed. it is honorable and praiseworthy to faithfully serve the people by helping to administer these laws. if the laws are not enforced, the people are not well governed." anthony j. drexel and his institute. the drexel family, like a majority of the successful and useful families in this country, began poor. anthony j. drexel's father, francis martin drexel, was born at dornbirn, in the austrian tyrol, april , . when he was eleven years old, his father, a merchant, sent him to a school near milan. later, when there was a war with france, he was obliged to go to switzerland to avoid conscription. he earned a scanty living at whatever he could find to do, but his chief work and pleasure was in portrait painting. when he was twenty-five, in , he determined to try his fortune in the new world, and reached the united states after a voyage of seventy-two days. he settled in philadelphia as an artist, with probably little expectation of any future wealth. after nine years of work he went to peru, chili, and mexico, and seems to have had good success in painting the portraits of noted people, general simon bolivar among them. returning to philadelphia, he surprised his acquaintances by starting a bank in . there were fears of failure from what seemed an inadequate capital and lack of knowledge of business; but mr. drexel was economical, strictly honest, energetic, and devoted to his work. he opened a little office in third street, and placed his son anthony, born sept. , , in the small bank. "while waiting on customers," says _harper's weekly_, "the boy was in the habit of eating his cold dinner from a basket under the counter." he was but a lad of thirteen, yet he soon showed a special fitness for the place by his quickness and good sense. the bank grew in patrons, in reputation, and in wealth; and when francis drexel died, june , , he had long been a millionnaire, had retired from business, and left the bank to the management of his sons. besides the bank in philadelphia, branch houses were formed in new york, paris, and london. "as a man of affairs," wrote his very intimate friend, george w. childs, "no one has ever spoken ill of anthony j. drexel; and he spoke ill of no one. he did not drive sharp bargains; he did not profit by the hard necessities of others; he did not exact from those in his employ excessive tasks and give them inadequate pay. he was a lenient, patient, liberal creditor, a generous employer, considerate of and sympathetic with every one who worked for him.... [illustration: anthony j. drexel.] "he was a devoted husband, a loving parent, a true friend, a generous host, and in all his domestic relations considerate, just, and kind. his manners were finely courteous, manly, gentle, and refined. his mind was as pure as a child's; and during all the years of our close companionship i never knew him to speak a word that he might not have freely spoken in the presence of his own children. his religion was as deep as his nature, and rested upon the enduring foundations of faith, hope, and charity. "he observed always a strict simplicity of living; he walked daily to and from his place of business, which was nearly three miles distant from his home. i was his companion for the greater part of the way every morning in these long walks; and as he passed up and down chestnut street, he was wont to salute in his cordial, pleasant, friendly manner, large numbers of all sorts and conditions of people. his smile was especially bright and attractive, and his voice low and sweet." mr. drexel inherited his father's artistic tastes, and in his home at west philadelphia, and at his country place, "runnymede," near lansdowne, he had many beautiful works of art, statuary, books, paintings, bronzes, and the like. he was also especially fond of music. he was a great friend of general grant, and dec. , , gave him and mrs. grant a notable reception with about seven hundred prominent guests. he was one of the pall-bearers at grant's funeral in . mr. drexel was always a generous giver. he was a large contributor to the university of pennsylvania, to hospitals, to churches of all denominations, and to asylums. with mr. childs and others he built an episcopal church at elberon, long branch, where he usually went in the summer. his largest and best gift, for which he will be remembered, is that of about three million dollars to found and endow drexel institute, erected in his lifetime. he wished to fit young men and women to earn their living; and after making a careful examination of cooper institute, new york, and pratt institute, brooklyn, and sending abroad to learn the best methods and plan of buildings for such industrial education, he began his own admirable drexel institute of art, science, and industry in west philadelphia. he erected the handsome building of light buff brick with terra-cotta trimmings, at the corner of thirty-second and chestnut streets, at a cost of $ , , and then gave an endowment of $ , , . at various times he gave to the library, museum, etc., over $ , . the institute was dedicated on the afternoon of dec. , , chauncey m. depew making the dedication address, and was opened to students jan. , . james macalister, ll.d., superintendent of the public schools of philadelphia, a man of fine scholarship, great energy, and enthusiastic love for the work of education, was chosen as the president. from the first the school has been filled with eager students in the various departments. the art department gives instruction in painting, modelling, architecture, design and decoration, wood-carving, etc.; the department of science and technology, courses in mathematics, chemistry, physics, machine construction, and electrical engineering; the department of mechanic arts, shopwork in wood and iron with essential english branches; the business department, commercial law, stenography, and typewriting, etc.; the department of domestic science and arts gives courses in cooking, dressmaking, and millinery. there are also courses in physical training, in music, library work, and evening classes open five nights in the week from october to april. the institute was attended by more than , students in - ; and , persons attended the free public lectures in art, science, technology, etc., and free concerts, chiefly organ recitals, weekly, during the winter months. the institute has been fortunate in its gifts from friends. mr. george w. childs gave to it his rare and valuable collection of manuscripts and autographs, fine engravings, ivories, books on art, etc.; mrs. john r. fell, a daughter of mr. drexel, a collection of ancient jewellery and rare old clocks; mrs. james w. paul, another daughter of mr. drexel, $ , as a memorial of her mother, to be used in the purchase of articles for the museum; while other members of the family have given bronzes, metal-work, and unique and useful gifts. mr. drexel lived to see his institute doing its noble work. so interested was he that he stopped daily as he went to the bank to see the young people at their duties. he was greatly interested in the evening classes. "this part of the work," says dr. macalister, "he watched with great eagerness, and he was specially desirous that young people who were compelled to work through the day should have opportunities in the evening equal to those who took the regular daily work of the institution." mr. drexel died suddenly, june , , about two years after the building of the institute, from apoplexy, at carlsbad, germany. he had gone to europe for his health, as was his custom yearly, and seemed about as well as usual until the stroke came. two weeks before he had had a mild attack of pleurisy, but would not permit his family to be told of it, thinking that he would fully recover. mr. drexel left behind him the memory of a modest, unassuming man; so able a financier that he was asked to accept the position of secretary of the treasury of the united states, but declined; so generous a giver, that he built his monument before his death in his elegant and helpful institute, an honor to his native city, philadelphia, and an honor to his family. philip d. armour and his institute. philip d. armour was born in stockbridge, madison county, n.y., and spent his early life on a farm. in , when he was twenty years of age, he went to california, and finally settled in chicago, where he has become very wealthy by dealing in packed meat, which is sent to almost every corner of the earth. "he pays six or seven millions of dollars yearly in wages," writes arthur warren in an interesting article in _mcclure's magazine_, february, , "owns four thousand railway cars, which are used in transporting his goods, and has seven or eight hundred horses to haul his wagons. fifty or sixty thousand persons receive direct support from the wages paid in his meatpacking business alone, if we estimate families on the census basis. he is a larger owner of grain-elevators than any other individual in either hemisphere; he is the proprietor of a glue factory, which turns out a product of seven millions of tons a year; and he is actively interested in an important railway enterprise." he manages his business with great system, and knows from his heads of departments, some of whom he pays a salary of $ , yearly, what takes place from day to day in his various works. he is a quiet, self-centred man, a good listener, has excellent judgment, and possesses untiring energy. "all my life," he says, "i have been up with the sun. the habit is as easy at sixty-one as it was at sixteen; perhaps easier, because i am hardened to it. i have my breakfast at half-past five or six; i walk down town to my office, and am there by seven, and i know what is going on in the world without having to wait for others to come and tell me. at noon i have a simple luncheon of bread and milk, and after that, usually, a short nap, which freshens me again for the afternoon's work. i am in bed again at nine o'clock every night." mr. armour thinks there are as great and as many opportunities for men to succeed in life as there ever have been. he said to mr. warren: "there was never a better time than the present, and the future will bring even greater opportunities than the past. wealth, capital, can do nothing without brains to direct it. it will be as true in the future as it is in the present that brains make capital--capital does not make brains. the world does not stand still. changes come quicker now than they ever did, and they will come quicker and quicker. new ideas, new inventions, new methods of manufacture, of transportation, new ways to do almost everything, will be found as the world grows older; and the men who anticipate them, and who are ready for them, will find advantages as great as any their fathers or grandfathers have had." [illustration: philip d. armour.] mr. frank g. carpenter, the well-known journalist, relates this incident of mr. armour:-- "he is a good judge of men, and he usually puts the right man in the right place. i am told that he never discharges a man if he can help it. if the man is not efficient he gives instructions to have him put in some other department, but to keep him if possible. there are certain things, however, which he will not tolerate; and among these are laziness, intemperance, and getting into debt. as to the last, he says he believes in good wages, and that he pays the best. he tells his men that if they are not able to live on the wages he pays them he does not want them to work for him. not long ago he met a policeman in his office. "'what are you doing here, sir?' he asked. "'i am here to serve a paper,' was the reply. "'what kind of a paper?' asked mr. armour. "'i want to garnishee one of your men's wages for debt,' said the policeman. "'indeed,' replied mr. armour; 'and who is the man?' he thereupon asked the policeman into his private office, and ordered the debtor to come in. he then asked the clerk how long he had been in debt. the man replied that for twenty years he had been behind, and that he could not catch up. "'but you get a good salary,' said mr. armour, 'don't you?' "'yes,' said the clerk; 'but i can't get out of debt. my life is such that somehow or other i can't get out.' "'but you must get out,' said mr. armour, 'or you must leave here. how much do you owe?' "the clerk then gave the amount. it was less than $ , . mr. armour took his check-book, and wrote out an order for the amount. 'there,' he said, as he handed the clerk the check, 'there is enough to pay all your debts. now i want you to keep out of debt, and if i hear of your getting into debt again you will have to leave.' "the man took the check. he did pay his debts, and remodelled his life on a cash basis. about a year after the above incident happened he came to mr. armour, and told him that he had had a place offered him at a higher salary, and that he was going to leave. he thanked mr. armour, and told him that his last year had been the happiest of his life, and that getting out of debt had made a new man of him." when mr. armour was asked by mr. carpenter to what he attributed his great success, he replied:-- "i think that thrift and economy have had much to do with it. i owe much to my mother's training, and to a good line of scotch ancestors, who have always been thrifty and economical." mr. armour has not been content to spend his life in amassing wealth only. after the late joseph armour bequeathed a fund to establish armour mission, philip d. armour doubled the fund, or more than doubled it; and now the mission has nearly two thousand children in its sunday-school, with free kindergarten and free dispensary. mr. armour goes to the mission every sunday afternoon, and finds great happiness among the children. to yield a revenue yearly for the mission, mr. armour built "armour flats," a great building adjoining the mission, with a large grass-plot in the centre, where in two hundred and thirteen flats, having each from six to seven rooms, families can find clean and attractive homes, with a rental of from seventeen to thirty-five dollars a month. "there is an endowed work," says mr. armour, "that cannot be altered by death, or by misunderstandings among trustees, or by bickerings of any kind. besides, a man can do something to carry out his ideas while he lives, but he can't do so after he is in the grave. build pleasant homes for people of small incomes, and they will leave their ugly surroundings, and lead brighter lives." mr. armour, aside from many private charities, has given over a million and a half dollars to the armour institute of technology. the five-story fire-proof building of red brick trimmed with brown stone was finished dec. , , on the corner of thirty-third street and armour avenue; and the keys were put in the hands of the able and eloquent preacher, dr. frank w. gunsaulus, "to formulate," says the chicago _tribune_, oct. , , "more exactly than mr. armour had done the lines on which this work was to go forward. dr. gunsaulus had long ago reached the conclusion that the best way to prepare men for a home in heaven is to make it decently comfortable for them here." dr. gunsaulus put his heart and energy into this noble work. the academic department prepares students to enter any college in the country; the technical department gives courses in mechanical engineering, electricity, and electrical engineering, mining engineering, and metallurgy. the department of domestic arts offers instruction in cooking, dressmaking, millinery, etc.; the department of commerce fits persons for a business life, wisely combining with its course in shorthand and typewriting such a knowledge of the english language, history, and some modern languages, as will make the students do intelligent work for authors, lawyers, and educated people in general. special attention has been given to the gymnasium, that health may be fully attended to. mr. armour has spared neither pains nor expense to provide the best machinery, especially for electrical work. "in a few years," he says, "we shall be doing everything by electricity. before long our steam-engines will be as old-fashioned as the windmills are now." dr. gunsaulus has taken great pleasure in gathering books, prints, etc., for the library, which already has a choice collection of works on the early history of printing. the institute was opened in september, , with six hundred pupils, and has been most useful and successful from the first. leonard case and the school of applied science. technological schools are springing up so rapidly all over our country that it would be impossible to name them all. the stevens institute of technology at hoboken, n.j., was organized in , with a gift of $ , ; the towne scientific school, philadelphia, , $ , , ; the miller school, batesville, va., , $ , , ; the rose polytechnic, terre haute, ind., , over $ , ; the case school of applied science of cleveland, ohio, , over $ , , . leonard case, the giver of the case school and the case library, born june , , was a quiet, scholarly man, who gave wisely the wealth amassed by his father. the family on the paternal side came from holland; on the maternal side from germany. mr. james d. cleveland, in a recent sketch of the founder of case school, gives an interesting account of the ancestors of mr. case. the great-grandfather of leonard case, leonard eckstein, when a youth, had a quarrel with the catholic clergy in nuremberg, near which city he was born, and was in consequence thrown into prison, where he nearly starved. one day his sister brought him a cake which contained a slender silk cord baked in it. this cord was let down from his cell window to a friend, who fastened it to a rope which, when drawn up, enabled the young man to slide down a wall eighty feet above the ground. after his escape, the youth of nineteen came to america, and landed in philadelphia without a cent of money. later he married and moved to western pennsylvania; and his daughter magdalene married meshach case, the grandfather of leonard case. meshach was an invalid from asthma. in he and his wife came on horseback to explore ohio, and perhaps make a home. they bought two hundred acres of the wilderness in the township of warren, built a log cabin, and cleared an acre of timber around it. the following year others came to settle, and all celebrated the fourth of july with instruments made on the grounds. their drum was a piece of hollow pepperidge-tree with a fawn's skin stretched over it, and a fife was made from an elder stem. the eldest son, leonard, who was a hard worker from a child, at seven cutting wood for the fires, at ten thrashing grain, at fourteen ploughing and harvesting, took cold when heated, and became ill for two years and a cripple for the rest of his life, using crutches as he walked. early in life, when it was the fashion to use intoxicating liquors, leonard made a pledge never to use them, and was a total abstainer as long as he lived, thus setting a noble example to the growing community. determined to have an education, he invented some instruments for drafting, bottomed all the chairs in the neighborhood, made sieves for the farmers, and thus earned a little money for books. as his handwriting was good, he was made clerk of the little court at warren, and later of the supreme court for trumbull county, where he had an opportunity to study, and copy the records of the connecticut land company. a friend advised him to study law, and furnished him with books, which advice he followed. later, in , he moved to cleveland, and was made cashier of a bank just organized. he was a man of public spirit, suggested the planting of trees which have made cleveland known as the forest city, was sent to the legislature, and finally became president of a bank, as well as land agent of the connecticut land company. he was universally respected and esteemed. the hard-working invalid had become rich through increase in value of the large amount of land which he had purchased. he died dec. , , seven years after his wife's death, and two years after the death of his very promising son william, of consumption. the latter was deeply interested in natural history, and in had begun to erect a building for the young men's library association and the kirtland society of natural history. this project his surviving brother, leonard, carried out. after the death of father, mother, and brother, leonard case was left to inherit the property. he had graduated at yale college in , and was admitted to the bar in . he, however, devoted himself to literary pursuits, and travelled extensively over this country and abroad. ill health in later years increased his natural reticence and dislike of publicity. he gave generously where he became interested. to the library association he first gave $ , . in he gave case building and grounds, then valued at $ , , to the library association. it is now worth over half a million dollars, and furnishes a good income for its library of over , volumes. under the excellent management of mr. charles orr, the librarian, the building has been remodelled, and the library much enlarged. the membership fee is one dollar annually. the same year, , mr. case determined to carry out his plan of a school of applied science. he corresponded with various eminent men; and on feb. , , after gifts to his father's relatives, he conveyed his property to trustees for a school where should be taught mathematics, physics, mechanical and civil engineering, chemistry, mining and metallurgy, natural history, modern languages, etc., to fit young men for practical work in life. "how well this foresight was inspired," says mr. cleveland, "is shown in the great demand by the city and country at large for the men who have received training at the case school. hundreds are called for by iron, steel, and chemical works, here and elsewhere, to act in laboratories or in direction of important engineering, in mines, railroads, construction of docks, waterworks, electrical projects, and architecture. nearly forty new professions have been opened to the youth of cleveland, which were unavailable before this school was founded." cady staley, ph.d. ll.d., is the president of case school, which has an able corps of professors. there are nearly students in the institution. leonard case died jan. , ; but his school and his library perpetuate his name, and make his memory honored. asa packer and lehigh university. in the midst of twenty acres stands lehigh university, at south bethlehem, penn., founded by asa packer,--a great school of technology, with courses in civil, mechanical, mining, and electrical engineering, chemistry, and architecture. the school of general literature of the university has a classical course, a latin-scientific course, and a course in science and letters. to this institution judge packer gave three and one-quarter millions during his life; and by will, eventually, the university will become one of the richest in the country. he did not give to lehigh university alone. "st. luke's hospital, so well known throughout eastern pennsylvania for its noble and practical charity," says mr. davis brodhead in the _magazine of american history_, june, , "is also sustained by the endowments of asa packer. indeed, when we consider the scope of his generosity, of which washington and lee university of virginia, muhlenburg college at allentown, penn., jefferson medical college of philadelphia, and many churches throughout his native state, of different denominations, can bear witness, we can the better appreciate how truly catholic were his gifts. his benefactions did not pause upon state lines, nor recognize sectional divisions. "in speaking of his generosity, senator t. f. bayard once said, 'the confines of a continent were too narrow for his sense of human brotherhood, which recognized its ties everywhere upon this footstool of the almighty, and decreed that all were to be united to share in the fruits of his life-long labor.'" asa packer was born in groton, conn., dec. , . as his father had been unsuccessful in business he could not educate his boy, who found employment in a tannery in north stonington. his employer soon died, and the youth was obliged to go to work on a farm. he was ambitious, and determined to seek his fortune farther west; so with real courage walked from connecticut to susquehanna county, penn., and in the new county took up the trade of carpenter and joiner. for ten years he worked hard at his trade. he purchased a few acres in the native forest, cleared off the trees, and built a log house, to which he took his bride. when children were born into the home she made all the clothing, and in every way helped the poor, industrious carpenter to make a living. in , when he was twenty-eight years old, mr. packer moved his family to mauch chunk in the lehigh valley, hoping that he could earn a little more money by his trade. when he had leisure, his busy mind was thinking how the vast supplies of coal and iron in the lehigh valley could be transported east. in the fall of the carpenter chartered a canal boat, and doing most of the manual labor himself, he started with a load of coal to philadelphia through the lehigh canal. making a little money out of this venture, he secured another boat, and in took his brother into partnership, and they together commenced dealing in general merchandise. this firm was the first to carry anthracite coal through to new york, it having been carried previously to philadelphia, and from there re-shipped to new york. with asa packer's energy, honesty, and broad thinking, the business grew to good-sized proportions. then he realized that they must have steam for quicker transportation. he urged the lehigh coal and navigation company to build a railroad along the banks of their canal; but they refused, thinking that coal and lumber could only pay water freights. in september, , a charter was granted to the delaware, lehigh, schuylkill, and susquehanna railroad company; but the people were indifferent, and the time of the charter was within seventeen days of expiring, when asa packer became one of the board of managers, and by his efforts graded one mile of the road, thus saving the charter. two years later the name of the company was changed to the lehigh valley railroad company, and mr. packer had a controlling portion of the stock. so much faith had he in the project that no one else, apparently, had faith in, that he offered to build the road from mauch chunk to easton, a distance of forty-six miles, and take his pay in the stocks and bonds of the company. the offer was accepted; and the road was finished in , four years after it was begun, but not without many discouragements and great financial strain. mr. packer was made president of the railroad company, which position he held as long as he lived. already wealth and honors had come to the energetic carpenter. in and he was elected to the state legislature, and became one of the two associate judges for the new county of carbon. in , and again in , he was elected to congress as a democrat, and made a useful record for himself. so universally respected was he in pennsylvania for his christian life, as well as for his successful business career, that he was prominently mentioned as a presidential candidate, pennsylvania voting solidly for him through fourteen ballots; and when his name was withdrawn the delegates voted for horatio seymour. in , judge packer was nominated for governor; but the state was strongly republican, having given general grant the previous year , majority. judge packer was defeated by only , votes, showing his popularity in his own state. two years before this, in the autumn of , his great gift, lehigh university, had been opened to pupils. it has now considerably over four hundred students, from thirty-five various states and countries. it was named by judge packer, who would not allow his own name to be used. after his death the largest of the buildings was called packer hall, but by the wording of the charter the name of the university can never be changed. the packer memorial church, a handsome structure, is the gift of mrs. packer cummings, the daughter of the founder. to the east of packer hall is the university library with , volumes, the building costing $ , , erected by judge packer in memory of his daughter mrs. lucy packer linderman. at his death he endowed the library with a fund of $ , . judge packer died may , , and is buried in the little cemetery at mauch chunk in the picturesque lehigh valley. he lived simply, giving away during the last few years of his life over $ , , . said the president of the university, rev. dr. john m. leavitt, in a memorial sermon delivered in university chapel, june , , "not only his magnificent bequests are our treasures; we have something more precious,--his _character_ is the noblest legacy of asa packer to the lehigh university.... "he was both gentle and inflexible, persuasive and commanding, in his sensibilities refined and delicate as a woman, and in his intellect and resolve clear and strong as a successful military leader.... genial kindness flowed out from him as beams from the sun. never at any period of his life is it possible to conceive in him a churlish or niggardly spirit.... during nearly fifty years he was connected with our church, usually as an officer, and for much of the long period was a constant and exemplary communicant.... like the silent light giving bloom to the world, his faith had a vitalizing power. he grasped the truth of christianity and the position of the church, and showed his creed by his life." cornelius vanderbilt and vanderbilt university. cornelius vanderbilt, born may , , descended from a dutch farmer, jan aertsen van der bilt, who settled in brooklyn, n.y., about , began his career in assisting his father to convey his produce to market in a sail-boat. the boy did not care for education, but was active in pursuit of business. at sixteen he purchased for one hundred dollars a boat, in which he ferried passengers and goods between new york city and staten island, where his father lived. he saved carefully until he had paid for it. at eighteen he was the owner of two boats, and captain of a third. at nineteen he married a cousin, sophia johnson, who by her saving and her energy helped him to accumulate his fortune. at twenty-three he was worth $ , , and was the captain of a steamboat at a salary of $ , a year. the boat made trips between new york city and new brunswick, n.j., where his wife managed a small hotel. [illustration: cornelius vanderbilt.] in , when he was thirty-five, he began to build steamboats, and operated them on the hudson river, on long island sound, and on the route to boston. when he was forty his property was estimated at $ , . when the gold-seekers rushed to california, in - , mr. vanderbilt established a line by way of lake nicaragua, and made large profits. he also established a line between new york and havre. during the civil war mr. vanderbilt gave the vanderbilt, his finest steamship, costing $ , , to the government, and sent her to the james river to assist when the merrimac attacked the national vessels at hampton roads. congress voted him a gold medal for his timely gift. in he began to invest in railroads, purchasing a large part of the stock of the new york and harlem railroad. his property was at this time estimated at $ , , . he soon gained controlling interest in other roads. his chief maxim was, "do your business well, and don't tell anybody what you are going to do until you have done it." in february, , bishop mctyeire of nashville, tenn., was visiting with the family of mr. vanderbilt in new york city. the first wife was dead, and mr. vanderbilt had married a second time. both men had married cousins in the city of mobile, who were very intimate in their girlhood, and this brought the bishop and mr. vanderbilt into friendly relations. one evening when they were conversing about the effects of the civil war upon the southern states, commodore vanderbilt, as he was usually called, expressed a desire to do something for the south, and asked the bishop what he would suggest. the methodist church at the south had organized central university at nashville, but found it impossible to raise the funds needed to carry on the work. the bishop stated the great need for such an institution, and mr. vanderbilt at once gave $ , . in his letter to the board of trust, mr. vanderbilt said, "if it shall through its influence contribute even in the smallest degree to strengthening the ties which should exist between all geographical sections of our common country, i shall feel that it has accomplished one of the objects that has led me to take an interest in it." later, in his last illness, he gave enough to make his gift a million. the name of the institution was changed to vanderbilt university. mr. vanderbilt died in new york, jan. , , leaving the larger part of his millions to his son, william henry vanderbilt. he gave $ , to the rev. charles f. deems to purchase the church of the strangers. founder's day at vanderbilt university is celebrated yearly on the late commodore's birthday, may , the day being ushered in by the playing of music and the ringing of the university bell. bishop mctyeire, who, mr. vanderbilt insisted, should accept the presidency of the university, used to say, "my wife was a silent but golden link in the chain of providence that led to vanderbilt university." when an attractive site of seventy-five acres of land was chosen for the buildings, an agent who was recommending an out-of-the-way place protested, and said, "bishop, the boys will be looking out of the windows there." "we want them to look out," said the practical bishop, "and to know what is going on outside." the secretary of the faculty tells a characteristic incident of this noble man. "he once cordially thanked me for conducting through the university building a company of plain country people, among whom was a woman with a baby in her arms. 'who knows what may come of that visit?' said he. 'it may bring that baby here as a student. he may yet be one of our illustrious men. who knows? who knows? such people are not to be neglected. great men come of them.'" vanderbilt university now has over seven hundred students, and is sending out many capable scholars into fields of usefulness. mr. william h. vanderbilt, the son of cornelius, gave over $ , to the university. his first gift of $ , was for the gymnasium, science hall, and wesley hall, the home of the biblical department. another $ , was for the engineering department. at his death, dec. , , he left the university by will $ , . mr. vanderbilt's estate was estimated at $ , , , double the amount left by his father. it is said that he left $ , , to each of his eight children, the larger part of his fortune going to two of his sons, cornelius and william k. vanderbilt. he gave for the removing of the obelisk from egypt to central park, $ , ; to the college of physicians and surgeons of new york city, $ , . his daughter emily, wife of william d. sloan, gave a maternity home in connection with the college, costing $ , . mr. vanderbilt's four sons, cornelius, william, frederick, and george, have erected a building for clinical instruction as a memorial of their father. mr. vanderbilt gave $ , each to the home and foreign missions of the primitive episcopal church, to the new york missions of that church, to st. luke's hospital, the metropolitan museum of art, the united brethren church at new dorp, staten island, and to the young men's christian association. he gave $ , each to the theological seminary of the episcopal church, the new york bible society, the home for incurables, seamen's society, new york home for intemperate men, and the american museum of natural history. cornelius vanderbilt, the grandson of commodore vanderbilt, has given $ , for the library, and $ , for the hall of mechanical engineering of vanderbilt university. he has also given a building to yale college in memory of his son, a large building at the corner of madison avenue and forty-fifth street to his railroad employees for reading, gymnasium hall, bathrooms, etc., $ , for the protestant cathedral, and much to other good works. another son of william h., george w. vanderbilt, who is making at his home in asheville, n.c., a collection as complete as possible of all trees and plants, established the thirteenth street branch of the free circulating library in new york city, in july, , and has supported a normal training-school. a daughter of william h., mrs. elliott f. shepard, has given to the young women's christian association in new york the margaret louisa home, and east sixteenth street, a handsome and well-appointed structure where working-women can find a temporary home and comfort. the limit of time for each guest is four weeks. the house contains fifty-eight single and twenty-one double rooms. it has proved a great blessing to those who are strangers in a great city, and need inexpensive and respectable surroundings. it is stated in the press that mrs. frederick vanderbilt uses a generous portion of her income in preparing worthy young women for some useful position in life,--as nurses, or in sewing or art, each individual having $ expended for such training. baron maurice de hirsch. "the death of baron hirsch," says the new york _tribune_, april , , "is a loss to the whole human race. to one of the most ancient and illustrious branches of that race it will seem a catastrophe. no man of this century has done so much for the jews as he.... in his twelfth century castle of eichorn in moravia he conceived vast schemes of beneficence. on his more than princely estate of st. johann in hungary he elaborated the details. in his london and paris mansions he put them into execution. he rose early and worked late, and kept busy a staff of secretaries and agents in all parts of the world. he not only relieved the immediate distress of the people, he founded schools to train them to useful work. he transported them by thousands from lands of bondage to lands of freedom, and planted them there in happy colonies. in countless other directions he gave his wealth freely for the benefit of mankind without regard to race or creed." baron hirsch died at presburg, hungary, april , , of apoplexy. he was the son of a bavarian merchant, and was born in . at eighteen he became a clerk in the banking-firm of bischoffsheim & goldschmidt, and married the daughter of the former. he was the successful promoter of the great railway system from budapest to varna on the black sea. he made vast sums out of turkish railway bonds, and is said to have been as rich as the rothschilds. he gave away in his lifetime an enormous amount, stated in the press to have been $ , , yearly, for the five years before his death. the new york _tribune_ says he gave much more than $ , , for the help of the jews. he gave to institutions in egypt, turkey, and asia minor, which bear his name. he offered the russian government $ , , for public education if it would make no discrimination as to race or religion; but it declined the offer, and banished the jews. to the hirsch fund in this country for the help of the jews the baron sent more than $ , , . the managers of the fund spent no money in bringing the jews to this country, but when here, opened schools for the children to prepare them to enter the public schools, evening schools for adults, training-schools to teach them carpentry, plumbing, and the like; provided public baths for them; bought farm-lands for them in new jersey and connecticut, and assisted them to buy small farms; provided factories for young men and women, as at woodbine, n.j., where , acres have been purchased for the hirsch colony, and a brickyard and kindling-wood factory established. the baron is said to have received begging letters daily, some of them from crowned heads, to whom he loaned large amounts. the favorite home of the baron was in paris, where he lost his only and idolized son lucien, in , at the age of twenty. much of the fortune that was to be the son's the father devoted to charity, especially to the alleviation of the condition of the european jews, in whom the son was deeply interested. many millions were left to lucienne, the extremely pretty natural daughter of his son lucien. isaac rich and boston university. isaac rich left to boston university, chartered in , more than a million and a half dollars. he was born in wellfleet, mass., in , of humble parentage. at the age of fourteen he was assisting his father in a fish-stall in boston, and afterwards kept an oyster-stall in faneuil hall. he became a very successful fish-merchant, and gave his wealth for noble purposes. unfortunately, immediately after his death, jan. , , the great fire of consumed the best investments of the estate, and the panic of and other great losses followed; so that for rebuilding the stores and banks in which the estate had been largely invested money had to be borrowed, and at the close of ten years the estate actually transferred to the university was a little less than $ , . this sum would have been much larger had not the statutes of new york state made it illegal to convey to a corporation outside the state, like boston university, the real estate owned by mr. rich in brooklyn, which reverted to the legal heirs. it is claimed that mr. rich was "the first bostonian who ever donated so large a sum to the cause of collegiate education." the hon. jacob sleeper, one of the three original incorporators of the university, gave to it over a quarter of a million dollars. the college of liberal arts is named in his honor. boston university owes much of its wide reputation to its president, the rev. dr. william f. warren, a successful author as well as able executive. from the first he has favored co-education and equal opportunities for men and women. dr. warren said in , "in my opinion the co-education of the sexes in high and grammar schools, as also in colleges and universities, is absolutely essential to the best results in the education of youth. "i believe it to be best for boys, best for girls, best for teachers, best for tax-payers, best for the community, best for morals and manners and religion." more than sixty years ago, in , at its beginning, oberlin college gave the first example of co-education in this country. in a little more than half the colleges in the united states, . per cent, had adopted the policy; in the proportion had increased to . per cent. probably a majority of persons will agree with dr. james macalister of philadelphia, that "co-education is becoming universal throughout this country." concerning boston university, the report prepared for the admirable education series edited by professor herbert b. adams of johns hopkins university, says, "this university was the first to afford the young women of massachusetts the advantages of the higher education. its college of liberal arts antedated wellesley and smith and the harvard annex. its doors, furthermore, were not reluctantly opened in consequence of the pressure of an outside public opinion too great to be resisted. on the contrary, it was in advance of public sentiment on this line, and directed it. its school of theology was the earliest anywhere to present to women all the privileges provided for men. in fact, this university was the first in history to present to women students unrestricted opportunities to fit themselves for each of the learned professions. it was the first ever organized from foundation to capstone without discrimination on the ground of sex. its publications bearing upon the joint education of the sexes have been sought in all countries where the question of opening the older universities to women has been under discussion." boston university, , has at present , students,--women , men ,--and requires high grade of scholarship. it is stated that "the first four years' course of graded medical instruction ever offered in this country was instituted by this school in the spring of ." daniel b. fayerweather and others mr. fayerweather was born in stepney, conn., in ; he was apprenticed to a farmer, learned the shoemaker's trade in bridgeport, and worked at the trade until he became ill. then he bought a tin-peddler's outfit, and went to virginia. when he could not sell for cash he took hides in payment. afterwards he returned to his trade at bridgeport, where he remained till , when he was thirty-three years old. he then removed to new york city, and entered the employ of hoyt brothers, dealers in leather. years later, on the withdrawal of mr. hoyt, the firm name became fayerweather & ladew. mr. fayerweather was a retiring, economical man, honest and respected. at his death in , he gave to the presbyterian hospital, st. luke's hospital, and manhattan eye and ear infirmary, $ , each; to the woman's hospital and mount sinai hospital, $ , each; to yale college, columbia college, cornell university, $ , each; to bowdoin college, amherst, williams, dartmouth, wesleyan, hamilton, maryville, yale scientific school, university of virginia, rochester, lincoln, and hampton universities, $ , each; to union theological seminary, lafayette, marietta, adelbert, wabash, and park colleges, $ , each. the residue of the estate, over $ , , , was divided among various colleges and hospitals. george i. seney, who died april , , in new york city, gave away, between and , to seney hospital in brooklyn, $ , , and a like amount each to the wesleyan university, and to the methodist orphan asylum, brooklyn. to emory college and wesleyan female college, macon, ga., he gave $ , ; to the long island historical society, $ , ; to the brooklyn library, $ , ; to drew theological seminary, madison, n.j., a large amount; to the industrial school for homeless children, brooklyn, $ , , and a like amount to the eye and ear infirmary of that city. he also gave twenty valuable paintings to the metropolitan museum of art in new york. the givers to colleges have been too numerous to mention. the college of new jersey, at princeton, has received not less than one and a half million or two million dollars from the john c. greene estate. johns hopkins left seven millions to found a university and hospital in baltimore. the hon. washington c. de pauw left at his death forty per cent of his estate, estimated at from two to five million dollars, to de pauw university, greencastle, ind. though some of the real estate decreased in value, the university has received already $ , , and will probably receive not less than $ , , or possibly much more, in the future. mr. jonas g. clark gave to found clark university, worcester, mass., about a million dollars to be devoted to post-graduates, or a school for specialists. mr. clark spent about eight years in europe studying the highest institutions of learning. matthew vassar gave a million dollars to vassar college for women at poughkeepsie, n.y. ezra b. cornell gave a million to cornell university at ithaca, n.y. mr. henry w. sage has also been a most munificent giver to the same institution. dr. joseph w. taylor of burlington, n.j., a physician and merchant, and member of the society of friends, founded bryn mawr college for women, at bryn mawr, penn. his gift consisted of property and academic buildings worth half a million, and one million dollars in invested funds as endowment. mr. paul tulane gave over a million to tulane university, new orleans. george peabody gave away nine millions in charities,--three millions to educational institutions, three millions to education at the south to both whites and negroes, and three millions to build tenement houses for the poor of london, england. horace kelley, of cleveland, ohio, left a half-million dollars for the foundation of an art gallery and school. his family were among the pioneer settlers, and their purchases of land in what became the heart of the city made their children wealthy. he was born in cleveland, july , , and died in the same city, dec. , . he married miss fanny miles, of elyria, ohio, and spent much of his life in foreign travel and in california, where they had a home at pasadena. his fortune was the result of saving as well as the increase in real-estate values. mr. john huntington made a somewhat larger gift for the same purpose. mr. h. b. hurlbut gave his elegant home, his collection of pictures, etc., valued at half a million, and mr. j. h. wade and others have contributed land, which make nearly two million dollars for the cleveland art gallery and school. mr. w. j. gordon, of cleveland, ohio, gave land for gordon's park, bordering on lake erie, valued at a million dollars. it was beautifully laid out by him with drives, lakes, and flower-beds, and was his home for many years. mr. hart a. massey, formerly a resident of cleveland, but in later years a manufacturer at toronto, canada, at his death, in the spring of , left a million dollars in charities. to victoria college, toronto, $ , , all but $ , as an endowment fund. this $ , is to be used for building a home for the women students. to each of two other colleges, $ , , and to each of two more, $ , , one of the latter being the new american university at washington, d.c. to the salvation army, toronto, $ , . to the fred victor mission, to provide missionary nurses to go from house to house in toronto, and care for the sick and the needy, $ , . many thousands were given to churches and various homes, and $ , to ministers worn out in service. to mr. d. l. moody's schools at northfield, mass., $ , . many have given to this noble institution established by the great evangelist, and it needs and deserves large endowments. the frederick marquand memorial hall, brick with gray stone trimmings, was built as a dormitory for one hundred girls, in , at a cost of $ , . recitation hall, of colored granite, was built in , at a cost of $ , , and, as well as some other buildings, was paid for out of the proceeds of the moody and sankey hymn-books. weston hall, costing $ , , is the gift of mr. david weston of boston. talcott library, a beautiful structure costing $ , , with a capacity for forty thousand volumes, is the gift of mr. james talcott of new york, who, among many other benefactions, has erected talcott hall at oberlin college, a large and handsome boarding-hall for the young women. catharine lorillard wolfe. in the metropolitan museum of art in new york city, one sees an interesting picture of this noted giver, painted by alexander cabanel, commander of the legion of honor, and professor in the École des beaux arts of paris. miss wolfe, who was born in new york, march , , and died in new york, april , , at the age of fifty-nine, was descended from an old lutheran family, her great-grandfather, john david wolfe, coming to this country from saxony in . two of his four children, david and christopher, served with credit in the war of the revolution. after the war, david and a younger brother were partners in the hardware business, and their sons succeeded them. john david wolfe, the son of david, born july , , retired from business in the prime of his life, and devoted himself to benevolent work. he was a vestryman of trinity parish, and later senior warden of grace church, new york. he gave to schools and churches all over the country, to st. johnland on long island, to the sheltering arms in new york, the high school at denver, col., the diocesan school at topeka, kan., etc. he was a helper in the new york historical society, and one of the founders of the american museum of natural history in new york. he was its first president when he died, may , , in his eightieth year, leaving only one child, catharine, to inherit his large property. a portion of miss wolfe's seven millions came from her mother, dorothea lorillard, and the rest from her father. she was an educated woman, who had read much and travelled extensively, and, like her father, used her money in doing good while she lived. her private benefactions were constant, and she went much among the poor and suffering. she built in east broadway a newsboy's lodging house for not less than $ , ; the italian mission church in mulberry street, $ , , with tenement house in the same street, $ , ; the house for the clergy of the diocese of new york, lafayette place, $ , ; st. luke's hospital, $ , ; home for incurables at fordham, $ , ; union college, schenectady, n.y., $ , ; schools in the western states, $ , ; home and foreign missions, $ , ; american church in rome, $ , ; american school of classical studies at athens, $ , ; virginia seminary, $ , ; grace house, containing reading and lecture rooms for the poor, and grace church, $ , or more. she paid the expense of the exploring expedition to babylonia under the leadership of the distinguished oriental scholar, dr. william hayes ward, editor of the _independent_. a friend tells of her sending him to new york, from her boat on the nile, a check for $ , to be distributed in charities. she educated young girls; she helped those who are unable to make their way in the world. having given all her life, she gave away over a million at her death in money and objects of art. to the metropolitan museum of art she gave the catharine lorillard wolfe collection, with pictures by rosa bonheur, meissonnier, gérôme, verboeckhoven, hans makart, sir frederick leighton, couture, bouguéreau, and many others. she added an endowment of $ , for the preservation and increase of the collection. one of the most interesting to me of all the pictures in the wolfe collection is the sheep in a storm, no. , "lost," souvenir of auvergne, by auguste frederic albrecht schenck, a member of the legion of honor, born in the duchy of holstein, . those who love animals can scarcely stand before it without tears. others besides miss wolfe have made notable gifts to the museum of art. mr. cornelius vanderbilt gave, in , rosa bonheur's world-renowned "horse fair," for which he paid $ , . it was purchased at the auction sale of mr. a. t. stewart's collection, march , . meissonnier's "friedland, " was purchased at the stewart sale by mr. henry hilton for $ , , and presented to the museum. mr. stephen whitney phoenix, who gave so generously to columbia college, was also, like mr. george i. seney, a great giver to the museum. miss mary elizabeth garrett of baltimore gave to the medical school of johns hopkins university over $ , , that women might have equal medical opportunities with men. president daniel c. gilman, in an article on johns hopkins university, says, "much attention had been directed to the importance of medical education for women; and efforts had been made by committees of ladies in baltimore and other cities to secure for this purpose an adequate endowment, to be connected with the foundations of johns hopkins. as a result of this movement, the trustees accepted a gift from the committee of ladies, a sum which, with its accrued interest, amounted to $ , , toward the endowment of a medical school to which 'women should be admitted upon the same terms which may be prescribed for men.' "this gift was made in october, ; but as it was inadequate for the purposes proposed, miss mary e. garrett, in addition to her previous subscriptions, offered to the trustees the sum of $ , , which, with other available resources, made up the amount of $ , , which had been agreed upon as the minimum endowment of the johns hopkins medical school. these contributions enabled the trustees to proceed to the organization of a school of medicine which was opened to candidates for the degree of doctor of medicine in october, ." several women have aided johns hopkins, as indeed they have most institutions of learning in america. mrs. caroline donovan gave to the university $ , for the foundation of a chair of english literature. in mrs. adam t. bruce of new york gave the sum of $ , to found the bruce fellowship in memory of her son, the late adam t. bruce, who had been a fellow and an instructor at the university. mrs. william e. woodyear gave the sum of $ , to found five scholarships as a memorial of her deceased husband. mr. and mrs. lawrence turnbull endowed the percy turnbull memorial lectureship of poetry with an income of $ , per annum. mrs. anna ottendorfer. "whenever our people gratefully point out their benefactors, whenever the germans in america speak of those who are objects of their veneration and their pride, the name of anna ottendorfer will assuredly be among the first. for all time to come her memory and her work will be blessed." thus spoke the hon. carl schurz at the bier of mrs. ottendorfer in the spring of . anna behr was born in würzburg, bavaria, in a simple home, feb. , . in , when twenty-two years old, she came to america, remained a year with her brother in niagara county, n.y., and then married jacob uhl, a printer. in mr. uhl started a job-office in frankfort street, new york, and bought a small weekly paper called the _new-yorker staats-zeitung_. his young wife helped him constantly, and finally the weekly paper became a daily. her husband died in , leaving her with six children and a daily paper on her hands. she was equal to the task. she declined to sell the paper, and managed it well for seven years. then she married mr. oswald ottendorfer, who was on the staff of the paper. both worked indefatigably, and made the paper more successful than ever. she was always at her desk. "her callers," says _harper's bazar_, may , , "had been many. her visitors represented all classes of society,--the opulent and the poor, the high and the lowly. there was advice for the one, assistance for the other; an open heart and an open purse for the deserving; a large charity wisely used." in mrs. ottendorfer built the isabella home for aged women in astoria, long island, giving to it $ , . it was erected in memory of her deceased daughter, isabella. in she contributed about $ , to a memorial fund in support of several educational institutions, and the next year built and furnished the woman's pavilion of the german hospital of new york city, giving $ , . for the german dispensary in second avenue she gave $ , , also a library. at her death she provided liberally for many institutions, and left $ , to be divided among the employees of the _staats-zeitung_. in the property of the paper was turned into a stock-company; and, at the suggestion of mrs. ottendorfer, the employees were provided for by a ten-per-cent dividend on their annual salary. later this was raised to fifteen per cent, which greatly pleased the men. the new york _sun_, in regard to her care for her employees, especially in her will, says, "she had always the reputation of a very clever, business-like, and charitable lady. her will shows, however, that she was much more than that--she must have been a wonderful woman." a year before her death the empress augusta of germany sent her a medal in recognition of her many charities. mrs. ottendorfer died april , , and was buried in greenwood. her estate was estimated at $ , , , made by her own skill and energy. having made it, she enjoyed giving it to others. her husband, mr. oswald ottendorfer, has given most generously to his native place zwittau,--an orphan asylum and home for the poor, a hospital, and a fine library with a beautiful monumental fountain before it, crowned by a statue representing mother-love; a woman carrying a child in her arms and leading another. his statue was erected in the city in , and the town was illuminated in his honor at the dedication of the library. daniel p. stone and valeria g. stone. when mr. stone, who was a dry-goods merchant of boston, died in malden, mass., in , it was agreed between him and his wife, mrs. valeria g. stone, that the property earned and saved by them should be given to charity. while mrs. stone lived she gave generously; and at her death, jan. , , over eighty years old, she gave away more than $ , , . to andover theological seminary, to the american missionary association for schools among the colored people, $ , each, and much to aid struggling students and churches, and to save mortgaged homes. to wellesley college to build stone hall, $ , ; to bowdoin college, amherst, dartmouth, drury, carleton, chicago seminary, hamilton, iowa, oberlin, hampton institute, woman's board for armenia college, turkey, olivet college, ripon, illinois, marietta, beloit, robert college, constantinople, berea, doane, colorado, washburne, howard university, each from five to seventy-five thousand dollars. she gave also to hospitals, city mission work, rescue homes, and christian associations. for evangelical work in france she gave $ , . samuel williston, the giver of over one million and a half dollars was born at easthampton, mass., july , . he was the son of the rev. payson williston, first pastor of the first church in easthampton in , and the grandson of the rev. noah williston of west haven, conn., on his father's side, and of the rev. nathan birdseye of stratford, conn., on his mother's. as the salary of the father probably never exceeded $ yearly, the family were brought up in the strictest economy. at ten years of age the boy samuel worked on a farm, earning for the next six years about seven dollars a month, and saving all that was possible. in the winters he attended the district school, and studied latin with his father, as he hoped to fit himself for the ministry. he began his preparation at phillips academy, andover, carrying thither his worldly possessions in a bag under his arm. "we were both of us about as poor in money as we could be," said his roommate years afterward, the rev. enoch sanford, d.d., "but our capital in hope and fervor was boundless." samuel's eyes soon failed him, and he was obliged to give up the project of ever becoming a minister. he entered the store of arthur tappan, in new york, as clerk; but ill health compelled him to return to the farm with its out-door life. when he was twenty-seven he married emily graves of williamsburg, mass. she brought to the marriage partnership a noble heart, and every willingness to help. the story is told that she cut off a button from the coat of a visitor, with his consent, learned how it was covered, and soon furnished work for her neighbors as well as herself. after some years mr. williston began in a small way to manufacture buttons, and the business grew under his capable management till a thousand families found employment. he formed a partnership with joel and josiah hayden at haydenville, for the manufacture of machine-made buttons in , then first introduced into this country from england. four years later the business was transferred to easthampton. mr. williston did not wait till he was very rich before he began to give. in he helped largely towards the erection of the first church in easthampton. in he established williston seminary, which became a most excellent fitting-school for college. during his lifetime he gave to this school about $ , , and left it at his death an endowment of $ , . he was also deeply interested in amherst college, establishing the williston professorship of rhetoric and oratory, the graves, now williston, professorship of greek, and some others. "he began giving to amherst college," writes professor joseph h. sawyer, "when the institution was in the depths of poverty and well-nigh given over as a failure. he saved the college to mankind, and by example and personal solicitation stimulated others to give." he built and equipped williston hall, and assisted in the erection of other buildings. he aided mary lyon, in establishing mount holyoke seminary, gave to iowa college, the protestant college in beirut, syria, and to churches, libraries, and various other institutions. he was active in all business enterprises, as well as works of benevolence. he was president of the williston cotton mills, the first national bank, gas company, and nashawannuck (suspender) company, all at easthampton. he was the first president of the hampshire and hampden railway, president of the first national bank of northampton, also of the greenville manufacturing company (cotton cloths), member of both branches of the legislature until he declined a re-election, one of the trustees of amherst college, of the westborough, mass., reform school, on the board of an asylum for idiots in boston, a corporate member of the american board, a trustee of mount holyoke seminary, etc. mr. williston overcame the obstacles of poor eyesight, ill health, and poverty, and became a blessing to tens of thousands. his wife was equally a giver with him. the rev. william seymour tyler, d.d., of amherst college, said at the semi-centennial celebration of williston seminary, june - , , "i knew its founders. i say 'founders,' for mrs. williston had scarcely less to do than mr. williston in planning and founding the building and endowing the seminary, as in all the successful measures and achievements of his remarkable and useful life; and the few enterprises in which he did not succeed were those in which he did not follow her advice. i knew the founders from the time when, at the beginning of their prosperity, their home and their factory were both in a modest wing of father williston's parsonage, until they had created williston seminary, made easthampton, following out their great and good work, and entered into their rest." five children were born to mr. and mrs. williston, but all died in childhood. they adopted five children, two boys and three girls, reared them, and educated them for honored positions in life. mr. williston died at easthampton, july , ; and his wife, two years younger than he, died april , . both are buried in the cemetery at easthampton, to which burying-ground mr. williston gave, at his death, $ , . he lived simply, and saved that he might give it in charities. john f. slater and daniel hand, and their gifts to the colored people. one of the best charities our country has ever had bestowed upon it is the million-dollar gift of mr. slater, and the million and a half gift of mr. hand, for the education of the colored people in the southern states. other millions of dollars are yet needed to train these millions of the colored race to self-help and good citizenship. mr. john fox slater was born in slatersville, r.i., march , . he was the son of john slater, who helped his brother samuel to found the first cotton manufacturing industry in the united states. samuel slater came from england; and setting up some machinery from memory, after arriving in this country, as nobody was permitted to carry plans out of england, he started the first cotton-mill in december, . a few years later his brother john came from england, and together they started a mill at slatersville, r.i. they built mills also at oxford, now webster, mass., and in time became men of wealth. mr. samuel slater opened a sunday-school for his workmen, one of the first institutions of that kind in this country. his son john early developed rare business qualities, and at the age of seventeen was placed in charge of one of his father's mills at jewett city, near norwich, conn. he had received a good academical education, had excellent judgment, would not speculate, and was noted for integrity and honor. he became not only the head of his own extensive business, but prominent in many outside enterprises. his manners were refined, he was self-poised and somewhat reserved, and very unostentatious, thereby showing his true manhood. he read on many subjects,--finance, politics, and religion, and was a good conversationalist. as he grew richer he felt the responsibility of his wealth. he gave generously to the country during the civil war; he contributed largely to the establishment of the norwich free academy and to the congregational church in norwich with which he was connected, and to other worthy objects. he determined to do good with his money while he lived. after the war, having given largely for the relief of the freedmen, he decided to give to a board of trustees $ , , , for the purpose of "uplifting the lately emancipated population of the southern states and their posterity by conferring on them the blessings of christian education." when asked the precise meaning of the phrase "christian education," he replied, "that in the sense which he intended, the common school teaching of massachusetts and connecticut was christian education. that it is leavened with a predominant and salutary christian influence." he said in his letter to the trustees, "it has pleased god to grant me prosperity in my business, and to put it into my power to apply to charitable uses a sum of money so considerable as to require the counsel of wise men for the administration of it." in committing the money to their hands he "humbly hoped that the administration of it might be so guided by divine wisdom as to be, in its turn, an encouragement to philanthropic enterprise on the part of others, and an enduring means of good to our beloved country and to our fellow-men." mr. slater's gift awakened widespread interest and appreciation. the congress of the united states voted him thanks, and caused a gold medal to be struck in his honor. mr. slater lived to see his work well begun, intrusted to such men as ex-president hayes at the head of the trust, phillips brooks, governor colquitt of georgia, his son william a. slater, and others. he died may , , at norwich, at the age of sixty-nine. the general agent of the trust for several years was the late dr. a. g. haygood of georgia, who resigned when he was made a bishop in the methodist church. since dr. j. l. m. curry of washington, d.c., chairman of the educational committee, and author of "the southern states of the american union" and other works, has been the able agent of the slater as well as peabody funds. dr. curry, member of both national and confederate congresses, and minister to spain for three years, has been devoted to education all his life, and gives untiring industry and deep interest to his work. the slater fund is used in normal schools to fit students for teaching and for industrial education, and much of it is paid in salaries to teachers. dr. curry, in his report for - , gives a list of the schools aided in that year, all of which he visited during the year. to bishop college, marshall, tex., with colored students, $ , was given for normal work and manual training; to central tennessee college, nashville, with students, $ , , to pay the teachers in the mechanical shop, carpentry, sewing, cooking, etc.; to clark university, atlanta, ga., students, $ , , mostly to the mechanical department, etc.; to spelman female institute, atlanta, with pupils, $ , ; the institute has nine buildings, with property valued at $ , . to claflin university, orangeburg, s.c., with students, both men and women, $ , , chiefly to the industrial department,--iron-working, harness-making, masonry, painting, etc.; to hampton normal institute, hampton, va., the noble institution to which general s. c. armstrong gave his life, $ , , for training girls in housework, to the machine-shop, for teachers in natural history, mathematics, etc. there are nearly pupils in the school. to the leonard medical school, shaw university, raleigh, n.c., $ , . the medical faculty are all white men. to the university itself, with pupils, $ , ; to the meharry medical college, nashville, men and four women, $ , ; to the state normal school, montgomery, ala., with students, $ , ; to the normal and industrial institute, tuskegee, ala., with men and women, $ , , given largely to the departments of agriculture, leather and tin, brick-making, saw-mill work, plastering, dressmaking, etc. "this institution is an achievement of mr. booker t. washington, a graduate of hampton normal institute," says the report of the commissioner of education, - . "opened in with one teacher and thirty pupils, it attained such success that in there were officers and teachers and over students. it also owns property estimated at $ , , upon which there is no encumbrance. general s. c. armstrong said of it, 'i think it is the noblest and grandest work of any colored man in the land.'" to straight university, new orleans, la., with pupils, the slater fund gave $ , . the late thomas lafon, a colored man, left at death $ , to this excellent institution; to talladega college, talladega, ala., with students, $ , ; to tougaloo university, tougaloo, miss., with students, $ , . this institute, under the charge of the american missionary association, began twenty-five years ago with one small building surrounded by negro cabins. now there are ten buildings in the midst of five hundred acres. most of these institutions for colored people have small libraries, which would be greatly helped by the gift of good books. in nine years, from to , nearly $ , was given from the slater fund to push forward the education of the colored people. most of them were poor and left in ignorance through slavery; but they have made rapid progress, and have shown themselves worthy of aid. the _american missionary_, june, , tells of a law-student at shaw university who helped to support his widowed mother, taught a school of scholars four miles in the country, walking both ways, studying law and reciting at night nearly a mile away from his home. when admitted to the bar, he sustained the best examination in a class of , all the others white. the _howard quarterly_, january, , cites the case of a young woman who prepared for college at howard university. she led the entire entrance class at the chicago university, and received a very substantial reward in a scholarship that will pay all expenses of the four years' course. mr. la port, the superintendent of construction of the george r. smith college, sedalia, mo., was born a slave; he ran away at twelve, worked fourteen years to obtain money enough to secure his freedom, is now worth $ , , and supports his aged mother and the widow of the man from whom he purchased his freedom. the highest honor at boston university in was awarded to a colored man, thomas nelson baker, born a slave in virginia in . the class orator at harvard college in was a colored man, clement garnett morgan. daniel hand was born in madison, conn., july , . he was descended from good puritan ancestors, who came to this country in from maidstone, kent, england. his grandfather on his father's side served in the war of the revolution, and his ancestors on his mother's side both in the old french war and the revolutionary war. daniel, one of seven boys, lived on a farm till he was about sixteen years of age, when he went to augusta, ga., in , with an uncle, daniel meigs, a merchant of that place and of savannah. young hand proved most useful in his uncle's business; in time succeeded him, and became one of the leading merchants of the south. some fifteen years before the war mr. hand took into business partnership in augusta mr. george w. williams, a native of georgia, who later established a business in charleston, s.c., mr. hand furnishing the larger part of the capital. the business in augusta was given in charge to a nephew, and mr. hand temporarily removed to new york city. when the civil war became imminent, mr. hand went south, was arrested as a "lincoln spy" in new orleans; but no basis being found for the charge, was released on parole that he would report to the confederate authority at richmond. on his way thither, passing the night in augusta, he would have been mobbed by a lawless crowd who gathered about his hotel, had not a few of the leading men of atlanta hurried him off to jail in a carriage with the mayor and a few friends as a guard. reporting at richmond, mr. hand was allowed to go where he chose, if within the limits of the confederacy, and chose asheville, n.c., for his home until the war ended, spending his time in reading, of which he was very fond, and then came north. the confederate courts at charleston tried to confiscate his property, but this was prevented largely through the influence of mr. williams. some years later, when the latter became involved, and creditors were pressing for payment, mr. hand, the largest creditor, refused to secure his claim, saying, "if mr. williams lives, he will pay his debts. i am not at all concerned about it." the money was paid by mr. williams at his own convenience after several years. mr. hand had married early in life his cousin, elizabeth ward, daughter of dr. levi ward of rochester, n.y., who died early, as well as their young children. mr. hand remained a widower for more than fifty years. bereft of wife and children, fond of the southern people, yet heartily opposed to slavery, and realizing the helplessness and ignorance of the slaves, mr. hand decided to give to the american missionary association $ , , . , the income to be used "for the purpose of educating needy and indigent colored people of african descent, residing, or who may hereafter reside, in the recent slave states of the united states of america.... i would limit," he said, "the sum of $ as the largest sum to be expended for any one person in any one year from this fund." the fund, transferred oct. , , was to be known as the "daniel hand educational fund for colored people." upon mr. hand's death, at guilford, conn., dec. , , in the family of one of his nieces, it was found that he had made the american missionary association his residuary legatee. about $ , passed into the possession of the association, to be used for the same purpose as the million dollars; and about $ , , it is believed, will eventually go to the organization after life-use by others. the american missionary association is a noble society, organized in and chartered in , for helping the poor and neglected races at our own doors, by establishing churches and schools in the south among both negroes and whites, in the west among the indians, and in the pacific states among the chinese. the rev. dr. a. d. mayo says, in his book on the southern women in the recent educational movement in the south, "perhaps the most notable success in the secondary, normal, and higher training of colored youth has been achieved by the american missionary association.... at present its labors in the south are largely directed to training superior colored youth of both sexes for the work of teaching in the new public schools. it now supports six institutions called colleges and universities, in which not only the ordinary english branches are taught, but opportunity is offered for the few who desire a moderate college course." fisk university of nashville, which has sent out over , students, is one of the most interesting. the american missionary association assists schools for colored people with , pupils, churches for the same with over , members and a much larger number in the sunday-schools; churches among the indians with over members; schools among the chinese at the west with over , pupils and over christian chinese. mr. hand's noble gift aids about fifty schools in the various southern states from its income of over $ , yearly. mr. hand was a man of fine personal presence, of extensive reading, and wide observation. he gave, says his relative, mr. george a. wilcox, "for the well-being of many, both within and without the family connection, who have come within the province of deserved assistance; befriending those who try to help themselves, whether successfully or not, but unalterably stern in his disfavor when idleness or dissipation lead to want." he gave the academy bearing his name to his native town of madison, conn. he joined the first presbyterian church in augusta, ga., when he was twenty-eight years of age, and was for thirty years its efficient sunday-school superintendent. he organized a teachers' meeting, held every saturday evening, which proved of great benefit. he always loved the scriptures. he said one day to a friend, as he laid his hand on his well-worn bible, "i always read from that book every morning, and have done so from my boyhood, except in a comparatively few cases of unusual interruption or special hindrance." he was often heard to say, "i have now a very short time for this world, but i take no concern about that; no matter where or when i die, i hope i am ready to go when called." the temperance work needs another daniel hand to furnish a million dollars for its labors among the colored men of the south, where, says the thirtieth annual report of the national temperance society, "the saloon is everywhere working their ruin. it destroys their manhood, despoils their homes, impoverishes their families, defrauds their wives and children, and debauches the whole community." the national temperance society, whose efficient and lamented secretary, john n. stearns, died april , , was organized in . it has printed and scattered over , , pages of total-abstinence literature. with its board of thirty managers representing nearly all denominations and temperance organizations, ever on the alert to assist in making and enforcing helpful laws and to lessen the power of the liquor traffic, it is doing its work all over the nation. says one who has long been identified with this organization, "i believe there is no missionary society, either home or foreign, that is doing more for the cause of christ than this society, especially in saving the boys and girls; and yet, so far as i know, it receives less donations than any other society, and very rarely a legacy." mr. william e. dodge, the well-known merchant of new york, left the society, by will, $ , . mr. w. b. spooner of boston, and mr. james h. kellogg of rochester, n.y., each left $ , . it is a hopeful sign of the times when laws are passed in thirty-nine states and all the territories requiring the teaching of the nature and effects of alcoholic drinks upon the human system. it is encouraging when a million members of christian endeavor societies pledge themselves "to seek the overthrow of this evil at all times in every lawful way." our country has given grandly for education; it will in the future give more generously to reforms which help to do away with poverty and crime. george t. angell. george t. angell, the president and founder of "the american humane education society," and president and one of the founders of "the massachusetts society for the prevention of cruelty to animals," deserves, with the late lamented henry bergh of new york, the thanks of the nation for their noble work in teaching kindness to dumb creatures, and preventing cruelty. no charity can lie nearer to my own heart than the societies for the prevention of cruelty to animals. mr. angell, now seventy-three years of age,--he was born at southbridge, mass., june , ,--the son of a minister, a graduate of dartmouth college, a successful lawyer, gave up his practice of seventeen years, in , to devote himself and his means, without pay, to humane work all over the world. he has enlisted the highest and the lowest in behalf of dumb animals. he has spoken before schools and conventions, before legislatures and churches, before kings and in prisons, in behalf of those who must patiently submit to wrong, and have no voice to plead for themselves. mr. angell helped to establish the first "american band of mercy;" and now there are nearly , bands, with a membership of between one and two million persons, all pledged "to try to be kind to all living creatures, and try to protect them from cruel usage." he has helped to scatter more than two million copies, in nearly all european and some asiatic languages, of anna sewell's charming autobiography of an english horse, "black beauty," telling both of kind and cruel masters. ten thousand copies have recently been printed for circulation in the schools of italy. a thousand cruel fashions, such as that of docking horses, or killing for mere sport, will be done away when men and women have given these subjects more careful thought. "evil is wrought by want of thought as well as want of heart," wrote thomas hood in "the lady's dream." "our dumb animals," published in boston, of which mr. angell is the editor, and which should be in every home and school in the land, has a circulation of about , to , a month, and is sent to the editors of , american publications. over one hundred and seventeen million pages of humane literature are printed in a single year by the american humane education society and the massachusetts s. p. c. a.; the latter society has convicted about , persons in the last few years of overloading horses, beating dogs or inciting them to fight, starving animals, or other forms of cruelty. in most large cities drinking fountains have been provided for man and beast; transportation and slaughter of animals have been rendered more humane; children have been taught kindness to the weakest and smallest of god's creatures; to feel with cowper,-- "i would not enter on my list of friends (though graced with polished manners and fine sense, yet wanting sensibility) the man who needlessly sets foot upon a worm." some persons are following the example of baroness burdett-coutts in london, who has provided a home for lost dogs, where they are kept till their owners call for them, or are given away to those who know that to have a pet in the home is a sure way to make people more tender and more noble in character. such a place is found on lake street, brighton, mass., in the ellen m. gifford sheltering home for animals, where each year several hundred dogs and cats are received, and homes found for them. there is a large playground for the dogs, and greater space for the cats. it is stated in the report that the boston police "have always generously and humanely aided the work of the shelter." the objects of the "sheltering home" are:-- "first, to aid and succor the waifs and strays of the city. "second, to alleviate the sufferings of sick, abused, and homeless animals. "third, to find good homes for all those who come to the shelter, as far as possible. "fourth, to spread the gospel of humanity towards dumb creatures by practical example." it would be difficult to find in history a truly great person, like wellington, abraham lincoln, dr. samuel johnson, or sir walter scott, who has not been a lover of dogs or birds or cats. frederick the great when dying asked an attendant to cover one of his dogs which seemed to be shivering with the cold. "our dumb animals" for may, , gives the names of more than a hundred persons who have left legacies in the last few years to the massachusetts society for the prevention of cruelty to animals. every state and city needs more of these generous givers. a letter lies before me from mr. e. c. parmelee, the general agent of the society in cleveland, ohio, which says, "i regret to say that we have no dog shelter.... we should very much like to have one, and a hospital for broken-down and neglected horses.... we have very much hoped that we should have a bequest at no very distant day sufficiently large to build such a block as we need, with dormitories for children who are picked up in the night, and with an apartment for keeping our horse-ambulance, with a pair of horses and driver always at command, to remove such horses as are disabled, and fall in the streets from various causes." every society needs more agents to watch carefully the dumb creatures who carry heavy loads, or are neglected or ill treated; and the gospel of kindness to animals needs to be carried to every part of the earth. william w. corcoran and his art gallery. william wilson corcoran was born dec. , , at georgetown, d.c. he was the son of thomas corcoran, who settled in georgetown when a youth, and became one of its leading citizens. he was mayor, postmaster, and one of the founders of the columbian college, of which institution he was an active trustee while he lived. he was also one of the principal founders of two episcopal churches in georgetown, st. john's and christ's church, and was always a vestryman in one or the other. his son william, after a good preparatory education, spent a year at the georgetown college, and a year at the school of the rev. addison belt, a graduate of princeton. his father desired that he should complete his college course; but william was eager to enter upon a business life, and when he was seventeen went into the dry-goods store of his brothers, james and thomas corcoran. two years later they established him in business under the firm name of w. w. corcoran & co. the firm prospered so well that the wholesale auction and commission business was begun in . for four years the firm made money; but in the spring of , they, with many other merchants in georgetown and baltimore, failed, and were obliged to settle with their creditors for fifty cents on the dollar. young corcoran, then twenty-five years of age, devoted himself to caring for the property of his father, who was growing old. the father died jan. , . five years later, in , mr. corcoran married louise a. morris, who lived but five years after their marriage, dying nov. , , leaving a son and daughter. the son died soon after the death of his mother; the daughter grew to womanhood, and became a great joy to her father. she married the hon. george eustis, a member of congress from louisiana, and died in early life at cannes, france, , leaving three small children. mr. corcoran long before this had become a very successful banker. two years after his marriage, in , he moved his family to washington, and began the brokerage business in a small store, ten by sixteen feet, on pennsylvania avenue near fifteenth street. after three years he took into partnership mr. george w. riggs, the son of a wealthy man from maryland, under the firm name of corcoran & riggs. in they purchased the old united states bank building, corner of fifteenth street and new york avenue; and two years later mr. corcoran settled with his creditors of , paying principal and interest, about $ , . during the mexican war the firm made extensive loans to the government, which conservative bankers regarded as a hazardous investment. mr. riggs retired from the firm july , ; and his younger brother, elisha, was made a junior partner. "in august, , having about twelve millions of the six-per-cent loan of on hand, and the demand for it falling off in this country, and the stock being one per cent below the price at which corcoran & riggs took it, mr. corcoran determined to try the european markets; and, after one day's reflection, embarked for london, where, on arrival, he was told by mr. bates, of the house of baring bros. & co., and mr. george peabody, that no sale could be made of the stock, and no money could be raised by hypothecation thereof, and they regretted that he had not written to them to inquire before coming over. he replied that he was perfectly satisfied that such would be their views, and therefore came, confident that he could convince them of the expediency of taking an interest in the securities; and that the very fact that london bankers had taken them would make it successful. "ten days after his first interview with them, mr. thomas baring returned from the continent, and with him he was more successful. a sale of five millions at about cost (one hundred and one here) was made to six of the most eminent and wealthy houses in london, viz., baring bros. & co., george peabody, overend, gurney & co., dennison & co., samuel jones lloyd, and james morrison. "this was the first sale of american securities made in europe since ; and on his return to new york he was greeted by every one with marked expressions of satisfaction, his success being a great relief to the money market by securing that amount of exchange in favor of the united states. on his success being announced, the stock gradually advanced until it reached one hundred and nineteen and one-half, thus securing by his prompt and successful action a handsome profit which would otherwise have resulted in a serious loss." on april , , mr. corcoran withdrew from the banking-firm, and devoted himself to the management of his property and to his benevolent projects. in he began, at the northeast corner of pennsylvania avenue and seventeenth street, a building for the encouragement of the fine arts. the structure was used during the civil war for military purposes. in mr. corcoran deeded this property to trustees. "i shall ask you to receive," he wrote the trustees, "as a nucleus, my own gallery of art, which has been collected at no inconsiderable pains; and i have assurances from friends in other cities, whose tastes and liberality have taken this direction, that they will contribute fine works of art from their respective collections.... i venture to hope that with your kind co-operation and judicious management we shall have provided, at no distant day, not only a pure and refined pleasure for residents and visitors of the national metropolis, but have accomplished something useful in the development of american genius." in mr. corcoran also deeded to trustees the louise home, erected in memory of his wife and daughter, as a home for refined and educated gentlewomen who had "become reduced by misfortune." the deed specified that "there shall be no discrimination or distinction on account of religious creed or sectarian opinions, in respect to the trustees, directresses, officers, or inmates of the said establishment; but all proper facilities that may be possible in the judgment of the trustees shall be allowed and furnished to the inmates for the worship of almighty god, according to each one's conscientious belief." the building and grounds of the louise home in were estimated at $ , , and are now worth probably over $ , . the endowment consisted of an invested fund of $ , . mr. corcoran gave generously as long as he lived, having decided early in life that "at least one-half of his moneyed accumulations should be held for the welfare of men." in oak hill cemetery he erected a beautiful monument to the memory of john howard payne, author of "home, sweet home." it is a shaft of carrara marble, surmounted by a bust one and one-half times the size of the average man. in his old age he purchased the patapsco institute at ellicott's mills, and gave the title-deeds to the two grand-nieces of john randolph of roanoke, who were in reduced circumstances, that they might open a school. he gave to columbian university, it is stated, houses and lands and money, amounting to a quarter of a million dollars. the university of virginia, the ascension church, and other colleges and churches, were enriched through his generosity. mr. corcoran died in washington, feb. , , at the age of ninety years. he had given away over five million dollars. "the treasures of the corcoran art gallery," said its president in laying the corner-stone of a new building two years ago, "represent a money cost of $ , (exclusive of donations), a cost value which, of course, is greatly below the real value which these treasures represent to-day. the total value of the gallery, in its treasures, its endowments, and its buildings, is estimated to-day at $ , , . the total number of visitors who have inspected the paintings and sculpture exhibited in the gallery from the date of its opening down to the beginning of this month [may, ] was , , ." john d. rockefeller and chicago university. from our windows we look out upon a forest of beautiful beech-trees, great oaks, and maples. there are well-kept drives, cool ravines with tasteful walks, a pretty lake and boat-house, and great stretches of lawn, in the four hundred or more acres, such as one sees in england. the gravelled roadways are appropriately named. "blithedale" leads into a charming valley, through which a brook winds in and out, under a dozen bridges. the "maze" leads through clusters of beeches and other undergrowth, and opens upon a magnificent view of blue lake erie at the right and the busy city at the left. in the distance, on a hilltop, stands a large white frame house, with red roof. vines clamber over the broad double porches, red trumpet-creepers twine and blossom about some of the big oaks, beds of roses send out their fragrance, and the place looks most attractive and restful. it is "forest hill," at cleveland, ohio, the summer home of mr. john d. rockefeller, probably the greatest giver in america. our largest giver heretofore, so far as known, was george peabody, who gave at his death $ , , . mr. rockefeller has given about $ , , to one institution, besides several hundred thousand dollars each year for the past twenty-five years to various charities. mr. rockefeller comes from very honorable ancestry. the rockefellers were an old french family in normandy, who moved to holland, and came to america about , settling in new jersey. nearly a century ago, in , mr. rockefeller's grandfather, godfrey, married lucy, one of the averys of groton, conn., a family distinguished in the revolutionary war, and which has since furnished to our country many able men and women. the picturesque home of the averys, built in , in the town of new london (now groton), by captain james avery, was occupied by his descendants until it was destroyed by fire in . a monument has been erected upon the site, with a bronze tablet containing a _fac-simile_ of the old home. the youngest son of captain james avery was samuel, whose fine face looks out from the pages of the interesting avery genealogy, which homer d. l. sweet, of syracuse, spent thirty years in writing. samuel, an able and public-spirited man, married, in , in swanzey, mass., susannah palmes, a direct descendant, through thirty-four generations, of egbert, the first king of england. the name has always been retained in the family, lucy avery rockefeller naming her youngest son egbert. her eldest son, william avery, married eliza davison; and of their six children, john davison rockefeller is the second child and eldest son. [illustration: john d. rockefeller.] he was born in richford, tioga county, n.y., july , . his father, william avery, was a physician and business man as well. with great energy he cleared the forest, built a sawmill, loaned his money, and, like his noted son, knew how to overcome obstacles. the mother, eliza davison, was a woman of rare common sense and executive ability. self-poised in manner, charitable, persevering in whatever she attempted, she gave careful attention to the needs of her family, but did not forget that she had christian duties outside her home. the devotion of mr. rockefeller to his mother as long as she lived was marked, and worthy of example. the rockefeller home in richford was one of mutual work and helpfulness. the eldest child, lucy, now dead, was less than two years older than john; the third child, william, about two years younger; mary, franklin and frances, twins, each about two years younger than the others; the last named died early. all were taught the value of labor and of economy. the eldest son, john, early took responsibility upon himself. willing and glad to work, he cared for the garden, milked the cows, and acquired the valuable habit of never wasting his time. when about nine years old he raised and sold turkeys, and instead of spending the money, probably his first earnings, saved it, and loaned it at seven per cent. it would be interesting to know if the lad ever dreamed then of being perhaps the richest man in america? in the rockefeller family moved to cleveland, ohio; and john, then fourteen years of age, entered the high school. he was a studious boy, especially fond of mathematics and of music, and learned to play on the piano; he was retiring in manner, and exemplary in conduct. when between fourteen and fifteen years of age, he joined the erie street baptist church of cleveland, ohio, now known as the euclid avenue baptist church, where he has been from that time an earnest and most helpful worker in it. the boy of fifteen did not confine his work in the church to prayer-meetings and sunday-school. there was a church debt, and it had to be paid. he began to solicit money, standing in the church-door as the people went out, ready to receive what each was willing to contribute. he gave also of his own as much as was possible; thus learning early in life, not only to be generous, but to incite others to generosity. when about eighteen or nineteen, he was made one of the board of trustees of the church, which position he held till his absence from the city in the past few years prevented his serving. he has been the superintendent of the sunday-school of the euclid avenue baptist church for about thirty years. when he had held the office for twenty-five years the sunday-school celebrated the event by a reception for their leader. after addresses and music, each one of the five hundred or more persons present shook hands with mr. rockefeller, and laid a flower on the table beside him. from the first he has won the love of the children from his sympathy, kindness, and his interest in their welfare. no picnic even would be satisfactory to them without his presence. after two years passed in the cleveland high school, the school-year ending june, , young rockefeller took a summer course in the commercial college, and at sixteen was ready to see what obstacles the business world presented to a boy. he found plenty of them. it was the old story of every place seeming to be full; but he would not allow himself to be discouraged by continued refusals. he visited manufacturing establishments, stores, and shops, again and again, determined to find a position. he succeeded on the twenty-sixth day of september, , and became assistant bookkeeper in the forwarding and commission house of hewitt & tuttle. he did not know what pay he was to receive; but he knew he had taken the first step towards success,--he had obtained work. at the end of the year, for the three months, october, november, and december, he received fifty dollars,--not quite four dollars a week. the next year he was paid twenty-five dollars a month, or three hundred dollars a year, and at the end of fifteen months, took the vacant position with the same firm, at five hundred dollars, as cashier and bookkeeper, of a man who had been receiving a salary of two thousand dollars. desirous of earning more, young rockefeller after a time asked for eight hundred dollars as wages; and, the firm declining to give over seven hundred dollars a year, the enterprising youth, not yet nineteen, decided to start in business for himself. he had industry and energy; he was saving of both time and money; he had faith in his ability to succeed, and the courage to try. he had managed to save about a thousand dollars; and his father loaned him another thousand, on which he paid ten per cent interest, receiving the principal as a gift when he became twenty-one years of age. this certainly was a modest beginning for one of the founders of the standard oil company. having formed a partnership with morris b. clark, in , in produce commission and forwarding, the firm name became clark & rockefeller. the closest attention was given to business. mr. rockefeller lived within his means, and worked early and late, finding little or no time for recreation or amusements, but always time for his accustomed work in the church. there was always some person in sickness or sorrow to be visited, some child to be brought into the sunday-school, or some stranger to be invited to the prayer-meetings. the firm succeeded in business, and was continued with various partners for seven years, until the spring of . during this time some parts of the country, especially pennsylvania and ohio, had become enthusiastic over the finding of large quantities of oil through drilling wells. _the petroleum age_ for december, , gives a most interesting account of the first oil-well in this country, drilled at titusville, on oil creek, a branch of the alleghany river, in august, . petroleum had long been known, both in europe and america, under various names. the indians used it as a medicine, mixed it with paint to anoint themselves for war, or set fire at night to the oil that floated upon the surface of their creeks, making the illumination a part of their religious ceremonies. in ohio, in , when, in boring for salt, springs of petroleum were found, professor hildreth of marietta wrote that the oil was used in lamps in workshops, and believed it would be "a valuable article for lighting the street-lamps in the future cities of ohio." but forty years went by before the first oil-well was drilled, when men became almost as excited as in the rush to california for gold in . several refineries were started in cleveland to prepare the crude oil for illuminating purposes. mr. rockefeller, the young commission merchant, like his father a keen observer of men and things, as early as , the year after the first well was drilled, helped to establish an oil-refining business under the firm name of andrews, clark, & co. the business increased so rapidly that mr. rockefeller sold his interest in the commission house in , and with mr. samuel andrews bought out their associates in the refining business, and established the firm of rockefeller & andrews, the latter having charge of the practical details. mr. rockefeller was then less than twenty-six years old; but an exceptional opportunity had presented itself, and a young man of exceptional ability was ready for the opportunity. a good and cheap illuminator was a world-wide necessity; and it required brain, and system, and rare business ability to produce the best product, and send it to all nations. the brother of mr. rockefeller, william, entered into the partnership; and a new firm was established, under the name of william rockefeller & co. the necessity of a business house in new york for the sale of their products soon became apparent, and all parties were united in the firm of rockefeller & co. in mr. henry m. flagler, well known in connection with his improvements in st. augustine, fla., was taken into the company, which became rockefeller, andrews, & flagler. three years later, in , the standard oil company of ohio was established with a capital of $ , , , mr. rockefeller being made president. he was also made president of the national refiners' association. he was now thirty-one years old, far-seeing, self-centred, quiet and calm in manner, but untiring in work, and comprehensive in his grasp of business. the determination which had won a position for him in youth, even though it brought him but four dollars a week, the confidence in his ability, integrity, and sound judgment, which made the banks willing to lend him money, or men willing to invest their capital in his enterprise, made him a power in the business world thus early in life. amid all his business and his church work, he had found time to form another partnership, the wisest and best of all. in the same high school with him for two years was a young girl near his own age, laura c. spelman, a bright scholar, refined and sensible. her father was a merchant, a representative in the legislature of ohio, an earnest helper in the church, in temperance, and in all that lifts the world upward. he was the friend of the slave; and the spelman home was one of the restful stations on that "underground railroad" to which so many colored men and women owe their freedom. he was an active member for years of plymouth congregational church in cleveland, and later of dr. buddington's church in brooklyn, and of the broadway tabernacle, new york, under dr. wm. m. taylor. he died in new york city, oct. , . mrs. spelman, the mother, was also a devoted christian. she now lives, at the age of eighty-six, with her daughter, grateful, as she says, for life's beautiful sunset. she is loved by everybody, and her sweet face and voice would be sadly missed. she retains all her faculties, and has as deep an interest as ever in all religious, philanthropic, and political affairs. the spelman ancestors are english. sir henry spelman, knighted by king james i., died in , and lies buried in westminster abbey. henry s., the third son of sir henry, and first of the name in america, came to jamestown, va., in , and was killed by the indians. richard spelman, born in danbury, england, in , came to middletown, conn., in , and died in . laura's grandfather, samuel, was the fourth in line from richard. he was one of the pioneers in ohio, moving thither from granville, mass. her father, harvey b. spelman, was born in a log cabin in rootstown, ohio. her mother's family came also from massachusetts, from the town of blanford; and her father and mother met and were married in ohio. laura spelman was a member of the first graduating class of the cleveland high school, and has always retained the deepest interest in her classmates. after graduating, and spending some time in a boarding-school at the east, she taught very successfully for five years in the cleveland public schools, being assistant in one of the large grammar schools. at the age of twenty-five mr. rockefeller married miss spelman, sept. , . disliking display or extravagance, fond of books, a wise adviser in her home, a leader for many years of the infant department in the sunday-school, like her father a worker for temperance and in all philanthropic movements, mrs. rockefeller has been an example to the rich, and a friend and helper to the poor. comparatively few men and women can be intrusted with millions, and make the best use of the money. with mr. rockefeller's married life thus happily and wisely begun, business activities went on as before, perchance with less wear of body and mind. it was, of course, impossible to organize and carry forward a great business without anxiety and care. in cleave's "biographical cyclopædia of cuyahoga county," it is stated that, in , two years after the organization of the standard oil company, "nearly the entire refining interest of cleveland, and other interests in new york and the oil-regions, were combined in this company [the standard oil], the capital stock of which was raised to two and a half millions, and its business reached in one year over twenty-five million dollars,--the largest company of the kind in the world. the new york establishment was enlarged in its refining departments; large tracts of land were purchased, and fine warehouses erected for the storage of petroleum; a considerable number of iron cars were procured, and the business of transporting oil entered upon; interests were purchased in oil-pipes in the producing regions. "works were erected for the manufacture of barrels, paints, and glue, and everything used in the manufacture or shipment of oil. the works had a capacity of distilling twenty-nine thousand barrels of crude oil per day, and from thirty-five hundred to four thousand men were employed in the various departments. the cooperage factory, the largest in the world, turned out nine thousand barrels a day, which consumed over two hundred thousand staves and headings, the product of from fifteen to twenty acres of selected oak." ten years after this time, in , the standard oil trust was formed, with a capital of $ , , , afterwards increased to $ , , , which in a few years became possessed of large oil-producing interests, and of the stock of the companies controlling the greater part of the refining of petroleum in this country. ten years later, in , the supreme court of ohio having declared the trust to be illegal, it was dissolved, and the business is now conducted by separate companies. in each of these mr. rockefeller is a shareholder. mr. rockefeller has proved himself a remarkable organizer. his associates have been able men; and his vast business has been so systematized, and the leaders of departments held responsible, that it is managed with comparative ease. the standard oil companies own hundreds of thousands of acres of oil-lands, and wells, refineries, and many thousand miles of pipe-lines throughout the united states. they have business houses in the principal cities of the old world as well as the new, and carry their oil in their own great oil-steamships abroad as easily as in their pipe-lines to the american seaboard. they control the greater part of the petroleum business of this country, and export much of the oil used abroad. they employ from forty to fifty thousand men in this great industry, many of whom have remained with the companies for twenty or thirty years. it is said that strikes are unknown among them. when it is stated, as in the last united states census reports, that the production of crude petroleum in this country is about thirty-five million barrels a year, the capital invested in the production $ , , , and the value of the exports of petroleum in various forms amounts to nearly $ , , a year, the vastness of the business is apparent. with such power in their hands, instead of selling their product at high rates, they have kept oil at such low prices that the poorest all over the world have been enabled to buy and use it. mr. rockefeller has not confined his business interests to the standard oil company. he owns iron-mines and land in various states; he owns a dozen or more immense vessels on the lakes, besides being largely interested in other steamship lines on both the ocean and the great lakes; he has investments in several railroads, and is connected with many other industrial enterprises. with all these different lines of business, and being necessarily a very busy man, he never seems hurried or worried. his manner is always kindly and considerate. he is a good talker, an equally good listener, and gathers knowledge from every source. meeting the best educators of the country, coming in contact with leading business and professional men as well, and having travelled abroad and in his own country, mr. rockefeller has become a man of wide and varied intelligence. in physique he is of medium height, light hair turning gray, blue eyes, and pleasant face. he is a lover of trees, never allowing one to be cut down on his grounds unless necessity demands it, fond of flowers, knows the birds by their song or plumage, and never tires of the beauties of nature. he is as courteous to a servant as to a millionnaire, is social and genial, and enjoys the pleasantry of bright conversation. he has great power of concentration, is very systematic in business and also in his every-day life, allotting certain hours to work, and other hours to exercise, the bicycle being one of his chief out-door pleasures. he is fond of animals, and owns several valuable horses. a great saint bernard dog, white and yellow, called "laddie," was for years the pet of the household and the admiration of friends. when recently killed accidentally by an electric wire, the dog was carefully buried, and the grave covered with myrtle. a pretty stone, a foot and a half high, cut in imitation of the trunk of an oak-tree, at whose base fern-leaves cluster, marks the spot, with the words "our dog laddie; died, ," carved upon a tiny slab. it may be comparatively easy to do great deeds, but the little deeds of thoughtfulness and love for the dumb creatures who have loved us show the real beauty and refinement of character. mr. rockefeller belongs to few social organizations, his church work and his home-life sufficing. he is a member of the new england society, the union league club of new york, and of the empire state sons of the revolution, as his ancestors, both on his father's and mother's side, were in the revolutionary war. his home is a very happy one. into it have been born five children,--bessie, alice, who died early, alta, edith, and john d. rockefeller, jr. bessie is married to charles a. strong, associate professor of psychology in chicago university, a graduate of both the university of rochester and harvard, and has been a student at the universities of berlin and paris. he is a son of the rev. dr. augustus h. strong, president of rochester theological seminary. edith is married to harold f. mccormick of chicago, a graduate of princeton, and son of the late cyrus h. mccormick, whose invention of the reaper has been a great blessing to the world. mr. mccormick gave generously of his millions after he had acquired wealth. john d. rockefeller, jr., is at brown university, and will probably be associated with his father in business, for which he has shown much aptitude. the children have all been reared with the good sense and christian teaching that are the foundations of the best homes. they have dressed simply, lived without display, been active in hospital, sunday-school, and other good works, and found their pleasures in music, in which all the family are especially skilled, and in reading. they enjoy out-door life, skating in winter, and rowing, walking, and riding in the summer; but there is no lavish use of money for their pleasures. the daughters know how to sew, and have made many garments for poor children. they have been taught the useful things of home-life, and often cook delicacies for the sick. they have found out in their youth that the highest living is not for self. a recent gift from miss alta rockefeller is $ , annually to sustain an italian day-nursery in the eastern part of cleveland. this summer, , about fifty little people, two years old and upwards, enjoyed a picnic in the grounds of their benefactor. mrs. rockefeller's mother and sister, miss lucy m. spelman, a cultivated and philanthropic woman, are the other members of the rockefeller family. besides mr. rockefeller's summer home in cleveland, he has another with about one thousand acres of land at pocantico hills, near tarrytown on the hudson. the place is picturesque and historic, made doubly interesting through the legends of washington irving. from the summit of kaakoote mountain the views are of rare beauty. sleepy hollow and the grave of irving are not far distant. the winter home in new york city is a large brick house, with brown-stone front, near fifth avenue, furnished richly but not showily, containing some choice paintings and a fine library. mr. rockefeller will be long remembered as a remarkable financier and the founder of a great organization, but he will be remembered longest and honored most as a remarkable giver. we have many rich men in america, but not all are great givers; not all have learned that it is really more blessed to give than to receive; not all remember that we go through life but once, with its opportunities to brighten the lives about us, and to help to bear the burdens of others. mr. rockefeller began to give very early in life, and for the last forty years has steadily increased his giving as his wealth has increased. always reticent about his gifts, it is impossible to learn how much he has given or for what purposes. of necessity some gifts become public, such as his latest to vassar college of $ , , a like amount to rochester university and theological seminary, and the same, it is believed, to spelman seminary, at atlanta, ga., named as a memorial to his father-in-law. this is a school for colored women and girls, with preparatory, normal, musical, and industrial departments. the institute opened with eleven pupils in , and now has , with nine buildings on fourteen acres of land. dr. j. l. m. curry said in his report for , "in process of erection is the finest school building for normal purposes in the south, planned and constructed expressly with reference to the work of training teachers, which will cost over $ , ." in the industrial department, dress-cutting, sewing, cooking, and laundry work are taught. there is also a training-school for nurses. in a list of gifts for , in the _new york tribune_, mr. rockefeller's name appears in connection with des moines college, ia., $ , ; bucknell college, $ , ; shurtleff college $ , ; the memorial baptist church in new york, erected through the efforts of dr. edward judson in memory of his father, dr. adoniram judson, $ , ; besides large amounts to chicago university. it is probable that, aside from chicago university, these were only a small proportion of his gifts during that year. an article in the press states that the recent anonymous gift of $ , to help purchase the land for the site of barnard college of columbia university was from mr. rockefeller. he has also pledged $ , towards a million dollars, which are to be used for the construction of model tenement houses for the poor in new york city. he has given largely to the cleveland young men's christian association, and to young men's and women's christian associations both in this country and abroad. he has built churches, given yearly large sums to foreign and home missions, charity organization societies, indian associations, hospital work, fresh-air funds, libraries, kindergartens, societies for the prevention of cruelty to animals, for the education of the colored people at the south, and to the woman's christian temperance unions and to the national temperance society. he is a total abstainer, and no wine is ever upon his table. he does not use tobacco in any form. mr. rockefeller's private charities have been almost numberless. he has aided young men and women through college, sometimes by gift and sometimes by loan. he has provided the means for persons who were ill to go abroad or elsewhere for rest. he does not forget, when his apples are gathered at pocantico hills, to send hundreds of barrels to the various charitable institutions in and near new york, or, when one of his workingmen dies, to continue the support to his family while it is needed. some of us become too busy to think of the little ways of doing good. it is said by those who know him best, that he gives more time to his benevolences and to their consideration than to his business affairs. he employs secretaries, whose time is given to the investigation of requests for aid, and attending to such cases as are favorably decided upon. mr. rockefeller's usual plan of giving is to pledge a certain sum on condition that others give, thus making them share in the blessings of benevolence. at one time he gave conditionally about $ , , and it resulted in $ , , being secured for some twenty or thirty institutions of learning in all parts of the country. it is said by a friend, that on his pledge-book are hundreds of charities to which he gives regularly many thousand dollars each month. his greatest gift has been that of $ , , to the university of chicago. the first university of chicago existed from to , a period of twenty-eight years, and was discontinued from lack of funds. when the american baptist education society, formed at washington, d.c., in may, , held its first anniversary in tremont temple, boston, it was resolved "to take immediate steps toward the founding of a well-equipped college in the city of chicago." mr. rockefeller had already become interested in founding such an institution, and made a subscription of $ , toward an endowment fund, conditioned on the pledging by others of $ , before june , . the rev. t. w. goodspeed, and the rev. e. t. gates, secretary of the education society, succeeded in raising this amount, and in addition a block and a half of ground as a site for the institution, valued at $ , , given by mr. marshall field of chicago. two and a half blocks were purchased for $ , , making in all twenty-four acres, lying between the two great south parks of chicago, washington and jackson, and fronting on the midway plaisance, a park connecting the other two. these parks contain a thousand acres. the university was incorporated in , and professor william rainey harper of yale university was elected president. the choice was an eminently wise one, a man of progressive ideas being needed for the great university. he had graduated at muskingum college in , taken his degree of ph.d. at yale in , been professor of hebrew and the cognate languages at the baptist union theological seminary for seven years, professor of the semitic languages at yale for five years, and woolsey professor of biblical literature at yale for two years, besides filling other positions of influence. in september, , mr. rockefeller made a second subscription of $ , , ; and, in accordance with the terms of this gift, the theological seminary was removed from morgan park to the university site, as the divinity school of the university, and dormitories erected, and an academy of the university established at morgan park. the university began the erection of its first buildings nov. , . mr. henry ives cobb was chosen as the architect, and the english gothic style is to be maintained throughout. the buildings are of blue bedford stone, with red tiled roofs. the recitation buildings, laboratories, chapel, museum, gymnasium, and library are the central features; while the dormitories are arranged in quadrangles on the four corners. mr. rockefeller's third gift was made in february, , "one thousand five per cent bonds of the par value of one million dollars," for the further endowment of instruction. in december of the same year he gave an equal amount for endowment, "one thousand thousand-dollar five per cent bonds." in june, he gave $ , ; the next year, december, , in cash, $ , . on jan. , , another million, promising two millions more on condition that the university should also raise two millions. half of this sum was obtained at once through the gift of miss helen culver. in her letter to the trustees of the university, she says, "the whole gift shall be devoted to the increase and spread of knowledge within the field of biological science.... among the motives prompting this gift is the desire to carry out the ideas, and to honor the memory, of mr. charles j. hull, who was for a considerable time a member of the board of trustees of the old university of chicago." miss culver is a cousin of the late mr. hull, who left her his millions for philanthropic purposes. their home for many years was the mansion since known as hull house. the university of chicago has been fortunate in other gifts. mr. s. a. kent of chicago gave the kent chemical laboratory, costing $ , , opened jan. , . the ryerson physical laboratory, costing $ , , opened july , , was the gift of mr. martin a. ryerson, as a memorial to his father. mrs. caroline haskell gave $ , for the haskell oriental museum, as a memorial of her husband, mr. frederick haskell. there will be rooms for egyptian, babylonian, greek, hebrew, and other collections. mr. george c. walker, $ , for the walker museum for geological and anthropological specimens; mr. charles t. yerkes, nearly a half million for the yerkes observatory and forty-inch telescope; mrs. n. s. foster, mrs. henrietta snell, mrs. mary beecher, and mrs. elizabeth g. kelley have each given $ , , or more, for dormitories. it is expected that half a million will be realized from the estate of william b. ogden for "the ogden (graduate) school of science." the first payment has amounted to half that sum. considerably over $ , , have been given to the university. the total endowment is over $ , , . the university opened its doors to students on oct. , , in cobb lecture hall, given by mr. silas b. cobb of chicago, and costing $ , . the number of students during the first year exceeded nine hundred. the professors have been chosen with great care, and number among them some very distinguished men, from both the old world and the new. the university of chicago is co-educational, which is matter for congratulation. its courses are open on equal terms to men and women, with the same teachers, the same studies, and the same diplomas. "three of the deans are women," says grace gilruth rigby in _peterson's magazine_ for february, , "and half a dozen women are members of its faculty. they instruct men as well as women, and in this particular it differs from most co-educational schools." the university has some unique features. instead of the usual college year beginning in september, the year is divided into four quarters, beginning respectively on the first day of july, october, january, and april, and continuing twelve weeks each, with a recess of one week between the close of each quarter and the beginning of the next. degrees are conferred the last week of every quarter. the summer quarter, which was at first an experiment, has proved so successful that it is now an established feature. the instructor takes his vacation in any quarter, or may take two vacations of six weeks each. the student may absent himself for a term or more, and take up the work where he left off, or he may attend all the quarters, and thus shorten his college course. much attention is given to university extension work, and proper preparatory work is obtained through the affiliation of academies with the university. instruction is also given by the university through correspondence with those who wish to pursue preparatory or college studies. "chicago is, as far as i am aware," writes the late hjalmar hjorth boyesen in the _cosmopolitan_ for april, , "the first institution which, by the appointment of a permanent salaried university extension faculty, has formally charged itself with a responsibility for the outside public. this is a great step, and one of tremendous consequence." a non-resident student is expected to matriculate at the university, and usually spends the first year in residence. non-resident work is accepted for only one-third of the work required for a degree. the university has eighty regular fellowships and scholarships, besides several special fellowships. the institution, according to robert herrick, in _scribner's magazine_ for october, , seems to have the spirit of its founder. "two college settlements in the hard districts of chicago," he writes, "are supported and manned by the students.... the classes and clubs of the settlements show that the college students feel the impossibility of an academic life that lives solely to itself. on the philanthropic committee, and as teachers in the settlement classes, men and women, instructors and students, work side by side. the interest in sociological studies, which is commoner at chicago than elsewhere, stimulates this modern activity in college life." the university of chicago has been successful from the first. in it numbered , students, of whom were in the graduate schools, most of them having already received their bachelor's degree at other colleges. in there are over , students. the possibilities of the university are almost unlimited. dr. albert shaw writes in the _review of reviews_ for february, , "no rich man's recognition of his opportunity to serve society in his own lifetime has ever produced results so mature and so extensive in so very short a time as mr. john d. rockefeller's recent gifts to the chicago university." the _new york sun_ for july , , gives mr. rockefeller the following well-deserved praise: "mr. john d. rockefeller has paid his first visit to the university of chicago, which was built up and endowed by his magnificent gifts. the millions he has bestowed on that institution make him one of the very greatest of private contributors to the foundation of a school of learning in the whole history of the world. he has given the money, moreover, in his lifetime, and thus differs from nearly all others of the most notable founders and endowers of colleges. "by so giving, too, he has distinguished himself from the great mass of all those who have made large benefactions for public uses. he has taken the millions from his rapidly accumulating fortune; and he has made the gifts quietly, modestly, and without the least seeking for popular applause, or to win the conspicuous manifestations of honor their munificence could easily have obtained for him. the reason for this remarkable peculiarity of mr. rockefeller as a public benefactor is that, being a deeply religious man, he has made his gifts as an obligation of religious duty, as it seems to him." mr. rockefeller's latest gift, of $ , , was made to the people of cleveland, ohio, when that city celebrated her one hundredth birthday, july , . the gift was two hundred and seventy-six acres of land of great natural beauty, to complete the park system of the city. for this land mr. rockefeller paid $ , . the land is already worth a million dollars, and will be worth many times that amount in the years to come. when announcing mr. rockefeller's munificent gift to the city, mr. j. g. w. cowles, president of the chamber of commerce, said of the giver: "his modesty is equal to his liberality, and he is not here to share with us this celebration. the streams of his benevolence flow largely in hidden channels, unseen and unknown to men; but when he founds a university in chicago, or gives a beautiful park to cleveland, with native forests and shady groves, rocky ravines, sloping hillsides and level valleys, cascades and running brook and still pools of water, all close by our homes, open and easy of access to all our people, such deeds cannot be hid--they belong to the public and to history, as the gift itself is for the people and for posterity." the centennial gift has caused great rejoicing and gratitude, and will be a blessing forever to the whole people, but especially to those whose daily work keeps them away from the fresh air and the sunshine. a day or two after the gift had been received, a large number of cleveland's prominent citizens visited the giver at his home at forest hill, to express to him the thanks of the city. after the address of gratitude, mr. rockefeller responded with much feeling. "this is our centennial year," he said. "the city of cleveland has grown to great proportions, and has prospered far beyond anything any of us had anticipated. what will be said by those who will come after us when a hundred years hence this city celebrates its second centennial anniversary, and reference is made to you, gentlemen, and to me? will it be said that this or that man has accumulated great treasures? no; all that will be forgotten. the question will be, what did we do with our treasures? did we, or did we not, use them to help our fellow-man? this will be forever remembered." after referring to his early school-life in the city, and efforts to find employment, he told how, needing a little money to engage in business, and in the "innocence of his youth and inexperience" supposing almost any of his business friends would indorse his note for the amount needed, he visited one after another; and, said mr. rockefeller, "each one of them had the most excellent reasons for refusing!" finally he determined to try the bankers, and called upon a man whom the city delights to honor, mr. t. p. handy. the banker received the young man kindly, invited him to be seated, asked a few questions, and then loaned him $ , , "a large amount for me to have all at one time," said mr. rockefeller. mr. rockefeller is still in middle life, with, it is hoped, many years before him in which to carry out his great projects of benevolence. he is as modest and gentle in manner, as unostentatious and as kind in heart, as when he had no millions to give away. he is never harsh, seems to have complete self-control, and has not forgotten to be grateful to the men who befriended and trusted him in his early business life. his success may be attributed in part to industry, energy, economy, and good sense. he loved his work, and had the courage to battle with difficulties. he had steadiness of character, the ability to command the confidence of business men from the beginning, and gave close and careful attention to the matters intrusted to him. mr. rockefeller will be remembered, not so much because he accumulated millions, but because he gave away millions, thereby doing great good, and setting a noble example. +-------------------------------------------------+ |transcriber's note: | | | |obvious typographic errors have been corrected. | | | +-------------------------------------------------+ all sorts and conditions of men an impossible story by walter besant and james rice new york lovell, coryell & company , and east th street to the memory of james rice preface. the ten years' partnership of myself and my late friend mr. james rice has been terminated by death. i am persuaded that nothing short of death would have put an end to a partnership which was conducted throughout with perfect accord, and without the least difference of opinion. the long illness which terminated fatally on april th of this year began in january of last year. there were intervals during which he seemed to be recovering and gaining strength; he was, indeed, well enough in the autumn to try change of air by a visit to holland; but he broke down again very shortly after his return: though he did not himself suspect it, he was under sentence of death, and for the last six months of his life his downward course was steady and continuous. almost the last act of his in our partnership was the arrangement, with certain country papers and elsewhere, for the serial publication of this novel, the subject and writing of which were necessarily left entirely to myself. the many wanderings, therefore, which i undertook last summer in stepney, whitechapel, poplar, st. george's in the east, limehouse, bow, stratford, shadwell, and all that great and marvellous unknown country which we call east london, were undertaken, for the first time for ten years, alone. they would have been undertaken in great sadness had one foreseen the end. in one of these wanderings i had the happiness to discover rotherhithe, which i afterward explored with carefulness; in another, i lit upon a certain haven of rest for aged sea-captains, among whom i found captain sorensen; in others i found many wonderful things, and conversed with many wonderful people. the "single-handedness," so to speak, of this book would have been a mere episode in the history of the firm, a matter of no concern or interest to the general public, had my friend recovered. but he is dead; and it therefore devolves upon me to assume the sole responsibility of the work, for good or bad. the same responsibility is, of course, assumed for the two short stories, "the captain's room," published at christmas last, and "they were married," published as the summer number of the _illustrated london news_. the last story was, in fact, written after the death of my partner; but as it had already been announced, it was thought best, under the circumstances, to make no change in the title. i have been told by certain friendly advisers that this story is impossible. i have, therefore, stated the fact on the title-page, so that no one may complain of being taken in or deceived. but i have never been able to understand why it is impossible. walter besant. united universities' club, _august , _. contents. chapter page prologue--in two parts, i.--news for his lordship, ii.--a very complete case, iii.--only a dressmaker, iv.--uncle bunker, v.--the cares of wealth, vi.--a first step, vii.--the trinity almshouse, viii.--what he got by it, ix.--the day before the first, x.--the great davenant case, xi.--the first day, xii.--sunday at the east end, xiii.--angela's experiment, xiv.--the tender passion, xv.--a splendid offer, xvi.--harry's decision, xvii.--what lord jocelyn thought, xviii.--the palace of delight, xix.--dick the radical, xx.--down on their luck, xxi.--lady davenant, xxii.--daniel fagg, xxiii.--the missing link, xxiv.--lord jocelyn's troubles, xxv.--an invitation, xxvi.--lord davenant's greatness, xxvii.--the same signs, xxviii.--harry finds liberty, xxix.--the figure-heads, xxx.--the professor's proposal, xxxi.--captain coppin, xxxii.--bunker at bay, xxxiii.--mr. bunker's letter, xxxiv.--proofs in print, xxxv.--"then we'll keep company," xxxvi.--what will be the end? xxxvii.--truth with faithfulness, xxxviii.--i am the dressmaker, xxxix.--thrice happy boy, xl.--sweet nelly, xli.--boxing-night, xlii.--not josephus, but another, xliii.--o my prophetic soul! xliv.--a fool and his money, xlv.--lady davenant's dinner-party, xlvi.--the end of the case, xlvii.--a palace of delight, xlviii.--my lady sweet, xlix.--"uprouse ye then, my merry, merry men," all sorts and conditions of men prologue.--part i. it was the evening of a day in early june. the time was last year, and the place was cambridge. the sun had been visible in the heavens, a gracious presence, actually a whole week--in itself a thing remarkable; the hearts of the most soured, even of landlords and farmers, were coming to believe again in the possibility of fine weather; the clergy were beginning to think that they might this year hold a real harvest thanksgiving instead of a sham; the trees at the backs were in full foliage; the avenues of trinity and clare were splendid; beside them the trim lawns sloped to the margin of the cam, here most glorious and proudest of english rivers, seeing that he laves the meadows of those ancient and venerable foundations, king's, trinity, and st. john's, to say nothing of queen's and clare and magdalen; men were lazily floating in canoes, or leaning over the bridges, or strolling about the walks, or lying on the grass; and among them--but not--oh! not with them--walked or rested many of the damsels of learned newnham, chiefly in pairs, holding sweet converse on mind and art, and labor and the changing mart, and all the framework of the land: not neglecting the foundations of the christian faith and other fashionable topics, which ladies nowadays handle with so much learning, originality, dexterity, and power. we have, however, to do with only one pair, who were sitting together on the banks opposite trinity. these two were talking about a subject far more interesting than any concerning mind, or art, or philosophy, or the chances of the senate-house, or the future of newnham: for they were talking about themselves and their own lives, and what they were to do each with that one life which happened, by the mere accident of birth, to belong to herself. it must be a curious subject for reflection in extreme old age, when everything has happened that is going to happen, including rheumatism, that, but for this accident, one's life might have been so very different. "because, angela," said the one who wore spectacles and looked older than she was, by reason of much pondering over books and perhaps too little exercise, "because, my dear, we have but this one life before us, and if we make mistakes with it, or throw it away, or waste it, or lose our chances, it is such a dreadful pity. oh, to think of the girls who drift and let every chance go by, and get nothing out of their lives at all--except babies" (she spoke of babies with great contempt). "oh! it seems as if every moment were precious: oh! it is a sin to waste an hour of it." she gasped and clasped her hands together with a sigh. she was not acting, not at all; this girl was that hitherto rare thing, a girl of study and of books; she was wholly possessed, like the great scholars of old, with the passion for learning. "oh! greedy person!" replied the other with a laugh, "if you read all the books in the university library, and lose the enjoyment of sunshine, what shall it profit you, in the long run?" this one was a young woman of much finer physique than her friend. she was not short-sighted, but possessed, in fact, a pair of orbs of very remarkable clearness, steadiness, and brightness. they were not soft eyes, nor languishing eyes, nor sleepy eyes, nor downcast, shrinking eyes; they were wide-awake, brown, honest eyes, which looked fearlessly upon all things, fair or foul. a girl does not live at newnham two years for nothing, mind you; when she leaves that seat of learning, she has changed her mind about the model, the perfect, the ideal woman. more than that, she will change the minds of her sisters and her cousins; and there are going to be a great many newnhams, and the spread of this revolution will be rapid; and the shrinking, obedient, docile, man-reverencing, curate-worshipping maiden of our youth will shortly vanish and be no more seen. and what will the curate do then, poor thing? wherefore let the bishop look to certain necessary changes in the marriage service; and let the young men see that their own ideas change with the times, else there will be no sweethearts for them. more could i prophesy, but refrain. this young lady owned, besides those mentioned above, many other points which will always be considered desirable at her age, whatever be the growth of feminine education (wherefore, courage, brothers!). in all these points she contrasted favorably with her companion. for her face was sunny, and fair to look upon; one of the younger clerical dons--now a scanty band, almost a remnant--was reported to have said, after gazing upon that face, that he now understood, which he had never understood before, what solomon meant when he compared his love's temples to a piece of pomegranate within her locks. no one asked him what _he_ meant, but he was a mathematical man, and so he must have meant something, if it was only trigonometry. as to her figure, it was what a healthy, naturally dressed, and strong young woman's figure ought to be, and not more slender in the waist than was the figure of venus or mother eve; and her limbs were elastic, so that she seemed when she walked as if she would like to run, jump, and dance, which, indeed, she would have greatly preferred, only at newnham they "take it out" at lawn tennis. and whatever might be the course of life marked out by herself, it was quite certain to the intelligent observer that before long love the invincible--love that laughs at plots, plans, conspiracies, and designs--would upset them all, and trace out quite another line of life for her, and most probably the most commonplace line of all. "your life, constance," she went on, "seems to me the most happy and the most fortunate. how nobly you have vindicated the intellect of women by your degree!" "no, my dear." constance shook her head sadly. "no: only partly vindicated our intellect; remember i was but fifth wrangler, and there were four men--men, angela--above me. i wanted to be senior." "everybody knows that the fifth is always as good as the first." constance, however, shook her head at this daring attempt at consolation. "at all events, constance, you will go on to prove it by your original papers when you publish your researches. you will lecture like hypatia; you will have the undergraduates leaving the men and crowding to your theatre. you will become the greatest mathematician in cambridge; you will be famous for ever. you will do better than man himself, even in man's most exalted level of intellectual strength." the pale cheek of the student flushed. "i do not expect to do better than men," she replied humbly. "it will be enough if i do as well. yes, my dear, all my life, short or long, shall be given to science. i will have no love in it, or marriage, or--or--anything of that kind at all." "nor will i," said the other stoutly, yet with apparent effort. "marriage spoils a woman's career; we must live our life to its utmost, constance." "we must, angela. it is the only thing in this world of doubt that is a clear duty. i owe mine to science. you, my dear, to----" she would have said to "political economy," but a thought checked her. for a singular thing had happened only the day before. this friend of hers, this angela messenger, who had recently illustrated the strength of women's intellect by passing a really brilliant examination in that particular science, astonished her friends at a little informal meeting in the library by an oration. in this speech she went out of her way to pour contempt upon political economy. it was a so-called science, she said--not a science at all: a collection of theories impossible of proof. it treated of men and women as skittles, it ignored the principal motives of action, it had been put together for the most part by doctrinaires who lived apart, and knew nothing about men and less about women, and it was a favorite study, she cruelly declared, of her own sex, because it was the most easily crammed and made the most show. as for herself, she declared that for all the good it had done her, she might just as well have gone through a course of æsthetics or studied the symbols of advanced ritualism. therefore, remembering the oration, constance woodcote hesitated. to what cause (with a capital c) should angela messenger devote her life? "i will tell you presently," said angela, "how i shall begin my life. where the beginning will lead me, i cannot tell." then there was silence for a while. the sun sank lower and the setting rays fell upon the foliage, and every leaf showed like a leaf of gold, and the river lay in shadow and became ghostly, and the windows of trinity library opposite to them glowed, and the new court of st. john's at their left hand became like unto the palace of kubla khan. "oh!" sighed the young mathematician. "i shall never be satisfied till newnham crosses the river. we must have one of these colleges for ourselves. we must have king's. yes, king's will be the best. and oh! how differently we shall live from the so-called students who are now smoking tobacco in each other's rooms, or playing billiards, or even cards--the superior sex!" "as for us, we shall presently go back to our rooms, have a cup of tea and a talk, my dear. then we shall go to bed. as regards the men, those of your mental level, constance, do not, i suppose, play billiards; nor do they smoke tobacco. undergraduates are not all students, remember. most of them are nothing but mere pass-men who will become curates." two points in this speech seem to call for remark. first, the singular ignorance of mankind, common to all women, which led the girl to believe that a great man of science is superior to the pleasures of weaker brethren; for they cannot understand the delights of fooling. the second point is--but it may be left to those who read as they run. then they rose and walked slowly under the grand old trees of trinity avenue, facing the setting sun, so that when they came to the end and turned to the left, it seemed as if they plunged into night. and presently they came to the gates of newnham, the newer newnham, with its trim garden and queen anne mansion. it grates upon one that the beginnings of a noble and lasting reform should be housed in a palace built in the conceited fashion of the day. what will they say of it in fifty years, when the fashion has changed and new styles reign? "come," said angela, "come into my room. let my last evening in the dear place be spent with you, constance." angela's own room was daintily furnished and adorned with as many pictures, pretty things, books, and _bric-à-brac_ as the narrow dimensions of a newnham cell will allow. in a more advanced newnham there will be two rooms for each student, and these will be larger. the girls sat by the open window: the air was soft and sweet. a bunch of cowslips from the coton meadows perfumed the room; there was the jug-jug of a nightingale in some tree not far off; opposite them were the lights of the other newnham. "the last night!" said angela. "i can hardly believe that i go down to-morrow." then she was silent again. "my life," she went on, speaking softly in the twilight, "begins to-morrow. what am i to do with it? your own solution seems so easy because you are clever and you have no money, while i, who am--well, dear, not devoured by thirst for learning--have got so much. to begin with, there is the brewery. you cannot escape from a big brewery if it belong to you. you cannot hide it away. messenger, marsden & company's stout, their xxx, their old and mild, their bitter, their family ales (that particularly at eight-and-six the nine-gallon cask, if paid for on delivery), their drays, their huge horses, their strong men, whose very appearance advertises the beer, and makes the weak-kneed and the narrow-chested rush to whitechapel--my dear, these things stare one in the face wherever you go. i am that brewery, as you know. i am messenger, marsden & company, myself, the sole partner in what my lawyer sweetly calls the concern. nobody else is concerned in it. it is--alas!--my own great concern, a dreadful responsibility." "why? your people manage it for you." "yes--oh! yes--they do. and whether they manage it badly or well i do not know; whether they make wholesome beer or bad, whether they treat their clerks and workmen generously or meanly, whether the name of the company is beloved or hated, i do not know. perhaps the very making of beer at all is wickedness." "but--angela," the other interrupted, "it is no business of yours. naturally, wages are regulated by supply and----" "no, my dear. that is political economy. i prefer the good old english plan. if i employ a man and he works faithfully, i should like that man to feel that he grows every day worth to me more than his marketable value." constance was silenced. "then, beside the brewery," angela went on, "there is an unconscionable sum of money in the funds." "there, at least," said her friend, "you need feel no scruple of conscience." "but indeed i do; for how do i know that it is right to keep all this money idle! a hundred pounds saved and put into the funds mean three pounds a year. it is like a perennial stream flowing from a hidden reservoir in the hillside. but this stream, in my case, does no good at all. it neither fertilizes the soil nor is it drunk by man or beast, nor does it turn mills, nor is it a beautiful thing to look upon, nor does its silver current flow by banks of flowers or fall in cascades. it all runs away, and makes another reservoir in another hillside. my dear, it is a stream of compound interest, which is constantly getting deeper and broader and stronger, and yet is never of the least use, and turns no wheels. now, what am i to do with this money?" "endow newnham; there, at least, is something practical." "i will found some scholarships, if you please, later on, when you have made your own work felt. again, there are my houses in the east end." "sell them." "that is only to shift the responsibility. my dear, i have streets of houses. they all lie about whitechapel way. my grandfather, john messenger, bought houses, i believe, just as other people buy apples, by the peck, or some larger measure, a reduction being made on taking a quantity. there they are, and mostly inhabited." "you have agents, i suppose?" said constance unsympathizingly. "it is their duty to see that the houses are well kept." "yes, i have agents. but they cannot absolve me from responsibility." "then," asked constance, "what do you mean to do?" "i am a native almost of whitechapel. my grandfather, who succeeded to the brewery, was born there. his father was also a brewer: his grandfather is, i believe, prehistoric: he lived there long after his son, my father, was born. when he moved to bloomsbury square he thought he was getting into quite a fashionable quarter, and he only went to portman square because he desired me to go into society. i am so rich that i shall quite certainly be welcomed in society. but, my dear, whitechapel and its neighborhood are my proper sphere. why, my very name! i reek of beer; i am all beer; my blood is beer. angela marsden messenger! what could more plainly declare my connection with messenger, marsden & company? i only wonder that he did not call me marsden-&-company messenger." "but--angela----" "he would, constance, if he had thought of it. for, you see, i was the heiress from the very beginning, because my father died before my birth. and my grandfather intended me to become the perfect brewer, if a woman can attain to so high an ideal. therefore i was educated in the necessary and fitting lines. they taught me the industries of england, the arts and manufactures, mathematics, accounts, the great outlets of trade, book-keeping, mechanics--all those things that are practical. how it happened that i was allowed to learn music i do not know. then, when i grew up, i was sent here by him, because the very air of cambridge, he thought, makes people exact; and women are so prone to be inexact. i was to read while i was here all the books about political and social economy. i have also learned for business purposes two or three languages. i am now finished. i know all the theories about people, and i don't believe any of them will work. therefore, my dear, i shall get to know the people before i apply them." "was your grandfather a student of political economy?" "not at all. but he had a respect for justice, and he wanted me to be just. it is so difficult, he used to say, for a woman to be just. for either she flies into a rage and punishes with excess, or she takes pity and forgives. as for himself, he was as hard as nails, and the people knew it." "and your project?" "it is very simple. i efface myself. i vanish. i disappear." "what?" "if anybody asks where i am, no one will know, except you, my dear; and you will not tell." "you will be in----" "in whitechapel, or thereabouts. your angela will be a dressmaker, and she will live by herself and become--what her great-grandmother was--one of the people." "you will not like it at all." "perhaps not; but i am weary of theories, facts, statistics. i want flesh and blood. i want to feel myself a part of this striving, eager, anxious humanity, on whose labors i live in comfort, by whom i have been educated, to whom i owe all, and for whom i have done nothing--no, nothing at all, selfish wretch that i am!" she clasped her hands with a fine gesture of remorse. "o woman of silence!" she cried; "you sit upon the heights, and you can disregard--because it is your right--the sorrows and the joys of the world. but i cannot. i belong to the people--with a great big p, my dear--i cannot bear to go on living by their toil and giving nothing in return. what a dreadful thing is a she-dives!" "i confess," said constance coldly, "that i have always regarded wealth as a means for leading the higher life--the life of study and research--unencumbered by the sordid aims and mean joys of the vulgar herd." "it is possible and right for you to live apart, my dear. it is impossible, because it would be wrong for me." "but--alone? you will venture into the dreadful region alone?" "quite alone, constance." "and--and--your reputation, angela?" angela laughed merrily. "as for my reputation, my dear, it may take care of itself. those of my friends who think i am not to be trusted may transfer their affection to more worthy objects. the first thing in the emancipation of the sex, constance, is equal education. the next is----" "what?" for angela paused. she drew forth from her pocket a small bright instrument of steel, which glittered in the twilight. not a revolver, dear readers. "the next," she said, brandishing the weapon before constance's eyes, "is--the latch-key." prologue.--part ii. the time was eleven in the forenoon; the season was the month of roses; the place was a room on the first floor at the park-end of piccadilly--a noisy room, because the windows were open, and there was a great thunder and rattle of cabs, omnibuses, and all kinds of vehicles. when this noise became, as it sometimes did, intolerable, the occupant of the room shut his double windows, and immediately there was a great calm, with a melodious roll of distant wheels, like the buzzing of bees about the marigold on a summer afternoon. with the double window a man may calmly sit down amid even the roar of cheapside, or the never-ending cascade of noise at charing cross. the room was furnished with taste; the books on the shelves were well bound, as if the owner took a proper pride in them, as indeed was the case. there were two or three good pictures; there was a girl's head in marble; there were cards and invitations lying on the mantel-shelf and in a rack beside the clock. everybody could tell at the first look of the room that it was a bachelor's den. also because nothing was new, and because there were none of the peacockeries, whims and fancies, absurdities, fads and fashions, gimcrackeries, the presence of which does always and infallibly proclaim the chamber of a young man; this room manifestly belonged to a bachelor who was old in the profession. in fact, the owner of the chambers, of which this was the breakfast, morning, and dining-room, whenever he dined at home, was seated in an armchair beside a breakfast-table, looking straight before him, with a face filled with anxiety. an honest, ugly, pleasing, rugged, attractive face, whose features were carved one day when dame nature was benevolently disposed, but had a blunt chisel. "i always told him," he muttered, "that he should learn the whole of his family history as soon as he was three-and-twenty years of age. one must keep such promises. yet it would have been better that he should never know. but then it might have been found out, and that would have been far worse. yet, how could it have been found out? no: that is ridiculous." he mused in silence. in his fingers he held a cigar which he had lit, but allowed to go out again. the morning paper was lying on the table, unopened. "how will the boy take it?" he asked; "will he take it crying? or will he take it laughing?" he smiled, picturing to himself the "boy's" astonishment. looking at the man more closely, one became aware that he was really a very pleasant-looking person. he was about five-and-forty years of age, and he wore a full beard and mustache, after the manner of his contemporaries, with whom a beard is still considered a manly ornament to the face. the beard was brown, but it began to show, as wine-merchants say of port, the "appearance of age." in some light, there was more gray than brown. his dark-brown hair, however, retained its original thickness of thatch, and was as yet untouched by any streak of gray. seeing that he belonged to one of the oldest and best of english families, one might have expected something of that delicacy of feature which some of us associate with birth. but, as has already been said, his face was rudely chiselled, his complexion was ruddy, and he looked as robust as a plough-boy; yet he had the air of an english gentleman, and that ought to satisfy anybody. and he was the younger son of a duke, being by courtesy lord jocelyn le breton. while he was thus meditating, there was a quick step on the stair, and the subject of his thoughts entered the room. this interesting young man was a much more aristocratic person to look upon than his senior. he paraded, so to speak, at every point, the thoroughbred air. his thin and delicate nose, his clear eye, his high though narrow forehead, his well-cut lip, his firm chin, his pale cheek, his oval face, the slim figure, the thin, long fingers, the spring of his walk, the poise of his head--what more could one expect even from the descendant of all the howards? but this morning the pallor of his cheek was flushed as if with some disquieting news. "good-morning, harry," said lord jocelyn quietly. harry returned the greeting. then he threw upon the table a small packet of papers. "there, sir, i have read them; thank you for letting me see them." "sit down, boy, and let us talk; will you have a cigar? no? a cigarette, then? no? you are probably a little upset by this--new--unexpected revelation?" "a _little_ upset!" repeated the young man, with a short laugh. "to be sure--to be sure--one could expect nothing else; now sit down, and let us talk over the matter calmly." the young man sat down, but he did not present the appearance of one inclined to talk over the matter calmly. "in novels," said lord jocelyn, "it is always the good fortune of young gentlemen brought up in ignorance of their parentage to turn out, when they do discover their origin, the heirs to an illustrious name; i have always admired that in novels. in your case, my poor harry, the reverse is the case; the distinction ought to console you." "why was i not told before?" "because the boyish brain is more open to prejudice than that of the adult; because, among your companions, you certainly would have felt at a disadvantage had you known yourself to be the son of a----" "you always told me," said harry, "that my father was in the army!" "what do you call a sergeant in a line regiment, then?" "oh! of course, but among gentlemen--i mean--among the set with whom i was brought up, to be in the army means to have a commission." "yes: that was my pardonable deception. i thought that you would respect yourself more if you felt that your father, like the fathers of your friends, belonged to the upper class. now, my dear boy, you will respect yourself just as much, although you know that he was but a sergeant, and a brave fellow who fell at my side in the indian mutiny." "and my mother?" "i did not know her; she was dead before i found you out, and took you from your uncle bunker." "uncle bunker!" harry laughed, with a little bitterness. "uncle bunker! fancy asking one's uncle bunker to dine at the club! what is he by trade?" "he is something near a big brewery, a brewery boom, as the americans say. what he actually is, i do not quite know. he lives, if i remember rightly, at a place an immense distance from here, called stepney." "do you know anything more about my father's family?" "no! the sergeant was a tall, handsome, well set-up man; but i know nothing about his connections. his name, if that is any help to you, was, was--in fact"--here lord jocelyn assumed an air of ingratiating sweetness--"was--goslett--goslett; not a bad name, i think, pronounced with perhaps a leaning to an accent on the last syllable. don't you agree with me, harry?" "oh! yes, it will do. better than bunker, and not so good as le breton. as for my christian name, now?" "there i ventured on one small variation." "am i not, then, even harry?" "yes, yes, yes, you are--now; formerly you were harry without the h. it is the custom of the neighborhood in which you were born." "i see! if i go back among my own people, i shall be, then, once more 'arry?" "yes; and shout on penny steamers, and brandish pint bottles of stout, and sing along the streets, in simple abandonment to arcadian joy; and trample on flowers; and break pretty things for wantonness; and exercise a rude but effective wit, known among the ancients as fescennine, upon passing ladies; and get drunk o' nights; and walk the streets with a pipe in your mouth. that is what you would be, if you went back, my dear child." harry laughed. "after all," he said, "this is a very difficult position. i can no longer go about pretending anything; i must tell people." "is that absolutely necessary?" "quite necessary. it will be a deuce of a business, explaining." "shall we tell it to one person, and let him be the town-crier?" "that, i suppose, would be the best plan; meantime, i could retire, while i made some plans for the future." "perhaps, if you really must tell the truth, it would be well to go out of town for a bit." "as for myself," harry continued, "i suppose i shall get over the wrench after a bit. just for the moment i feel knocked out of time." "keep the secret, then; let it be one between you and me only, harry; let no one know." but he shook his head. "everybody must know. those who refuse to keep up the acquaintance of a private soldier's son--well, then, a non-commissioned officer's son--will probably let me know their decision, some way or other. those who do not----" he paused. "nonsense, boy; who cares nowadays what a man is by birth? is not this great city full of people who go anywhere, and are nobody's sons? look here, and here"--he tossed half a dozen cards of invitation across the table--"can you tell me who these people were twenty years ago--or these--or these?" "no: i do not care in the least who they were. i care only that they shall know who i am; i will not, for my part, pretend to be what i am not." "i believe you are right, boy. let the world laugh if they please, and have done with it." harry began to walk up and down the room; he certainly did not look the kind of a man to give in; to try hiding things away. quite the contrary. and he laughed--he took to laughing. "i suppose it will sound comic at first," he said, "until people get used to it. do you know what he turns out to be? that kind of thing: after all, we think too much about what people say--what does it matter what they say or how they say it? if they like to laugh, they can. who shall be the town-crier?" "i was thinking," said lord jocelyn slowly, "of calling to-day upon lady wimbledon." the young man laughed, with a little heightening of his color. "of course--a very good person, an excellent person, and to-morrow it will be all over london. there are one or two things," he went on after a moment, "that i do not understand from the papers which you put into my hands last night." "what are those things?" lord jocelyn for a moment looked uneasy. "well--perhaps it is impertinent to ask. but--when mr. bunker, the respectable uncle bunker, traded me away, what did he get for me?" "every bargain has two sides," said lord jocelyn. "you know what i got, you want to know what the honorable bunker got. harry, on that point i must refer you to the gentleman himself." "very good. then i come to the next difficulty--a staggerer. what did you do it for? one moment, sir"--for lord jocelyn seemed about to reply. "one moment. you were rich, you were well born, you were young. what on earth made you pick a boy out of the gutter and bring him up like a gentleman?" "you are twenty-three, harry, and yet you ask for motives. my dear boy, have you not learned the golden rule? in all human actions look for the basest motive, and attribute that. if you see any reason for stopping short of quite the lowest spurs to action, such as revenge, hatred, malice, and envy, suppose the next lowest, and you will be quite safe. that next lowest is--_son altesse, ma vanité_." "oh!" replied harry, "yet i fail to see how a child of the lowest classes could supply any satisfaction for even the next lowest of human motives." "it was partly in this way. mind, i do not for one moment pretend to answer the whole of your question. men's motives, thank heaven, are so mixed up, that no one can be quite a saint, while no one is altogether a sinner. nature is a leveller, which is a comfort to us who are born in levelling times. in those days i was by way of being a kind of radical. not a radical such as those who delight mankind in these happier days. but i had liberal leanings, and thought i had ideas. when i was a boy of twelve or so, there were the ' theories floating about the air; some of them got into my brain and stuck there. men used to believe that a great time was coming--perhaps i heard a whisper of it; perhaps i was endowed with a greater faculty for credulity than my neighbors, and believed in humanity. however, i do not seek to explain. it may have occurred to me--i do not say it did--but i have a kind of recollection as if it did--one day after i had seen you, then in the custody of the respectable bunker, that it would be an instructive and humorous thing to take a boy of the multitude and bring him up in all the culture, the tastes, the ideas of ourselves--you and me, for instance, harry. this idea may have seized upon me, so that the more i thought of it, the better pleased i was with it. i may have pictured such a boy so taught, so brought up, with such tastes, returning to his own people. disgust, i may have said, will make him a prophet; and such a prophet as the world has never yet seen. he would be like the follower of the old man of the mountain. he would never cease to dream of the paradise he had seen: he would never cease to tell of it; he would be always leading his friends upward to the same levels on which he had once stood." "humph!" said harry. "yes, i know," lord jocelyn went on. "i ought to have foretold that the education i prepared for you would have unfitted you for the rôle of prophet. i am not disappointed in you, harry--quite the reverse. i now see that what has happened has been only what i should have expected. by some remarkable accident, you possess an appearance such as is generally believed to belong to persons of long-continued gentle descent. by a still more remarkable accident, all your tastes prove to be those of the cultured classes; the blood of the bunkers has, in yourself, assumed the most azure hue." "that is very odd," said harry. "it is a very remarkable thing, indeed," continued lord jocelyn gravely. "i have never ceased to wonder at this phenomenon. however, i was unable to send you to a public school on account of the necessity, as i thought, of concealing your parentage. but i gave you instruction of the best, and found for you companions--as you know, among the----" "yes," said harry. "my companions were gentlemen, i suppose; i learned from them." "perhaps. still, the earthenware pot cannot become a brass pot, whatever he may pretend. you were good metal from the beginning." "you are now, harry," he went on, "three-and-twenty. you are master of three foreign languages; you have travelled on the continent and in america; you are a good rider, a good shot, a good fencer, a good dancer. you can paint a little, fiddle a little, dance a great deal, act pretty well, speak pretty well; you can, i dare say, make love as becomes a gentleman; you can write very fair verses; you are good-looking, you have the _air noble_; you are not a prig; you are not an æsthete; you possess your share of common sense." "one thing you have omitted which, at the present juncture, may be more useful than any of these things." "what is that?" "you were good enough to give me a lathe, and to have me instructed in the mysteries of turning. i am a practical cabinet-maker, if need be." "but why should this be of use to you?" "because, lord jocelyn"--harry ran and leaned over the table with a sweet smile of determination on his face--"because i am going back to my own people for a while, and it may be that the trade of cabinet-making may prove a very backbone of strength to me among them----" "harry--you would not--indeed, you could not go back to bunker?" lord jocelyn asked this question with every outward appearance of genuine alarm. "i certainly would. my very kind guardian and patron, would you stand in my way? i want to see those people from where i am sprung: i want to learn how they differ from you and your kin. i must compare myself with them--i must prove the brotherhood of humanity." "you will go? yes--i see you will--it is in your eyes. go, then, harry. but return to me soon. the slender fortune of a younger son shall be shared with you so long as i live, and given to you when i die. do not stay among them. there are, indeed--at least, i suppose so--all sorts and conditions of men. but to me, and to men brought up like you and me, i do not understand how there can be any but one sort and one condition. come back soon, boy. believe me--no--do not believe me--prove it yourself: in the social pyramid, the greatest happiness, harry, lies near the top." chapter i. news for his lordship. "i have news for your lordship," said mrs. bormalack, at the breakfast-table, "something that will cheer you up a bit. we are to have an addition to our family." his lordship nodded his head, meaning that he would receive her news without more delay than was necessary, but that at present his mind was wholly occupied with a contest between one of his teeth and a crust. the tooth was an outlying one, all its lovely companions having withered and gone, and it was undefended; the crust was unyielding. for the moment no one could tell what might be the result. her ladyship replied for him. lady davenant was a small woman, if you go by inches; her exalted rank gave her, however, a dignity designed for very much larger persons; yet she carried it with ease. she was by no means young, and her hair was thin as well as gray; her face, which was oval and delicately curved, might formerly have been beautiful; the eyes were bright and eager, and constantly in motion, as is often the case with restless and nervous persons; her lips were thin and as full of independent action as her eyes; she had thin hands, so small that they might have belonged to a child of eight, when inclined for vaunting, the narrowest and most sloping shoulders that ever were seen, so sloping that people unaccustomed to her were wont to tremble lest the whole of her dress should suddenly slide straight down those shoulders, as down a slope of ice; and strange ladies, impelled by this apprehension, had been known to ask her in a friendly whisper if she could thoroughly depend upon the pins at her throat. as mrs. bormalack often said, speaking of her noble boarders among her friends, those shoulders of her ladyship were "quite a feature." next to the pride of having at her table such guests--who, however, did not give in to the good old english custom of paying double prices for having a title--was the distinction of pointing to those unique shoulders and of talking about them. her ladyship had a shrill, reedy voice, and spoke loudly. it was remarked by the most superficial observer, moreover, that she possessed a very strong american accent. "at our first boarding-house," she said, replying indirectly to the landlady's remark, "at our first boarding-house, which was in wellclose square, next to the board schools, there was a man who once _actually_ slapped his lordship on the back. and then he laughed! to be sure, he was only a dane, but the disrespect was just the same." "my dear," said his lordship, who now spoke, having compromised matters with the crust, "the ignominy of being slapped on the back by a powerful sea-captain is hardly to be weighed in comparison with the physical pain it causes." "we are quite sure, however, mrs. bormalack," the lady went on, "that you will admit none under your roof but those prepared to respect rank; we want no levellers or mischievous radicals for our companions." "it is to be a young lady," said mrs. bormalack. "young ladies, at all events, do not slap gentlemen on the back, whether they are noblemen or not," said his lordship kindly. "we shall be happy to welcome her, ma'am." this ornament of the upper house was a big, fat man, with a face like a full moon. his features were not distinctly aristocratic; his cheeks were flabby and his nose broad; also he had a double chin. his long hair was a soft, creamy white, the kind of white which in old age follows a manhood of red hair. he sat in an arm-chair at the end of the table, with his elbows on the arms, as if he desired to get as much rest out of the chair as possible. his eyes were very soft and dreamy; his expression was that of a man who has been accustomed to live in the quieter parts of the world. he, too, spoke with a marked american accent and with slowness, as if measuring his words, and appreciating himself their importance. the dignity of his manner was not wholly due to his position, but in great measure to his former profession. for his lordship had not always rejoiced in his present dignity, nor, in fact, had he been brought up to it. persons intending to become peers of great britain do not, as a rule, first spend more than forty years as schoolmasters in their native town. and just as clergymen, and especially young clergymen, love to talk loud, because it makes people remember that they are in the presence of those whose wisdom demands attention, so old schoolmasters speak slowly because their words--even the lightest, which are usually pretty heavy--have got to be listened to, under penalties. as soon, however, as he began to "enjoy the title," the ex-schoolmaster addressed himself with some care to the cultivation of a manner which he thought due to his position. it was certainly pompous; it was intended to be affable; it was naturally, because he was a man of a most kind disposition and an excellent heart, courteous and considerate. "i am rejoiced, mrs. bormalack," he went on grandly, and with a bow, "that we are to be cheered in our domestic circle by the addition of a young lady. it is an additional proof, if any were needed, of the care with which you consider the happiness of your guests." the professor, who owed for five weeks, murmured that no one felt it more than himself. "sometimes, ma'am, i own that even with the delightful society of yourself" ("o my lord, your lordship is too kind," said mrs. bormalack) "and of the accomplished professor"--here he bowed to the professor, who nodded and spread out his hands professionally--"and of the learned mr. daniel fagg"--here he bowed to mr. fagg, who took no notice at all, because he was thinking of his triangles and was gazing straight before him--"and of mr. josephus coppins"--here he bowed to josephus coppins, who humbly inclined his head without a smile--"and of mr. maliphant"--here he bowed to mr. maliphant, who with a breakfast knife was trying to make a knobly crust assume the shape of a human head, in fact the head of mr. gladstone--"and of mr. harry goslett, who is not with us so much as we could desire of so sprightly a young man; and surrounded as we are by all the gayety and dissipation and splendor of london, i sometimes suspect that we are not always so cheerful as we might be." "give me," said his wife, folding her little hands and looking round her with a warlike expression, as if inviting contradiction--"give me canaan city, new hampshire, for gayety." nobody combated this position, nor did anybody reply at all, unless the pantomime of the professor was intended for a reply by gesture, like the learned thaumast. for, with precision and abstracted air, he rolled up a little ball of bread, about as big as a marble, placed it in the palm of his left hand, closed his fingers upon it, and then opened them, showing that the ball had vanished. then he executed the slightest possible shrug of his shoulders, spread out his hands, and nodded to his lordship, saying, with a sweet smile: "pretty thing, isn't it?" "i hope, sir, that she will be pretty," said his lordship, thinking of the young lady. "to look at a pretty face is as good as a day of sunshine." "she is a beautiful girl," mrs. bormalack replied with enthusiasm, "and i am sure she must be as good as she is pretty; because she paid three months in advance. with a piano, too, which she will play herself. she is a dressmaker by trade, and she wants to set herself up in a genteel way. and she's got a little money, she says;" a sweet smile crossed her face as she thought that most of this little money would come into her own pocket. "a dressmaker!" cried her ladyship. "do tell! i was in that line myself before i married. that was long before we began to enjoy the title. you don't know, ma'am"--here she dropped her voice--"you don't know how remarkably fond his lordship is of a pretty face; choice with them, too. not every face pleases him. oh! you wouldn't believe how particular. which shows his aristocratic descent; because we all know what his ancestors were." "to be sure," said the landlady, nodding significantly. "we all know what they were. rovers to a man--i mean a lord. and as for the young lady, she will be here this evening, in time for tea. shrimps and sally lunn, my lord. and her name is miss kennedy. respectable, if poor; and illustrious ancestors is more than we can all of us have, nor yet deserve." here the professor rose, having finished his breakfast. one might have noticed that he had extremely long and delicate fingers, and that they seemed always in movement; also that he had a way of looking at you as if he meant you to look straight and steady into his eyes, and not to go rolling your eyes about in the frivolous, irresponsible way affected by some people. he walked slowly to the window; then, as if seized with an irresistible impulse to express his feelings in pantomime, or else, it may be, to try an experiment, returned to the table, and asked for the loan of his lordship's pocket-handkerchief, which was a large red silk one, well fitted for the purpose. how he conveyed a saucer unseen from the table into that handkerchief, and how that saucer got into the nobleman's coat-tail pocket, were things known only to himself. yet familiarity breeds contempt, and though everybody looked on, nobody expressed delight or astonishment, for this exhibition of magic and spells went on every day, and whenever the professor was among them. he moved about accompanied, so to speak, by a legion of invisible attendants and servants, who conveyed, hid, brought back, uncovered, discovered, recovered, lost, found, rapped, groaned, cried, whistled, sang, moved chairs and tables, and, in fact, behaved as only a troop of well-drilled elves can behave. he was a young man of twenty-five, and he had a great gift of silence. by trade he was a professor of legerdemain. other professors there are who hold up the light of this science, and hand it down to posterity undimmed; but none with such an ardent love for their work as professor climo. for he practised all day long, except when he was reading the feats of the illustrious conjurers, sorcerers, necromancers, and wizards of old time, or inventing new combinations, traps for the credulous, and contrivances to make that which was not seen like unto that which was. the east end of london is not the richest field for such performers; but he was young, and he lived in hope--very often, when there were no engagements--upon it. at such times he became a simple lodger, instead of a boarder, at mrs. bormalack's, and went without any meals. the situation of this boarding-house, poetically described by his lordship as in the midst of the gayety of london, was in the far east, in that region of london which is less known to englishmen than if it were situated in the wildest part of colorado, or among the pine forests of british columbia. it stood, in fact, upon stepney green, a small strip of eden which has been visited by few, indeed, of those who do not live in its immediate vicinity. yet it is a romantic spot. two millions of people, or thereabouts, live in the east end of london. that seems a good-sized population for an utterly unknown town. they have no institutions of their own to speak of, no public buildings of any importance, no municipality, no gentry, no carriages, no soldiers, no picture-galleries, no theatres, no opera--they have nothing. it is the fashion to believe that they are all paupers, which is a foolish and mischievous belief, as we shall presently see. probably there is no such spectacle in the whole world as that of this immense, neglected, forgotten great city of east london. it is even neglected by its own citizens, who have never yet perceived their abandoned condition. they are londoners, it is true, but they have no part or share of london; its wealth, its splendors, its honors exist not for them. they see nothing of any splendors; even the lord mayor's show goeth westward: the city lies between them and the greatness of england. they are beyond the wards, and cannot become aldermen; the rich london merchants go north and south and west; but they go not east. nobody goes east; no one wants to see the place; no one is curious about the way of life in the east. books on london pass it over; it has little or no history; great men are not buried in its church-yards, which are not even ancient, and crowded by citizens as obscure as those who now breathe the upper airs about them. if anything happens in the east, people at the other end have to stop and think before they can remember where the place may be. the house was old, built of red bricks with a "shell" decoration over the door. it contained room for about eight boarders, who had one sitting-room in common. this was the breakfast-room, a meal at which all were present; the dining-room--but nobody except his lordship and wife dined at home; the tea-room--but tea was too early for most of the boarders; and the supper-room. after supper tobacco was tolerated. the boarders were generally men, and mostly elderly men of staid and quiet manners, with whom the evening pipe was the conclusion and solace of the day. it was not like the perpetual incense of the tap-room, and yet the smell of tobacco was never absent from the room, lingering about the folds of the dingy curtain, which served for both summer and winter, clinging to the horsehair sofa, to the leather of the chairs, and to the rusty table-cloth. the furniture was old and mean. the wall-paper had once been crimson, but now was only dark; the ceiling had for many years wanted whitewashing badly; the door and windows wanted painting; the windows always wanted cleaning; the rope of one of the blinds was broken; and the blind itself, not nearly so white as it might have been, was pinned half-way up. everything was shabby; everything wanted polishing, washing, brightening up. a couple of arm-chairs stood, when meals were not going on, one on either side of the fireplace--one being reserved for his lordship, and the other for his wife; they were, like the sofa, of horsehair, and slippery. there was a long table covered by a faded red cloth; the carpet was a brussels once of a warm crimson, now worn threadbare; the hearth-rug was worn into holes; one or two of the chairs had broken out and showed glimpses of stuffing. the sideboard was of old-fashioned build, and a shiny black by reason of its age; there were two or three hanging shelves filled with books, the property of his lordship, who loved reading, the mantel-shelf was decorated by a small collection of pipes; and above it hung the portrait of the late samuel bormalack, formerly a collector in the great brewing house of messenger, marsden & company. his widow, who carried on the house, was a comfortable--a serenely comfortable woman, who regarded the world from the optimist's point of view. perfect health and a tolerably prosperous business, where the returns are regular though the profits are small, make the possessor agree with pope and candide that everything is for the best in this best of all possible worlds. impossible not to be contented, happy, and religious, when your wishes are narrowed to a tidy dinner, a comfortable supper with a little something hot, boarders who pay up regular, do not grumble, and go to bed sober; and a steady hope that you will not get "something," by which of course is meant that you may not fall ill of any disagreeable or painful disease. to "get something" is one of the pretty euphemisms of our daily speech. she had had one or two unlucky accidents, such as the case of captain saffrey, who stayed two months, and drank enough beer to float a three-decker, and then sailed away, promising to pay, and would have done so--for he was an honest man--but had the misfortune to fall overboard while in liquor. but her present boarders seemed most respectable, and she was at ease. of course, the persons of greatest consideration among them were the noble pair who enjoyed the title. rank is respected, if you please, even at the east end of london, and perhaps more there than in fashionable quarters, because it is so rare. king john, it is true, had once a palace at stepney; but that is a long time to look back upon, and even the oldest inhabitant can now not remember to have been kicked by the choleric monarch. then the marquis of worcester had once a great house here, what time the sainted charles was ripening things for a row royal. that house is gone too, and i do not know where it used to stand. from the time of this east end marquis to the arrival of lord and lady davenant, last year, there have been no resident members of the english aristocracy, and no member of the foreign nobility, with the exception of a certain dusky marquis of choufleur, from hayti, who is reported on good authority to have once lived in these parts for six months, thinking he was in the politest and most fashionable suburb of london. he is further said to have carried on with satanic wildness in limehouse and the west india dock road of an evening. a japanese, too, certainly once went to a hotel in america square, which is not quite the east end, and said he was a prince in his own country. he stayed a week, and drank champagne all day long. then he decamped without paying the bill; and when the landlord went to the embassy to complain, he thought it was the ambassador himself, until he discovered that all japanese are exactly alike. wherefore he desisted from any further attempt to identify the missing prince for want of the missing link, namely, some distinctive feature. the illustrious pair had now been in the house for six weeks. previously they had spent some time in wellclose square, which is no doubt well known to fashionable readers, and lies contiguous to st. george's street. here happened that accident of the back-slapping so frequently alluded to by her ladyship. they were come from america to take up an old family title which had been in abeyance for two or three generations. they appeared to be poor, but able to find the modest weekly sum asked by mrs. bormalack; and in order to secure her confidence and good-will, they paid every week in advance. they drank nothing but water, but, to make up, his lordship ate a great deal, especially at breakfast, and they asked for strange things, unknown to english households. in other respects they gave no kind of trouble, were easily satisfied, never grumbled, and were affable. for their rank they certainly dressed shabbily, but high social station is sometimes found coupled with eccentricity. doubtless lord davenant had his reasons for going about in a coat white at the seams and shiny at the back, which, being made of sympathetic stuff, and from long habit, had assumed the exact shape of his noble back and shoulders, with a beautiful model of his illustrious elbows. for similarly good and sufficient reasons lady davenant wore that old black gown and those mended gloves and--but it is cruel to enumerate the shortcomings of her attire. perhaps on account of this public character, the professor would rank in the house after his lordship. nothing confers greatness more quickly than an unabashed appearance upon a platform. mr. maliphant, however, who had travelled and could relate tales of adventure, might dispute precedence with him. he was now a carver of figure-heads for ships. it is an old and honorable trade, but in these latter days it has decayed. he had a small yard at limehouse, where he worked all by himself, turning out heads in the rough so that they might be transformed into a beauteous goddess, or a saucy poll, or a bearded neptune, as the owners might prefer. he was now an old man with a crumpled and million-lined face, but active still and talkative. his memory played him tricks, and he took little interest in new things. he had a habit, too, which disconcerted people unaccustomed to him, of thinking one part of the reminiscence to himself and saying the rest aloud, so that one got only the torso or mangled trunk of the story, or the head, or the feet, with or without the tail, which is the point. the learned daniel fagg, wrapt always in contemplation, was among them but not of them. he was lately arrived from australia, bringing with him a discovery which took away the breath of those who heard it, and filled all the scholars and learned men of europe with envy and hatred, so that they combined and formed a general conspiracy to keep him down, and to prevent the publication of his great book, lest the world should point the finger of scorn at them, and laugh at the blindness of its great ones. daniel himself said so, and an oppressed man generally knows his oppressor. he went away every morning after breakfast, and returned for tea. he was believed to occupy the day in spreading a knowledge of his discovery, the nature of which was unknown at the boarding-house, among clergymen and other scholars. in the evening he sat over a hebrew bible and a dictionary, and spoke to no one. a harmless man, but soured and disappointed with the cold reception of his great discovery. another boarder was the unfortunate josephus coppin, who was a clerk in the great brewing-house of messenger, marsden & company. he had been there for forty years, being now fifty-five years of age, gray and sad of face, because, for some reason unknown to the world, he was not advanced, but remained forever among the juniors at a salary of thirty shillings a week. other men of his own standing were chief brewers, collectors, and chief accountants. he was almost where he had started. the young men came and mounted the ladder of promotion, passing him one after the other; he alone remained upon the rung which he had reached one day, now thirty years bygone, when a certain thing happened, the consequences of which were to keep him down, to ruin his prospects, to humiliate and degrade him, to sadden and embitter his whole life. lastly, there was a young man, the only young man among them, one harry goslett by name, who had quite recently joined the boarding-house. he was a nephew of mr. coppin, and was supposed to be looking for a place of business. but he was an uncertain boarder. he paid for his dinner but never dined at home; he had brought with him a lathe, which he set up in a little garden-house, and here he worked by himself, but in a fitful, lazy way, as if it mattered nothing whether he worked or not. he seemed to prefer strolling about the place, looking around him as if he had never seen things before, and he was wont to speak of familiar objects as if they were strange and rare. these eccentricities were regarded as due to his having been to america. a handsome young man and cheerful, which made it a greater pity that he was so idle. on this morning the first to start for the day's business was daniel fagg. he put his hebrew bible on the book-shelf, took out a memorandum-book and the stump of a pencil, made an entry, and then counted out his money, which amounted to eight-and-sixpence, with a sigh. he was a little man, about sixty years of age, and his thin hair was sandy in color. his face was thin, and he looked hungry and underfed. i believe, in fact, that he seldom had money enough for dinner, and so went without. nothing was remarkable in his face, except a pair of very large and thick eyebrows, also of sandy hue, which is unusual, and produces a very curious effect. with these he was wont to frown tremendously as he went along, frightening the little children into fits; when he was not frowning he looked dejected. it must have been an unhappy condition of things which made the poor man thus alternate between wrath and depression. there were, however, moments--those when he got hold of a new listener--in which he would light up with enthusiasm as he detailed the history of his discovery. then the thin, drawn cheek would fill out, and his quivering lips would become firm, and his dejected eyes would brighten with the old pride of discovery, and he would laugh once more, and rub his hands with pride, when he described the honest sympathy of the people in the australian township where he first announced the great revelation he was to make to the world, and received their enthusiastic cheers and shouts of encouragement. harry goslett was his last listener, and, as the enthusiast thought, his latest convert. as daniel passed out of the dining-room, and was looking for his hat among the collection of hats as bad as was ever seen out of canadian backwoods, harry goslett himself came downstairs, his hands in his pockets, as slowly and lazily as if there was no such thing as work to do or time to keep. he laughed and nodded to the discoverer. "oho! dan'l," he said; "how are the triangles? and are you really going back to the lion's den?" "yes, mr. goslett, i am going back there! i am not afraid of them; i am going to see the head of the egyptian department. he says he will give me a hearing; they all said they would, and they have. but they won't listen; it's no use to hear unless you listen. what a dreadful thing is jealousy among the learned, mr. goslett!" "it is indeed, my prophet; have they subscribed to the book?" "no! they won't subscribe. is it likely that they will help to bring out a work which proves them all wrong? come, sir, even at your age you can't think so well of poor humanity." "daniel"--the young man laid his hands impressively upon the little man's shoulders--"you showed me yesterday a list of forty-five subscribers to your book, at twelve shillings and sixpence apiece. _where is that subscription-money?_" the poor man blushed and hung his head. "a man must live," he said at length, trying to frown fiercely. "yes, but unpleasant notice is sometimes taken of the way in which people live, my dear friend. this is not a free country; not by any means free. if i were you, i would take the triangles back to australia, and print the book there, among your friends." "no!" the little man stamped on the ground, and rammed his head into his hat with determination. "no, mr. goslett, and no again. it shall be printed here. i will hurl it at the head of the so-called scholars here, in london--in their stronghold, close to the british museum. besides"--here he relaxed, and turned a pitiful face of sorrow and shame upon his adviser--"besides, can i forget the day when i left australia? they all came aboard to say good-by. the papers had paragraphs about it. they shouted one after the other, and nobblers went around surprising, and they slapped me on the back and said, 'go, dan'l,' or 'go, fagg,' or 'go, mr. fagg,' according to their intimacy and the depth of their friendship--'go where honor and glory and a great fortune, with a pension on the queen's civil-list, are waiting for you.' on the voyage i even dreamed of a title; i thought sir daniel fagg, knight or baronet, or the right reverend lord fagg, would sound well to go back to australia with. honor? glory? fortune? where are they? eight-and-sixpence in my pocket; and the head of the greek department calls me a fool, because i won't acknowledge that truth--yes, truth--is error. laughs at the triangles, mr. goslett!" he laughed bitterly and went out, slamming the door behind him. then harry entered the breakfast-room, nodding pleasantly to everybody; and without any apology for lateness, as if breakfast could be kept about all the morning to suit his convenience, sat down and began to eat. jonathan coppin got up, sighed, and went away to his brewery. the professor looked at the last comer with a meditative air, as if he would like to make him disappear, and could do it, too, but was uncertain how harry would take it. mrs. bormalack hurried away on domestic business. mr. maliphant laughed and rubbed his hands together, and then laughed again as if he were thinking of something really comic, and said, "yes, i knew the sergeant very well; a well set-up man he was, and caroline coppin was a pretty girl." at this point his face clouded and his eyes expressed doubt. "there was," he added, "something i wanted to ask you, young man, something"--here he tapped his forehead--"something about your father or your mother, or both; but i have forgotten--never mind. another time--another time." he ran away with boyish activity and a schoolboy's laugh, being arrived at that time of life when one becomes light of heart once more, knowing by experience that nothing matters very much. there were none left in the room but the couple who enjoyed the title. his lordship sat in his arm-chair, apparently enjoying it, in meditation and repose; this, one perceives, is quite the best way of enjoying an hereditary title, if you come to it late in life. his wife had, meanwhile, got out a little shabby portfolio in black leather, and was turning over the papers with impatience; now and then she looked up to see whether this late young man had finished his breakfast. she fidgeted, arranged, and worried with her papers, so that any one whose skull was not six inches thick might have seen that she wanted to be alone with her husband. it was also quite clear to those who thought about things, and watched this little lady, that there may be meaning in certain proverbial expressions touching gray mares. presently harry goslett finished his coffee, and, paying no attention to her little ladyship's signals of distress, began to open up conversation on general subjects with the noble lord. she could bear it no longer. here were the precious moments wasted and thrown away, every one of which should be bringing them nearer to the recognition of their rights. "young man," she cried, jumping up in her chair, "if you've got nothing to do but to loll and lop around, all forenoon, i guess we hev, and this is the room in which we do that work." "i beg your pardon, lady davenant----" "young man--git----" she pointed to the door. chapter ii. a very complete case. his lordship, left alone with his wife, manifested certain signs of uneasiness. she laid the portfolio on the table, turned over the papers, sorted some of them, picked out some for reference, fetched the ink, and placed the penholder in position. "now, my dear," she said, "no time to lose. let us set to work in earnest." his lordship sighed. he was sitting with his fat hands upon his knees, contented with the repose of the moment. "clara martha," he grumbled, "cannot i have one hour of rest?" "not one, till you get your rights." she hovered over him like a little falcon, fierce and persistent. "not one. what? you a british peer? you, who ought to be sitting with a coronet on your head--you to shrink from the trouble of writing out your case? and such a case!" he only moaned. certainly he was a very lethargic person. "you are not the carpenter, your father. nor even the wheelwright, your grandfather, who came down of his own accord. you would rise, you would soar--you have the spirit of your ancestors." he feebly flapped with his elbows, as if he really would like to take a turn in the air, but made no verbal response. "cousin nathaniel," she went on, "gave us six months at six dollars a week. that's none too generous of nathaniel, seeing we have no children, and he will be the heir to the title. i guess aurelia tucker set him against the thing. six months, and three of them gone already, and nothing done! what would aurelia say if we went home again, beaten?" the little woman gasped, and would have shrugged her shoulders, but they were such a long way down--shoulders so sloping could not be shrugged. her remonstrances moved the heavy man, who drew his chair to the table with great deliberation. "we are here," she continued--always the exhorter and the strengthener of faith--"not to claim a title, but to assume it. we shall present our case to parliament, or the queen, or the house of lords, or the court of chancery, or whosoever is the right person, and we shall say, 'i am lord davenant.' that is all." "clara martha," said her husband, "i wish that were all we had to do. and, on the whole, i would as soon be back in canaan city, new hampshire, and the trouble over. the memoranda are all here," he said. "can't we get some one else to draw up the case?" "certainly not. you must do it. why, you used to think nothing of writing out a fourth of july speech." he shook his head. "and you know that you have often said, yourself, that there wasn't a book written that could teach you anything up to quadratic equations. and self-raised, too!" "it isn't that, clara martha. it isn't that. listen!" he sank his voice to a whisper. "_it's the doubt._ that's the point. every time i face that doubt it's like a bucket of cold water down my back." she shivered. yes: there was always the doubt. "come, my dear," she said presently; "we must get the case drawn up, so that any one may read it. that is the first thing--never think of any doubt." he took up one of the loose papers, which was covered with writing. "timothy clitheroe davenant," he read with a weary sigh, "died at canaan city, new hampshire, in the year of our lord one thousand seven hundred and ninety-four. by trade he was a wheelwright. his marriage is recorded in the church-register of july , . his headstone still stands in the old church-yard, and says that he was born in england in the year one thousand seven hundred and thirty-two--it does not say where he was born--and that he was sixty-two years of age at the day of his death. also, that long time he bore----" "yes, yes, but you needn't put that in. go on with your case. the next point is your own father. courage, my dear; it is a very strong case." "the case _is_ very strong." his lordship plucked up courage, and took up another paper. "this is my father's record. all is clear: born in canaan city on october , , the year of independence, the eldest son of the aforesaid timothy clitheroe davenant, wheelwright, and dinah, his wife--here is a copy of the register. married on may , , which was late in life, because he didn't somehow get on so fast as some, to susanna pegley, of the same parish. described as carpenter--but a poor workman, clara martha, and fond of chopping yarns, in which he was equalled by none. he died in the year , his tombstone still standing, like his father's before him. it says that his end was peace. wal--he always wanted it. give him peace, with a chair in the veranda, and a penknife and a little bit of pine, and he asked for no more. only that, and his wife wouldn't let him have it. his end was peace." "you all want peace," said his wife. "the davenants always did think that they only had to sit still and the plums would drop in their mouths. as for you, i believe you'd be content to sit and sit in canaan city till queen victoria found you out and sent you the coronet herself. but you've got a wife as well as your father." "i hev," he said, with another sigh. "perhaps we were wrong to come over--i think i was happier in the schoolroom, when the boys were gone hum. it was very quiet there, for a sleep in the afternoon by the stove. and in summer the trees looked harnsome in the sunlight." she shook her head impatiently. "come," she cried. "where are the 'recollections' of your grandfather?" he found another paper, and read it slowly. "my grandfather died before i was born. my father, however, said that he used to throw out hints about his illustrious family, and that if he chose to go back to england some people would be very much surprised. but he never explained himself. also he would sometimes speak of a great english estate, and once he said that the freedom of a wheelwright was better than the gilded chains of a british aristocrat--that was at a fourth of july meetin'." "men talk wild at meetin's," said his wife. "still, there may have been a meanin' behind it. go on, timothy--i mean my lord." "as for my father, it pleased him, when he could put up his feet and crack with his friends, to brag of his great connections in england. but he never knew rightly who they were, and he was too peaceful and restful a creature to take steps to find out." "waitin' for king george," observed his wife. "just what you would be doin', but for me." "that's all the recollection. here comes my own declaration: "'i, timothy clitheroe davenant, make affidavit on oath, if necessary--but i am not quite clear as to the righteousness of swearing--that i am the son of the late timothy clitheroe davenant, sometime carpenter of the city of canaan, new hampshire, u. s. a., and susanna his wife, both now deceased; that i was born in the year of grace one thousand eight hundred and fifteen, and that i have been for forty years a teacher in my native town.' that is all clean and above-board, clara martha; no weak point so far, father to son, marriage certificates regularly found, and baptism registers. no one can ask more. 'further, i, the above-named timothy, do claim to be the lawful and legitimate heir to the ancient barony of davenant, supposed to be extinct in the year by the death of the last lord, without male issue.' legally worded, i think," he added with a little proud smile. "yes: it reads right. now for the connection." "oh! the connection." his lordship's face clouded over. his consort, however, awaited the explanation, for the thousandth time, in confidence. where the masculine mind found doubt and uncertainty, the quick woman's intellect, ready to believe and tenacious of faith, had jumped to certainty. "the connection is this." he took up another paper, and read: "'the last lord davenant had one son only, a boy named timothy clitheroe. all the eldest sons of the house were named timothy clitheroe, just as all the ashleys are named anthony. when the boy arrived at years of maturity he was sent on the grand tour, which he made with a tutor. on returning to england, it is believed that he had some difference with his father, the nature of which has never been ascertained. he then embarked upon a ship sailing for the american colonies. nothing more was ever heard about him; no news came to his father or his friends, and he was supposed to be dead.'" "even the ship was never heard of," added her ladyship, as if this was a fact which would greatly help in lengthening the life of the young man. "that, too, was never heard of again. if she had not been thrown away, we might have learned what became of the honorable timothy clitheroe davenant." there was some confusion of ideas here, which the ex-schoolmaster was not slow to perceive. "i mean," he tried to explain, "that if she got safe to boston, the young man would have landed there, and all would be comparatively clear. whereas, if she was cast away, we must now suppose that he was saved and got ashore somehow." "like saint paul," she cried triumphantly, "on a piece of wreck--what could be more simple?" "because," her husband continued, "there is one fact which proves that he _did_ get ashore, that he concluded to stay there, that he descended so far into the social scale as to become a wheelwright; and that he lived and died in the town of canaan, new hampshire." "go on, my dear. make it clear. put it strong. this is the most interesting point of all." "and this young man, who was supposed to be cast away in the year one thousand seven hundred and fifty-four, aged twenty-two, was exactly the same age as my grandfather, timothy clitheroe davenant, who _bore the same name_, which is proved by the headstone and the church-books." "could there," asked his wife, springing to her feet, "could there have been two englishmen----?" "of the same illustrious and historic surname, both in america?" replied her husband, roused into a flabby enthusiasm. "of the same beautiful christian name?--two timothys?" "born both in the same year?" the little woman with the bright eyes and the sloping shoulders threw her arms about her husband's neck. "you _shall_ have your rights, my dear," she said; "i will live to see you sitting in the house of lords with the hereditary statesmen of england. if there is justice in the land of england, you shall have your rights. there is justice, i am sure, and equal law for poor and rich, and encouragements for the virtuous. yes, my dear, the virtuous. whatever your faults may be, your virtues are many, and it can't but do the house of lords good to see a little virtue among them. not that i hold with aurelia tucker that the english house of lords are wallowers in sin; whereas, irene pascoe once met a knight on a missionary platform and found he'd got religion. but virtue you can never have too much of. courage, my lord; forget the carpenter, and think only of the nobleman, your grandfather, who condescended to become a wheelwright." he obediently took up the pen and began. when he seemed fairly absorbed in the task of copying out and stating the case, she left him. as soon as the door was closed, he heaved a gentle sigh, pushed back his chair, put his feet upon another chair, covered his head with his red silk pocket-handkerchief--for there were flies in the room--and dropped into a gentle slumber. the carpenter was, for the moment, above the condescending wheelwright. chapter iii. only a dressmaker. harry goslett returned to the boarding-house that evening, in a mood of profound dejection; he had spent a few hours with certain cousins, whose acquaintance he was endeavoring to make. "hitherto," he said, writing to lord jocelyn, "the soil seems hardly worth cultivating." in this he spoke hastily, because every man's mind is worth cultivating as soon as you find out the things best fitted to grow in it. but some minds will only grow turnips, while others will produce the finest strawberries. the cousins, for their part, did not as yet take to the new arrival, whom they found difficult to understand. his speech was strange, his manner stranger: these peculiarities, they thought in their ignorance, were due to residence in the united states, where harry had found it expedient to place most of his previous years. conversation was difficult between two rather jealous workmen and a brother artisan, who greatly resembled the typical swell--an object of profound dislike and suspicion to the working-classes. he had now spent some three weeks among his kinsfolk. he brought with him some curiosity, but little enthusiasm. at first he was interested and amused; rapidly he became bored and disgusted; for as yet he saw only the outside of things. there was an uncle, mr. benjamin bunker, the study of whom, regarded as anybody else's uncle, would have been pleasant. considered as his own connection by marriage--benjamin and the late sergeant goslett having married sisters--he was too much inclined to be ashamed of him. the two cousins seemed to him--as yet he knew them very little--a pair of sulky, ill-bred young men, who had taken two opposite lines, neither of which was good for social intercourse. the people of the boarding-house continued to amuse him, partly because they were in a way afraid of him. as for the place--he looked about him, standing at the north entrance of stepney green--on the left hand, the whitechapel road; behind him, stepney, limehouse, st. george's in the east, poplar and shadwell; on the right, the mile end road, leading to bow and stratford; before him, ford, hackney, bethnal green. mile upon mile of streets with houses--small, mean, and monotonous houses; the people living the same mean and monotonous lives, all after the same model. in his ignorance he pitied and despised those people, not knowing how rich and full any life may be made, whatever the surroundings, and even without the gracious influences of art. under the influence of this pity and contempt, when he returned in the evening at half-past nine, he felt himself for the first time in his life run very low down indeed. the aspect of the room was not calculated to cheer him up. it was lit with a mean two-jet gas-burner; the dingy curtain wanted looping up, the furniture looked more common and mean than usual. yet, as he stood in the doorway, he became conscious of a change. the boarders were all sitting there, just as usual, and the supper cloth was removed; mr. maliphant had his long pipe fixed in the corner of his mouth, but he held it there with an appearance of constraint, and he had let it go out. mr. josephus coppin sat in the corner in which he always put himself, so as to be out of everybody's way; also with a pipe in his hand unlighted. daniel fagg had his hebrew bible spread out before him, and his dictionary, and his copy of the authorized version--which he used, as he would carefully explain, not for what schoolboys call a crib, but for purpose of comparison. this was very grand! a man who can read hebrew at all inspires one with confidence; but the fact is the more important when it is connected with a discovery; and to compare versions--one's own with the collected wisdom of a royal commission--is a very grand thing indeed. but to-night he sat with his head in his hands, and his sandy hair pushed back, looking straight before him; and mrs. bormalack was graced in her best black silk dress, and "the decanters" were proudly placed upon the table with rum, gin, and brandy in them, and beside them stood the tumblers, hot water, cold water, lemons, and spoons, in the most genteel way. the representative of the upper house, who did not take spirits and water, sat calmly dignified in his arm-chair by the fireplace, and in front of him, on the other side, sat his wife, with black thread mittens drawn tightly over her little hands and thin arms, bolt upright, and conscious of her rank. all appeared to be silent, but that was their custom, and all, which was not their custom, wore an unaccustomed air of company manners which was very beautiful to see. harry, looking about him, perplexed at these phenomena, presently observed that the eyes of all, except those of daniel fagg, were fixed in one direction; and that the reason why mr. maliphant held an unlighted pipe in his mouth, and josephus one in his hand, and that daniel was not reading, and that his lordship looked so full of dignity, and that ardent spirits were abroad, was nothing less than the presence of a young lady. in such a house, and, in fact, all round stepney green, the word "lady" is generally used in a broad and catholic spirit; but in this case harry unconsciously used it in the narrow, prejudiced, one-sided sense peculiar to western longitudes. and it was so surprising to think of a young lady in connection with bormalack's, that he gasped and caught his breath. and then mrs. bormalack presented him to the new arrival in her best manner. "our youngest!" she said, as if he had been a son of the house--"our youngest and last--the sprightly mr. goslett. this is miss kennedy, and i hope--i'm sure--that you two will get to be friendly with one another, not to speak of keeping company, which is early days yet for prophecies." harry bowed in his most superior style. what on earth, he thought again, did a young lady want at stepney green? she had the carriage and the manner of a lady; she was quite simply dressed in a black cashmere; she wore a red ribbon around her white throat, and had white cuffs. a lady--unmistakably a lady; also young and beautiful, with great brown eyes, which met his own frankly, and with a certain look of surprise which seemed an answer to his own. "our handsome young cabinet-maker, miss kennedy," went on the landlady--harry wondered whether it was worse to be described as sprightly than as handsome, and which adjective was likely to produce the more unfavorable impression on a young lady--"is wishful to establish himself in a genteel way of business, like yourself." "when i was in the dressmaking line," observed her ladyship, "i stayed at home with mother and aunt keziah. it was not thought right in canaan city for young women to go about setting up shops by themselves. not that i say you are wrong, miss kennedy, but london ways are not new hampshire ways." miss kennedy murmured something softly, and looked again at the handsome cabinet-maker, who was still blushing with indignation and shame at mrs. bormalack's adjectives, and ready to blush again on recovery to think that he was so absurd as to feel any shame about so trifling a matter. still, every young man likes to appear in a good light in the presence of beauty. the young lady, then, was only a dressmaker. for the moment she dropped a little in his esteem, which comes of our artificial and conventional education; because--why not a dressmaker? then she rose again, because--what a dressmaker! could there be many such in stepney? if so, how was it that poets, novelists, painters, and idle young men did not flock to so richly endowed a district? in this unexpected manner does nature offer compensations. harry also observed with satisfaction the novel presence of a newly arrived piano, which could belong to no other than the new-comer; and finding that the conversation showed no signs of brightening, he ventured to ask miss kennedy if she would play to them. now, when she began to play, a certain magic of the music fell upon them all, affecting every one differently. such is the power of music, and thus diverse is it in its operation. as for his lordship, he sat nodding his head and twinkling his eyes and smiling sweetly, because he was in imagination sitting among his peers in the upper house with a crown of gold and a robe of fur, and all his friends of canaan city, brought across the atlantic at his own expense for this very purpose, were watching him with envy and admiration from the gallery. among them was aurelia tucker, the scoffer and thrower of cold water. and her ladyship sat beating time with head and hand, thinking how the family estates would probably be restored, with the title, by the queen. she had great ideas on the royal prerogative, and had indeed been accustomed to think in the old days that englishmen go about in continual terror lest her majesty, in the exercise of this prerogative, should order their heads to be removed. this gracious vision, due entirely to the music, showed her in a stately garden entertaining aurelia tucker and other friends, whom she, like her husband, had imported from canaan city for the purpose of exhibiting the new greatness. and aurelia was green with envy, though she wore her best black silk dress. the other boarders were differently affected. the melancholy josephus leaned his head upon his hand, and saw himself in imagination the head-brewer, as he might have been, but for the misfortune of his early youth. head-brewer to the firm of messenger, marsden & company! what a position! daniel fagg, for his part, was dreaming of the day when his discovery was to be received by all and adequately rewarded. he anticipated the congratulations of his friends in australia, and stood on deck in port surrounded by the crowd, who shook his hand and cheered him, in good australian fashion, as daniel the great, daniel the scourge of scholars, daniel the prophet--a second daniel. the professor took advantage of this general rapture or abstraction from earthly things to lay the plans for a _grand coup_ in legerdemain--a new experiment, which should astonish everybody. this he afterward carried through with success. mrs. bormalack, for her part, filled and slowly drank a large tumbler of hot brandy-and-water. when she had finished it she wiped away a tear. probably, stimulated by the brandy, which is a sentimental spirit, she was thinking of her late husband, collector for the brewery, who was himself romantically fond of brandy-and-water, and came to an early end in consequence of overrating his powers of consumption. mr. maliphant winked his eyes, rolled his head, rubbed his hands, and laughed joyously, but in silence. why, one knows not. when the music finished, he whispered to daniel fagg. "no," he said, "this is the third time in the year that you have asked leave to bury your mother. make it your grandmother, young man." then he laughed again, and said that he had been with walker in nicaragua. harry heard this communication, and the attempt to fill up the story from these two fragments afterward gave him nightmare. miss kennedy played a gavotte, and then another, and then a sonata. perhaps it is the character of this kind of music to call up pleasant and joyous thoughts; certainly there is much music, loved greatly by some people, which makes us sad, notably the strains sung at places of popular resort. they probably become favorites because they sadden so much. who would not shed tears on hearing "tommy dodd"? she played without music, gracefully, easily, and with expression. while she played harry sat beside the piano, still wondering on the same theme. she, a stepney dressmaker! who, in this region, could have taught her that touch? she "wistful to establish herself in a genteel way of business"? was art, then, permeating downward so rapidly? were the people just above the masses, the second or third stratum of the social pyramid, taught music, and in such a style? then he left off wondering, and fell to the blissful contemplation of a beautiful woman playing beautiful music. this is an occupation always delightful to young englishmen, and it does equal credit to their heads and to their hearts that they never tire of so harmless an amusement. when she finished playing, everybody descended to earth, so to speak. the noble pair remembered that their work was still before them--all to do: one of them thought, with a pang, about the drawing of the case, and wished he had not gone to sleep in the morning. the clerk in the brewery awoke to the recollection of his thirty shillings a week, and reflected that the weather was such as to necessitate a pair of boots which had soles. the learned daniel fagg bethought him once more of his poverty and the increasing difficulty of getting subscribers, and the undisguised contempt with which the head of the egyptian department had that morning received him. mr. maliphant left off laughing, and shook his puckered old face with a little astonishment that he had been so moved. said the professor, breaking the silence: "i like the music to go on, so long as no patter is wanted. they listen to music if it's lively, and it prevents 'em from looking round and getting suspicious. you haven't got an egg upon you, mrs. bormalack, have you? dear me, one in your lap! actually in a lady's lap! a common egg, one of our 'selected,' at tenpence the dozen. ah! in your lap, too! how very injudicious! you might have dropped it, and broken it. perhaps, miss, you wouldn't mind obliging once more with 'tommy, make room for your uncle' or 'over the garden wall,' if you please." miss kennedy did not know either of these airs, but she laughed and said she would play something lively, while the professor went on with his trick. first, he drew all eyes to meet his own like a fascinating constrictor, and then he began to "palm" the egg in the most surprising manner. after many adventures it was ultimately found in daniel fagg's pocket. then the professor smiled, bowed, and spread out his hands as if to show the purity and honesty of his conjuring. "you play very well," said harry to miss kennedy, when the conjuring was over and the professor returned to his chair and his nightly occupation with a pencil, a piece of paper, and a book. "can you play?" "i fiddle a little. if you will allow me, we will try some evening a duet together." "i did not know----" she began, but checked herself. "i did not expect to find a violinist here." "a good many people of my class play," said harry, mendaciously, because the english workman is the least musical of men. "few of mine," she returned, rising, and closing the piano, "have the chance of learning. but i have had opportunities." she looked at her watch, and remarked that it was nearly ten o'clock, and that she was going to bed. "i have spoken to mr. bunker about what you want, miss kennedy," said the landlady. "he will be here to-morrow morning about ten on his rounds." "who is mr. bunker?" asked angela. they all seemed surprised. had she never, in whatever part of the world she had lived, heard of mr. bunker--bunker the great? "he used to be a sort of factotum to old mr. messenger," said mrs. bormalack. "his death was a sad blow to mr. bunker. he's a general agent by trade, and he deals in coal, and he's a house agent, and he knows everybody round stepney and up to the mile end road as far as bow. he's saved money, too, miss kennedy, and is greatly respected." "he ought to be," said harry; "not only because he was so much with mr. messenger, whose name is revered for the kindred associations of beer and property, but also because he is my uncle--he ought to be respected." "your uncle?" "my own--so near, and yet so dear--my uncle bunker. to be connected with messenger, marsden & company, even indirectly through such an uncle, is in itself a distinction. you will learn to know him, and you will learn to esteem him, miss kennedy. you will esteem him all the more if you are interested in beer." miss kennedy blushed. "bunker is great in the company. i believe he used to consider himself a kind of a partner while the old man lived. he knows all about the big brewery. as for that, everybody does round stepney green." "the company," said josephus gloomily, "is nothing but a chit of a girl." he sighed, thinking how much went to her and how little came to himself. "we are steeped in beer," harry went on. "our conversation turns for ever on beer; we live for beer; the houses round us are filled with the company's servants; we live _by_ beer. for example, mrs. bormalack's late husband----" "he was a collector for the company," said the landlady, with natural pride. "you see, miss kennedy, what a responsible and exalted position was held by mr. bormalack." (the widow thought that sometimes it was hard to know whether this sprightly young man was laughing at people or not, but it certainly was a very high position, and most respectable.) "he went round the houses," harry went on. "houses, here, mean public-houses; the company owns half the public-houses in the east end. then here is my cousin, the genial josephus. hold up your head, josephus. he, for his part, is a clerk in the house." josephus groaned. "a junior clerk," he murmured. "the professor is not allowed in the brewery. he might conjure among the vats, and vats have never been able to take a practical joke; but he amuses the brewery people. as for mr. maliphant, he carves figure-heads for the ships which carry away the brewery beer; and perhaps when the brewery wants cabinets made they will come to me." "it is the biggest brewery in all england," said the landlady. "i can never remember--because my memory is like a sieve--how much beer they brew every year; but somebody once made a calculation about it, compared with niagara falls, which even mr. bunker said was surprising." "think, miss kennedy," said harry, "of an entire niagara of messenger's entire." "but how can this mr. bunker be of use to me?" asked the young lady. "why!" said mrs. bormalack. "there is not a shop or a street nor any kind of place within miles mr. bunker doesn't know, who they are that live there, how they make their living, what the rent is, and everything. that's what made him so useful to old mr. messenger." miss kennedy for some reason changed color. then she said that she thought she would like to see mr. bunker. when she was gone harry sat down beside his lordship and proceeded to smoke tobacco in silence, refusing the proffered decanters. said the professor softly: "she'd be a fortune--a gem of the first water--upon the boards. as pianoforte-player between the feats of magic, marvel, and mystery, or a medium under the magnetic influence of the operator, or a clairvoyant, or a thought-reader--or----" here he relapsed into silence without a sigh. "she looks intelligent," said daniel fagg. "when she hears about my discovery she will----" here he caught the eye of harry goslett, who was shaking a finger of warning, which he rightly interpreted to mean that dressmakers must not be asked to subscribe to learned books. this abashed him. "considered as a figure-head," began mr. maliphant, "i remember----" "as a dressmaker, now----" interrupted harry. "do stepney dressmakers often play the piano like--well, like miss kennedy? do they wear gold watches? do they talk and move and act so much like real ladies, that no one could tell the difference? answer me that, mrs. bormalack." "well, mr. goslett, all i can say is, that she seems a very proper young lady to have in the house." "proper, ma'am? if you were to search the whole of stepney, i don't believe you could find such another. what does your ladyship say?" "i say, mr. goslett, that in canaan city the ladies who are dressmakers set the fashions to the ladies who are not; i was myself a dressmaker. and aurelia tucker, though she turns up her nose at our elevation, is, i must say, a lady who would do credit to any circle, even yours, mrs. bormalack. and such remarks about real ladies and dressmakers i do not understand, and i expected better manners, i must say. look at his lordship's manners, mr. goslett, and his father was a carpenter, like you." chapter iv. uncle bunker. "my uncle!" it was the sprightly young cabinet-maker who sprang to his feet and grasped the hand of the new-comer with an effusion not returned. "allow me, miss kennedy, to present to you my uncle, my uncle bunker, whose praise you heard us sing with one consent last night. we did, indeed, revered one! whatever you want bought, miss kennedy, from a piano to a learned pig, this is the man who will do it for you. a percentage on the cost, with a trifling charge for time, is all he seeks in return. he is generally known as the benevolent bunker; he is everybody's friend; especially he is beloved by persons behindhand with their rents, he is----" here mr. bunker drew out his watch, and observed with severity that his time was valuable, and that he came about business. angela observed that the sallies of his nephew were received with disfavor. "can we not," pursued harry, regardless of the cloud upon his uncle's brow--"can we not escape from affairs of urgency for one moment? show us your lighter side, my uncle. let miss kennedy admire the gifts and graces which you hide as well as the sterner qualities which you exhibit." "business, young lady," the agent repeated, with a snort and a scowl. he took off his hat and rubbed his bald head with a silk pocket-handkerchief until it shone like polished marble. he was short of stature and of round figure. his face was red and puffy as if he was fond of hot brandy-and-water, and he panted, being a little short of breath. his eyes were small and close together, which gave him a cunning look; his whiskers were large and gray; his lips were thick and firm, and his upper lip was long: his nose was broad, but not humorous; his head was set on firmly, and he had a square chin. evidently he was a man of determination, and he was probably determined to look after his own interests first. "i want," said angela, "to establish myself in this neighborhood as a dressmaker." "very good," said mr. bunker. "that's practical. it is my business to do with practical people, not sniggerers and idle gigglers." he looked at his nephew. "i shall want a convenient house, and a staff of workwomen, and--and some one acquainted with business details and management." "go on," said mr. bunker. "a forewoman you will want, of course." "then, as i do not ask you to give me your advice for nothing, how are you generally paid for such services?" "i charge," he said, "as arranged for beforehand. time for talking, arranging, and house-hunting, half-a-crown an hour. that won't break you. and you won't talk too much, knowing you have to pay for it. percentage on the rent, ten per cent. for the first year, nothing afterward; if you want furniture, i will furnish your house from top to bottom on the same terms, and find you work-girls at five shillings a head." "yes," said angela. "i suppose i must engage a staff. and i suppose"--here she looked at harry, as if for advice--"i suppose that you _are_ the best person to go to for assistance." "there is no one else," said mr. bunker. "that is why my terms are so low." his nephew whistled softly. mr. bunker, after an angry growl at people who keep their hands in their pockets, proceeded to develop his views. miss kennedy listened languidly, appearing to care very little about details, and agreeing to most expensive things in a perfectly reckless manner. she was afraid, for her part, that her own ignorance would be exposed if she talked. the agent, however, quickly perceived how ignorant she was, from this very silence, and resolved to make the best of so promising a subject. she could not possibly have much money--who ever heard of a stepney dressmaker with any?--and she evidently had no experience. he would get as much of the money as he could, and she would be the gainer in experience. a most equitable arrangement, he thought, being one of those--too few, alas!--who keep before their eyes a lofty ideal, and love to act up to it. when he had quite finished and fairly embarked his victim on a vast ocean of expenditure, comparatively, and with reference to stepney and mile end customs, he put up his pocketbook and remarked, with a smile, that he should want references of respectability. "that's usual," he said: "i could not work without." angela changed color. to be asked for references was awkward. "you can refer to me, my uncle," said harry. mr. bunker took no notice of this proposition. "you see, miss," he said, "we don't know you, nor where you come from, nor what money you've got, nor how you got it. no doubt it is all right, and i'm sure you look honest. perhaps you've got nothing to hide, and very likely there's good reasons for wanting to settle here." "my grandfather was a whitechapel man by birth," she replied. "he left me some money. if you must have references, of course i could refer you to the lawyers who managed my little affairs. but i would rather, to save trouble, pay for everything on the spot, and the rent in advance." mr. bunker consented to waive his objection on payment of a sum of ten pounds down, it being understood and concluded that everything bought should be paid for on the spot, and a year's rent when the house was fixed upon, paid in advance; in consideration for which he said the young lady might, in subsequent transactions with strangers, refer to himself, a privilege which was nothing less than the certain passport to fortune. "as for me," he added, "my motto is, 'think first of your client.' don't spare yourself for him; toil for him, think for him, rise up early and lie down late for him, and you reap your reward from grateful hearts. lord! the fortunes i have made!" "virtuous uncle bunker!" cried harry with enthusiasm. "noble, indeed!" the good man for the moment forgot the existence of his frivolous nephew, who had retired up the stage, so to speak. he opened his mouth as if to say something in anger, but refrained, and snorted. "now that we've settled that matter, mr. bunker," the girl said without noticing the interruption, "let us talk about other matters." "are they business matters?" "not exactly; but still----" "time is money; an hour is half-a-crown." he drew out his watch, and made a note of the time in his pocketbook. "a quarter to eleven, miss. if i didn't charge for time, what would become of my clients? neglected; their interests ruined; the favorable moment gone. if i could tell you of a lady i established two years ago in one of the brewery-houses and what she's made of it, and what she says of me, you would be astonished. a grateful heart! and no better brandy-and-water, hot, with a slice of lemon, in the whitechapel road. but you were about to say, miss----" "she was going to begin with a hymn of praise, uncle bunker, paid in advance, like the rest. gratitude for favors to come. but if you like to tell about the lady, do. miss kennedy will only charge you half-a-crown an hour. i'll mark time." "i think, young man," said mr. bunker, "that it is time you should go to your work. stepney is not the place for sniggerin' peacocks; they'd better have stayed in the united states." "i am waiting till you have found me a place, too," the young man replied. "i too would wish to experience the grateful heart. it is peculiar to whitechapel." "i was going to say," angela went on, "that i hear you were connected with old mr. messenger for many years." "i was," mr. bunker replied, and straightened his back with pride. "i was--everybody knows that i was his confidential factotum and his familiar friend, as david was unto jonathan." "indeed! i used to--to--hear about him formerly a great deal." "which made his final behavior the more revolting," mr. bunker continued, completing his sentence. "really! how did he finally behave?" "it was always--ah! for twenty years, between us, 'bunker, my friend,' or 'bunker, my trusted friend,' tell me this, go there, find out that. i bought his houses; i let his houses; i told him who were responsible tenants; i warned him when shooting of moons seemed likely; i found out their antecedents and told him their stories. he had hundreds of houses, and he knew everybody that lived in them, and what their fathers were and their mothers were, and even their grandmothers. for he was a whitechapel man by birth, and was proud of it." "but--the shameful behavior?" "all the time"--he shook his head and looked positively terrible in his wrath--"all the time i was piling up his property for him, houses here, streets there, he would encourage me in his way. 'go on, bunker,' he would say, 'go on. a man who works for duty, like yourself, and to please his employers, and not out of consideration for the pay, is one of a million;' as i certainly was, miss kennedy. 'one of a million,' he said; 'and you will have your reward after i am gone.' over and over again he said this, and of course i reckoned on it, and only wondered how much it would tot up to. something, i thought, in four figures; it couldn't be less than four figures." here he stopped and rubbed his bald head again. angela caught the eyes of his nephew, who in his seat behind was silently laughing. he had caught the situation which she herself now readily comprehended. she pictured to herself this blatant professor of disinterestedness and zeal buzzing and fluttering about her grandfather, and the quiet old man egging him on to more protestations. "four figures, for certain it would be. once i asked his advice as to how i should invest that reward when it did come. he laughed, miss. yes, for once he laughed, which i never saw him do before or after. i often think he must be sorry now to think of that time he laughed. yah! i'm glad of it." so far as angela could make it, his joy grew out of a persuasion that this particular fit of laughter was somehow interfering with her grandfather's present comforts, but perhaps she was wrong. "he laughed," continued mr. bunker, "and he said that house property, in a rising neighborhood, and if it could be properly looked after, was the best investment for money. house property, he said, as far as the money would go." "and when he died?" asked the listener, with another glance at harry, the unsympathetic, whose face expressed the keenest enjoyment. "nothing, if you please; not one brass farthing. hunks! hunks!" he grew perfectly purple, and clutched his fist as if he would fain be punching of heads. "not one word of me in his will. all for the girl: millions--millions--for her; and for me who done his work--nothing." "you have the glow of virtue," said his nephew. "it seems hard," said angela quickly, for the man looked dangerous, and seemed capable of transferring his wrath to his nephew; "it seems hard to get nothing if anything was promised." "it seems a pity," harry chimed in, "that so much protesting was in vain. perhaps mr. messenger took him at his word. what a dreadful thing to be believed!" "a hunks," replied mr. bunker; "a miserly hunks." "let me write a letter for you," said harry, "to the heiress; we might forward it with a deputation of grateful hearts from stepney." "mind your own business," growled his uncle. "well, miss, you wanted to hear about mr. messenger, and you have heard. what next?" "i should very much like, if it were possible," angela replied, "to see this great brewery, of which one hears so much. could you, for instance, take me over, mr. bunker?" "at a percentage," whispered his nephew, loud enough for both to hear. "messenger's brewery," he replied, "is as familiar to me as my own fireside. i've grown up beside it. i know all the people in it. they all know me. perhaps they respect me. for it was well known that a handsome legacy was promised and expected. and nothing, after all. as for taking you over, of course i can. we will go at once. it will take time; and time is money." "may i go too?" asked harry. "no, sir; you may not. it shall not be said in the mile end road that an industrious man like myself, a worker for clients, was seen in working-time with an idler." the walk from stepney green to messenger & marsden's brewery is not far. you turn to the left if your house is on one side, and to the right if it is on the other; then you pass a little way down one street, and a little way, turning again to the left, up another--a direction which will guide you quite clearly. you then find yourself before a great gateway, the portals of which are closed; beside it is a smaller door, at which, in a little lodge, sits one who guards the entrance. mr. bunker nodded to the porter and entered unchallenged. he led the way across a court to a sort of outer office. "here," he said, "is the book for the visitors' names. we have them from all countries; great lords and ladies; foreign princes; and all the brewers from germany and america, who come to get a wrinkle. write your name in it, too. something, let me tell you, to have your name in such noble company." she took a pen and wrote hurriedly. mr. bunker looked over her shoulder. "ho! ho!" he said, "that is a good one! see what you've written." in fact, she had written her own name--angela marsden messenger. she blushed violently. "how stupid of me! i was thinking of the heiress--they said it was her name." she carefully effaced the name, and wrote under it, "a. m. kennedy." "that's better. and now come along. a good joke, too! fancy their astonishment if they had come to read it!" "does she often come--the heiress?" "never once been anigh the place; never seen it; never asks after it; never makes an inquiry about it. draws the money and despises it." "i wonder she has not got more curiosity." "ah! it's a shame for such a property to come to a girl--a girl of twenty-one. thirteen acres it covers--think of that! seven hundred people it employs, most of them married. why, if it was only to see her own vats, you'd think she'd got off of her luxurious pillows for once, and come here." they entered a great hall remarkable at first for a curious smell, not offensive, but strong and rather pungent. in it stood half-a-dozen enormous vats, closed by wooden slides, like shutters, fitting tightly. a man standing by opened one of these, and presently angela was able to make out, through the volumes of steam, something bright going round, and a brown mess going with it. "that is hops. hops for the biggest brewery, the richest, in all england. and all belonging to a girl who, likely enough, doesn't drink more than a pint and a half a day." "i dare say not," said angela; "it must be a dreadful thing indeed to have so much beer, and to be able to drink so little." he led the way upstairs into another great hall, where there was the grinding of machinery and another smell, sweet and heavy. "this is where we crush the malt," said mr. bunker--"see!" he stooped, and picked out of a great box a handful of the newly-crushed malt. "i suppose you thought it was roasted. roasting, young lady," he added with severity, "is for stout, not for ale!" then he took her to another place and showed her where the liquor stood to ferment; how it was cooled, how it was passed from one vat to another, how it was stored and kept in vats, dwelling perpetually on the magnitude of the business, and the irony of fortune in conferring this great gift upon a girl. "i know now," she interrupted, "what the place smells like. it is fusel oil." they were standing on a floor of open iron bars, above a row of long covered vats, within which the liquor was working and fermenting. every now and then there would be a heaving of the surface, and a quantity of the malt would then move suddenly over. "we are famous," said mr. bunker; "i say _we_, having been the confidential friend and adviser of the late mr. messenger, deceased; we are famous for our stout; also for our mild; and we are now reviving our bitter, which we had partially neglected. we use the artesian well, which is four hundred feet deep, for our stout, but the company's water for our ales; and our water rate is two thousand pounds a year. the artesian well gives the ale a gray color, which people don't like. come into this room, now"--it was another great hall covered with sacks. "hops again, miss kennedy; now, that little lot is worth ten thousand pounds--ten--thousand--think of that; and it is all spoiled by the rain, and has to be thrown away. we think nothing of losing ten thousand pounds here, nothing at all!"--he snapped his fingers--"it is a mere trifle to the girl who sits at home and takes the profits!" he spoke as if he felt a personal animosity to the girl. angela told him so. "no wonder," he said; "she took all the legacy that ought to have been mine: no man can forgive that. you are young, miss kennedy, and are only beginning business; mark my words, one of these days you will feel how hard it is to put a little by--work as hard as you may--while here is this one having it put away for her, thousands a day, and doing for it--nothing at all." then they went into more great halls, and up more stairs, and on to the roof, and saw more piles of sacks, more malt, and more hops. when they smelt the hops, it seemed as if their throats were tightened; when they smelt the fermentation, it seemed as if they were smelling fusel oil; when they smelt the plain crushed malt, it seemed as if they were getting swiftly but sleepily drunk. everywhere and always the steam rolled backward and forward, and the grinding of the machinery went on, and the roaring of the furnaces; and the men went about to and fro at their work. they did not seem hard worked, nor were they pressed; their movements were leisurely, as if beer was not a thing to hurry; they were all rather pale of cheek, but fat and jolly, as if the beer was good and agreed with them. some wore brown paper caps, for it was a pretty draughty place; some went bareheaded, some wore the little round hat in fashion. and they went to another part, where men were rolling barrels about, as if they had been skittles, and here they saw vats holding three thousand barrels; and one thought of giant armies--say two hundred and fifty thousand thirsty germans--beginning the loot of london with one of these royal vats. and they went through the stables, where hundreds of horses were stalled at night, each as big as an elephant, and much more useful. in one great room, where there was the biggest vat of all, a man brought them beer to taste; it was messenger's stout. angela took her glass and put it to her lips with a strange emotion--she felt as if she should like a quiet place to sit down in and cry. the great place was hers--all hers; and this was the beer with which her mighty fortune had been made. "is it," she asked, looking at the heavy foam of the frothing stout, "is this messenger's entire?" bunker sat down and drank off his glass before replying. then he laid his hands upon his stick and made answer, slowly, remembering that he was engaged at half-a-crown an hour, which is one halfpenny a minute. "this is not entire," he said. "you see, miss kennedy, there's fashions in beer, same as in clothes; once it was all cooper, now you never hear of cooper. then was it all half-an-arf--you never hear of any one ordering half-an-arf now. then it was stout. nothing would go down but stout, which i recommend myself, and find it nourishing. next bitter came in, and honest stout was despised; now, we're all for mild. as for entire, why--bless my soul!--entire went out before i was born. why, it was entire which made the fortune of the first messenger that was--a poor little brewery he had, more than a hundred years ago, in this very place, because it was cheap for rent. in those days they used to brew strong ale, old and strong; stout, same as now; and twopenny, which was small beer. and because the old ale was too strong, and the stout too dear, and the twopenny too weak, the people used to mix them all three together, and they called them 'three threads;' and you may fancy the trouble it was for the pot-boys to go to one cask after another, all day long, because they had no beer engines then. well, what did mr. messenger do? he brewed a beer as strong as the three threads, and he called it messenger's entire three threads, meaning that here you had 'em all in one, and that's what made his fortune; and now, young lady, you've seen all i've got to show you, and we will go." "i make bold, young woman," he said, as they went away, "to give you a warning about my nephew. he's a good-looking chap, for all he's worthless, though it's a touch-and-go style that's not my idea of good looks. still, no doubt some would think him handsome. well, i warn you." "that is very good of you, mr. bunker. why do you warn me?" "why, anybody can see already that he's taken with your good looks. don't encourage him. don't keep company with him. he's been away a good many years--in america--and i fear he's been in bad company." "i am sorry to hear that." "you saw his sniggerin', sneerin' way with me, his uncle. that doesn't look the right sort of man to take up with, i think. and as for work, he seems not to want any. says he can afford to wait a bit. talks about opening a cabinet-makin' shop. well, he will have none of my money. i tell him that beforehand. a young jackanapes! a painted peacock! i believe, miss kennedy, that he drinks. don't have nothing to say to him. as for what he did in the states, and why he left the country, i don't know; and if i were you, i wouldn't ask." with this warning he left her, and angela went home trying to realize her own great possessions. hundreds of houses; rows of streets; this enormous brewery, working day after day for her profit and advantage; and these invested moneys, these rows of figures which represented her personal property. all hers! all her own! all the property of a girl! surely, she thought, this was a heavy burden to be laid upon one frail back. chapter v. the cares of wealth. it is, perhaps, a survival of feudal customs that in english minds a kind of proprietorship is assumed over one's dependents, those who labor for a man and are paid by him. it was this feeling of responsibility which had entered into the mind of angela, and was now firmly fixed there. all these men, this army of seven hundred brewers, drivers, clerks, accountants, and the rest, seemed to belong to her. not only did she pay them the wages and salaries which gave them their daily bread, but they lived in her own houses among the streets which lie to the right and to the left of the mile end road. the very chapels where they worshipped, being mostly of some nonconformist sect, stood on her own ground--everything was hers. the richest heiress in england! she repeated this to herself over and over again, in order to accustom herself to the responsibilities of her position, not to the pride of it. if she dwelt too long upon the subject her brain reeled. what was she to do with all her money? a man--like her grandfather--often feels joy in the mere amassing of wealth; to see it grow is enough pleasure; other men in their old age sigh over bygone years, which seem to have failed in labor or effort. then men sigh over bygone days in which more might have been saved. but girls cannot be expected to reach these heights. angela only weakly thought what an immense sum of money she had, and asked herself what she could do, and how she should spend her wealth to the best advantage. the most pitiable circumstance attending the possession of wealth is that no one sympathizes with the possessor. yet his or her sufferings are sometimes very great. they begin at school, where a boy or girl, who is going to be very rich, feels already set apart. he loses the greatest spur to action. it is when they grow up, however, that the real trouble begins. for a girl with large possessions is always suspicious lest a man should pretend to love her for the sake of her money; she has to suspect all kinds of people who want her to give, lend, advance, or promise them money; she is the mere butt of every society, hospital, and institution; her table is crowded every morning with letters from decayed gentlewomen and necessitous clergymen, and recommenders of "cases;" she longs to do good to her generation, but does not know how; she is expected to buy quantities of things which she does not want, and to pay exorbitant prices for everything; she has to be a patron of art: she is invited to supply every woman throughout the country who wants a mangle, with that useful article; she is told that it is her duty to build new churches over the length and breadth of the land: she is earnestly urged to endow new colonial bishoprics over all the surface of the habitable globe. then she has to live in a great house and have troops of idle servants. and, whether she likes it or not, she has to go a great deal in society. all this, without the least sympathy or pity from those who ought to feel for her, who are in the happy position of having no money. nobody pities an heiress; to express pity would seem like an exaggerated affectation of virtue, the merest pedantry of superiority; it would not be believed. therefore, while all the world is agreed in envying her, she is bemoaning her sad fate. fortunately, she is rare. as yet, angela was only just at the commencement of her troubles. the girls at newnham had not spoiled her by flattery or envy; some of them even pitied her sad burden of money; she had as yet only realized part of the terrible isolation of wealth; she had not grown jealous, or suspicious, or arrogant, as in advancing years often happens with the very rich; she had not yet learned to regard the whole world as composed entirely of money-grabbers. all she had felt hitherto was that she went in constant danger from interested wooers, and that youth, combined with money-bags, is an irresistible attraction to men of all ages. now, however, for the first time she understood the magnitude of her possessions, and felt the real weight of her responsibilities. she saw, for the first time, the hundreds of men working for her; she saw the houses whose tenants paid rent to her; she visited her great brewery, and she asked herself the question, which dives no doubt frequently asked--what she had done to be specially set apart and selected from humanity as an exception to the rule of labor? even bunker's complaint about the difficulty of putting by a little, and his indignation because she herself could put by so much, seemed pathetic. she walked about the sad and monotonous streets of east london, reflecting upon these subjects. she did not know where she was, nor the name of any street; in a general way she knew that most of the street probably belonged to herself, and that it was an inexpressibly dreary street. when she was tired she asked her way back again. no one insulted her; no one troubled her; no one turned aside to look at her. when she went home she sat silently, for the most part, in the common sitting-room. the boarding-house was inexpressibly stupid except when the sprightly young mechanic was present, and she was even angry with herself for finding his society pleasant. what could there be, she asked, in common between herself and this workman? then she wondered, remembering that so far she had found nothing in her own mind that was not also in his. could it be that two years of newnham had elevated her mentally no higher than the level of a cabinet-maker? her meditation brought her, in the course of a few days, to the point of action. she would do something. she therefore wrote a letter instructing her solicitors to get her, immediately, two reports, carefully drawn up. first, she would have a report on the brewery, its average profits for the last ten years, with a list of all the employees, the number of years' service, the pay they received, and, as regards the juniors, the characters they bore. next she wanted a report on her property at the east end, with a list of her tenants, their occupations and trades, and a map showing the position of her houses. when she had got these reports she would be, she felt, in a position to work upon them. meantime, mr. bunker not having yet succeeded in finding a house suitable for her dressmaking business, she had nothing to do but to go on walking about and to make herself acquainted with the place. once or twice she was joined by the idle apprentice, who, to do him justice, was always ready to devote his unprofitable time to these excursions, which his sprightliness enlivened. there is a good deal to see in and about stepney, though it can hardly be called a beautiful suburb. formerly it was a very big place, so big that, though bethnal green was once chopped off at one end and limehouse at the other, not to speak of shadwell, wapping, stratford, and other great cantles, there still remains a parish as big as st. pancras. yet, though it is big, it is not proud. great men have not been born there or lived there; there are no associations. stepney green has not even got its polly, like paddington green and wapping old stairs; the streets are all mean, and the people for the most part stand upon that level where respectability--beautiful quality!--begins. "do you know the west end?" angela asked her companion when they were gazing together upon an unlovely avenue of small houses which formed a street. she was thinking how monotonous must be the daily life in these dreary streets. "yes, i know the west end. what is it you regret in your comparison?" angela hesitated. "there are no carriages here," said the workman; "no footmen in powder or coachmen in wigs; there are no ladies on horseback, no great squares with big houses, no clubs, no opera-houses, no picture-galleries. all the rest of life is here." "but these things make life," said the heiress. "without society and art, what is life?" "perhaps these people find other pleasures; perhaps the monotony gets relieved by hope and anxiety, and love, and death, and such things." the young man forgot how the weight of this monotony had fallen upon his own brain; he remembered, now, that his companion would probably have to face this dreariness all her life, and he tried in a kindly spirit to divert her mind from the thought of it. "you forget that each life is individual, and has its own separate interests; and these are apart from the conditions which surround it. do you know my cousin, tom coppin?" "no: what is he?" "he is a printer by trade. of late years he has been engaged in setting up atheistic publications. of course, this occupation has had the effect of making him an earnest christian. now he is a captain of the salvation army." "but i thought----" "don't think, miss kennedy; look about and see for yourself. he lives on five-and-twenty shillings a week, in one room, in just such a street as this. i laughed at him at first; now i laugh no longer. you can't laugh at a man who spends his whole life preaching and singing hymns among the whitechapel roughs, taking as a part of the day's work all the rotten eggs, brickbats, and kicks that come in his way. do you think his life would be less monotonous if he lived in belgrave square?" "but all are not preachers and captains in the salvation army." "no: there is my cousin dick. we are, very properly, tom, dick, and harry. dick is, like myself, a cabinet-maker. he is also a politician, and you may hear him at his club denouncing the house of lords, and the church, and monarchical institutions, and hereditary everything, till you wonder the people do not rise and tear all down. they don't, you see, because they are quite accustomed to big talk, and it never means anything, and they are not really touched by the dreadful wickedness of the peers." "i should like to know your cousins." "you shall. they don't like me, because i have been brought up in a somewhat different school. but that does not greatly matter." "will they like me?" it was a very innocent question, put in perfect innocence, and yet the young man blushed. "everybody," he said, "is bound to like you." she changed color and became silent, for a while. he went on presently. "we are all as happy as we deserve to be, i suppose. if these people knew what to do in order to make themselves happier, they would go and do that thing. meantime, there is always love for everybody, and success, and presently the end--is not life everywhere monotonous?" "no," she replied stoutly; "mine is not." he was thinking at the moment that of all lives a dressmaker's must be one of the most monotonous. she remembered that she was a dressmaker, and explained: "there are the changes of fashion, you see." "yes, but you are young," he replied, from his vantage-ground of twenty-three years, being two years her superior. "mine is monotonous when i come to think of it. only, you see, one does not think of it oftener than one can help. besides, as far as i have got i like the monotony." "do you like work?" "not much, i own. do you?" "no." "yet you are going to settle down at stepney." "and you, too?" "as for me, i don't know." the young man colored slightly. "i may go away again soon and find work elsewhere." "i was walking yesterday," she went on, "in the great, great church-yard of stepney church. do you know it?" "yes--that is, i have not been inside the walls. i am not fond of church-yards." "there they lie--acres of graves. thousands upon thousands of dead people, and not one of the whole host remembered. all have lived, worked, hoped much, got a little, i suppose, and died. and the world none the better." "nay, that you cannot tell." "not one of all remembered," she repeated. "there is an epitaph in the church-yard which might do for every one: "'here lies the body of daniel saul-- spitalfields weaver; and that is all.' that is all." "what more did the fellow deserve?" asked her companion. "no doubt he was a very good weaver. why, he has got a great posthumous reputation. you have quoted him." he did not quite follow her line of thought. she was thinking in some vague way of the waste of material. "they had very little power of raising the world, to be sure. they were quite poor, ill-educated, and without resource." "it seems to me," replied her companion, "that nobody has any power of raising the world. look at the preachers and the writers and the teachers. by their united efforts they contrive to shore up the world and keep it from falling lower. every now and then down we go, flop--a foot or two of civilization lost. then we lose a hundred years or so until we can get shoved up again." "should not rich men try to shove up, as you call it?" "some of them do try, i believe," he replied; "i don't know how they succeed." "suppose, for instance, this young lady, this miss messenger, who owns all this property, were to use it for the benefit of the people, how would she begin, do you suppose?" "most likely she would bestow a quantity of money to a hospital, which would pauperize the doctors, or she would give away quantities of blankets, bread, and beef in the winter, which would pauperize the people." angela sighed. "that is not very encouraging." "what you could do by yourself, if you pleased, among the working-girls of the place, would be, i suppose, worth ten times what she could do with all her giving. i'm not much in the charity line myself, miss kennedy, but i should say, from three weeks' observation of the place and conversation with the respectable bunker, that miss messenger's money is best kept out of the parish, which gets on very well without it." "her money! yes, i see. yet she herself----" she paused. "we working men and women----" "you are not a working-man, mr. goslett." she faced him with her steady, honest eyes, as if she would read the truth in his. "whatever else you are, you are not a working-man." he replied without the least change of color: "indeed, i am the son of sergeant goslett, of the --th regiment, who fell in the indian mutiny. i am the nephew of good old benjamin bunker, the virtuous and the disinterested. i was educated in rather a better way than most of my class, that is all." "is it true that you have lived in america?" "quite true." he did not say how long he had lived there. angela, with her own guilty secret, was suspicious that perhaps this young man might also have his. "men of your class," she said, "do not as a rule talk like you." "matter of education--that is all." "and you are really a cabinet-maker?" "if you will look into my room and see my lathe, i will show you specimens of my work, o thou unbeliever! did you think that i might have 'done something,' and so be fain to hide my head?" it was a cruel thing to suspect him in this way, yet the thought had crossed her mind that he might be a fugitive from the law and society, protected for some reason by bunker. harry returned to the subject of the place. "what we want here," he said, "as it seems to me, is a little more of the pleasure and graces of life. to begin with, we are not poor and in misery, but for the most part fairly well off. we have great works here--half a dozen breweries, though none so big as messenger's; chemical works, sugar refineries, though these are a little depressed at present, i believe; here are all the docks; then we have silk-weavers, rope-makers, sail-makers, match-makers, cigar-makers; we build ships; we tackle jute, though what jute is, and what to do with it, i know not; we cut corks; we make soap, and we make fireworks; we build boats. when all our works are in full blast, we make quantities of money. see us on sundays, we are not a bad-looking lot; healthy, well-dressed, and tolerably rosy. but we have no pleasures." "there must be some." "a theatre and a music-hall in whitechapel road. that has to serve for two millions of people. now, if this young heiress wanted to do any good, she should build a palace of pleasure here." "a palace of pleasure!" she repeated. "it sounds well. should it be a kind of a crystal palace?" "well!" it was quite a new idea, but he replied as if he had been considering the subject for years. "not quite--with modifications." "let us talk over your palace of pleasure," she said, "at another time. it sounds well. what else should she do?" "that is such a gigantic thing that it seems enough for one person to attempt. however, we can find something else for her--why, take schools. there is not a public school for the whole two millions of east london. not one place in which boys--to say nothing of girls, can be brought up in generous ideas. she must establish at least half a dozen public schools for boys and as many for girls." "that is a very good idea. will you write and tell her so?" "then there are libraries, reading-rooms, clubs, but all these would form part of the palace of pleasure." "of course. i would rather call it a palace of delight. pleasure seems to touch a lower note. we could have music-rooms for concerts as well." "and a school for music." the young man became animated as the scheme unfolded itself. "and a school for dancing." "miss kennedy," he said with enthusiasm, "you _ought_ to have the spending of all this money! and--why, you would hardly believe it--but there is not in the whole of this parish of stepney a single dance given in the year. think of that! but perhaps----" he stopped again. "you mean that dressmakers do not, as a rule, dance? however, i do, and so there must be a school for dancing. there must be a great college to teach all these accomplishments." "happy stepney!" cried the young man, carried out of himself. "thrice happy stepney! glorified whitechapel! beautiful bow! what things await ye in the fortunate future!" he left her at the door of bormalack's, and went off on some voyage of discovery of his own. the girl retreated to her own room. she had now hired a sitting-room all to herself, and paid three months in advance, and sat down to think. then she took paper and pen and began to write. she was writing down, while it was hot in her head, the three-fold scheme which this remarkable young workman had put into her head. "we women are weak creatures," she said with a sigh. "we long to be up and doing, but we cannot carve out our work for ourselves. a man must be with us to suggest or direct it. the college of art--yes, we will call it the college of art; the palace of delight; the public schools. i should think that between the three a good deal of money might be got through. and oh! to think of converting this dismal suburb into a home for refined and cultivated people!" in blissful revery she saw already the mean houses turned into red brick queen anne terraces and villas; the dingy streets were planted with avenues of trees; art flourished in the house as well as out of it; life was rendered gracious, sweet, and lovely. and to think that this result was due to the suggestion of a common working-man! but then, he had lived in the states. doubtless in the states all the working-men---- but was that possible? chapter vi. a first step. with this great programme before her, the responsibilities of wealth were no longer so oppressive. when power can be used for beneficent purposes, who would not be powerful? and beside the mighty shadow of this scheme, the smaller project for which bunker was finding a house looked small indeed. yet was it not small, but great, and destined continually to grow greater? bunker came to see her from day to day, reporting progress. he heard of a house here or a house there, and went to see it. but it was too large; and of another, but it was too small; and of a third, but it was not convenient for her purpose; and so on. each house took up a whole day in examination, and bunker's bill was getting on with great freedom. the delay, however, gave angela time to work out her new ideas on paper. she invoked the assistance of her friend the cabinet-maker with ideas; and, under the guise of amusing themselves, they drew up a long and business-like prospectus of the proposed new institutions. first, there were the high schools, of which she would found six--three for boys and three for girls. the great feature of these schools was to be that they should give a liberal education for a very small fee, and that in their play-grounds, their discipline, and, as far as possible, their hours, they were to resemble the great public schools. "they must be endowed for their masters' and mistresses' salaries, and with scholarships; and--and--i think the boys and girls ought to have dinner in the school, so as not to go home all day; and--and--there will be many things to provide for each school." she looked as earnest over this amusement, harry said, as if she were herself in possession of the fortune which they were thus administering. they agreed that when the schools were built, an endowment of £ , each, which would yield £ , a year, ought to be enough, with the school fees, to provide for the education of five hundred in each school. then they proceeded with the splendid plan of the new college. it was agreed that learning, properly so called, should be entirely kept out of the programme. no political economy, said the newnham student, should be taught there. nor any of the usual things--latin, greek, mathematics, and so forth--said the young man from the united states. what, then, remained? everything. the difficulty in making such a selection of studies is to know what to omit. "we are to have," said harry, now almost as enthusiastic as angela herself, "a thing never before attempted. we are to have a college of art. what a grand idea! it was yours, miss kennedy." "no," she replied, "it was yours. if it comes to anything, we shall always remember that it was yours." an amiable contest was finished by their recollecting that it was only a play, and they laughed and went on, half ashamed, and yet both full of enthusiasm. "the college of art!" he repeated; "why, there are a hundred kinds of art; let us include accomplishments." they would; they did. they finally resolved that there should be professors, lecturers, or teachers, with convenient class-rooms, theatres and lecture-halls in the following accomplishments and graces: dancing, but there must be the old as well as the new kinds of dancing. the waltz was not to exclude the minuet, the reel, the country dance, or the old square dances; the pupils would also have such dances as the _bolero_ and the _tarantella_, and other national jumperies. singing, which was to be a great feature, as anybody could sing, said angela, if they were taught. "except my uncle bunker!" said harry. then there were to be musical instruments of all kinds. skating, bicycling, lawn tennis, racquets, fives, and all kinds of games; rowing, billiards, archery, rifle-shooting. then there was to be acting, with reading and recitation; there were to be classes on gardening, on cookery, and on the laws of beauty in costume. "the east end shall be independent of the rest of the world in fashion," said angela; "we will dress according to the rules of art!" "you shall," cried harry, "and your own girls shall be the new dressmakers to the whole of glorified stepney." then there were to be lectures, not in literature, but in letter-writing, especially in love-letter writing, versifying, novel-writing, and essay-writing; that is to say, on the more delightful forms of literature--so that poets and novelists should arise, and the east end, hitherto a barren desert, should blossom with flowers. then there was to be a professor of grace, because a graceful carriage of the body is so generally neglected; and harry, who had a slim figure and long legs, began to indicate how the professor would probably carry himself. next there were to be professors of painting, drawing, sculpture and design; and lectures on furniture, color, and architecture. the arts of photography, china painting, and so forth were to be cultivated; and there were to be classes for the encouragement of leather-work, crewel-work, fret-work, brass-work, wood and ivory carving, and so forth. "there shall be no house in the east end," cried the girl, "that shall not have its panels painted by one member of the family; its woodwork carved by another, its furniture designed by a third, its windows planted with flowers by another." her eyes glowed, her lips trembled. "you _ought_ to have had the millions," said harry. "nay, you, for you devised it all," she replied. she was so glowing, so rosy red, so soft and sweet to look upon; her eyes were so full of possible love--though of love she was not thinking--that almost the young man fell upon his knees to worship this venus. "and all these beautiful things," she went on, breathless, "are only designed for the sake of the palace of delight. "it shall stand somewhere near the central place, this stepney green, so that all the east can get to it. it shall have many halls," she went on. "one of them shall be for concerts, and there shall be an organ; one of them shall be for a theatre, and there will be a stage and everything; one shall be a dancing-hall, one a skating rink, one a hall for lectures, readings and recitations; one a picture gallery, one a permanent exhibition of our small arts. we will have our concerts performed from our school of music; our plays shall be played by our amateurs taught at our school of acting; our exhibitions shall be supplied by our own people; the things will be sold, and they will soon be sold off and replaced, because they will be cheap. oh! oh! oh!" she clasped her hands, and fell back in her chair, overpowered with the thought. "it will cost much money," said harry weakly, as if money was any object--in dreams. "the college must be endowed with £ , a year, which is a million of money," angela replied, making a little calculation. "that money must be found. as for the palace, it will require nothing but the building, and a small annual income to pay for repairs and servants. it will be governed by a board of directors, elected by the people themselves, to whom the palace will belong. and no one shall pay or be paid for any performance. and the only condition of admission will be good behavior, with exclusion as a penalty." the thing which she contemplated was a deed the like of which makes to tingle the ears of those who hear it. to few, indeed, is it given to communicate to a whole nation this strange and not unpleasant sensation. one need not disguise the fact that the possession of this power, and the knowledge of her own benevolent intentions, gave angela a better opinion of herself than she had ever known before. herein, my friends, lies, if you will rightly regard it, the true reason of the feminine love for power illustrated by chaucer. for the few who have from time to time wielded authority have ever been persuaded that they wielded it wisely, benevolently, religiously, and have of course congratulated themselves on the possession of so much virtue. what mischiefs, thought elizabeth of england, catharine of russia, semiramis of babylon, and angela of whitechapel, might have followed had a less wise and virtuous person been on the throne! it was not unnatural, considering how much she was with harry at this time, and how long were their talks with each other, that she should have him a great deal in her mind. for these ideas were certainly his, not hers. newnham, she reflected humbled, had not taught her to originate. she knew that he was but a cabinet-maker by trade. yet, when she involuntarily compared him, his talk, his manners, his bearing, with the men whom she had met, the young dons and the undergraduates of cambridge, the clever young fellows in society who were reported to write for the _saturday_, and the berties and the algies of daily life, she owned to herself that in no single point did this cabinet-maker fellow compare unfavorably with any of them. he seemed as well taught as the last-made fellow of trinity who came to lecture on literature and poetry at newnham; as cultivated as the mediæval fellow who took philosophy and psychology, and was supposed to entertain ideas on religion so original as to amount to a fifth gospel: as quick as the most thorough-going society man who has access to studios, literary circles, musical people, and æsthetes; and as careless as any bertie or algie of the whole set. this it was which made her blush, because if he had been a common man, a mere bunker, he might, with his knowledge of his class, have proved so useful a servant to her; so admirable a vizier. now, unfortunately, she felt that she could only make him useful in this way after she had confided in him; and that to confide in him might raise dangerous thoughts in the young man's head. no: she must not confide in him. it shows what a thoughtful young person angela was, that she would blush all by herself only to think of danger to harry goslett. she passed all that night and the whole of the next day and night in a dream over the palace of delight and the college for educating people in the sweet and pleasant things--the college of art. on the next morning a cold chill fell upon her, caused i know not how; not by the weather, which was the bright and hot weather of last july; not by any ailment of her own, because angela owned the most perfect mechanism ever constructed by nature; nor by any unpleasantness in the house, because, now that she had her own room, she generally breakfasted alone; nor by anything in the daily papers--which frequently, by their evil telegrams and terrifying forebodings, do poison the spring and the fountain-head of the day; nor by any letter, because the only one she had was from constance woodcote at newnham, and it told the welcome news that she was appointed mathematical lecturer with so much a head for fees, and imploring angela to remember her promise that she would endow newnham with a scholarship. endow newnham! why, she was going to have a brand-new college of her own, to say nothing of the high schools for boys and girls. perhaps the cause of her depression was the appearance of bunker, who came to tell her that he had at last found the house which would suit her. no other house in the neighborhood was in any way to compare with it; the house stood close by, at the southwest corner of stepney green. it was ready for occupation, the situation was as desirable as that of tirzah the beautiful; the rent was extremely low, considering the many advantages; all the nobility and gentry of the place, he declared, would flock around a dressmaker situated in stepney green itself; there were rooms for show-rooms, with plenty of other rooms and everything which would be required; finally, as if this were an additional recommendation, the house _belonged to himself_. "i am ready," he said, with a winning smile, "to make a sacrifice of my own interests in order to oblige a young lady, and i will take a lower rent from you than i would from anybody else." she went with him to "view" the house. one looks at a picture, a horse, an estate, a book, but one "views" a house. subtle and beautiful distinction, which shows the poetry latent in the heart of every house agent! it was bunker's own. surely that was not the reason why it was let at double the rent of the next house, which belonged to angela herself, nor why the tenant had to undertake all the repairs, paper, and painting, external and internal, nor why the rent began from that very day, instead of the half-quarter or the next quarter-day. bunker himself assured miss kennedy that he had searched the whole neighborhood for a suitable place, but could find none so good as his own house. as for the houses of the messenger property, they were liable, he said, to the demands of a lawyer's firm, which had no mercy on a tenant, while, as for himself, he was full of compassion, and always ready to listen to reason. he wanted no other recommendation than a year's rent paid in advance, and would undertake to execute, at the tenant's cost, the whole of the painting, papering, whitewashing, roofing, pipes, chimneys, and general work himself; "whereas, young lady," he added, "if you had taken one of those messenger houses, you cannot tell in what hands you would have found yourself, nor what charges you would have had to pay." he shook his fat head, and rattled his keys in his pocket. so strong is the tendency of the human mind to believe what is said, in spite of all experience to the contrary, that his victim smiled and thanked him, knowing very well that the next minute she would be angry with herself for so easily becoming a dupe to a clumsy rogue. she thanked him for his consideration, she said, yet she was uneasily conscious that he was overreaching her in some way, and she hesitated. "on the green," he said. "what a position! looking out on the garden! with such rooms! and so cheap!" "i don't know," she replied; "i must consult some one." "as to that," he said, "there may be another tenant; i can't keep offers open. take it, miss, or leave it. there!" while she still hesitated, he added one more recommendation. "an old house it is, but solid, and will stand forever. why, old mr. messenger was born here." "was he?" she cried, "was my--was mr. messenger actually born here?" she hesitated no longer. she took the house at his own price; she accepted his terms, extortionate and grasping as they were. when the bargain was completed--when she had promised to sign the agreement for a twelvemonth, pay a year in advance, and appoint the disinterested one her executor of repairs, she returned to bormalack's. in the doorway, a cigarette in his mouth, lounged the idle apprentice. "i saw you," he said, "with the benevolent bunker. you have fallen a prey to my uncle?" "i have taken a house from him." "the two phrases are convertible. those who take his houses are his victims. i hope no great mischief is done." "not much, i think." the young man threw away his cigarette. "seriously, miss kennedy," he said, "my good uncle will possess himself of all the money he can get out of you. have a care." "he can do me no harm, thank you all the same. i wanted a house soon, and he has found me one. what does it matter if i pay a little more than i ought?" "what does it matter?" harry was not versed in details of trade, but he knew enough to feel that this kind of talk was unpractical. "what does it matter? my dear young lady, if you go into business, you must look after the sixpences." miss kennedy looked embarrassed. she had betrayed herself, she thought. "i know--i know. but he talked me over." "i _have_ heard," said the practical man, looking profoundly wise, "that he who would save money must even consider that there is a difference between a guinea and a sovereign; and that he shouldn't pay a cabman more than twice his fare, and that it is wrong to pay half-a-guinea for heidsieck monopole when he can get pommery and greno at seven-and-sixpence." then he, too, paused abruptly, because he felt as if he had betrayed himself. what have cabinet-makers to do with pommery and greno? fortunately, angela did not hear the latter part of the speech. she was reflecting on the ease with which a crafty man--say bunker--may compass his ends with the simple--say herself. "i do not pretend," he said, "to know all the ropes, but i should not have allowed you to be taken in quite so readily by this good uncle. do you know----" his eyes, when they were serious, which was not often, were really good. angela perceived they were serious now: "do you know that the name of the uncle who was indirectly, so to speak, connected with the robin redbreasts was originally bunker? he changed it after the children were dead, and he came into the property." "i wish you had been with me," she said simply. "but i suppose i must take my chance, as other girls do." "most other girls have got men to advise them. have you no one?" "i might have"--she was thinking of her lawyers, who were paid to advise her if required. "but i will find out things for myself." "and at what a price! are your pockets lined with gold, miss kennedy?" they certainly were, but he did not know it. "i will try to be careful. thank you." "as regards going with you, i am always at your command. i will be your servant, if you will accept me as such." this was going a step further than seemed altogether safe. angela was hardly prepared to receive a cabinet-maker, however polite and refined he might seem, as a lover. "i believe," she said, "that in our class of life it is customary for young people to 'keep company,' is it not?" "it is not uncommon," he replied, with much earnestness. "the custom has even been imitated by the higher classes." "what i mean is this, that i am not going to keep company with any one; but, if you please to help me, if i ask your advice, i shall be grateful." "your gratitude," he said with a smile, "ought to make any man happy!" "your compliments," she retorted, "will certainly kill my gratitude; and now, mr. goslett, don't you really think that you should try to do some work? is it right to lounge away the days among the streets? are _your_ pockets, i may ask, lined with gold?" "i am looking for work. i am hunting everywhere for work. my uncle is going to find me a workshop. then i shall request the patronage of the nobility and gentry of stepney, whitechapel, and the mile end road. h. g. respectfully solicits a trial." he laughed as if there could be no doubt at all about the future, and as if a few years of looking around were of no importance. then he bowed to angela in the character of the complete cabinet-maker. "orders, madame, orders executed with neatness and despatch. the highest price given for second-hand furniture." she had got her house, however, though she was going to pay far too much for it. that was a great thing, and, as the more important schemes could not be all commenced at a moment's notice, she would begin with the lesser--her dressmaker's shop. here mr. goslett could not help her. she applied, therefore, again to mr. bunker, who had a registry office for situations wanted. "my terms," he said, "are five shillings on application and five shillings for each person engaged." he did not say that he took half a crown from each person who wanted a place and five shillings on her getting the place. his ways were ways of pleasantness, and on principle he never spoke of things which might cause unpleasant remarks. besides, no one knew the trouble he had to take in suiting people. "i knew," he said, "that you would come back to me. people will only find out my worth when i am gone." "i hope you will be worth a great deal, mr. bunker," said angela. "pretty well, young lady. pretty well. ah! my nephews will be the gainers. but not what i might have been if it had not been for the meanness, the--the--hunxiness of that wicked old man." "do you think you can find me what i want, mr. bunker?" "_can_ i?" he turned over the leaves of a great book. "look at this long list; all ready to better themselves. apprentices anxious to get through their articles, and improvers to be dressmakers, and dressmakers to be forewomen, and forewomen to be mistresses. that is the way of the world, young lady. sweet contentment, where art thou?" the pastoral simplicity of his words and attitude were inexpressibly comic. "and how are you going to begin, miss kennedy?" "quietly at first." "then you'll want a matter of one or two dressmakers, and half a dozen improvers. the apprentices will come later." "what are the general wages in this part of london?" "the dressmakers get sixteen shillings a week; the improvers six. they bring their own dinners, and you give them their tea. but, of course, you know all that." "of course," said angela, making a note of the fact, notwithstanding. "as for one of your dressmakers, i can recommend you rebekah hermitage, daughter of the rev. percival hermitage. she cannot get a situation, because of her father's religious opinions." "that seems strange. what are they?" "why, he's minister of the seventh-day independents. they've got a chapel in redman's row; they have their services on saturday because, they say--and it seems true--that the fourth commandment has never been abolished any more than the rest of them. i wonder the bishops don't take it up. well, there it is. on saturdays she won't work, and on sundays she don't like to, because the other people don't." "has she any religious objection," asked angela, "to working on monday and tuesday?" "no; and i'll send her over, miss kennedy, this evening, if you will see her. you'll get her cheap, because no one else will have her. very good. then there is nelly sorensen. i know she would like to go out, but her father is particular. not that he's any right to be, being a pauper. if a man like me or the late mr. messenger, my friend, chooses to be particular, it's nothing but right. as for captain sorensen--why, it's the pride after the fall, instead of before it. which makes it, to a substantial man, sickenin'." "who is captain sorensen?" "he lives in the asylum along the whitechapel road, only ten minutes or so from here. nelly sorensen is as clever a work-woman as you will get. if i were you, miss kennedy, i would go and find her at home. then you can see her work and talk to her. as for her father, keep him in his right place. pride in an almshouse! why, you'd hardly believe it; but i wanted to put his girl in a shop where they employ fifty hands, and he wouldn't have it, because he didn't like the character of the proprietor. said he was a grinder and an oppressor. my answer to such is, and always will be, 'take it or leave it.' if they won't take it, there's heaps that must. as old mr. messenger used to say, 'bunker, my friend,' or 'bunker, my only friend,' sometimes, 'your remarks is true wisdom.' yes, miss kennedy, i will go with you to show you the way." he looked at his watch. "half-past four. i dare say it will take half an hour there and back, which with the last quarter of an hour's talk, we shall charge as an hour's time, which is half a crown. thank you. an hour," he added, with great feeling; "an hour, like a pint of beer, cannot be divided. and on these easy terms, miss kennedy, you will find me always ready to work for you from sunrise to sunset, thinking of your interests, even at meals, so as not to split an hour or waste it, and to save trouble in reckoning up." chapter vii. the trinity almshouse. from stepney green to the trinity almshouse is not a long way; you have, in fact, little more than to pass through a short street and to cross the road. but the road itself is noteworthy; for, of all the roads which lead into london or out of it, this of whitechapel is the broadest and the noblest by nature. man, it is true, has done little to embellish it. there are no avenues of green and spreading lime and plane trees, as, one day, there shall be; there are no stately buildings, towers, spires, miracles of architecture--but only houses and shops, which, whether small or big, are all alike mean, unlovely, and depressing. yet, in spite of all, a noble road. this road, which is the promenade, breathing-place, place of resort, place of gossip, place of amusement, and place of business for the greater part of east london, stretches all the way from aldgate to stratford, being called first whitechapel road, and then the mile end road, and then the stratford road. under the first name the road has acquired a reputation of the class called, by moralists, unenviable. the history of police courts records, under the general heading of whitechapel road, shows so many free fights, brave robberies, gallant murders, dauntless kickings, cudgellings, pummellings, pocket-pickings, shop-liftings, watch-snatchings, and assaults on constables, with such a brave display of disorderly drunks, that the road has come to be regarded with admiration as one of those alsatian retreats, growing every day rarer, which are beyond and above the law. it is thought to be a place where manhood and personal bravery reign supreme. yet the road is not worthy this reputation; it has of late years become orderly; its present condition is dull and law-abiding, brilliant as the past has been, and whatever greatness may be in store for the future. once out of whitechapel, and within the respectable regions of mile end, the road has always been eminently respectable; and as regards dangers, quite safe, ever since they built the bridge over the river lea, which used now and again to have freshets, and at such times tried to drown harmless people in its ford. since that bridge was built, in the time of edward i., it matters not for the freshets. there is not much in the bow road when the stranger gets there, in his journey along this great thoroughfare, for him to visit, except its almshouses, which are many; and the beautiful old church of bow, standing in the middle of the road, crumbling slowly away in the east end fog, with its narrow strips of crowded church-yard. one hopes that before it has quite crumbled away some one will go and make a picture of it--an etching would be the best. at stratford the road divides, so that you may turn to the right and get to barking, or to the left and get to epping forest. and all the way, for four miles, a broad and noble road, which must have been carved originally out of no man's land, in so generous a spirit is it laid out. angela is now planting it with trees; beneath the trees she will set seats for those who wish to rest. here and there she will erect drinking-fountains. whitechapel road, since her improvements begun, has been transformed; even the bacon shops are beginning to look a little less rusty; and the grocers are trying to live up to the green avenues. angela's imagination was fired by this road from the very first, when the idle apprentice took her into it as into a new and strange country. here, for the first times she realized the meaning of the universal curse, from which only herself and a few others are unnaturally exempted; and this only under heavy penalties and the necessity of finding out their own work for themselves, or it will be the worse for them. people think it better to choose their own work. that is a great mistake. you might just as well want to choose your own disease. in the west end, a good many folk do work--and work pretty hard, some of them--who need not, unless they please; and a good many others work who must, whether they please or no: but somehow the forced labor is pushed into the background. we do not perceive its presence: people drive about in carriages, as if there were nothing to do; people lounge; people have leisure; people do not look pressed or in a hurry, or task-mastered, or told to make bricks without straw. here, in the east end, on the other hand, there are no strollers. all day long the place is full of passengers, hasting to and fro, pushing each other aside, with set and anxious faces, each driven by the invisible scourge of necessity which makes slaves of all mankind. do you know that famous picture of the israelites in egypt? upon the great block of stone, which the poor wretches are painfully dragging, while the cruel lash goads the weak and terrifies the strong, there sits one in authority. he regards the herd of slaves with eyes terrible from their stony gaze. what is it to him whether the feeble suffer and perish, so that the pharaoh's will be done? the people of the east reminded angela, who was an on-looker, and had no work to do, of these builders of pyramids: they worked under a taskmaster as relentless as that stony-hearted captain or foreman of works. if the israelites desisted, they were flogged back to work with cats of many tails; if our workmen desist, they are flogged back by starvation. "let us hope," said harry, to whom angela imparted a portion of the above reflection and comparison--"let us hope the pharaoh himself means well and is pitiful." he spoke without his usual flippancy, so that perhaps his remark had some meaning for himself. all day long and all the year round there is a constant fair going on in whitechapel road. it is held upon the broad pavement, which was benevolently intended, no doubt, for this purpose. here are displayed all kinds of things: bits of second-hand furniture, such as the head of a wooden bed, whose griminess is perhaps exaggerated, in order that a purchaser may expect something extraordinarily cheap. here are lids of pots and saucepans laid out, to show that in the warehouse, of which these things are specimens, will be found the principal parts of the utensils for sale; here are unexpected things, such as rows of skates, sold cheap in summer; light clothing in winter; workmen's tools of every kind, including, perhaps, the burglarious jimmy; second-hand books--a miscellaneous collection, establishing the fact that the readers of books in whitechapel--a feeble and scanty folk--read nothing at all except sermons and meditations among the tombs; second-hand boots and shoes; cutlery; hats and caps; rat-traps and mouse-traps and bird-cages; flowers and seeds; skittles; and frames for photographs. cheap-jacks have their carts beside the pavement, and with strident voice proclaim the goodness of their wares, which include in this district bloaters and dried haddocks, as well as crockery. and one is amazed, seeing how the open-air fair goes on, why the shops are kept open at all. and always the same. it saddens one, i know not why, to sit beside a river and see the water flowing down with never a pause. it saddens one still more to watch the current of human life in this great thoroughfare and feel that, as it is now, so it was a generation ago, and so it will be a generation hence. the bees in the hive die, and are replaced by others exactly like them, and the honey-making goes on merrily still. so, in a great street, the wagons always go up and down; the passengers never cease; the shopboy is always behind the counter; the work-girl is always sewing; the workman is always carrying his tools as he goes to his work; there are always those who stay for half a pint, and always those who hurry on. in this endless drama, which repeats itself like a musical box, the _jeune premier_ of to-day becomes to-morrow the lean and slippered pantaloon. the day after to-morrow he will have disappeared, gone to join the silent ones in the grim, unlovely cemetery belonging to the tower hamlets, which lies beyond stepney, and is the reason why on sundays the "frequent funeral blackens all the road. "one can moralize," said harry one day, after they had been exchanging sentiments of enjoyable sadness, "at this rate forever. but it has all been done before." "everything, i suppose," replied angela, "has been done before. if it has not been done by me, it is new--to me. it does not make it any better for a man who has to work all the days of his life, and gets no enjoyment out of it, and lives ignobly and dies obscurely, that the same thing happens to most people." "we cannot help ourselves." this time it was the cabinet-maker who spoke to the dressmaker. "we belong to the crowd, and we must live with the crowd. you can't make much glory out of a mercenary lathe nor out of a dressmaker's shop, can you, miss kennedy?" it was by such reminders, one to the other, that conversations of the most delightful kind, full of speculations and comparisons, were generally brought up short. when angela remembered that she was talking to an artisan, she froze. when harry reflected that it was a dressmaker to whom he was communicating bits of his inner soul, he checked himself. when, which happened every day, they forgot their disguises for a while, they talked quite freely, and very prettily communicated all sorts of thoughts, fancies, and opinions to each other; insomuch that once or twice a disagreeable feeling would cross the girl's mind that they were perhaps getting too near the line at which "keeping company" begins; but he was a young workman of good taste, and he never presumed. she was walking beside her guide, mr. bunker, and pondering over these things as she gazed down the broad road, and recollected the talk she had held in it; and now her heart was warm within her, because of the things she thought and had tried to say. "here we are, miss," said mr. bunker, stopping. "here's the trinity almshouse." she awoke from her dream. it is very odd to consider the strange thoughts which flash upon one in walking. angela suddenly discovered that mr. bunker possessed a remarkable resemblance to a bear. his walk was something like one, with a swing of the shoulders, and his hands were big and his expression was hungry. yes, he was exactly like a bear. she observed that she was standing at a wicket-gate, and that over the gate was the effigy of a ship in full sail done in stone. mr. bunker opened the door, and led the way to the court within. then a great stillness fell upon the girl's spirit. outside the wagons, carts, and omnibuses thundered and rolled. you could hear them plainly enough; you could hear the tramp of a thousand feet. but the noise outside was only a contrast to the quiet within. a wall of brick with iron railings separated the tumult from the calm. it seemed as if, within that court, there was no noise at all, so sharp and sudden was the contrast. she stood in an oblong court, separated from the road by the wall above named. on either hand was a row of small houses containing, apparently, four rooms each. they were built of red brick, and were bright and clean. every house had an iron tank in front for water; there was a pavement of flags along this row, and a grass lawn occupied the middle of the court. upon the grass stood the statue of a benefactor, and at the end of the court was a chapel. it was a very little chapel, but was approached by a most enormous and disproportionate flight of stone steps, which might have been originally cut for a portal of st. paul's cathedral. the steps were surmounted by a great doorway, which occupied the whole west front of the chapel. no one was moving about the place except an old lady, who was drawing water from her tank. "pretty place, ain't it?" asked mr. bunker. "it seems peaceful and quiet," said the girl. "place where you'd expect pride, ain't it?" he went on scornfully. "oh yes! paupers and pride go together, as is well known. lowliness is for them who've got a bank and money in it. oh, yes, of course. gar! the pride of an inmate!" he led the way, making a most impertinent echo with the heels of his boots. angela observed, immediately, that there was another court beyond the first. in fact, it was larger: the houses were of stone, and of greater size; and it was if anything more solemnly quiet. it was possessed of silence. here there is another statue erected to the memory of the founder, who, it is stated on the pedestal, died, being then "comander of a shipp" in the east indies, in the year . the gallant captain is represented in the costume of the period. he wears a coat of many buttons, large cuffs, and full skirts; the coat is buttoned a good way below the waist, showing the fair doublet within, also provided with many buttons. he wears shoes with buckles, has a soft silk wrapper round his neck, and a sash to carry his sword. on his head there is an enormous wig, well adapted to serve the purpose for which solar toupées were afterward invented. in his right hand he carries a sextant, many sizes bigger than those in modern use, and at his feet dolphins sport. a grass lawn covers this court, as well as the other, and no voice or sound ever comes from any of the houses, whose occupants might well be all dead. mr. bunker turned to the right, and presently rapped with his knuckles at a door. then, without waiting for a reply, he turned the handle, and with a nod invited his companion to follow him. it was a small but well-proportioned room with low ceiling, furnished sufficiently. there were clean white curtains with rose-colored ribbons. the window was open, and in it stood a pot of mignonette, now at its best. at the window sat, on one side, an old gentleman with silvery white hair and spectacles, who was reading, and on the other side a girl with work on her lap, sewing. "now, cap'n sorensen," said mr. bunker, without the formality of greeting, "i've got you another chance. take it or leave it, since you can afford to be particular. i can't; i'm not rich enough. ha!" he snorted and looked about him with the contempt which a man who has a banker naturally feels for one who hasn't, and lives in an almshouse. "what is the chance?" asked the inmate meekly, looking up. when he saw angela in the doorway he rose and bowed, offering her a chair. angela observed that he was a very tall old man, and that he had blue eyes and a rosy face--quite a young face it looked--and was gentle of speech and courteous in demeanor. "is the chance connected with this young lady, mr. bunker?" "it is," said the great man. "miss kennedy, this is the young woman i told you of. this young lady"--he indicated angela--"is setting herself up, in a genteel way, in the dressmaking line. she's taken one of my houses on the green, and she wants hands to begin with. she comes here, cap'n sorensen, on my recommendation." "we are obliged to you, mr. bunker." the girl was standing, her work in her hands, looking at angela, and a little terrified by the sight of so grand a person. the dressmakers of her experience were not young and beautiful; mostly they were pinched with years, troubles, and anxieties. when angela began to notice her, she saw that the young work-girl, who seemed about nineteen years of age, was tall, rather too thin, and pretty. she did not look strong, but her cheeks were flushed with a delicate bloom; her eyes, like her father's, were blue; her hair was light and feathery, though she brushed it as straight as it would go. she was dressed, like most girls of her class, in a frock of sober black. angela took her by the hand. "i am sure," she said kindly, "that we shall be friends." "friends!" cried mr. bunker, aghast. "why, she's to be one of your girls! you _can't_ be friends with your own girls." "perhaps," said the girl, blushing and abashed, "you would like to see some of my work." she spread out her work on the table. "fine weather here, cap'n," mr. bunker went on, striking an attitude of patronage, as if the sun was good indeed to shine on an almshouse. "fine weather should make grateful hearts, especially in them as is provided for--having been improvident in their youth--with comfortable roofs to shelter them." "grateful hearts, indeed, mr. bunker," said the captain quietly. "mr. bunker"--angela turned upon him with an air of command, and pointed to the door--"you may go now. you have done all i wanted." mr. bunker turned very red. "he could go!" was he to be ordered about by every little dressmaker? "he could go!" "if the lady engages my daughter, mr. bunker," said captain sorensen, "i will try to find the five shillings next week." "five shillings!" cried angela. "why, i have just given him five shillings for his recommendation." mr. bunker did not explain that his practice was to get five shillings from both sides, but he retreated with as much dignity as could be expected. he asked, outside, with shame, how it was that he allowed himself thus to be sat upon and ordered out of the house by a mere girl. why had he not stood upon his dignity? to be told he might go, and before an inmate--a common pauper! there is one consolation always open, thank heaven, for the meanest among us poor worms of earth. we are gifted with imaginations; we can make the impossible an actual fact, and can with the eye of the mind make the unreal stand before us in the flesh. therefore, when we are down-trodden, we may proceed, without the trouble and danger of turning (which has been known to bring total extinction upon a worm), to take revenge upon our enemy in imagination. mr. bunker, who was at this moment uncertain whether he hated miss kennedy more than he hated his nephew, went home glowing with the thought that but a few short months would elapse before he should be able to set his foot upon the former and crush her. because, at the rate she was going on, she would not last more than that time. then would he send in his bills, sue her, sell her up, and drive her out of the place stripped of the last farthing. "he might go!" he, bunker, was told that he might go! and in the presence of an inmate. then he thought of his nephew, and while he smote the pavement with the iron end of his umbrella, a cold dew appeared upon his nose, the place where inward agitation is frequently betrayed in this way, and he shivered, looking about him suddenly as if he was frightened. yet what harm was harry goslett likely to do him? "what is your name, my dear?" asked angela softly, and without any inspection of the work on the table. she was wondering how this pretty, fragile flower should be found in whitechapel. o ignorance of newnham! for she might have reflected that the rarest and most beautiful plants are found in the most savage places--there is beautiful botanizing, one is told, in the ural mountains; and that the sun shines everywhere, even, as mr. bunker remarked, in an almshouse; and that she herself had gathered in the ugliest ditches round cambridge the sweetest flowering mosses, the tenderest campion, the lowliest little herb-robert. "my name is ellen," replied the girl. "i call her nelly," her father answered, "and she is a good girl. will you sit down, miss kennedy?" angela sat down and proceeded to business. she said, addressing the old man, but looking at the child, that she was setting up a dressmaker's shop; that she had hopes of support, even from the west end, where she had friends; that she was prepared to pay the proper wages, with certain other advantages, of which more would be said later on; and that, if captain sorensen approved, she would engage his daughter from that day. "i have only been out as an improver as yet," said nelly. "but if you will really try me as a dressmaker--o father, it is sixteen shillings a week!" angela's heart smote her. a poor sixteen shillings a week! and this girl was delighted at the chance of getting so much. "what do you say, captain sorensen? do you want references, as mr. bunker did? i am the granddaughter of a man who was born here and made--a little--money here, which he left to me. will you let her come to me?" "you are the first person," said captain sorensen, "who ever, in this place, where work is not so plentiful as hands, offered work as if taking it was a favor to you." "i want good girls--and nice girls," said angela. "i want a house where we shall all be friends." the old sailor shook his head. "there is no such house here," he said sadly. "it is 'take it or leave it'--if you won't take it, others will. make the poor girls your friends, miss kennedy? you look and talk like a lady born and bred, and i fear you will be put upon. make friends of your servants? why, mr. bunker will tell you that whitechapel does not carry on business that way. but it is good of you to try, and i am sure you will not scold and drive like the rest." "you offended mr. bunker, i learn, by refusing a place which he offered," said angela. "yes: god knows if i did right. we are desperately poor, else we should not be here. that you may see for yourself. yet my blood boiled when i heard the character of the man whom my nelly was to serve. i could not let her go. she is all i have, miss kennedy"--the old man drew the girl toward him and held her, his arm round her waist. "if you will take her and treat her kindly, you will have--it isn't worth anything, perhaps--the gratitude of one old man in this world--soon in the next." "trust your daughter with me, captain sorensen," angela replied, with tears in her eyes. "everybody round here is poor," he went on. "that makes people hard-hearted; there are too many people in trade, and that makes them mean; they are all trying to undersell each other, and that makes them full of tricks and cheating. they treat the work-girls worst because they cannot stand up for themselves. the long hours, and the bad food, and the poisonous air--think a little of your girls, miss kennedy. but you will--you will." "i will, captain sorensen." "it seems worse to us old sailors," he went on. "we have had a hardish life, but it has been in open air. old sailors haven't had to cheat and lie for a living. and we haven't been brought up to think of girls turning night into day, and working sixteen hours on end at twopence an hour. it is hard to think of my poor girl----" he stopped and clinched his fist. "better to starve than to drive such a mill!" he was thinking of the place which he had refused. "let us try each other, nelly," she said, kissing her on the forehead. the captain took his hat to escort her as far as the gate. "a quiet place," he said, looking round the little court, "and a happy place for the last days of improvident old men like me. yet some of us grumble. forgive my plain speech about the work." "there is nothing to forgive, indeed, captain sorensen. will you let me call upon you sometimes?" she gave him her hand. he bowed over it with the courtesy of a captain on his own quarter-deck. when she turned away she saw that a tear was standing in his eyes. "father!" cried nelly, rushing into his arms, "did you ever see anybody like her? oh! oh! do you think i really shall do for her?" "you will do your best, my dear. it is a long time, i think, since i have seen and spoken with any one like that. in the old days i have had passengers to calcutta like her; but none more so, nelly--no, never one more so." "you couldn't, father." his daughter wanted no explanation of this mysterious qualification. "you couldn't. she is a lady, father;" she looked up and laughed. "it's a funny thing for a real lady to open a dressmaker's shop on stepney green, isn't it?" remark, if you please, that this girl had never once before, in all her life, conversed with a lady; using the word in the prejudiced and narrow sense peculiar to the west end. yet she discovered instantly the truth. whence this instinct? it is a world full of strange and wonderful things; the more questions we ask, the more we may; and the more things we consider, the more incomprehensible does the sum of things appear. inquiring reader, i do not know how nelly divined that her visitor was a lady. chapter viii. what he got by it. a dressmaker's shop, without a dressmaker to manage it, would be, angela considered, in some perplexity, like a ship without a steersman. she therefore waited with some impatience the promised visit of rebekah hermitage, whom she was to "get cheap," according to mr. bunker, on account of her sabbatarian views. she came in the evening, while angela was walking on the green with the sprightly cabinet-maker. it was sunset, and angela had been remarking to her companion, with a sort of irrational surprise, that the phenomena coincident with the close of the day are just as brilliantly colored and lavishly displayed for the squalid east as for the luxurious west. perhaps, indeed, there are not many places in london where sunset does produce such good effects as at stepney green. the narrow strip, so called, in shape resembles too nearly a closed umbrella or a thickish walking-stick; but there are trees in it, and beds of flowers, and seats for those who wish to sit, and walks for those who wish to walk. and the better houses of the green--bormalack's was on the west, or dingy side--are on the east, and face the setting sun. they are of a good age, at least a hundred and fifty years old; they are built of a warm red brick, and some have doors ornamented with the old-fashioned shell, and all have an appearance of solid respectability, which makes the rest of stepney proud of them. here, in former days, dwelt the aristocracy of the parish; and on this side was the house taken by angela for her dressmaking institution, the house in which her grandfather was born. the reason why the sunsets are more splendid and the sunrises brighter at stepney than at the opposite end of london, is, that the sun sets behind the great bank of cloud which forever lies over london town. this lends his departure to the happy dwellers of the east strange and wonderful effects. now, when he rises, it is naturally in the east, where there is no cloud of smoke to hide the brightness of his face. the green this evening was crowded: it is not so fashionable a promenade as whitechapel road, but, on the other hand, it possesses the charm of comparative quiet. there is no noise of vehicles, but only the shouting of children, the loud laughter of some _gaillard_ 'prentice, the coy giggle of the young lady to whom he has imparted his last merry jape, the loud whispers of ladies who are exchanging confidences about their complaints and the complaints of their friends, and the musical laugh of girls. the old people had all crept home; the mothers were at home putting their children to bed; the fathers were mostly engaged with the evening pipe, which demands a chair within four walls and a glass of something; the green was given up to youth; and youth was principally given up to love-making. "in arcadia," said harry, "every nymph is wooed, and every swain----" he was interrupted by the arrival of his uncle, who pushed his way through the crowd with his usual important bustle, followed by a "young person." "i looked for you at mrs. bormalack's," he said to angela reproachfully, "and here you are--with this young man, as usual. as if my time was no object to you!" "why not with this young man, mr. bunker?" asked angela. he did not explain his reasons for objecting to her companion, but proceeded to introduce his companion. "here she is, miss kennedy," he said. "this is rebekah hermitage; i've brought her with me to prevent mistakes. you may take her on my recommendation. nobody in the neighborhood of stepney wants a better recommendation than mine. one of bunker's, they say, and they ask no more." "what a beautiful, what an enviable reputation!" murmured his nephew. "oh, that i were one of bunker's!" mr. bunker glared at him, but answered not; never, within his present experience, had he found himself at a loss to give indignation words. on occasion, he had been known to swear "into shudders" the immortal gods who heard him. to swear at this nephew, however, this careless, sniggering youth, who looked and talked like a "swell," would, he felt, be more than useless. the boy would only snigger more. he would have liked knocking him down, but there were obvious reasons why this was not to be seriously contemplated. he turned to the girl who had come with him. "rebekah," he said with condescension, "you may speak up; i told your father i would stand by you, and i will." "do not, at least," said angela, in her stateliest manner, "begin by making miss hermitage suppose she will want your support." she saw before her a girl about two- or three-and-twenty years of age. she was short of stature and sturdy. her complexion was dark, with black hair and dark eyes, and these were bright. a firm mouth and square chin gave her a pugnacious appearance. in fact, she had been fighting all her life, more desperately even than the other girls about her, because she was heavily handicapped by the awkwardness of her religion. "mr. bunker," said this young person, who certainly did not look as if she wanted any backing up, "tells me you want a forewoman." "you want a forewoman," echoed the agent, as if interpreting for her. "yes, i do," angela replied. "i know, to begin with, all about your religious opinions." "she knows," said the agent, standing between the two parties, as if retained for the interests of both--"she knows, already, your religious opinions." "very well, miss." rebekah looked disappointed at losing a chance of expounding them. "then, i can only say, i can never give way in the matter of truth." "in truth," said the agent, "she's as obstinate as a pig." "i do not expect it," replied angela, feeling that the half-a-crown-an-hour man was really a stupendous nuisance. "she does not expect it," echoed mr. bunker, turning to rebekah. "what did i tell you? now you see the effect of my recommendations." "take it off the wages," said rebekah, with an obvious effort, which showed how vital was the importance of the pay. "take it off the wages, if you like; and, of course, i can't expect to labor for five days and be paid for six; but on the saturday, which is the sabbath-day, i do no work therein, neither i, nor my man-servant, nor my maid-servant, nor my ox, nor my ass." "neither her man-servant, nor her maid-servant, nor her ox, nor her ass," repeated the agent solemnly. "there is the sunday, however," said angela. "what have you got to say about sunday now?" asked mr. bunker, with a change of front. "of all the days that's in the week," interpolated the sprightly one, "i dearly love but one day--and that's the day----" rebekah, impatient of this frivolity, stopped it at once. "i do as little as i can," she said, "on sunday, because of the weaker brethren. the sunday we keep as a holiday." "well----" angela began rather to envy this young woman, who was a clear gainer of a whole day by her religion; "well, miss hermitage, will you come to me on trial? thank you; we can settle about deductions afterward, if you please. and if you will come to-morrow--that is right. now, if you please to take a turn with me, we will talk things over together; goodnight, mr. bunker." she took the girl's arm and led her away, being anxious to get bunker out of sight. the aspect of this agent annoyed and irritated her almost beyond endurance; so she left him with his nephew. "one of bunker's!" harry repeated softly. "you here!" growled the uncle, "dangling after a girl when you ought to be at work! how long, i should like to know, are we hard-working stepney folk to be troubled with an idle, good-for-nothing vagabond? eh, sir? how long? and don't suppose that i mean to do anything for you when your money is all gone. do you hear, sir? do you hear?" "i hear, my uncle!" as usual, the young man laughed; he sat upon the arm of a garden-seat, with his hands in his pockets, and laughed an insolent, exasperating laugh. now, mr. bunker in all his life had never seen the least necessity or occasion for laughing at anything at all, far less at himself. nor, hitherto, had any one dared to laugh at him. "sniggerin' peacock!" added mr. bunker fiercely, rattling a bunch of keys in his pocket. harry laughed again, with more _abandon_. this uncle of his, who regarded him with so much dislike, seemed a very humorous person. "connection by marriage," he said. "there is one question i have very much wished to put to you. when you traded me away, now three-and-twenty years ago, or thereabouts--you remember the circumstances, i dare say, better than i can be expected to do--_what did you get for me?_" then bunker's color changed, his cheeks became quite white. harry thought it was the effect of wrath, and went on. "half a crown an hour, of course, during the negotiations, which i dare say took a week--that we understand; but what else? come, my uncle, what else did you get?" it was too dark for the young man to perceive the full effect of this question--the sudden change of color escaped his notice; but he observed a strange and angry light in his uncle's eyes, and he saw that he opened his mouth once or twice as if to speak, but shut his lips again without saying a word; and harry was greatly surprised to see his uncle presently turn on his heel and walk straight away. "that question seems to be a facer; it must be repeated whenever the good old man becomes offensive. i wonder what he _did_ get for me?" as for mr. bunker, he retired to his own house in beaumont square, walking with quick steps and hanging head. he let himself in with his latch-key, and turned into his office, which, of course, was the first room of the ground-floor. it was quite dark now, save for the faint light from the street-gas, but mr. bunker did not want any light. he sat down and rested his face on his hands, with a heavy sigh. the house was empty, because his housekeeper and only servant was out. he sat without moving for half an hour or so; then he lifted his head and looked about him--he had forgotten where he was and why he came there--and he shuddered. then he hastily lit a candle, and went upstairs to his own bedroom. the room had one piece of furniture, not always found in bedrooms; it was a good-sized fireproof safe, which stood in the corner. mr. bunker placed his candle on the safe, and stooping down began to grope about with his keys for the lock. it took some time to find the keyhole; when the safe was opened, it took longer to find the papers which he wanted, for these were at the very back of all. presently, however, he lifted his head with a bundle in his hand. now, if we are obliged to account for everything, which ought not to be expected, and is more than one asks of scientific men, i should account for what followed by remarking that the blood is apt to get into the brains of people, especially elderly people, and, above all, stout, elderly people, when they stoop for any length of time; and that history records many remarkable manifestations of the spirit world which have followed a posture of stooping too prolonged. it produces, in fact, a condition of brain beloved by ghosts. there is the leading case of the man at cambridge, who, after stooping for a book, saw the ghost of his own bed-maker at a time when he knew her to be in the bosom of her family eating up his bread-and-butter and drinking his tea. rats have been seen by others--troops of rats--as many rats as followed the piper, where there were no rats; and there is even the recorded case of a man who saw the ghost of himself, which prognosticated dissolution, and, in fact, killed him exactly fifty-two years after the event. so that, really, there is nothing at all unusual in the fact that mr. bunker saw something when he lifted his head. the remarkable thing is that he saw the very person of whom he had been thinking ever since his nephew's question--no other than his deceased wife's sister; he had never loved her at all, or in the least desired to marry her, which makes the case more remarkable still; and she stood before him just as if she was alive, and gazed upon him with reproachful eyes. he behaved with great coolness and presence of mind. few men would have shown more bravery. he just dropped the candle out of one hand and the papers out of the other, and fell back upon the bed with a white face and quivering lips. some men would have run--he did not; in fact, he could not. his knees instinctively knew that it is useless to run from a ghost, and refused to aid him. "caroline!" he groaned. as he spoke the figure vanished, making no sign and saying no word. after a while, seeing that the ghost came no more, mr. bunker pulled himself together. he picked up the papers and the candle and went slowly downstairs again, turning every moment to see if his sister-in-law came too. but she did not, and he went to the bright gas-lit back parlor, where his supper was spread. after supper he mixed a glass of brandy-and-water, stiff. after drinking this he mixed another, and began to smoke a pipe while he turned over the papers. "he can't have meant anything," he said. "what should the boy know? what did the gentleman know? nothing. what does anybody know? nothing. there is nobody left. the will was witnessed by mr. messenger and bob coppin. well, one of them is dead, and as for the other----" [he paused and winced]--"as for the other, it is five-and-twenty years since he was heard of, so he's dead, too; of course, he's dead." then he remembered the spectre and he trembled. for suppose caroline meant coming often; this would be particularly disagreeable. he remembered a certain scene where, three-and-twenty years before, he had stood at a bedside while a dying woman spoke to him; the words she said were few, and he remembered them quite well, even after so long a time, which showed his real goodness of heart. "you are a hard man, bunker, and you think too much of money; and you were not kind to your wife. but i'm going too, and there is nobody left to trust my boy to, except you. be good to him, bunker, for your dead wife's sake." he remembered, too, how he had promised to be good to the boy, not meaning much by the words, perhaps, but softened by the presence of death. "it is not as if the boy was penniless," she said; "his houses will pay you for his keep, and to spare. you will lose nothing by him. promise me again." he remembered that he had promised a second time that he would be good to the boy; and he remembered, too, how the promise seemed then to involve great expense in canes. "if you break the solemn promise," she said, with feminine prescience, "i warn you that he shall do you an injury when he grows up. remember that." he did remember it now, though he had quite forgotten this detail a long while ago. the boy had returned; he was grown up; he could do him an injury, _if he knew how_. because he only had to ask his uncle for an account of those houses. fortunately, he did not know. happily, there was no one to tell him. with his third tumbler mr. bunker became quite confident and reassured; with his fourth he felt inclined to be merry, and to slap himself on the back for wide-awakedness of the rarest kind. with his fifth, he resolved to go upstairs and tell caroline that unless she went and told her son, no one would. he carried part of this resolution into effect; that is to say, he went to his bedroom, and his housekeeper, unobserved herself, had the pleasure of seeing her master ascending the stairs on his hands and feet--a method which offers great advantages to a gentleman who has had five tumblers of brandy-and-water. when he got there, and had quite succeeded in shutting the door--not always so easy a thing as it looks--caroline was no longer visible. he could not find her anywhere, though he went all round the room twice, on all-fours, in search of her. the really remarkable part of this story is, that she has never paid a visit to her son at all. meantime, the strollers on the green were grown few. most of them had gone home; but the air was warm, and there were still some who lingered. among them were angela and the girl who was to be her forewoman. when rebekah found that her employer was not apparently of those who try to cheat, or bully or cajole her subordinates, she lost her combative air, and consented to talk about things. she gave angela a great deal of information about the prospects of her venture, which were gloomy, as she thought, as the competition was so severe. she also gave her an insight into details of a practical nature concerning the conduct of a dressmakery, into which we need not follow her. angela discovered before they parted that she had two sides to her character: on one side she was a practical and practised woman of work and business; on the other she was a religious fanatic. "we wait," she said, "for the world to come round to us. oh! i know we are but a little body and a poor folk. father is almost alone; but what a thing it is to be the appointed keepers of the truth! come and hear us, miss kennedy. father always converts any one who will listen to him. oh, do listen!" then she, too, went away, and angela was left alone in the quiet place. presently she became aware that harry was standing beside her. "don't let us go home yet," he said; "bormalack's is desperately dull--you can picture it all to yourself. the professor has got a new trick; daniel fagg is looking as if he had met with more disappointment; her ladyship is short of temper, because the case is getting on so slowly; and josephus is sighing over a long pipe; and mr. maliphant is chuckling to himself in the corner. on the whole, it is better here. shall we remain a little longer in the open air, miss kennedy?" he looked dangerous. angela, who had been disposed to be expansive, froze. "we will have one more turn, if you please, mr. goslett." she added stiffly, "only remember--so long as you don't think of 'keeping company.'" "i understand perfectly, miss kennedy. 'society' is a better word than 'company;' let us keep that, and make a new departure for stepney green." chapter ix. the day before the first. mr. bunker, _en bon chrétien_, dissembled his wrath, and continued his good work of furnishing and arranging the house for angela, insomuch that before many days the place was completely ready for opening. in the mean time, miss kennedy was away--she went away on business--and bormalack's was dull without her. harry found some consolation in superintending some of the work for her house, and in working at a grand cabinet which he designed for her: it was to be a miracle of wood-carving; he would throw into the work all the resources of his art and all his genius. when she came back, after the absence of a week, she looked full of business and of care. harry thought it must be money worries, and began to curse bunker's long bill; but she was gracious to him in her queenly way. moreover, she assured him that all was going on well with her, better than she could have hoped. the evening before the "stepney dressmakers' association" was to open its doors, they all gathered together in the newly furnished house for a final inspection--angela, her two _aids_ rebekah and nelly, and the young man against whose companionship mr. bunker had warned her in vain. the house was large, with rooms on either side the door. these were showrooms and workrooms. the first floor angela reserved for her own purposes, and she was mysterious about them. at the back of the house stretched a long and ample garden. angela had the whole of it covered with asphalt; the beds of flowers or lawns were all covered over. at the end she had caused to be built a large room of glass, the object of which she had not yet disclosed. as regards the appointments of the house, she had taken one precaution--rebekah superintended them. mr. bunker, therefore, was fain to restrict his enthusiasm, and could not charge more than twenty or thirty per cent. above the market value of the things. but rebekah, though she carried out her instructions, could not but feel disappointed at the lavish scale in which things were ordered and paid for. the show-rooms were as fine as if the place were regent street; the workrooms were looked after with as much care for ventilation as if, mr. bunker said, work-girls were countesses. "it is too good," rebekah expostulated, "much too good for us. it will only make other girls discontented." "i want to make them discontented," angela replied. "unless they are discontented, there will be no improvement. think, rebekah, what it is that lifts men out of the level of the beasts. we find out that there are better things, and we are fighting our way upward. that is the mystery of discontent--and perhaps pain, as well." "ah!" rebekah saw that this was not a practical answer. "but you don't know yet the competition of the east end, and the straits we are put to. it is not as at the west end." the golden west is ever the land of promise. no need to undeceive; let her go on in the belief that the three thousand girls who wait and work about regent street and the great shops are everywhere treated generously, and paid above the market-value of their services. i make no doubt, myself, that many a great mercer sits down, when christmas warms his heart, in his mansion at finchley, campden hill, fitz john's avenue, or stoke newington, and writes great checks as gifts to the uncomplaining girls who build up his income. "she would learn soon," said rebekah, hoping that the money would last out till the ship was fairly launched. she was not suspicious, but there was something "funny," as nelly said, in a girl of miss kennedy's stamp coming among them. why did she choose stepney green? surely, bond street or regent street would be better fitted for a lady of her manners. how would customers be received and orders be taken? by herself, or by this young lady, who would certainly treat the ladies of stepney with little of that deferential courtesy which they expected of these dressmakers? for, as you may have remarked, the lower you descend, as well as the higher you climb, the more deference do the ladies receive at the hands of their trades-folk. no duchess sweeps into a milliner's showroom with more dignity than her humble sister at clare market on a saturday evening displays when she accepts the invitation of the butcher to "rally up, ladies," and selects her sunday piece of beef. the ladies of stepney and the mile end road, thought rebekah, looked for attentions. would miss kennedy give it to them? if miss kennedy herself did not attend to the showroom, what would she do? on this evening, after they had walked over the whole house, visited the asphalted garden, and looked into the great glass-room, angela unfolded her plans. it was in the workroom. she stood at the head of the table, looking about her with an air of pride and anxiety. it was her own design--her own scheme; small as it was, compared with that other vast project, she was anxious about it. it _had_ to succeed; it _must_ succeed. all its success, she thought, depended upon that sturdy little fanatical seventh-day young person. it was she who was to rule the place and be the practical dressmaker. and now she was to be told. "now," said angela, with some hesitation, "the time has come for an explanation of the way we shall work. first of all, will you, rebekah, undertake the management and control of the business?" "i, miss kennedy? but what is your department?" "i will undertake the management of the girls"--she stopped and blushed--"_out of their work-time_." at this extraordinary announcement the two girls looked blankly at their employer. "you do not quite understand," angela went on. "wait a little. do you consent, rebekah?" the girl's eyes flashed and her cheeks became aflame. then she thought of the sudden promotion of joseph, and she took confidence. perhaps she really was equal to the place; perhaps she had actually merited the distinction. "very well, then," miss kennedy went on, as if it was the most natural thing in the world that a humble workwoman should be suddenly raised to the proud post of manager. "very well; that is settled. you, nelly, will try to take care of the workroom when rebekah is not there. as regards the accounts----" "i can keep them, too," said rebekah. "i shall work--on sundays," she added with a blush. miss kennedy then proceeded to expound her views as regards the management of her establishment. "the girls will be here at nine," she said. rebekah nodded. there could be no objection to that. "they will work from nine till eleven," rebekah started. "yes, i know what i mean. the long hours of sitting and bending the back over the work are just as bad a thing for girls of fifteen or so as could be invented. at eleven, therefore, we shall have, all of us, half an hour's exercise." exercise? exercise in a dressmaker's shop? was miss kennedy in her senses? "you see that asphalt. surely some of you can guess what it is for?" she looked at harry. "skittles?" he suggested frivolously. "no. lawn tennis. well! why not?" "what is lawn tennis?" asked nelly. "a game, my dear; and you shall learn it." "i never play games," said rebekah. "a serious person has no room in her life for games." "then call it exercise, and you will be able to play it without wounding your conscience." this was harry's remark. "why not, indeed, miss kennedy? the game of lawn tennis, nelly," he went on to explain, "is greatly in vogue among the bloated aristocracy, as my cousin dick will tell you. that it should descend to you and me and the likes of us is nothing less than a social revolution." nelly smiled, but she only half understood this kind of language. a man who laughed at things, and talked of things as if they were meant to be laughed over, was a creature she had never before met with. my friends, lay this to heart, and ponder. it is not until a certain standard of cultivation is reached that people do laugh at things. they only began in the last century, and then only in a few _salons_. when all the world laughs, the perfection of humanity will have been reached, and the comedy will have been played out. "it is a beautiful game," said angela--meaning lawn tennis, not the comedy of humanity. "it requires a great deal of skill and exercises a vast quantity of muscles; and it costs nothing. asphalt makes a perfect court, as i know very well." she blushed, because she was thinking of the newnham courts. "we shall be able to play there whenever it does not rain. when it does, there is the glass-house." "what are you going to do in the glass-house?" asked harry; "throw stones at other people's windows? that is said to be very good exercise." "i am going to set up a gymnasium for the girls." rebekah stared, but said nothing. this was revolutionary indeed. "if they please, the girls can bring their friends; we will have a course of gymnastics as well as a school for lawn tennis. you see, mr. goslett, that i have not forgotten what you said once." "what was that, miss kennedy? it is very good of you to remember anything that i have said. do you mean that i once, accidentally, said a thing worth hearing?" "yes: you said that money was not wanted here so much as work. that is what i remembered. if you can afford it, you may work with us, for there is a great deal to do." "i can afford it for a time." "we shall work again from half-past eleven until one. then we shall stop for dinner." "they bring their own dinner," said rebekah. "it takes them five minutes to eat it. you will have to give them tea." "no: i shall give them dinner too. and because growing girls are dainty and sometimes cannot fancy things, i think a good way will be for each of them, even the youngest, to take turns in ordering the dinner and seeing it prepared." rebekah groaned. what profits could stand up against such lavish expenditure as this? "after an hour for dinner we shall go to work again. i have thought a good deal about the afternoon, which is the most tedious part of the day, and i think the best thing will be to have reading aloud." "who is to read?" cried rebekah. "we shall find somebody or other. tea at five, and work from six to seven. that is my programme." "then, miss kennedy," cried her forewoman, "you will be a ruined woman in a year." "no"--she shook her head with her gracious smile--"no, i hope not. and i think you will find that we shall be very far from ruined. have a little faith. what do you think, nelly?" "oh, i think it beautiful!" she replied, with a gaze of soft worship in her limpid eyes. "it is so beautiful that it must be a dream, and cannot last." "what do you say, mr. goslett?" "i say that cabinet-making ought to be conducted in the same liberal spirit. but i'm afraid it won't pay." then miss kennedy took them to the room on the first floor. the room at the back was fitted as a dining-room, quite simply, with a dozen chairs and a long table. plates, cups, and things were ranged upon shelves as if in a kitchen. she led them to the front room. when her hand was on the lock she turned and smiled, and held up her finger as if to prepare them for a surprise. the floor was painted and bare of carpet; the windows were dressed with pretty curtains. there were sconces on the walls for candles; in the recess stood her piano; and for chairs there were two or three rout-seats ranged along the wall. "what is this?" asked rebekah. "my dear, girls want play as well as work. the more innocent play they get, the better for them. this is a room where we shall play all sorts of things: sometimes we shall dance; sometimes we shall act; sometimes we shall sing; sometimes we shall read poetry or tales; sometimes we shall romp; the girls shall bring their friends here as well as to the gymnasium and the lawn tennis, if they please." "and who is to pay for all this?" asked rebekah. "my friends," said angela, coloring, because this was a crisis, and to be suspected at such a point would have been fatal--"my friends, i have to make a confession to you. i have worked out the design by myself. i saw how the girls in our workshops toil for long hours and little pay. the great shops, whose partners are very rich men, treat them no better than do the poor traders whose living has to be got by scraping it off their wages. now, i thought that if we were to start a shop in which there was to be no mistress, but to be self-governed, and to share the proceeds among all in due order and with regard to skill and industry, we might adjust our own hours for the general good. this kind of shop has been tried by men, but i think it has never succeeded, because they wanted the capital to start with. what could we three girls have done with nothing but our own hands to help us? so i wrote to a young lady who has much money. yes, mr. goslett, i wrote to that miss messenger of whom we have so often talked." "miss messenger!" rebekah gasped; "she who owns the great brewery?" "the same. she has taken up our cause. it is she who finds the funds to start us, just as well as if we had capital. she gives us the rent for a year, the furniture, the glass-house--everything, even this piano. i have a letter from her in my pocket." she took it out and read it. "miss messenger begs to thank miss kennedy for her report of the progress made in her scheme. she quite approves of the engagements made, particularly those of rebekah hermitage and nelly sorensen. she hopes, before long, to visit the house herself and make their acquaintance. meanwhile she will employ the house for all such things as she requires, and begs miss kennedy to convey to miss hermitage the first order for the workshop." this gracious letter was accompanied by a long list of things, at sight of which the forewoman's eyes glittered with joy. "oh, it is a splendid order!" she said. "may we tell everybody about this miss messenger?" "i think," angela replied, considering carefully, "that it would be better not. let people only know that we have started; that we are a body of workwomen governing ourselves, and working for ourselves. the rest is for our private information." "while you are about it," said harry, "you might persuade miss messenger to start the palace of delight and the college of art." "do you think she would?" asked angela. "do you really think it would be of any use at all?" "did she haggle about your co-operative association?" "no, not at all. she quite agreed with me from the beginning." "then, try her for the palace. see, miss kennedy--" the young man had become quite earnest and eager over the palace--"it is only a question of money. if miss messenger wants to do a thing unparalleled among the deeds of rich men, let her build the palace of delight. if i were she, i should tremble for fear some other person with money got to hear of the idea, and should step in before her. of course, the grand thing in these cases is to be the first." "what is a palace of delight?" asked nelly. "truly wonderful it is," said harry, "to think how monotonous are the gifts and bequests of rich men. schools, churches, almshouses, hospitals--that is all; that is their monotonous round. now and again, a man like peabody remembers that men want houses to live in, not hovels; or a good woman remembers that they want sound and wholesome food, and builds a market; but, as a rule, schools, churches, almshouses, hospitals. look at the lack of originality. miss kennedy, go and see this rich person; ask her if she wants to do the grandest thing ever done for men; ask her if she will, as a new and startling point of departure, remember that men want joy. if she will ask me, i will deliver a lecture on the necessity of pleasure, the desirableness of pleasure, the beauty of pleasure." "a palace of delight!" rebekah shook her head. "do you know that half the people never go to church?" "when we have got the palace," said harry, "they will go to church, because religion is a plant that flourishes best where life is happiest. it will spring up among us, then, as luxuriantly as the wild honeysuckle. who are the most religious people in the world, miss hermitage?" "they are the worshippers in red man's lane, and they are called the seventh-day independents." the worst of the socratic method of argument is that, when the wrong answer is given, the whole thing comes to grief. now, harry wanted her to say that the people who go most to church are the wealthy classes. rebekah did not say so, because she knew nothing of the wealthy classes; and in her own circle of sectarian enthusiasts, nobody had any money at all. chapter x. the great davenant case. "oh! you obstinate old man! oh! you lazy old man!" it was the high-pitched voice of her ladyship in reediest tones, and the time was eleven o'clock in the forenoon, when, as a rule, she was engaged in some needlework for herself, or assisting mrs. bormalack with the pudding, in a friendly way, while her husband continued the statement of the case, left alone in the enjoyment of the sitting-room--and his title. "you lazy old man!" the words were overheard by harry goslett. he had been working at his miraculous cabinet, and was now, following the example of miss kennedy's work-girls, "knocking off" for half an hour, and thinking of some excuse for passing the rest of the morning with that young lady. he stood in the doorway, looking across the green to the sacred windows of the dressmakers' association. behind them at this moment were sitting, he knew, the queen of the mystery, with that most beauteous nymph, the matchless nelly, fair and lovely to look upon; and with her, too, rebekah the downright, herself a mystery, and half a dozen more, some of them, perhaps, beautiful. alas! in working-hours these doors were closed. perhaps, he thought, when the cabinet was finished he might make some play by carrying it backward and forward, measuring, fitting, altering. "you lazy, sinful, sleepy old man!" a voice was heard feebly remonstrating. "oh! oh! oh!" she cried again in accents that rose higher and higher, "we have come all the way from america to prove our case. there's four months gone out of six--oh! oh!--and you with your feet upon a chair--oh! oh!--do you think you are back in canaan city?" "clara martha," replied his lordship, in clear and distinct tones--the window was wide open, so that the words floated out upon the summer air and struck gently upon harry's ear--"clara martha, i wish i was; it is now holiday time, and the boys are out in the woods. and the schoolroom----" [he stopped, sighed deeply, and yawned]--"it was very peaceful." she groaned in sheer despair. "he is but a carpenter," she said; "he grovels in the shavings; he wallows in the sawdust. fie upon him! this man a british peer? oh! shame--shame!" harry pictured the quivering shoulders and the finger of reproach. "oh! oh! he is not worthy to wear a coronet. give him a chunk of wood to whittle, and a knife, and a chair in the shade, and somethin' to rest his feet upon. that's all he wants, though queen victoria and all the angels was callin' for him across the ocean to take his seat in the house of lords. shame on him! shame upon him!" these taunts, apparently, had no effect. his lordship was understood by the listener to say something disrespectful of the upper house, and to express regret at having exchanged his humble but contented position of a school-teacher and his breakfast, where a man could look around him and see hot rolls and muffins and huckleberry pies, for the splendor of a title, with the meagre fare of london and the hard work of drawing up a case. "i _will_ rouse him!" she cried, as she executed some movement, the nature of which could only be guessed by the young man outside. the windows, it is true, were open; but one's eyes cannot go outside to look in without the rest of the head and body going too. whatever it was that she did, his lordship apparently sprang into the air with a loud cry, and, if sounds mean anything, ran hastily round the table, followed by his illustrious consort. the listener says and always maintains--"hairpin." those who consider her ladyship incapable of behavior which might appear undignified reject that interpretation. moral, not physical, were, according to these thinkers, the means of awakening adopted by lady davenant. even the officers of the salvation army, they say, do not use hairpins. "in the name of common humanity," said harry to himself, "one must interfere." he knocked at the door, and allowed time for the restoration of dignity and the smoothing of ruffled plumes. he found his lordship seated, it is true, but _in the wrong chair_, and his whole frame was trembling with excitement, terror, or some other strong emotion, while the effort he was making to appear calm and composed caused his head to nod and his cheeks to shake. never was a member of the upper house placed in a more uncomfortable position. as for her ladyship, she was standing bolt upright at the other side of the room at the window. there was a gleam in her eye and a quivering of her lip which betokened wrath. "pardon me, lady davenant," said harry, smiling sweetly. "may i interrupt you for a few moments?" "you may," replied her husband, speaking for her. "go on, mr. goslett. do not hurry yourself, pray. we are glad to see you"--he cleared his throat--"very glad, indeed." "i came to say," he went on, still addressing the lady, "that i am a comparatively idle man; that is, for the moment i have no work, and am undecided about my movements, and that, if i can be of any help in the preparation of the case, you may command my services. of course, lady davenant, everybody knows the importance of your labors and of his lordship's, and the necessity of a clear statement of your case." lady davenant replied with a cry like a sea-gull. "oh! his lordship's labors, indeed! yes, mr. goslett, pretty labors! day after day goes on--i don't care, timothy--i don't care who knows it--day after day goes on, and we get no farther. four months and two weeks gone of the time, and the case not even written out yet." "what time?" asked harry. "the time that nephew nathaniel gave us to prove our claim. he found the money for our passage; he promised us six dollars a week for six months. in six months, he said, we should find whether our claim was allowed or not. there it was, and we were welcome for six months. only six weeks left, and he goes to sleep!" "but, lady davenant--only six weeks! it is impossible--you cannot send in a claim and get it acknowledged in six weeks. why, such claims may drag on for years before a committee of the house of lords." "he wastes all the time; he has got no ambition: he goes to sleep when he ought to be waking. if we have to go home again, with nothing done, it will be because he is so lazy. shame upon you, obstinate old man! oh! lazy and sleepy old man!" she shook her finger at him in so terrifying a manner that he was fain to clutch at the arms of the chair, and his teeth chattered. "aurelia tucker," her ladyship went on, warming to her work as she thought of her wrongs--"aurelia tucker always said that, lord or no lord, my husband was too lazy to stand up for his rights. everybody in canaan city knew that he was too lazy. she said that if she was me, and trying to get the family title, she wouldn't go across the water to ask for it, but she would make the american minister in london tell the british government that they would just have to grant it, whether they liked it or not, and that a plain american citizen was to take his place in their house of lords. otherwise, she said, let the minister tell that mr. gladstone that canada would be annexed. that's fine talkin', but as for me i want things done friendly, an' i don't want to see my husband walkin' into his proper place in westminster with stars and stripes flyin' over his head and a volunteer fire brigade band playin' 'hail, columbia,' before him. no. i said that justice was to be got in the old country, and we only had to cross over and ask for it. then nephew nathaniel said that he didn't expect much more justice was to be expected in england than in new hampshire. and that what you can't always get in a free country isn't always got where there's lords and bishops and a queen. but we might try if we liked for six months, and he would find the dollars for that time. now there's only six weeks left, and we haven't even begun to ask for that justice." "clara martha," said his lordship, "i've been thinking the matter over, and i've come to the conclusion that aurelia tucker is a sensible woman. let us go home again, and send the case to the minister. let us frighten them." "it does not seem bad advice," said harry. "hold a meeting in canaan city, and promise the british lion that he shall be whipped into a cocked hat unless you get your rights. make a national thing of it." "no!" she stamped her foot, and became really terrible. "we are here, and we will demand our rights on the spot. if the minister likes to take up the case, he may; if not, we will fight our own battles. but oh! mr. goslett, it's a dreadful hard thing for a woman and a stranger to do all the fightin' while her husband goes to sleep." "can't you keep awake till you have stated your case?" asked harry. "come, old boy, you can take it out in slumber afterward; and if you go on sleeping till the case is decided, i expect you will have a good long refreshing rest." "it was a beautiful morning, clara martha," his lordship explained in apology, "quite a warm morning. i didn't know people ever had such warm weather in england. and somehow it reminded me of canaan city in july. when i think of canaan, my dear, i always feel sleepy. there was a garden, mr. goslett, and trees and flowers, at the back of the schoolhouse. and a bee came in. i didn't know there were bees in england. while i listened to that bee, bummin' around most the same as if he was in a free republic, i began to think of home, clara martha. that is all." "was it the bee," she asked with asperity, "that drew your handkerchief over your head?" "clara martha," he replied with a little hesitation, "the bee was a stranger to me. he was not like one of our new hampshire bees. he had never seen me before. bees sting strangers." harry interrupted what promised to be the beginning of another lovers' quarrel, to judge by the twitchings of those thin shoulders and the frowning of those beadlike eyes. "lady davenant," he said, "let us not waste the time in recrimination; accept my services. let me help you to draw up the statement of your case." this was something to the purpose: with a last reproachful glance upon her husband, her ladyship collected the papers and put them into the hands of her new assistant. "i'm sure," she said, "it's more 'n kind of you, mr. goslett. here are all the papers. mind, there isn't the least doubt about it, not the shadow of a doubt; there never was a claim so strong and clear. timothy clitheroe davenant is as much lord davenant by right of lawful descent, as--as--you are your father's son." harry spent the morning with the papers spread before him, arranging the case. lord davenant, now undisturbed, slept quietly in his arm-chair. her ladyship left them alone. about half-past twelve the sleeping claimant awoke and rubbed his eyes. "i have had a most refreshing slumber, mr. goslett," he yawned; "a man who is married wants it. sometimes it is what we shall do when we get the title confirmed; sometimes it's why we haven't made out our case yet; sometimes it's why i don't go and see the queen myself; sometimes it is how we shall crow over aurelia tucker when we are established in our rights ... but, whatever it is, it is never a quiet night. i think, mr. goslett, that if she'd only hold her tongue and go to sleep, i might make headway with that case in the morning." "it seems straightforward enough," said harry. "i can draw up the thing for you without any trouble. and then you must find out the best way to bring your claim before the house of lords." "put it into the post-office, addressed to the queen," suggested the claimant. "no--not quite that, i think," said harry. "there's only one weak point in the case." "i knew you'd find out the weak point. she won't allow there's any weak point at all. says it's clear from beginning to end." "so it is, if you make an admission." "well, sir, what is that admission? let us make it at once, and go on. nothing can be fairer; we are quite prepared to meet you half-way with that admission." his lordship spoke as if conferring an immense advantage upon an imaginary opponent. "i do not mind," he said, "anybody else finding out the weak point, because then i can tackle him. what vexes me, mr. goslett, is to find out that weak point myself. because then there is nobody to argue it out with, and it is like cold water running down the back, and it keeps a man awake." "as for your admission----" said harry, laughing. "well, sir, what is it?" "why, of course, you have to admit, unless you can prove it, that this timothy clitheroe davenant, wheelwright, was the honorable timothy clitheroe davenant, only son of lord davenant." his lordship was silent for a while. "do you think sir, that the queen will see this weak point?" "i am quite sure that her advisers will." "and do you think--hush, mr. goslett, let us whisper. do you think that the queen will refuse to give us the title because of this weak point? hush! she may be outside." he meant his wife, not her majesty. "a committee of the house of lords most undoubtedly may refuse to consider your claim proved." his lordship nodded his head in consideration of this possibility. then he laughed gently and rubbed his hands. "it would be rough at first. that is so, for certain, sure. there would be sleepless nights. and aurelia tucker would laugh. clara martha would----" he shuddered. "wal, if we hev to go home without our title, i should be resigned. when a man is sixty years of age, sir, and, though born to greatness, not brought up accordin' to his birth, he can't always feel like settin' in a row with a crown upon his head; and though i wouldn't own up before clara martha, i doubt whether the british peers would consider my company quite an honor to the upper house. though a plain citizen of the united states, sir, is as good as any lord that lives." "better," said harry. "he is much better." "he is, mr. goslett, he is. in the land where the bird of freedom----" "hush, my lord. you forget that you are a british peer. no spread-eagle for you." lord davenant sighed. "it is difficult," he said, "and i suppose there's no more loyal citizens than us of canaan city." "well, how are we to connect the wheelwright timothy with the honorable timothy who was supposed to be drowned?" "there is his age, and there is his name. you've got those, mr. goslett. and then, as we agreed before, we will agree to that little admission." "but if everybody does not agree?" "there is also the fact that we were always supposed to be heirs to something in the old country." "i am afraid that is not enough. there is this great difficulty: why should a young englishman, the heir to a title and a great property, settle down in america and practise a handicraft?" "wal, sir, i can't rightly say. my grandfather carried that secret with him. and if you'll oblige me, sir, you'll tell her ladyship that we're agreed upon that little admission which makes the connection complete. it will be time enough to undeceive her when the trouble begins. as for aurelia tucker, why----" here he smiled sweetly. "if i know clara martha aright, she is quite able to tackle aurelia by herself." this was the way in which the conduct of the great davenant case fell into the hands of a mere working-man. chapter xi. the first day. angela's genteel place of business, destined as it was to greatness, came into the world with little pomp and no pretence. on the day appointed, the work-girls came at nine, and found a brass plate on the door and a wire blind in the windows, bearing the announcement that this was the "dressmakers' association." this information gave them no curiosity, and produced no excitement in their minds. to them it seemed nothing but another artifice to attract the attention of a public very hard to move. they were quite used to these crafty announcements; they were cynically incredulous of low prices; they knew the real truth as to fabrics of freshness unlasting and stuffs which would never wear out; and as regards forced sales, fabulous prices, and incredible bargains, they merely lifted the eyelid of the scoffer and went into the workroom. whatever was written or printed on bills in the window, no difference was ever made to them. nor did the rise and fall of markets alter their wages one penny. this lack of interest in the success of their work is certainly a drawback to this _métier_, as to many others. would it not be well if workmen of all kinds were directly interested in the enterprise for which they hire out their labor? if you have the curiosity to listen to the talk of work-girls in the evenings when they walk home, or as they journey homeward slowly in the crawling omnibus, you will be struck by a very remarkable phenomenon. it is not that they talk without stopping, because that is common to youthful woman in every rank. it is that in the evening they are always exasperated. they snap their lips, they breathe quick, they flash their eyes, they clinch their fingers, and their talk is a narrative of indignation full of "sezee," "sezzi," and "seshee"--mostly the last, because what "she" said is generally the cause of all this wrath. a philosopher, who once investigated the subject, was fortunate enough to discover why work-girls are always angry at eventide. he maintains that it means nothing in the world but nagging; they all, he says, sit together--forewomen, dressmakers, improvers, and apprentices--in one room. the room, whether large or small, is always close, the hours are long; as they sit at their work, head bent, back bent, feet still, they gradually get the fidgets. this is a real disease while it lasts. in the workroom it has got to last until the time to knock off. first it seizes the limbs, so that the younger ones want to get up and jump and dance, while the other ones would like to kick. if not relieved, the patient next gets the fidgets in her nerves, so that she wriggles in her chair, gets spasmodic twitchings, shakes her head violently, and bites her thread with viciousness. the next step is extreme irritability; this is followed by a disposition on the part of the forewoman to find fault, and by a determination on the part of the work-girls not to be put upon, with an intention of speaking up should the occasion arise. then comes nagging, which is, in fact, nothing but fidgets translated into english prose. some forewomen are excellent translators. and the end is general exasperation, with fines, notices to leave, warnings, cheekiness, retorts, accusations, charges, denials, tears, fault-findings, sneers, angry words, bitter things, personal reflections, innuendos, disrespect, bullying, and every element of a row-royal. consequently, when the girls go home they are exasperated. we know how angela proposed to prevent the outbreak of this contagious disorder by ventilation, exercise, and frequent rests. she took her place among the girls, and worked with them, sitting beside nelly sorensen, who was to have charge of the workroom. rebekah, with miss messenger's magnificent order on her mind, sat in the showroom waiting for visitors. but none came except mrs. bormalack, accompanied by her ladyship, who stepped over to offer their congratulations and best wishes, and to see what miss messenger was going to have. at eleven o'clock, when the first two hours' pull is beginning to be felt by the younger hands, angela invited everybody to rest for half an hour. they obeyed with some surprise, and followed her with considerable suspicion, as if some mean advantage was going to be taken of them, some trick "sprung" upon them. she took them into a kind of court, which had been the back garden, paved with asphalt and provided with nets, rackets, and all the gear for lawn tennis. she invited them to play for half an hour. it was a fine morning in early september, with a warm sun, a bright sky, and a cool breeze--the very day for lawn tennis. the girls, however, looked at the machinery and then at each other, and showed no inclination for the game. then angela led the way into the great glass-room, where she pointed out the various bars, ropes, and posts which she had provided for their gymnastic exercises. they looked at each other again, and showed a disposition to giggle. they were seven girls in all, not counting rebekah, who remained in the showroom; and nelly, who was a little older than the rest, stood rather apart. the girls were not unhealthy-looking, being all quite young, and therefore not as yet ruined as to the complexion by gas and bad air. but they looked dejected, as if their work had no charms for them--indeed, one can hardly imagine that it had--they were only surprised, not elated, at the half-hour's recreation; they expected that it would be deducted from their wages, and were resentful. then angela made them a speech. she said, handling a racket to give herself confidence, that it was highly necessary to take plenty of exercise in the open air; that she was sure work would be better done and more quickly done if the fingers did not get too tired; therefore, that she had had this tennis-court prepared for them and the gymnasium fitted up, so that they might play in it every day. and then selecting nelly and two others, who seemed active young creatures, she gave them their first lesson in lawn tennis. the next day she gave a lesson to another set. in a few days tennis became a passion with the girls. the fashion spread. lawn tennis is not an expensive game; shortly there will be no bit of square garden or vacant space in stepney but will be marked out into its lawn-tennis courts. the gymnasium took longer to become popular. girls do not like feats of strength; nor was it until the spell of wet weather last october, when outdoor games became impossible, that the gymnasium began to attract at all. then a spirit of emulation was set up, and bodily exercises became popular. after becoming quite sure that no deduction was made on account of the resting time, the girls ceased to be suspicious, and accepted the gift with something like enthusiasm. yet, miss kennedy was their employer; therefore, a natural enemy; therefore, gifts from her continued, for some time, to be received with doubt and suspicion. this does not seem, on the whole, a healthy outcome of our social system; yet such an attitude is unfortunately common among work-girls. at half-past eleven they all resumed work. at one o'clock another astonishment awaited them. miss kennedy informed them that one of the reforms introduced by her was the providing of dinner every day, without deducting anything from their wages. those to whom dinner was, on most days, the mockery of a piece of bread and butter, or a bun, or some such figment and pretence of a meal, simply gasped, and the stoutest held her breath for a while, wondering what these things might mean. yes, there was dinner laid for them upstairs on a fair white cloth; for every girl a plentiful dish of beef with potatoes and other good things, and a glass of messenger's family ale--that at eight-and-six the nine-gallon cask--and bread _à discrétion_. angela would have added pudding, but was dissuaded by her forewoman, on the ground that not only would pudding swallow up too much of the profits, but that it would demoralize the girls. as it was, one of them, at the mere aspect and first contemplation of the beef, fell a-weeping. she was lame, and she was the most dejected among them all. why she wept, and how angela followed her home, and what that home was like, and why she and her mother and her sisters do now continually praise and pray for angela, belong to another story, concerned with the wretchedness and misery which are found at whitechapel and stepney, as well as in soho and marylebone and the back of regent street. i shall not write many chapters of that story, for my own part. truly a most wonderful workshop. was ever such an association of dressmakers? after dinner they frolicked and romped, though as yet in an untaught way, until two, when they began work again. miss kennedy then made them another speech. she told them that the success of their enterprise depended in great measure upon their own industry, skill, and energy; that they were all interested in it, because they were to receive, besides their wages, a share in the profits; this they only partly understood. nor did they comprehend her scheme much more when she went on to explain that they had the house and all the preliminary furniture found for them, so that there would be nothing, at first, to pay for rent. they had never considered the question of rent, and the thing did not go home to them. but they saw in some vague way that here was an employer of a kind very much unlike any they had ever before experienced, and they were astonished and excited. later on, when they might be getting tired again, they had a visitor. it was no other than captain sorensen. he said that by permission of miss kennedy he would read to them for an hour, and that, if she permitted and they liked, as he was an old man with nothing to do, he would come and read to them often. so this astonishing day passed on. they had tea at five, with another half-hour's rest. as the evening was so fine, it was served in the garden. at seven they found that it was time to strike work--an hour at least earlier than at any other house. what _could_ these things mean? and then fresh marvels. for when the work was put away, miss kennedy invited them all to follow her upstairs. there she formally presented them with a room for their own use in the evening if they pleased. there was a piano in it; but, unfortunately, nobody could play. the floor was polished for dancing, but then no one could dance; and there was a table with games upon it, and magazines and illustrated papers. in this room, miss kennedy told them, they could sing, dance, play, read, talk, sit, or do anything else in reason, and within the limits of modest recreation. they might also, on saturday evenings, bring their friends, brothers, and so forth, who would also be expected to behave within the limits of modesty and good breeding. in short, the place was to be a drawing-room, and angela proposed to train the girls by example and precept into a proper feeling as regards the use of a drawing-room. there was to be no giggling, no whispering in corners, nor was there to be any horseplay. good manners lie between horseplay on the one hand and giggling on the other. the kind of evening proposed by their wonderful mistress struck the girls at first with a kind of stupefaction. outside, the windows being open, they could hear the steps of those who walked, talked, and laughed on stepney green. they would have preferred to be among that throng of idle promenaders; it seemed to them a more beautiful thing to walk up and down the paths than to sit about in a room and be told to play. there were no young men. there was the continual presence of their employer. they were afraid of her; there was also miss hermitage, of whom also they were afraid; there was, in addition, miss sorensen, of whom they might learn to be afraid. as for miss kennedy, they were the more afraid of her because not only did she walk, talk, and look like a person out of another world, but, oh, wonderful! she knew nothing--evidently nothing--of their little tricks. naturally one is afraid of a person who knows nothing of one's wicked ways. this is the awkwardness in entertaining angels. they naturally assume that their entertainers stand on the same elevated level as themselves; this causes embarrassment. most of us, like angela's shop-girls, would, under the circumstances, betray a tendency to giggle. then she tried to relieve them from their awkwardness by sitting down to the piano and playing a lively galop. "dance, girls," she cried. in their early childhood, before they went to school or workshop, the girls had been accustomed to a good deal of dancing. their ballroom was the street; their floor was the curbstone; their partners had been other little girls; their music the organ-grinder's. they danced with no step but such as came by nature, but their little feet struck true and kept good time. now they were out of practice; they were grown big, too; they could no longer seize each other by the waist and caper round and round. yet the music was inspiriting; eyes brightened, their heels became as light as air. yet, alas! they did not know the steps. angela stopped playing and looked round her. the girls were crowded together. rebekah hermitage sat apart at the table. there was that in her face which betokened disapproval, mingled with curiosity, for she had never seen a dance, and never, except on a barrel-organ, heard dance music. nelly sorensen stood beside the piano watching the player with the devotion which belongs to the disciple who loves the most. whatever miss kennedy did was right and sweet and beautiful. also, whatever she did filled poor nelly with a sense of humiliation, because she herself felt so ignorant. "rebekah! nelly!" cried angela. "can you not help me?" both shook their heads. "i cannot dance," said rebekah, trying to show a little scorn, or, at least, some disapprobation. "in our connection we never dance." "you never dance?" angela forgot for the moment that she was in stepney, and among a class of girls who do not dance. "do you sing?" "if any is merry," replied rebekah, "let him sing hymns." "nelly, can you help me?" she, too, shook her head. but, she said, "her father could play the fiddle. might he come?" angela begged her to invite him immediately, and on her way to ask mr. goslett, at mrs. bormalack's, to bring his fiddle too. between them they would teach the girls to dance. then she sat down and began to sing. first she sang, "by the banks of allen water," and then "the bailiff's daughter of islington," and next, "drink to me only with thine eyes"--sweet and simple ditties all. then came captain sorensen, bearing his fiddle, and happy to help, and while he played, angela stood all the girls in a row before her, headed by nelly, and gave them their first lesson in the giddy dance. then came harry goslett, and at the sight of his cheerful countenance and at the mere beholding how he bowed to miss kennedy, and asked to be allowed, and put his arm round her waist and whirled her round in a galop, their hearts were lifted up, and they longed no more for stepney green. then he changed miss kennedy for nelly; and though she was awkward at first, she soon fell into the step, while miss kennedy danced with another; and then mr. goslett with another, and so on till all had had a practical lesson. then they ceased altogether to long for the jest of the gallant 'prentice; for what were jests to this manly, masterful seizure by the waist, this lifting almost off the feet, this whirl round and round to the music of the fiddle which the brave old captain played as merrily as any bo's'n's mate or quartermaster on an east indiaman? in half an hour the feet of all but one--the one who, poor girl, was lame--felt that noble sympathy with the music so readily caught by those intelligent organs, and--_they could dance_. perhaps for the first time in the annals of stepney, her daughters had learned to dance. the rest would be easy. they tried a quadrille, then another galop. harry endeavored to do his duty, but there were some who remarked that he danced twice, that second galop, with nelly sorensen, and they were jealous. yet it was only an unconscious tribute paid to beauty. the young fellow was among a bevy of dressmakers; an uncommon position for a man of his bringing-up. one of them, somehow, was, to all appearance, and to any but perhaps the most practised eye, a real genuine lady--not a copy at all; the other was so graceful and sweet that she seemed to want but a touch to effect the transformation. as for the other girls, they were simple young persons of the workroom and counter--a common type. so common, alas! that we are apt to forget the individuality of each, her personal hopes, and her infinite possibilities. yet, however insignificant is the crowd, the individual is so important. then he was interested in the dark-eyed girl who sat by herself at the table, looking on, anxiously, at an amusement she had always heard of as "soul-destroying." she was wondering why her ears were pleased with the playing, and why her brain was filled with strange images, and why it was so pleasant to watch the girls dancing, their eyes aglow and their cheeks flushed. "do not tempt me," she said, when harry ventured to invite her, too, to join the giddy throng. "do not tempt me--no--go away!" her very brusqueness showed how strong was the temptation. was she, already, giving way to the first temptation? presently the evening was over, the girls had all trooped noisily out of the house, and angela, captain sorensen, nelly, and the young workman were walking across the green in the direction of the almshouse. when angela got home to the boarding-house the dreariness of the evening was in full blast. the boarders were sitting in silence, each wrapped in his own thoughts. the professor lifted his head as she entered the room, and regarded her with thoughtful eyes, as if appraising her worth as a _clairvoyante_. david fagg scowled horribly. his lordship opened his mouth as if to speak, but said nothing. mr. maliphant took his pipe out of his mouth, and began a story. "i remember," he said, "the last time but one that he was ruined"--he did not state the name of the gentleman--"the whole town was on fire, and his house with them. what did he do? mounted his horse and rode around, and bought up all the timber for twenty miles around. and see what he's worth now!" when he had told this story he relapsed into silence. angela thought of that casual collection of unsympathetic animals put into a cage and called a "happy family." chapter xii. sunday at the east end. sunday morning in and about the whitechapel and mile end roads angela discovered to be a time of peculiar interest. the closing of the shops adds to the dignity of the broad thoroughfares, because it hides so many disagreeable and even humiliating things. but it by no means puts a stop to traffic, which is conducted with an ostentatious disregard of the fourth commandment or christian custom. at one end, the city end, is houndsditch, crowded with men who come to buy and sell; and while the bells of st. botolph call upon the faithful with a clanging and clashing which ring like a cry of despair, the footpath is filled with the busy loungers, who have long since ceased to regard the invitation as having anything at all to do with them. strange and wonderful result of the gathering of men in great cities! it is not a french, or an english, or a german, or an american result--it is universal. in every great city of the world, below a certain level, there is no religion--men have grown dead to their higher instincts; they no longer feel the possibilities of humanity; faith brings to them no more the evidence of things unseen. they are crowded together, so that they have ceased to feel their individuality. the crowd is eternal--they are part of that eternity; if one drops out, he is not missed; nobody considers that it will be his own turn some day so to drop out. life is nothing for ever and ever, but work in the week with as much beer and tobacco as the money will run to, and loafing on sundays with more beer and tobacco. this, my friends, is a truly astonishing thing, and a thing unknown until this century. perhaps, however, in ancient rome the people had ceased to believe in their gods; perhaps, in babylon, the sacred bricks were kicked about by the unthinking mob; perhaps, in every great city, the same loss of individual manhood may be found. it was on a sunday morning in august that angela took a little journey of exploration, accompanied by the young workman who was her companion in these excursions. he led her into houndsditch and the minories, where she had the pleasure of inspecting the great mercantile interest of old clothes, and of gazing upon such as buy and sell therein. then she turned her face northward, and entered upon a journey which twenty years ago would have been full of peril, and is now, to one who loves his fellow-man, full of interest. the great boulevard of the east was thronged with the class of men who keep the sabbath in holy laziness with tobacco. some of them lounge, some talk, some listen, all have pipes in their mouths. here was a circle gathered round a man who was waving his arms and shouting. he was an apostle of temperance; behind him stood a few of his private friends to act as a _claque_. the listeners seemed amused but not convinced. "they will probably," said harry, "enjoy their dinner beer quite as much as if they had not heard this sermon." another circle was gathered round a man in a cart, who had a flaming red flag to support him. he belonged, the flag told the world, to the tower hamlets magna charta association. what he said was listened to with the same languid curiosity and tepid amusement. angela stopped a moment to hear what he had to say. he was detailing, with immense energy, the particulars of some awful act of injustice committed upon a friend unknown, who got six months. the law of england is always trampling upon some innocent victim, according to this sympathizer with virtue. the working-men have heard it all before, and they continue to smoke their pipes, their blood not quickened by a single beat. the ear of the people is accustomed to vehemence; the case must be put strongly before it will listen at all; and listening, as most brawlers discover, is not conviction. next to the magna charta brethren a cheap-jack had placed his cart. he drove a roaring trade in two-penn'orths, which, out of compliment to a day which should be devoted to good works, consisted each of a bottle of sarsaparilla, which he called "sassaple," and a box of pills. next to him the costers stood beside their carts loaded with cheap ices, ginger-beer, and lemonade--to show that there was no deception, a great glass jar stood upon each cart with actual undeniable slices of lemon floating in water and a lump of ice upon the top; there were also piles of plums, plums without end, early august apples, and windfall pears; also sweet things in foot-long lumps sticky and gruesome to look upon; brazil nuts, also a favorite article of commerce in certain circles, though not often met with at the tables of the luxurious; late oranges, more plums, many more plums, plums in enormous quantities; and periwinkles, which last all the year round, with whelks and vinegar, and the toothsome shrimp. then there came another circle, and in the midst stood a young man with long fair hair and large blue eyes. he was preaching the gospel, as he understood it; his face was the face of an enthusiast: a little solitude, a little meditation among the mountains, would have made this man a seer of visions and a dreamer of dreams. he was not ridiculous, though his grammar was defective and his pronunciation had the cockney twang and his aspirates were wanting: nothing is ridiculous that is in earnest. on the right of the street they had passed the headquarters of the salvation army; the brave warriors were now in full blast, and the fighting, "knee-drill," singing, and storming of the enemy's fort were at their highest and most enjoyable point; angela looked in and found an immense hall crammed with people who came to fight, or look on, to scoff, or gaze. higher up, on the left, stands a rival in red-hot religion, the hall of the jubilee singers, where another vast crowd was worshipping, exhorting, and singing. "there seems," said angela, "to be too much exhorting; can they not sit down somewhere in quiet for praise and prayer?" "we working-people," replied her companion, "like everything loud and strong. if we are persuaded to take a side, we want to be always fighting on that side." streams of people passed them, lounging or walking with a steady purpose. the former were the indifferent and the callous, the hardened and the stupid, men to whom preachers and orators appealed in vain; to whom peter the hermit might have bawled himself hoarse, and bernard would have thrown all his eloquence away; they smoked short pipes, with their hands in their pockets, and looked good-tempered; with them were boys, also smoking short pipes, with their hands in their pockets. those who walked were young men dressed in long frock-coats of a shiny and lustrous black, who carried bibles and prayer-books with some ostentation. they were on their way to church; with them were their sisters, for the most part well-dressed, quiet girls, to whom the noise and the crowds were a part of life--a thing not to be avoided, hardly felt as a trouble. "i am always getting a new sensation," said angela. "what is the last?" "i have just realized that there are thousands and thousands of people who never, all their lives, get to a place where they can be quiet. always noise, always crowds, always buying and selling." "here, at least," said harry, "there is no noise." they were at the wicket-gate of the trinity almshouse. "what do you think, miss kennedy?" "it is a haven of rest," she replied, thinking of a certain picture. "let us, too, seek peace awhile." it was just eleven o'clock, and the beadsmen were going to their chapel. they entered the square, and joined the old men in their weekly service. angela discovered, to her disappointment, that the splendid flight of steps leading to the magnificent portal was a dummy, because the real entrance to the chapel was a lowly door beneath the stone steps, suited, mr. bunker would have said, to the humble condition of the moneyless. it is a plain chapel, with a small organ in the corner, a tiny altar, and over the altar the ten commandments in a black wood frame--rules of life for those whose life is well-nigh done--and a pulpit, which serves for reading the service as well as delivering the sermon. the congregation consisted of about thirty of the almsmen, with about half as many old ladies; and angela wondered why these old ladies were all dressed in black, and all wore crape. perhaps they desired by the use of this material to symbolize mourning for the loss of opportunities for making money; or for the days of beauty and courtship, or for children dead and gone, or to mark the humility which becomes an inmate, or to do honor to the day which is still revered by many englishwomen as a day of humiliation and rebuke, or in the belief that crape confers dignity. we know not, we know nothing; the love which women bear for crape is a mystery; man can but speculate idly on their ways. we are like the philosopher picking up pebbles by the seaside. among the old people sat nelly sorensen, a flower of youth and loveliness, in her simple black dress, and her light hair breaking out beneath her bonnet. the catholics believe that no church is complete without a bone of some dead saint or beatified person. angela made up her mind, on the spot, that no act of public worship is complete without the assistance of youth as well as of age. the men were all dressed alike in blue coats and brass buttons, the uniform of the place; they seemed all, with the exception of one who was battered by time, and was fain to sit while the rest stood, to be of the same age, and that might be anything between a hearty sixty-five and a vigorous eighty. after the manner of sailors, they were all exact in the performance of their share in public worship, following the prayers in the book and the lessons in the bible. when the time came for listening they straightened themselves out, in an attitude comfortable for listening. the scotch elder assumes, during the sermon, the air of a hostile critic; the face of the british rustic becomes vacant; the eyes of the ordinary listener in church show that his thoughts are far away; but the expression of a sailor's face, while he is performing the duty--part of the day's duty--of listening to the sermon, shows respectful attention, although he may have heard it all before. angela did not listen much to the sermon: she was thinking of the old men for whom that sermon was prepared. there was a fresh color upon their faces, as if it was not so very long since their cheeks had been fanned by the strong sea-breeze; their eyes were clear, they possessed the bearing which comes of the habit of command, and they carried themselves as if they were not ashamed of their poverty. now bunker, angela reflected, would have been very much ashamed, and would have hung his head in shame. but then bunker was one of the nimble-footed hunters after money, while these ignoble persons had contented themselves with the simple and slavish record of duty done. the service over, they were joined by captain sorensen and his daughter, and for half an hour walked in the quiet court behind the church, in peaceful converse. angela walked with the old man, and nelly with the young man. it matters little what they talked about, but it was something good, because when the captain went home to his dinner he kissed his daughter, and said it seemed to him that it was the best day's work he ever did when he let her go to miss kennedy. in the evening angela made another journey of exploration with the same escort. they passed down stepney green, and plunged among the labyrinth of streets lying between the mile end road and the thames. it is as unlovely a collection of houses as may be found anywhere, always excepting hoxton, which may fairly be considered the queen of unloveliness. the houses in this part are small, and they are almost all of one pattern. there is no green thing to be seen; no one plants trees, there seem to be no gardens; no flowers are in the windows; there is no brightness of paint or of clean windows; there is nothing of joy, nothing to gladden the eye. "think," said harry, almost in a whisper, as if in homage to the powers of dirt and dreariness, "think what this people could be made if we could only carry out your scheme of the palace of delight." "we could make them discontented, at least," said angela. "discontent must come before reform." "we should leave them to reform themselves," said harry. "the mistake of philanthropists is to think that they can do for people what can only be done by the people. as you said this morning, there is too much exhorting." presently they struck out of a street rather more dreary than its neighbors, and found themselves in a broad road with a great church. "this is limehouse church," said harry. "all round you are sailors. there is east india dock road. here is west india dock road. there is the foreign sailors' home; and we will go no farther, if you please, because the streets are all full, you perceive, of the foreign sailors and the english sailors and the sailors' friends." angela had seen enough of the sailors. they turned back. harry led her through another labyrinth into another broad street, also crowded with sailors. "this is shadwell," said her guide; "and if there is anything in shadwell to interest you, i do not know what it is. survey shadwell!" angela looked up the street and down the street; there was nothing for the eye in search of the beautiful or the picturesque to rest upon. but a great bawling of rough voices came from a great tent stuck up, oddly, beside the road. a white canvas sheet with black letters proclaimed this as the place of worship of the "happy gypsies." they were holding their sunday function. "more exhorting!" said angela. "now, this," he said, as they walked along, "is a more interesting place. it used to be called ratcliffe highway, and had the reputation of being the wickedest place in london. i dare say it was all brag, and that really it was not much worse than its neighbors." it is a distinctly squalid street, that now called st. george's-in-the-east. but it has its points; it is picturesque, like a good many dirty places; the people are good-tempered, though they do not wash their faces even on sundays. they have quite left off knocking down, picking pockets, kicking, and robbing the harmless stranger; they are advancing slowly toward civilization. "come this way," said harry. he passed through a narrow passage, and led the way into a place at the sight of which angela was fain to cry out in surprise. in it was nothing less than a fair and gracious garden planted with flowers, and these in the soft august sunshine showed sweet and lovely. the beds were well kept; the walks were of asphalt; there were seats set about, and on them old women and old men sat basking in the evening sun. the young men and maidens walked along the paths--an arcadian scene. "this little strip of eden," said harry, "was cut out of the old church-yard." the rest of the church-yard was divided from the garden by a railing, and round the wall were the tombstones of the departed obscure. from the church itself was heard the rolling of the organ and the soft singing of a hymn. "this," said angela, "is better than exhortation. a garden for meditation and the church for prayer. i like this place better than the whitechapel road." "i will show you a more quiet place still," said her guide. they walked a little way farther down the main street; then he turned into a narrow street on the north, and angela found herself in a square of clean houses round an inclosure of grass. within the inclosure was a chapel, and tombs were dotted on the grass. they went into the chapel, a plain edifice of the georgian kind with round windows, and the evening sun shone through the window in the west. the high pews were occupied by a congregation of forty or fifty, all men. they all had light-brown hair, and as they turned round to look at the new-comers, angela saw that they all had blue eyes. the preacher, who wore a black gown and bands, was similarly provided as to hair and eyes. he preached in a foreign tongue, and as it is difficult to be edified by a sermon not in one's native speech, they shortly went out again. they were followed by the verger, who seemed not indisposed to break the monotony of the service by a few minutes' walk. he talked english imperfectly, but he told them that it was the church of the swedes. angela asked if they were all sailors. he said, with some seeming contempt for sailors, that only a few of them were sailors. she then said that she supposed they were people engaged in trade. he shook his head again, and informed her with a mysterious air that many of the swedish nobility lived in that neighborhood. after this they came away, for fear of greater surprises. they followed st. george's-in-the-east to the end of the street. then they turned to the right, and passed through a straight and quite ignoble road leading north. it is a street greatly affected by germans. german names are over every shop and on every brass plate. they come hither, these honest germans, because to get good work in london is better than going after it to new york or philadelphia, and nearer home. in the second generation their names will be anglicized, and their children will have become rich london merchants, and very likely cabinet ministers. they have their churches, too, the reformed and the lutheran, with nothing to choose between them on the score of ugliness. "let us get home," said angela; "i have seen enough." "it is the joylessness of the life," she explained, "the ignorant, contented joylessness, which weighs upon one. and there is so much of it. surely there is no other city in the world which is so utterly without joy as this east london." "no," said harry, "there is not in the whole world a city so devoid of pleasant things. they do not know how to be happy. they are like your work-girls when you told them to dance." "look!" she cried, "what is that?" there was a hoarse roar of many voices from a court leading out of the main road; the roar became louder; harry drew the girl aside as a mob of men and boys and women rushed headlong out of the place. it was not a fight apparently, yet there was beating with sticks and kicking. for those who were beaten did not strike back in return. after a little the beaters and kickers desisted, and returned to their court as to a stronghold whose rights they had vindicated. those who had been beaten were a band of about a dozen, men and women. the women's shawls were hanging in tatters, and they had lost their bonnets. the men were without hats, and their coats were grievously torn. there was a thing among them which had been a banner, but the pole was broken and the flag was dragged in the dirt and smirched. one of them who, seemed to be the leader--he wore a uniform coat something like a volunteer's coat--stepped to the front and called upon them all to form. then with a loud voice he led off a hymn, in which all joined as they marched down the street. he was hatless, and his cheek was bleeding from an open wound. yet he looked undaunted, and his hymn was a song of triumph. a wild-set-up young fellow with thick black hair and black beard, but pale cheeks. his forehead was square and firm; his eyes were black and fierce. "good heavens!" cried harry. "it is my cousin tom, captain in the salvation army. and that, i suppose, is his regiment. well, if standing still to be kicked means a victory, they have scored one to-night." the pavement was even more crowded than in the morning. the political agitators bawled more fiercely than in the forenoon to their circle of apathetic listeners; the preachers exhorted the unwilling more fervently to embrace the faith. cheap-jacks was dispensing more volubly his two penn'orths of "sassaple." the workmen lounged along, with their pipes in their mouths, more lazily than in the morning. the only difference was that the shop-boys were now added to the crowd, every lad with a "twopenny smoke" between his lips; and that the throng was increased by those who were going home from church. "let us, too, go home," said angela; "there is too much humanity here; we shall lose ourselves among the crowd." chapter xiii. angela's experiment. "no, constance," angela wrote, "i cannot believe that your lectures will be a failure, or that your life's work is destined to be anything short of a brilliant success--an 'epoch-making' episode in the history of woman's rise. if your lectures have not yet attracted reading men, it must be because they are not yet known. it is unworthy of faith in your own high mission to suppose that personal appearance or beauty has anything to do with popularity in matters of mind. who asks--who can ask?--whether a woman of genius is lovely or not? and to take lower ground: every woman owns the singular attractiveness of your own face, which has always seemed to me, apart from personal friendship, the face of pure intellect. i do not give up my belief that the men will soon begin to run after your lectures as they did after those of hypatia, and yet will become in the university as great a teacher of mathematics as sir isaac newton himself. meantime, it must be, i own, irksome to lecture on vulgar fractions, and the first book of euclid, and unsatisfactory to find, after you have made a research and arrived at what seemed a splendid result, that some man has been before you. patience, constance!" at this point the reader, who was of course constance woodcote, paused and smiled bitterly. she was angry because she had advertised a course of lectures on some desperately high mathematical subject and no one came to hear them. had she been, she reflected, a pink-and-white girl with no forehead and soft eyes, everybody would have rushed to hear her. as it was, angela, no doubt, meant well, but she was always disposed to give men credit for qualities which they did not possess. as if you could ever persuade a man to regard a woman from a purely intellectual point of view! after all, she thought, civilization was only just begun; we live in a world of darkness; the reign of woman is as yet afar off. she continued her reading with impatience. somehow, her friends seemed to have drifted away; their lines were diverging; already the old enthusiasms had given place to the new, and angela thought less of the great cause which she had once promised to further with her mighty resources. "as regards the scholarship which i promised you, i must ask you to wait a little, because my hands are full--so full of important things that even a new scholarship at newnham seems a small thing. i cannot tell you in a letter what my projects are, and how i am trying to do something new with my great wealth. this, at least, i may tell you, partly because i am intoxicated with my own schemes, and, therefore, i must tell everybody i speak to; and partly because you are perfectly certain not to sympathize with me, and therefore you will not trouble to argue the point with me. i have found out, to begin with, a great truth. it is that would-be philanthropists and benefactors and improvers of things have all along been working on a false assumption. they have taught and believed that the people look up to the 'better class'--phrase invented by the well-to-do in order to show riches and virtue go together--for guidance and advice. my dear, it is the greatest mistake; they do not look up to us at all; they do not want to copy our ways; they are perfectly satisfied with their own ways; they will naturally take as much money as we choose to give them, and as many presents; and they consider the exhortations, preachings, admonitions, words of guidance, and advice as uncomfortable but unavoidable accompaniments of this gift. but we ourselves are neither respected nor copied. nor do they want our culture." "angela," said the mathematician, "is really very prolix." "this being so, i am endeavoring to make such people as i can get at discontented as a first step. without discontent, nothing can be done. i work upon them by showing, practically, and by way of example, better things. this i can do because i am here as simply one of themselves--a workwoman among other workwomen. i do not work as much as the others in our newly formed association, because i am supposed to run the machine, and to go to the west end for work. miss messenger is one of our customers. so much am i one of them, that i take my wages on saturday, and am to have the same share, and no more, in the business as my dressmakers. i confess to you that in the foundation of my dressmakers' association i have violated most distinctly every precept of political and social economy. i have given them a house rent-free for a year; i have fitted it up with all that they want; i have started them with orders from myself; i have resolved to keep them going until they are able to run alone; i give wages, in money and in food, higher than the market-value. i know what you will say. it is all quite true scientifically. but outside the range of science there is humanity. and only think what a great field my method opens for the employment of the unfortunate rich--the unhappy, useless, heavily burdened rich. they will all follow my example and help the people to help themselves. "my girls were at first and for the most part uninteresting, until i came to know them individually: every one, when you know her, and can sympathize with her, becomes interesting. some are, however, more interesting than others; there are two or three, for instance, in whom i feel a special interest. one of them, whom i love for her gentleness and for her loyalty to me, is the daughter of an old ship-captain now in an almshouse. she is singularly beautiful, with an air of fragility which one hopes is not real; she is endowed by nature with a keenly sensitive disposition, and has had the advantage, rare in these parts, of a father who learned to be a gentleman before he came to the almshouse. the other is a religious fanatic, a sectarian of the most positive kind. she knows what is truth more certainly than any professor of truth we ever encountered; she is my manager and is good at business. i think she has come to regard me with less contempt, from a business point of view, than she did at first, because in the conduct of the showroom and the trying-on room she has all her own way. "my evenings are mostly spent with the girls in the garden and 'drawing-room.' yes, we have a drawing-room over the workroom. at first we had tea at five and struck work at seven; now we strike work at half past six and take tea with lawn tennis. i assure you my dressmakers are as fond of lawn tennis as the students of newnham. when it is too dark to play, we go upstairs and have music and dancing." here followed a word which had been erased. the mathematical lecturer held the letter to the light and fancied the word was "harry." this could hardly be; it must be hetty, or kitty, or lotty, or some such feminine abbreviation. there could be no harry. she looked again. strange! it certainly _was_ harry. she shook her head suspiciously and went on with the letter. "the girls' friends and sisters have begun to come, and we are learning all kinds of dances. fortunately my dear old captain from the almshouse can play the fiddle, and likes nothing better than to play for us. we place him in the corner beside the piano and he plays as long as we please, being the best of all old captains. we are not well off for men, having at present to rely principally on a superior young cabinet-maker, who can also play the fiddle on occasion. he dances very well, and perhaps he will fall in love with the captain's daughter. "what i have attempted is, in short, nothing less than the introduction of a love of what we call culture. other things will follow, but at present i am contented with an experiment on a very humble scale. if i were to go among the people in my name, most of them would try to borrow or steal from me; as i am only a poor dressmaker, only those who have business with me try to take me in. i do not go on a platform and lecture the people; nor do i open a school to teach them; nor do i print and circulate tracts. i simply say, 'my dears, i am going to dance and sing, and have a little music, and play lawn tennis; come with me, and we will dance together.' and they come. and they behave well. i think it is a strange thing that young women of the lower class always prefer to behave well _when they can_, while young men of their own station take so much pleasure in noise and riot. we have no difficulty in our drawing-room, where the girls behave perfectly and enjoy themselves in a surprising manner. i find already a great improvement in the girls. they have acquired new interests in life, they are happier: consequently, they chatter like birds in spring and sunshine; and whereas, since i came into these regions, it has been a constant pain to listen to the querulous and angry talk of work-girls in omnibuses and in streets, i rejoice that we have changed all this, and while they are with me my girls can talk without angry snapping of the lips, and without the 'sezi' and 'sezee' and 'seshee' of the omnibus. this is surely a great gain for them. "next, i observe that they are developing a certain amount of pride in their own superiority; they are lifted above their neighbors, if only by the nightly drawing-room. i fear they will become unpopular from hauteur; but there is no gain without some loss. if only one felt justified in doubling the number of the girls! but the stepney ladies have hitherto shown no enthusiasm in the cause of the association. the feeling in these parts is, you see, commercial rather than co-operative. "the dinner is to me the most satisfactory as well as the most unscientific part of the business. i believe i have no right to give them a dinner at all; it is against the custom in dressmakers' shops, where girls bring their own dinners, poor things; it costs quite a shilling a head every day to find the dinner, and rebekah, my forewoman, tells me that no profits can stand against such a drain: but i must go on with the dinner even if it swallows up all the profits. "on sundays the drawing-room is kept open all day long for those who like to come. some do, because it is quiet. in the evening we have sacred music. one of the young men plays the violin"--the reader turned back and referred to a previous passage--yes; she had already mentioned a cabinet-maker in connection with a fiddle--no doubt it must be the same--"and we have duets, but i fear the girls do not care much yet for classical music----" here the reader crumpled up the letter in impatience. "and this," she groaned, "is the result of two years at newnham! after her course of political economy, after all those lectures, after actually distinguishing herself and taking a place, this is the end! to play the piano for a lot of work-girls; with a cabinet-maker; and an old sailor; and to be a dressmaker! that is, alas! the very worst feature in the case: she evidently likes it; she has no wish to return to civilization; she has forgotten her science; she is setting a most mischievous example; and she has forgotten her distinct promise to give us a mathematical scholarship. "o angela!" she had imagined that the heiress would endow newnham with great gifts, and she was disappointed. she had imagined this so very strongly that she felt personally aggrieved and injured. what did she care about stepney work-girls? what have mathematics to do with poor people in an ugly and poor part of town? angela's letter did not convey the whole truth, because she herself was ignorant of the discussions, gossips, rumors, and reports which were flying about in the neighborhood of stepney green concerning her venture. there were some, for instance, who demonstrated that such an institution must fail for reasons which they learnedly expounded; among these was mr. bunker. there were some who were ready to prove, from the highest authorities, the wickedness of trying to do without a proprietor, master, or boss; there were some who saw in this revolutionary movement the beginning of those troubles which will afflict mankind toward the coming of the end; there were others, among whom was also mr. bunker, who asked by what right this young woman had come among them to interfere, where she had got her money, and what were her antecedents? to bunker's certain knowledge, and no one had better sources of information, hundreds had been spent by miss kennedy in starting the association; while, whether it was true that miss messenger supported the place or not, there could never be enough work to get back all that money, pay all the wages, and the rest, and the dinners, and hot dinners every day! there was even talk of getting up a memorial praying miss messenger not to interfere with the trade of the place, and pointing out that there were many most respectable dressmakers where the work could be quite as well done as by miss kennedy's girls, no doubt cheaper, and the profit would go to the rightful claimant of it, not to be divided among the workwomen. as for the privileges bestowed upon the girls, there was in certain circles but one opinion--they were ridiculous. recreation time, free dinner of meat and vegetables, short hours, reading aloud, and a club-room or drawing-room for the evening; what more could their betters have? for it is a fixed article of belief, one of the twenty-nine articles in certain strata of society, that people "below them" have no right to the enjoyment of anything. they do not mean to be cruel, but they have always associated poverty with dirt, discomfort, disagreeable companions, and the absence of pleasantness; for a poor person to be happy is either to them an impossibility, or it is a flying in the face of providence. but then, these people know nothing of the joys which can be had without money. now, when the world discovers and realizes how many these are and how great they are, the reign of the almighty dollar is at an end. whatever the stepney folk thought, and however diverse their judgment, they were all extremely curious, and after the place had been open for a few weeks and began to get known, all the ladies from whitechapel church to bow church began with one consent to call. they were received by a young person of grave face and grave manners, who showed them all they wanted to see, answered all their questions and the showrooms, the dining-room and the drawing-room; they also saw most beautiful dresses which were being made for miss messenger; those who went there in the morning might see with their own eyes dressmaker girls actually playing lawn tennis, if in the afternoon they might see an old gentleman reading aloud while the girls worked; they might also observe that there were flowers in the room; it was perfectly certain that there was a piano upstairs, because it had been seen by many, and the person in the showroom made no secret at all that there was dancing in the evening, with songs, and reading of books, and other diversions. the contemplation of these things mostly sent the visitors away in sorrow. _they_ did not dance or sing or play; _they_ never wanted to dance or sing; lawn tennis was not played by _their_ daughters; _they_ did not have bright-covered books to read. what did it mean, giving these things to dressmaker girls? some of them not only resolved not to send their custom to the association, but directed tracts to the house. they came, however, after a time, and had their dresses made there, for a reason which will appear in the sequel. but at the outset they held aloof. far different was the reception given to the institution by the people for whose benefit it was designed. when they had quite got over their natural suspicion of a strange thing; when the girls were found to bring home their pay regularly on a saturday; when the dinner proved a real thing and the hours continued to be merciful; when the girls reported continuously kind treatment; when the evenings spent in the drawing-room were found to be delightful, and when other doubts and whisperings about miss kennedy's motives, intentions, and secret character gradually died away, the association became popular, and all the needle-girls of the place would fain have joined miss kennedy. the thing which did the most to create the popularity was the permission for the girls to bring some of their friends and people on the saturday evening. they "received" on saturday evening--they were at home; they entertained their guests on that night; and, though the entertainment cost nothing but the lights, it soon became an honor and a pleasure to receive an invitation. most of those who came at first were other girls; they were shy and stood about all arms; then they learned their steps; then they danced; then the weariness wore out of their eyes and the roses came back to their cheeks; they forgot the naggings of the workroom, and felt for the first time the joy of their youth. some of them were inclined at first to be rough and bold, but the atmosphere calmed them; they either came no more or if they came they were quiet; some of them affected a superior and contemptuous air, not uncommon with "young persons" when they are jealous or envious, but this is a mood easily cured; some of them were frivolous, but these were also easily subdued. for always with them was miss kennedy herself, a juno, their queen, whose manner was so kind, whose smile was so sweet, whose voice was so soft, whose greeting was so warm, and yet--yet ... who could not be resisted, even by the boldest or the most frivolous. the first step was not to be afraid of miss kennedy; at no subsequent stage of their acquaintance did any cease to respect her. as for rebekah, she would not come on saturday evening, as it was part of her sabbath; but nelly proved of the greatest use in maintaining the decorum and in promoting the spirit of the evenings, which wanted, it is true, a leader. sometimes the girls' mothers would come, especially those who had not too many babies; they sat with folded hands and wondering eyes, while their daughters danced, while miss kennedy sang, and mr. goslett played the fiddle. angela went among them, talking in her sympathetic way, and won their confidence so that they presently responded and told her all their troubles and woe. or sometimes the fathers would be brought, but very seldom came twice. now and then a brother would appear, but it was many weeks before the brothers began to come regularly; when they did, it became apparent that there was something in the place more attractive than brotherly duty or the love of dancing. of course, sweethearts were bound to come whether they liked it or not. there were, at first, many little hitches, disagreeable incidents, rebellious exhibitions of temper, bad behavior, mistakes, social sins, and other things of which the chronicler must be mute, because the general result is all that we desire to record. and this was satisfactory. for the first time the girls learned that there were joys in life, joys even within their reach, with a little help, poor as they were; joys which cost them nothing. among them were girls of the very humblest, who had the greatest difficulty in presenting a decent appearance, who lived in crowded lodgings or in poor houses with their numerous brothers and sisters; pale-faced girls, heavy-hearted girls; joyless maidens, loveless maidens--girls who from long hours of work, and from want of open air and good food, stooped their shoulders and dragged their limbs--when angela saw them first, she wished that she was a man to use strong language against their employers. how she violated all principles of social economy, giving clothes, secretly lending money, visiting mothers, paying rent, and all without any regard to supply and demand, marketable value, price current, worth of labor, wages rate, averages, percentages, interest, capital, commercial rules, theory of trade, encouragement of over-population, would be too disgraceful to narrate; indeed, she blushed when she thought of the beautiful and heart-warming science in which she had so greatly distinguished herself, and on which she trampled daily. yet if, on the one side, there stood cold science, and on the other a suffering girl, it is ridiculous to acknowledge that the girl always won the day. among the girls was one who interested angela greatly, not because she was pretty, for she was not pretty at all, but plain to look upon, and lame, but because she bore a very hard lot with patience and courage very beautiful to see. she had a sister who was crippled and had a weak back, so that she could not sit up long, nor earn much. she had a mother who was growing old and weak of sight, so that she could not earn much; she had a young brother who lived like the sparrows; that is to say, he ran wild in the streets and stole his daily bread, and was rapidly rising to the dignity and rank of an habitual criminal. he seldom, however, came home, except to borrow or beg for money. she had a father, whose name was never mentioned, so that he was certainly an undesirable father, a bad bargain of a father, a father impossible, viewed in connection with the fifth commandment. this was the girl who burst into tears when she saw the roast beef for the first time. her tears were caused by a number of reasons: first, because she was hungry and her condition was low; secondly, because roasted beef to a hungry girl is a thing too beautiful; thirdly, because while she was feasting, her sister and mother were starving. the crippled sister presently came to the house and remained in it all day. what special arrangements were made with rebekah, the spirit of commerce, as regards her pay, i know not; but she came, did a little work, sat or lay down in the drawing-room most of the time; and presently, under miss kennedy's instruction, began to practise on the piano. a work-girl, actually a work-girl, if you please, playing scales, with a one, two, three, four, one, two, three, four, just as if she was a lady living in the mile end road and the daughter of a clerk in the brewery! yes, the girls, who had formerly worked in unhealthy rooms till half-past eight, now worked in well-ventilated rooms till half-past six; they had time to rest and run about; they had good food, they had cheerful talk, they were encouraged; captain sorensen came to read to them; in the evening they had a delightful room to sit in, where they could read and talk, or dance, or listen. while they read the books which miss kennedy laid on the table for them, she would play and sing. first, she chose simple songs and simple pieces, and as their taste for music grew, so her music improved; and every day found the drawing-room more attractive, and the girls more loath to go home. she watched her experiment with the keenest interest; the girls were certainly growing more refined in manner and in thought. even rebekah was softening daily; she looked on at the dance without a shudder, even when the handsome young workman clasped nelly sorensen by the waist and whirled her round the room; and she owned that there was music in the world, outside her little chapel, far sweeter than anything they had within it. as for nelly, she simply worshipped. whatever miss kennedy did was right and beautiful and perfect in her eyes; nor, in her ignorance of the world, did she ponder any more over that first difficulty of hers, why a lady, and such a lady, had come to stepney green to be a dressmaker. chapter xiv. the tender passion. it is always a dangerous thing for two young persons of opposite sexes to live together under the same roof, even when the lady is plain and at first sight unattractive, and when the young man is stupid. for they get to know one another. now, so great is the beauty of human nature, even in its second-rate or third-rate productions, that love generally follows when one of the two, by confession or unconscious self-betrayal, stands revealed to the other. it is not the actual man or woman, you see, who is loved--it is the ideal, the possible, the model or type from which the specimen is copied, and which it distinctly resembles. but think of the danger when the house in which these young people find themselves is not a large country-house, where many are gathered together of like pursuits, but an obscure boarding-house in a society-forgotten suburb, where these two had only each other to talk to. add to this that they are both interested in an experiment of the greatest delicacy, in which the least false step would be fatal. add, further, the fact that each is astonished at the other: the one to find in a dressmaker the refinement and all the accomplishments of a lady; the other, to find in a cabinet-maker the distinguishing marks of a gentleman; the same way of looking at things and talking about them; the same bearing and the same courtesy. the danger was even made greater by what seemed a preventive--namely, by the way in which at the beginning angela so very firmly put down her foot on the subject of "keeping company;" there was to be no attempt at love-making; on that understanding the two could, and did, go about together as much as they pleased. what followed naturally was that more and more they began to consider each the other as a problem of an interesting character. angela observed that the young workman, whom she had at first considered of a frivolous disposition, seemed to be growing more serious in his views of things, and even when he laughed there was method in his folly. no men are so solemn, she reflected, as the dull of comprehension; perhaps the extremely serious character of the place in which they lived was making him dull, too. it is difficult, certainly, for any one to go on laughing at stepney; the children, who begin by laughing, like children everywhere, have to give up the practice before they are eight years of age, because the streets are so insufferably dull; the grown-up people never laugh at all; when immigrants arrive from livelier quarters, say manchester or sheffield, after a certain time of residence--the period varies with the mercurial temperament of the patient--they laugh no more. "surely," thought angela, "he is settling down; he will soon find work; he will become like other men of his class; and then, no doubt, he will fall in love with nelly. nothing could be more suitable." by saying to herself, over and over again, that this arrangement should take place, she had got to persuade herself that it certainly would. "nelly possessed," she said, "the refinement of manner and nature, without which the young man would be wretched; she was affectionate and sensible; it would certainly do very well." and she was hardly conscious, while she arranged this in her own head, of a certain uneasy feeling in her mind, which in smaller creatures might have been called jealousy. so far, there had been little to warrant the belief that things were advancing in the direction she desired. he was not much more attentive to nelly than to any other of the girls; worse still, as she reflected with trepidation, there were many symptoms by which he showed a preference for quite another person. as for harry, it was useless for him to conceal from himself any longer the fact that he was by this time head-over-ears in love. the situation offered greater temptations than his strength could withstand. he succumbed--whatever the end might be, he was in love. if one comes to think of it, this was rather a remarkable result of a descent into the lower regions. one expects to meet in the home of dull ugliness things repellent, coarse; enjoying the freedom of nature, unrestrained, unconventional. harry found, on the contrary, the sweetness of eden, a fair garden of delights, in which sat a peerless lady, the queen of beauty, a very venus. all his life, that is, since he had begun to think about love at all, he had stoutly held and strenuously maintained that it was _lèse majesté_, high treason to love, for a man to throw away--he used to say "throw away"--upon a maiden of low degree the passion which should be offered to a lady--a demoiselle. the position was certainly altered, inasmuch as he was no longer of gentle birth. therefore, he argued, he would no longer pretend to the hand of a lady. at first he used to make resolutions, as bravely as a board of directors: he would arise and flee to the desert--any place would be a desert without her; he would get out of temptation; he would go back to piccadilly, and there forget her. yet he remained; yet every day he sought her again; every day his condition became more hopeless; every day he continued to walk with her, play duets with her, sing with her, dance with her, argue with her, learn from her, teach her, watch over her, and felt the sunshine of her presence, and at meeting and parting touched her fingers. she was so well educated, he said, strengthening his faith; she was so kindly and considerate; her manners were so perfect; she was so beautiful and graceful; she knew so well how to command, that he was constrained to own that no lady of his acquaintance was, or could be, her superior. to call her a dressmaker was to ennoble and sanctify the whole craft. she should be to that art what cecilia is to music--its patron saint; she should be to himself--yet, what would be the end? he smiled grimly, thinking that there was no need to speculate on the end, when as yet there had been no beginning. he could not make a beginning. if he ventured on some shy and modest tentative in the direction of--call it an understanding--she froze. she was always on the watch; she seemed to say: "thus far you may presume, but no farther." what did it mean? was she really resolved never to receive his advances? did she dislike him? that could hardly be. was she watching him? was she afraid to trust him? that might be. or was she already engaged to some other fellow--some superior fellow--perhaps with a shop--gracious heavens!--of his own? that might be, though it made him cold to think it possible. or did she have some past history, some unhappy complication of the affections, which made her as cold as dian? that, too, might be. the ordinary young man, thrown into the society of half a dozen working-girls, would have begun to flirt and talk nonsense with all of them together, or with one after the other. harry was not that kind of young man. there is always, by the blessing of kind heaven, left unto us a remnant of those who hold woman sacred, and continually praise, worship, and reverence the name of love. he was one of those young men. to flirt with a milliner did not seem a delightful thing to him at any time. and in this case there was another reason why he should not behave in the manner customary to the would-be don juan; it was simply _foi de gentilhomme_; he was tolerated among them all on a kind of unspoken but understood parole. miss kennedy received him in confidence that he would not abuse her kindness. one sunday afternoon when they were walking together--it was in one of the warm days of last september--in victoria park, they had a conversation which led to really important things. there are one or two very pretty walks in that garden, and though the season was late, and the leaves mostly yellow, brown, crimson, or golden, there were still flowers, and the ornamental water was bright, and the path crowded with people who looked happy, because the sun was shining; they had all dined plentifully, with copious beer, and the girls had got on their best things, and the swains were gallant with a flower in the buttonhole and a cigar between the lips. there is, indeed, so little difference between the rich and the poor--can even hyde park in the season go beyond the flower and the cigar? in certain tropical lands, the first step in civilization is to buy a mosquito-curtain, though your dusky epidermis is as impervious as a crocodile's to the sting of a mosquito. in this realm of england the first step toward gentility is the twopenny smoke, to which we cling, though it is made of medicated cabbage, though it makes the mouth raw, the tongue sore, the lips cracked, the eyes red, the nerves shaky, and the temper short. who would not suffer in such a cause? it began with a remark of angela's about his continued laziness. he replied, evasively, that he had intended to take a long holiday, in order to look round and consider what was best to be done; that he liked holidays; that he meant to introduce holidays into the next trade dispute; that his holidays enabled him to work a little for miss kennedy, without counting his lordship, whose case he had now drawn up; that he was now ready for work whenever, he added airily, work was ready for him; and that he was not, in fact, quite sure that stepney and its neighborhood would prove the best place for him to work out his life. "i should think," said angela, "that it would be as good a place as any you would find in america." "if you tell me to stay, miss kennedy," he replied, with a sudden earnestness, "i will stay." she instantly froze, and chillingly said that if his interests required him to go, of course he would go. therefore harry, after a few moments' silence, during which he battled with the temptation to "have it out" there and then, before all the happy shepherds and shepherdesses of bethnal green, returned to his original form, and made as if those words had not been spoken and that effect not been produced. you may notice the same thing with children who have been scolded. "did you ever consider, miss kennedy, the truly happy condition of the perfect cabinet-maker?" "no: i never did. is he happy above his fellows?" "your questions betray your ignorance. till lately--till i returned from america--i never wholly realized what a superior creature he is. why, in the first place, the cabinet-maker is perhaps the only workman who never scamps his work; he is a responsible man; he takes pride in producing a good and honest thing. we have no tricks in our trade. then, if you care to hear----" "pray go on: let me learn all i can." "then we were the first to organize ourselves. our society was founded eighty years ago. we had no foolish strike, but we just met the employers and told them we were going to arrange with them what our share should be; and we made a book about wages--i do not think so good a book has been put together this century. then, we are a respectable lot; you never hear of a cabinet-maker in trouble at a police-court; very few of us get drunk; most of us read books and papers, and have opinions. my cousin dick has very strong opinions. we are critical about amusements, and we prefer henry irving to a music-hall; we do not allow rough talk in the workshops; we are mostly members of some church, and we know how to value ourselves." "i shall know how to value your craft in future," said angela, "especially when you are working again." "yes. i do not want to work in a shop, you know; but one may get a place, perhaps, in one of the railway-carriage depots, or a hotel, or a big factory, where they always keep a cabinet-maker in regular pay. my cousin dick--dick the radical--is cabinet-maker in a mangle-factory. i do not know what he makes for his mangles, but that is what he is." "i have seen your cousin tom, when he was rolled in the mud and before he led off the hymn and the procession. you must bring me your cousin dick." "dick is better fun than tom. both are terribly in earnest; but you will find dick interesting." "does he walk about on sunday afternoons? should we be likely to meet him here?" "oh, no! dick is forging his speech for to-night. he addresses the advanced club almost every sunday evening on the house of lords, or the church, or the country bumpkin's suffrage, or the cape question, or protection, or the nihilists, or ireland, or america, or something. the speech must be red-hot, or his reputation would be lost. so he spends the afternoon sticking it into the furnace, so to speak. it doesn't matter what the subject is, always provided that he can lug in the bloated aristocrat and the hated tory. i assure you dick is a most interesting person." "do you ever speak at the advanced club?" "i go there; i am a member; now and then i say a word. when a member makes a red-hot speech, brimful of insane accusations, and sits down amid a round of applause, it is pleasant to get up and set him right on matters of fact, because all the enthusiasm is killed when you come to facts. some of them do not love me at the club." "they are real and in earnest, while you----" "no, miss kennedy, they are not real, whatever i may be. they are quite conventional. the people like to be roused by red-hot, scorching speeches; they want burning questions, intolerable grievances; so the speakers find them or invent them. as for the audience, they have had so many sham grievances told in red-hot words that they have become callous, and don't know of any real ones. the indignation of the speakers is a sham; the enthusiasm of the listeners is a sham; they applaud the eloquence, but as for the stuff that is said, it moves them not. as for his politics, the british workman has got a vague idea that things go better for him under the liberals. when the liberals come in, after making promises by the thousand, and when, like their predecessors, they have made the usual mess, confidence is shaken. then he allows the conservatives, who do not, at all events, promise oranges and beer all round, back again, and gives them another show. as if it matters which side is in to the british workman!" "and they are not discontented," asked angela, "with their own lives?" "not one bit. they don't want to change their own lives. why should they?" "all these people in the park to-day," she continued, "are they working-men?" "yes: some of them--the better sort. of course"--harry looked round and surveyed the crowd--"of course, when you open a garden of this sort for the people, the well-dressed come, and the ragged stay away and hide. there is plenty of ragged stuff round and about us, but it hides. and there is plenty of comfort which walks abroad and shows itself. this end of london is the home of little industries. here, for instance, they make the things which belong to other things." "that seems a riddle," said angela. "i mean things like card-boxes, pill-boxes, ornamental boxes of all kinds, for confectioners, druggists, and drapers; they make all kinds of such things for wholesale houses. why, there are hundreds of trades in this great neglected city of east london, of which we know nothing. you see the manufacturers. here they are with their wives, and their sons, and their daughters; they all lend a hand, and between them the thing is made." "and are they discontented?" asked angela with persistence. "not they; they get as much happiness as the money will run to. at the same time, if the palace of delight were once built----" "ah!" cried angela with a sigh. "the palace of delight; the palace of delight! we must have it, if it is only to make the people discontented." they walked home presently, and in the evening they played together, one or two of the girls being present, in the "drawing-room." the music softens--angela repented her coldness of the afternoon. when the girls were gone, and they were walking side by side beneath moonlight on the quiet green, she made shyly a little attempt at compensation. "if," she said, "you should find work here in stepney, you would be willing to stay?" "i would stay," he replied, "if you bid me stay--or go, if you bid me go." "i would bid you stay," she replied, speaking as clearly and as firmly as she could, "because i like your society, and because you have been, and will still be, i hope, very helpful to us. but if i bid you stay," she laid her hand upon his arm, "it must be on no misunderstanding." "i am your servant," he said, with a little agitation in his voice. "i understood nothing but what you wish me to understand." chapter xv. a splendid offer. it was a strange coincidence that only two days after this conversation with miss kennedy, harry received his first offer of employment. it came from the brewery, and was in the first instance a mere note sent by a clerk inviting "h. goslett" to call at the accountant's office at ten in the morning. the name, standing bare and naked by itself, without any preliminary title of respect--mister, master, or sieur--presented, harry thought, a very miserable appearance. perhaps it would be difficult to find a readier method of insulting a man than to hurl his own name at his head. one may understand how louis capet must have felt when thus reduced to a plain simplicity. "what on earth," harry asked, forgetting his trade, "can they want with me?" in business houses, working-men, even of the gentle craft of cabinet-making, generally carry with them tools, sometimes wear an apron, always have their trousers turned up, and never wear a collar--using, instead, a red muffler, which keeps the throat warmer, and does not so readily show the effect of london fog and smoke. also, some of their garments are made of corduroy and their jackets have bulging pockets, and their hats not unfrequently have a pipe stuck into them. this young working-man repaired to the trysting-place in the easy attire in which he was wont to roam about the bowers of the east end. that is to say, he looked like a carelessly-dressed gentleman. harry found at the office his uncle, mr. bunker, who snorted when he saw his nephew. "what are you doing here?" he asked. "can't you waste your time and bring disgrace on a hard-working uncle outside the place where he is known and respected?" harry sighed. "few of us," he said, "sufficiently respect their uncles. and with _such_ an uncle--ah!" what more might have passed between them, i know not. fortunately, at this point, they were summoned to the presence of the chief accountant. he knew mr. bunker and shook hands with him. "is this your nephew, mr. bunker?" he asked, looking curiously at the very handsome young fellow who stood before him with a careless air. "yes; he's my nephew; at least, he says so," said mr. bunker surlily. "perhaps, sir, you wouldn't mind telling him what you want, and letting him go. then we can get to business." "my business is with both of you." "both of us?" mr. bunker looked uneasy. what business could that be in which he was connected with his nephew? "perhaps i had better read a portion of a letter received by me yesterday from miss messenger. that portion which concerns you, mr. bunker, is as follows." rather a remarkable letter had been received at the brewery on the previous day from miss messenger. it was remarkable, and, indeed, disquieting, because it showed a disposition to interfere in the management of the great concern, and the interference of a young lady in the brewery boded ill. the chief brewer and the chief accountant read it together. they were a grave and elderly pair, both in their sixties, who had been regarded by the late mr. messenger as mere boys. for he was in the eighties. "yes," said the chief brewer, as his colleague read the missive with a sigh, "i know what you would say. it is not the thing itself; the thing is a small thing; the man may even be worth his pay; but it is the spirit of the letter, the spirit, that concerns me." "it is the spirit," echoed the chief accountant. "either," said the chief brewer, "we rule here, or we do not." "certainly," said the chief accountant, "and well put." "if we do not"--here the chief brewer rapped the middle knuckle of the back of his left-hand forefinger with the tip of his right-hand forefinger--"if we do not, what then?" they gazed upon each other for a moment in great sadness, having before their eyes a hazy vision in which miss messenger walked through the brewery, putting down the mighty and lowering salaries. a grateful reward for long and faithful services! at the thought of it, these two servants in their own eyes became patriarchal, as regards the length of years spent in the brewery, and their long services loomed before them as so devoted and so faithful as to place them above the rewarding power of any salary. the chief accountant was a tall old gentleman, and he stood in a commanding position on the hearth-rug, the letter in one hand and a pair of double eye-glasses in the other. "you will see from what i am about to read to you, mr. bunker," he began, "that your services, such as they were, to the late mr. messenger will not go unrewarded." very good, so far; but what had his reward to do with his nephew? "you were a good deal with mr. messenger at one time, i remember, mr. bunker." "i was, a great deal." "quite so--quite so--and you assisted him, i believe, with his house property and tenants, and so forth." "i did." mr. bunker cleared his throat. "i did, and often mr. messenger would talk of the reward i was to have when he was took." "he left you nothing, however, possibly because he forgot. you ought, therefore, to be the more grateful to miss messenger for remembering you; particularly as the young lady has only heard of you by some kind of chance." "has she--has she--sent something?" he asked. the chief accountant smiled graciously. "she has sent a very considerable present indeed." "ah!" mr. bunker's fingers closed as if they were grappling with bank-notes. "is it," he asked, in trembling accents--"is it a check?" "i think, mr. bunker, that you will like her present better than a check." "there can be nothing better than one of miss messenger's checks," he replied gallantly. "nothing in the world, except, perhaps, one that's bigger. i suppose it's notes, then?" "listen, mr. bunker---- "'considering the various services rendered to my grandfather by mr. bunker, with whom i believe you are acquainted, in connection with his property in stepney and the neighborhood, i am anxious to make him some substantial present. i have therefore caused inquiries to be made as to the best way of doing this. i learn that he has a nephew named henry goslett, by trade a cabinet-maker'" [here mr. bunker made violent efforts to suppress emotion], "'who is out of employment. i propose that he should be received into the brewery, that a shop with all that he wants should be fitted up for him, and that he attend daily until anything better offers, to do all that may be required in his trade. i should wish him to be independent as regards time of attendance, and that he should be paid at the proper rate for piece-work. in this way, i hope mr. bunker may feel that he has received a reward more appropriate to the friendly relations which seem to have existed between my grandfather and himself than a mere matter of money, and i am glad to be able to gratify him in finding honorable employment for one who is, i trust, a deserving young man.'" "then, mr. bunker, there is this--why, good heavens! man, what is the matter?" for mr. bunker was purple with wrath. three times he essayed to speak, three times he failed. then he put on his hat and fled precipitately. "what is the matter with him?" asked the chief accountant. the young workman laughed. "i believe," he replied "that my uncle expected the check." "well, well!" the chief accountant waved his hand. "there is nothing more to be said. you will find your shop; one of the porters will take you to it; you will have all the broken things that used to be sent out, kept for you to mend, and--and--all that. what we want a cabinet-maker for in the brewery, i do not understand. that will do. stay--you seem a rather superior kind of workman." "i have had an education," said harry, blushing. "good; so long as it has not made you discontented. remember that we want sober and steady men in this place, and good work." "i am not certain yet," said harry, "that i shall be able to take the place." "not take the place? not take a place in messenger's brewery? do you know that everybody who conducts himself well here is booked for life? do you know what you are throwing away? not take the place? why, you may be cabinet-maker for the brewery till they actually pension you off." "i am--i am a little uncertain in my designs for the future. i must ask for a day to consider." "take a day. if, to-morrow, you do not present yourself in the workshop prepared for you, i shall tell miss messenger that you have refused her offer." harry walked away with a quickened pulse. so far he had been posturing only as a cabinet-maker. at the outset he had no intention of doing more than posture for a while, and then go back to civilized life with no more difference than that caused by the revelation of his parentage. as for doing work, or taking a wage, that was very, very far from his mind. yet now he must either accept the place, with the pay, or he must stand confessed a humbug. there remained but one other way, which was a worse way than the other two. he might, that is to say, refuse the work without assigning any reason. he would then appear in the character of a lazy and worthless workman--an idle apprentice, indeed; one who would do no work while there was money in the locker for another day of sloth. with that face could he stand before miss kennedy, revealed in these--his true colors? it was an excellent opportunity for flight. that occurred to him. but flight--and after that last talk with the woman whose voice, whose face, whose graciousness had so filled his head and inflamed his imagination. he walked away, considering. when a man is very much perplexed, he often does a great many little odd things. thus, harry began by looking into the office where his cousin sat. josephus' desk was in the warmest part of the room, near the fire--so much promotion he had received. he sat among half a dozen lads of seventeen or twenty years of age, who did the mechanical work of making entries in the books. this he did, too, and had done every day for forty years. beside him stood a great iron safe, where the books were put away at night. the door was open. harry looked in, caught the eye of his cousin, nodded encouragingly, and went on his way, his hands in his pockets. when he came to mrs. bormalack's he went in there too, and found lord davenant anxiously waiting for the conduct of the case to be resumed, in order that he might put up his feet and take his morning nap. "this is my last morning," harry said. "as for your case, old boy, it is as complete as i can make it, and we had better send it in as soon as we can, unless you can find any more evidence." "no--no," said his lordship, who found this familiarity a relief after the stately enjoyment of the title, "there will be no more evidence. well, if there's nothing more to be done, mr. goslett, i think i will"--here he lifted his feet--"and if you see clara martha, tell her that--that----" here he fell asleep. it was against the rules to visit the dressmakers' association in the morning or afternoon. harry therefore went to the room where he had fitted his lathe, and began to occupy himself with the beautiful cabinet he was making for miss kennedy. but he was restless; he was on the eve of a very important step. to take a place, to be actually paid for piece-work, is, if you please, a very different thing from pretending to have a trade. was he prepared to give up the life of culture? he sat down and thought what such a surrender would mean. first, there would be no club; none of the pleasant dinners at the little tables with one or two of his own friends; no easy-chair in the smoking-room for a wet afternoon; none of the talk with men who are actually in the ring--political, literary, artistic, and dramatic, none of the pleasant consciousness that you are behind the scenes, which is enjoyed by so many young fellows who belong to good clubs. the club in itself would be a great thing to surrender. next, there would be no society. he was at that age when society means the presence of beautiful girls; therefore, he loved society, whether in the form of a dance, or a dinner, or an at-home, or an afternoon, or a garden-party, or any other gathering where young people meet and exchange those ideas which they fondly imagine to be original. well, he must never think any more of society. that was closed to him. next, he must give up most of the accomplishments, graces, arts, and skill which he had acquired by dint of great assiduity and much practice. billiards, at which he could hold his own against most; fencing, at which he was capable of becoming a professor; shooting, in which he was ready to challenge any american; riding, the talking of different languages--what would it help him now to be a master in these arts? they must all go; for the future he would have to work nine hours a day for tenpence an hour, which is two pound a week, allowing for saturday afternoon. there would simply be no time for practising any single one of these things, even if he could afford the purchase of the instruments required. again, he would have to grieve and disappoint the kindest man in the whole world--lord jocelyn. i think it speaks well for this young man that one thing did not trouble him--the question of eating and drinking. he would dine no more; working-men do not dine--they stoke. he would drink no more wine; well, harry found beer a most excellent and delicious beverage, particularly when you get it unadulterated. could he give up all these things? he could not conceive it possible, you see, that a man should go and become a workman, receiving a wage and obeying orders, and afterward resume his old place among gentlemen, as if nothing had happened. indeed, it would require a vast amount of explanation. then he began to consider what he would get if he remained. one thing only would reward him. he was so far gone in love, that for this girl's sake he would renounce everything and become a workman indeed. he could not work; the quiet of the room oppressed him; he must be up and moving while this struggle went on. then he thought of his uncle bunker and laughed, remembering his discomfiture and wrath. while he was laughing the door opened, and the very man appeared. he had lost his purple hue, and was now, in fact, rather pale, and his cheeks looked flabby. "nephew," he said huskily, "i want to talk to you about this thing; give over sniggerin', and talk serious now." "let us be serious." "this is a most dreadful mistake of miss messenger's; you know at first i thought it must be a joke. that is why i went away; men of my age and respectability don't like jokes. but it was no joke. i see now it is just a mere dreadful mistake which you can set right." "how can i set it right?" "to be sure, i could do it myself, very easily. i have only got to write to her, and tell her that you've got no character, and nobody knows if you know your trade." "i don't think that would do, because i might write as well----" "the best plan would be for you to refuse the situation and go away again. look here, boy; you come from no one knows where; you live no one knows how; you don't do any work; my impression is you don't want any, and you've only come to see what you can borrow or steal. that's my opinion. now, don't let's argue, but just listen. if you'll go away quietly, without any fuss, just telling them at the brewery that you've got to go, i'll give you--yes--i'll give you--twenty pounds down! there!" "very liberal indeed! but i am afraid----" "i'll make it twenty-five. a man of spirit can do anything with twenty-five pounds down. why, he might go to the other end of the world. if i were you i'd go there. large openings there for a lad of spirit--large openings! twenty-five pounds down, on the nail." "it seems a generous offer, still----" "nothing," mr. bunker went on, "has gone well since you came. there's this dreadful mistake of miss messenger's; then that miss kennedy's job. i didn't make anything out of that compared with what i might, and there's the----" he stopped, because he was thinking of the houses. "i _want_ you to go," he added almost plaintively. "and that, very much, is one of the reasons why i want to stay. because, you see, you have not yet answered a question of mine. what did you get for me when you traded me away?" for the second time his question produced a very remarkable effect upon the good man. when he had gone, slamming the door behind him, harry smiled sweetly. "i know," he said, "that he has done 'something,' as they call it. bunker is afraid. and i--yes--i shall find it out and terrify him still more. but, in order to find it out, i must stay. and if i stay, i must be a workman. and wear an apron! and a brown-paper cap! no. i draw the line above aprons. no consideration shall induce me to wear an apron. not even--no--not if she were to make the apron a condition of marriage." chapter xvi. harry's decision. he spent the afternoon wandering about the streets of stepney, full of the new thought that here might be his future home. this reflection made him regard the place from quite a novel point of view. as a mere outsider, he had looked upon the place critically, with amusement, with pity, with horror (in rainy weather), with wonder (in sunshiny days). he was a spectator, while before his eyes were played as many little comedies, comediettas, or tragedies or melodramas as there were inhabitants. but no farces, he remarked, and no burlesques. the life of industry contains no elements of farce or of burlesque. but if he took this decisive step he would have to look upon the east end from an inside point of view; he would be himself one of the actors; he would play his own little comedy. therefore he must introduce the emotion of sympathy, and suppress the critical attitude altogether. there was once an earl who went away and became a sailor before the mast; he seems to have enjoyed sailoring better than legislating, but was, by accident, ingloriously drowned while so engaged. there was also the honorable timothy clitheroe davenant, who was also supposed to be drowned, but in reality exercised until his death, and apparently with happiness, the craft of wheelwright. there was another unfortunate nobleman, well known to fame, who became a butcher in a colony, and liked it. precedents enough of voluntary descent and eclipse, to say nothing of the involuntary obscurations, as when an _émigré_ had to teach dancing, or the son of a royal duke was fain to become a village schoolmaster. these historical parallels pleased harry's fancy until he recollected that he was himself only a son of the people, and not of noble descent, so that they really did not bear upon his case, and he could find not one single precedent in the whole history parallel with himself. "mine," he said, formulating the thing, "is a very remarkable and unusual case. here is a man brought up to believe himself of gentle birth and educated as a gentleman, so that there is nothing in the most liberal training of a gentleman that he has not learned, and no accomplishment which becomes a gentleman that he has not acquired. then he learns that he is not a gentleman by birth, and that he is a pauper; wherefore, why not honest work? work is noble, to be sure, especially if you get the kind of work you like, and please yourself about the time of doing it; nothing could be a more noble spectacle than that of myself working at the lathe for nothing, in the old days; would it be quite as noble at the brewery, doing piece-work?" these reflections, this putting of the case to himself, this grand dubiety, occupied the whole afternoon. when the evening came, and it was time for him to present himself in the drawing-room, he was no further advanced toward a decision. the room looked bright and restful; wherever angela went, she was accompanied and surrounded by an atmosphere of refinement. those who conversed with her became infected with her culture; therefore, the place was like any drawing-room at the west end, save for the furniture, which was simple. ladies would have noticed, even in such little things, in the way in which the girls sat and carried themselves, a note of difference. to harry these minutiæ were unknown, and he saw only a room full of girls quietly happy and apparently well-bred; some were reading; some were talking, one or two were "making" something for themselves, though their busy fingers had been at work all day. nelly and miss kennedy were listening to the captain, who was telling a yarn of his old east indiaman. the three made a pretty group, miss kennedy seated on a low stool at the captain's knee, while the old man leaned forward in his arm-chair, his daughter beside him watching, in her affectionate and pretty way, the face of her patron. the quiet, peaceful air of the room, the happy and contented faces which before had been so harassed and worn, struck the young man's heart. part of this had been his doing; could he go away and leave the brave girl who headed the little enterprise to the tender mercies of a bunker? the thought of what he was throwing up--the club-life, the art-life, the literary life, the holiday-time, the delightful roving in foreign lands, which he should enjoy no more--all seemed insignificant considered beside this haven of rest and peace in the troubled waters of the east end. he was no philanthropist; the cant of platforms was intolerable to him; yet he was thinking of a step which meant giving up his own happiness for that of others; with, of course, the constant society of the woman he loved. without that compensation the sacrifice would be impossible. miss kennedy looked up and nodded to him kindly, motioning him not to interrupt the story, which the captain presently finished. then they had a little music and a little playing, and there was a little dancing--all just as usual; a quiet, pleasant evening; and they went away. "you are silent to-night, mr. goslett," said angela, as they took their customary walk in the quiet little garden called stepney green. "yes. i am like the parrot; i think the more." "what is in your mind?" "this: i have had an offer--an offer of work--from the brewery. miss messenger herself sent the offer, which i am to accept or to refuse to-morrow morning." "an offer of work? i congratulate you. of course you will accept?" she looked at him sharply, even suspiciously. "i do not know." "you have forgotten," she said--in other girls the words and the tone of her voice would have sounded like an encouragement--"you have forgotten what you said only last sunday evening." "no: i have not forgotten. what i said last sunday evening only increases my embarrassment. i did not expect, then--i did not think it possible that any work here would be offered to me." "is the pay insufficient?" "no: the pay is to be at the usual market-rate." "are the hours too long?" "i am to please myself. it seems as if the young lady had done her best to make me as independent as a man who works for money can be." "yet you hesitate. why?" he was silent--thinking what he should tell her. the whole truth would have been best; but then, one so seldom tells the whole truth about anything, far less about one's self. he could not tell her that he had been masquerading all the time, after so many protestations of being a real working-man. "is it that you do not like to make friends among the east end workmen?" "no." he could answer this with truth. "it is not that. the working-men here are better than i expected to find them. they are more sensible, more self-reliant, and less dangerous. to be sure, they profess to entertain an unreasoning dislike for rich people, and, i believe, think that their lives are entirely spent over oranges and skittles. i wish they had more knowledge of books, and could be got to think in some elemental fashion about art. i wish they had a better sense of beauty, and i wish they could be got to cultivate some of the graces of life. you shall teach them, miss kennedy. also, i wish that tobacco was not their only solace. i am very much interested in them. that is not the reason." "if you please to tell me----" she said. "well, then"--he would tell that fatal half-truth--"the reason is this; you know that i have had an education above what fortune intended for me when she made me the son of sergeant goslett." "i know," she replied. "it was my case, as well; we are companions in this great happiness." "the man who conferred this benefit upon me, the best and kindest-hearted man in the world, to whom i am indebted for more than i can tell you, is willing to do more for me. if i please, i may live with him in idleness." "you may live in idleness? that must be, indeed, a tempting offer!" "idleness," he replied, a little hurt at her contempt for what certainly was a temptation for him, "does not always mean doing nothing." "what would you do, then?" "there is the life of culture and art----" "oh, no!" she replied. "would you really like to become one of those poor creatures who think they lead lives devoted to art? would you like to grow silly over blue china, to quarrel about color, to worship form in poetry, to judge everything by the narrow rules of the latest pedantic fashion?" "you know this art world, then?" "i know something of it, i have heard of it. never mind me--think of yourself. you would not, you could not, condemn yourself to such a life." "not to such a life as you picture. but, consider, i am offered a life of freedom instead of servitude." "servitude! why, we are all servants one of the other. society is like the human body, in which all the limbs belong to each other. there must be rich and poor, idlers and workers; we depend one upon the other; if the rich do not work with and for the poor, retribution falls upon them. the poor must work for the rich, or they will starve; poor or rich, i think it is better to be poor; idler or worker, i know it is better to be worker." he thought of lord jocelyn; of the pleasant chambers in piccadilly, of the club, of his own friends, of society, of little dinners, of stalls at the theatre; of suppers among actors and actresses; of artists and the smoking-parties; of the men who write, and the men who talk, and the men who know everybody, and are full of stories; of his riding, and hunting, and shooting; of his fencing, and billiards, and cards. all these things passed through his brain swiftly, in a moment. and then he thought of the beautiful woman beside him, whose voice was the sweetest music to him that he had ever heard. "you must take the offer," she went on, and her words fell upon his ear like the words of an oracle to a greek in doubt. "work at the brewery is not hard. you will have no task-master set over you; you are free to go and come, to choose your own time; there will be in so great a place, there must be, work, quite enough to occupy your time. give up yearning after an idle life, and work in patience." "is there anything," he said, "to which you could not persuade me?" "oh, not for me!" she replied impatiently. "it is for yourself. you have your life before you, to throw away or to use. tell me," she hesitated a little; "you have come back to your own kith and kin, after many years. they were strange to you at first, all these people of the east end--your own people. now that you know them, should you like to go away from them, altogether away and forget them? could you desert them? you know, if you go, that you will desert them, for between this end of london and the other there is a great gulf fixed, across which no one ever passes. you will leave us altogether if you leave us now." at this point harry felt the very strongest desire to make it clear that what concerned him most would be the leaving her, but he repressed the temptation and merely remarked that, if he did desert his kith and kin, they would not regret him. his uncle bunker, he explained, had even offered him five-and-twenty pounds to go. "it is not that you have done anything, you know, except to help us in our little experiment," said angela. "but it is what you may do, what you shall do, if you remain." "what can i do?" "you have knowledge; you have a voice; you have a quick eye and a ready tongue; you could lead, you could preside. oh! what a career you might have before you!" "you think too well of me, miss kennedy. i am a very lazy and worthless kind of man." "no." she shook her head and smiled superior. "i know you better than you know yourself. i have watched you for these months. and then we must not forget, there is our palace of delight." "are we millionaires?" "why, we have already begun it. there is our drawing-room; it is only a few weeks old, yet see what a difference there is already. the girls are happy; their finer tastes are awakened; their natural yearnings after things delightful are partly satisfied; they laugh and sing now; they run about and play. there is already something of our dream realized. stay with us, and we shall see the rest." he made an effort and again restrained himself. "i stay, then," he said, "for your sake--because you command me to stay." had she done well? she asked herself the question in the shelter of her bedroom, with great doubt and anxiety. this young workman, who might if he chose be a--well--yes--a gentleman--quite as good a gentleman as most of the men who pretend to the title--was going to give up whatever prospects he had in the world, at her bidding, and for her sake. for her sake! yet what he wished was impossible. what reward, then, had she to offer him that would satisfy him? nothing. stay, he was only a man. one pretty face was as good as another; he was struck with hers for the moment. she would put him in the way of being attracted by another. yes: that would do. this settled in her own mind, she put the matter aside, and, as she was very sleepy, she only murmured to herself, as her eyes closed, "nelly sorensen." chapter xvii. what lord jocelyn thought. the subject of angela's meditations was not where she thought him, in his own bedroom. when he left his adviser, he did not go in at once, but walked once or twice up and down the pavement, thinking. what he had promised to do was nothing less than to reverse, altogether, the whole of his promised life; and this is no light matter, even if you do it for love's sweet sake. and, miss kennedy being no longer with him, he felt a little chilled from the first enthusiasm. presently he looked at his watch; it was still early, only half-past ten. "there is the chance," he said. "it is only a chance. he generally comes back somewhere about this time." there are no cabs at stepney, but there are tramways which go quite as fast, and, besides, give one the opportunity of exchanging ideas on current topics with one's travelling companions. harry jumped into one, and sat down between a bibulous old gentleman, who said he lived in fore street, but had for the moment mislaid all his other ideas, and a lady who talked to herself as she carried a bundle. she was rehearsing something dramatic, a monologue, in which she was "giving it" to somebody unknown. and she was so much under the influence and emotion of imagination that the young man trembled lest he might be mistaken for the person addressed. however, happily, the lady so far restrained herself, and aldgate was reached in peace. there he took a hansom and drove to piccadilly. the streets looked strange to him after his three months' absence; the lights, the crowds on the pavements, so different from the east end crowd; the rush of the carriages and cabs taking the people home from the theatre, filled him with a strange longing. he had been asleep; he had had a dream; there was no stepney; there was no whitechapel road--a strange and wondrous dream. miss kennedy and her damsels were only a part of this vision. a beautiful and delightful dream. he was back again in piccadilly, and all was exactly as it always had been. so far all was exactly the same, for lord jocelyn was in his chamber and alone. "you are come back to me, harry?" he said, holding the young man's hand; "you have had enough of your cousins and the worthy bunker. sit down, boy. i heard your foot on the stairs. i have waited for it a long time. sit down and let me look at you. to-morrow you shall tell me all your adventures." "it is comfortable," said harry, taking his old chair and one of his guardian's cigarettes. "yes, piccadilly is better, in some respects, than whitechapel." "and there is more comfort the higher up you climb, eh?" "certainly, more comfort. there is not, i am sure, such an easy-chair as this east of st. paul's." then they were silent, as becomes two men who know what is in each other's heart, and wait for it to be said. "you look well," said harry presently. "where did you spend the summer?" "mediterranean. yacht. partridges." "of course. do you stay in london long?" and so on. playing with the talk, and postponing the inevitable, harry learned where everybody had been, and who was engaged, and who was married, and how one or two had joined the majority since his departure. he also heard the latest scandal, and the current talk, and what had been done at the club, and who had been blackballed, with divers small bits of information about people and things. and he took up the talk in the old manner, and fell into the old attitude of mind quite naturally, and as if there had been no break at all. presently the clock pointed to one, and lord jocelyn rose. "we will talk again to-morrow, harry, my boy, and the day after to-morrow, and many days after that. i am glad to have you back again." he laid his hand upon the young man's shoulder. "do not go just yet," said harry, blushing and feeling guilty, because he was going to inflict pain on one who loved him. "i cannot talk with you to-morrow." "why not?" "because--sit down again and listen--because i have made up my mind to join my kith and kin altogether, and stay among them." "what? stay among them?" "you remember what you told me of your motive in taking me. you would bring up a boy of the people like a gentleman. you would educate him in all that a gentleman can learn, and then you would send him back to his friends, whom he would make discontented, and so open the way for civilization." "i said so--did i? yes: but there were other things, harry. you forget that motives are always mixed. there was affection for my brave sergeant and a desire to help his son; there were all sorts of things. besides, i expected that you would take a rough kind of polish only--like nickel, you know, or pewter--and you turned out real silver. a gentleman, i thought, is born, not made. this proved a mistake. the puddle blood would show, i expected, which was prejudice, you see, because there is no such thing as puddle blood. besides, i thought you would be stupid and slow to pick up ideas, and that you would pick up only a few; supposing, in my ignorance, that all persons not 'born,' as the germans say, must be stupid and slow." "and i was not stupid?" "you? the brightest and cleverest lad in the whole world--you stepped into the place i made for you as if you had been born for it. now tell me why you wish to step out of it." "like you, sir i have many motives. partly, i am greatly interested in my own people; partly, i am interested in the place itself and its ways; partly, i am told, and i believe, that there is a great deal which i can do there--do not laugh at me." "i am not laughing, harry; i am only astonished. yes, you _are_ changed, your eyes are different, your voice is different. go on, my boy." "i do not think there is much to say--i mean, in explanation. but of course i understand--it is a part of the thing--that if i stay among them i must be independent. i could no longer look to your bounty, which i have accepted too long. i must work for my living." "work! and what will you do?" "i know a lot of things, but somehow they are not wanted at stepney, and the only thing by which i can make money seems to be my lathe--i have become a cabinet-maker." "heavens! you have become a cabinet-maker? do you actually mean, harry, that you are going to work--with your hands--for money?" "yes; with my hands. i shall be paid for my work; i shall live by my work. the puddle blood, you see." "no, no," said lord jocelyn, "there is no proof of puddle blood in being independent. but think of the discomfort of it." "i have thought of the discomfort. it is not really so very bad. what is your idea of the life i shall have to live?" "why," said lord jocelyn, with a shudder, "you will rise at six; you will go out in working-clothes, carrying your tools, and with your apron tied round and tucked up like a missionary bishop on his way to a confirmation. you will find yourself in a workshop full of disagreeable people, who pick out unpleasant adjectives and tack them on to everything, and whose views of life and habits are--well, not your own. you will have to smoke pipes at a street corner on sundays; your tobacco will be bad; you will drink bad beer--harry! the contemplation of the thing is too painful." harry laughed. "the reality is not quite so bad," he said. "cabinet-makers are excellent fellows. and as for myself, i shall not work in a shop, but alone. i am offered the post of cabinet-maker in a great place where i shall have my own room to myself, and can please my own convenience as to my hours. i shall earn about tenpence an hour--say seven shillings a day, if i keep at it." "if he keeps at it," murmured lord jocelyn, "he will make seven shillings a day." "dinner in the middle of the day, of course." harry went on, with a cheerful smile. "at the east end everybody stokes at one. we have tea at five and supper when we can get it. a simpler life than yours." "this is a programme of such extreme misery," said lord jocelyn, "that your explanations are quite insufficient. is there, i wonder, a woman in the case?" harry blushed violently. "there _is_ a woman, then?" said his guardian triumphantly. "there always is. i might have guessed it from the beginning. come, harry, tell me all about it. is it serious? is she--can she be--at whitechapel--a lady?" "yes," said harry, "it is quite true. there is a woman, and i am in love with her. she is a dressmaker." "oh!" "and a lady." lord jocelyn said nothing. "a lady." harry repeated the words, to show that he knew what he was saying. "but it is no use. she won't listen to me." "that is more remarkable than your two last statements. many men have fallen in love with dressmakers, some dressmakers have acquired partially the manners of a lady; but that any dressmaker should refuse the honorable attentions of a handsome young fellow like you, and a gentleman, is inconceivable." "a cabinet-maker, not a gentleman. but do not let us talk of her, if you please." then lord jocelyn proceeded, with such eloquence as was at his command, to draw a picture of what he was throwing away compared with what he was accepting. there was a universal feeling, he assured his ward, of sympathy with him: everybody felt that it was rough on such a man as himself to find that he was not of illustrious descent; he would take his old place in society; all his old friends would welcome him back among them, with much more to the same purpose. it was four o'clock in the morning when their conversation ended and lord jocelyn went to bed sorrowful, promising to renew his arguments in the morning. as soon as he was gone, harry went to his own room and put together a few little trifles belonging to the past which he thought he should like. then he wrote a letter of farewell to his guardian, promising to report himself from time to time, with a few words of gratitude and affection. and then he stole quietly down the stairs and found himself in the open street. like a school-boy, he had run away. there was nobody left in the streets. half-past four in the morning is almost the quietest time of any; even the burglar has gone home, and it is too early for anything but the market-garden carts on their way to covent garden. he strode down piccadilly and across the silent leicester square into the strand. he passed through that remarkable thoroughfare, and, by way of fleet street, where even the newspaper offices were deserted, the leader-writers and the editor and the subeditors all gone home to bed, to st. paul's. it was then a little after five, and there was already a stir. an occasional footfall along the principal streets. by the time he got to the whitechapel road there were a good many up and about, and before he reached stepney green the day's work was beginning. the night had gone and the sun was rising, for it was six o'clock and a cloudless morning. at ten he presented himself once more at the accountant's office. "well?" asked the chief. "i am come," said harry, "to accept miss messenger's offer." "you seem pretty independent. however, that is the way with you working-men nowadays. i suppose you don't even pretend to feel any gratitude?" "i don't pretend," said harry pretty hotly, "to answer questions outside the work i have to do." the chief looked at him as if he could, if he wished, and was not a christian, annihilate him. "go, young man," he said presently, pointing to the door, "go to your work. rudeness to his betters a working-man considers due to himself, i suppose. go to your work." harry obeyed without a word, being in such a rage that he could not speak. when he reached his workshop, he found waiting to be mended an office-stool with a broken leg. i regret to report that this unhappy stool immediately became a stool with four broken legs and a kicked-out seat. harry was for the moment too strong for the furniture. not even the thought of miss kennedy's approbation could bring him comfort. he was an artisan, he worked by the piece--that was nothing. the galling thing was to realize that he must now behave to certain classes with a semblance of respect, because now he had his "betters." the day before he was a gentleman who had no "betters." he was enriched by this addition to his possessions, and yet he was not grateful. chapter xviii. the palace of delight. there lies on the west and southwest of stepney green a triangular district, consisting of an irregular four-sided figure--what euclid beautifully calls a trapezium--formed by the whitechapel road, the commercial road, stepney green, and high street, or jamaica street, or jubilee street, whichever you please to call your frontier. this favored spot exhibits in perfection all the leading features which characterize the great joyless city. it is, in fact, the heart of the east end. its streets are mean and without individuality or beauty; at no season and under no conditions can they ever be picturesque; one can tell, without inquiring, that the lives led in those houses are all after the same model, and that the inhabitants have no pleasures. everything that goes to make a city, except the means of amusement, is to be found here. there are churches and chapels--do not the blackened ruins of whitechapel church stand here? there are superior "seminaries" and "academies," names which linger here to show where the yearning after the genteel survives; there is a board school, there is the great london hospital, there are almshouses, there are even squares in it--sidney square and bedford square, to wit--but there are no gardens, avenues, theatres, art galleries, libraries, or any kind of amusement whatever. the leading thoroughfare of this quarter is named oxford street, which runs nearly all the way from the new road to stepney church. it begins well with some breadth, a church and a few trees on one side, and almshouses with a few trees on the other. this promise is not kept; it immediately narrows and becomes like the streets which branch out of it, a double row of little two-storied houses, all alike. apparently, they are all furnished alike; in each ground-floor front there are the red curtains and the white blind of respectability, with the little table bearing something, either a basket of artificial flowers, or a big bible or a vase, or a case of stuffed birds from foreign parts, to mark the gentility of the family. a little farther on, the houses begin to have small balconies on the first floor, and are even more genteel. the streets which run off north and south are like unto it but meaner. now, the really sad thing about this district is that the residents are not the starving class, or the vicious class, or the drinking class; they are well-to-do and thriving people, yet they desire no happiness, they do not feel the lack of joy, they live in meanness and are content therewith. so that it is emphatically a representative quarter and a type of the east end generally, which is for the most part respectable and wholly dull, and perfectly contented never to know what pleasant strolling and resting-places, what delightful interests, what varied occupation, what sweet diversions there are in life. as for the people, they follow a great variety of trades. there are "travelling drapers" in abundance; it is, in fact, the chosen _quartier_ of that romantic following; there are a good many stevedores, which betrays the neighborhood of docks; there are some who follow the mysterious calling of herbalist, and i believe you could here still buy the materials for those now forgotten delicacies, saloop and tansy pudding. you can at least purchase medicines for any disease under the sun if you know the right herbalist to go to. one of them is a medium as well; and if you call on him, you may be entertained by the artless prattle of the "sperruts," of whom he knows one or two. they call themselves all sorts of names--such as peter, paul, shakespeare, napoleon, and byron--but in reality there are only two of them, and they are bad actors. then there are cork-cutters, "wine merchants' engineers"--it seems rather a grand thing for a wine merchant, above all other men, to want an engineer; novelists do not want engineers--sealing-wax manufacturers, workers in shellac and zinc, sign-painters, heraldic painters, coopers, makers of combs, iron hoops, and sun-blinds, pewterers, feather-makers--they only pretend to make feathers; what they really do is to buy them, or pluck the birds, and then arrange the feathers and trim them; but they do not really make them--ship-modelers, a small but haughty race; mat-dealers, who never pass a prison without using bad language, for reasons which many who have enjoyed the comforts of a prison will doubtless understand. there are also a large quantity of people who call themselves teachers of music. this may be taken as mere pride and ostentatious pretence, because no one wants to learn music in this country, no one ever plays any music, no one has a desire to hear any. if any one called and asked for terms of tuition, he would be courteously invited to go away, or the professor would be engaged, or he would be out of town. in the same way, a late learned professor of arabic in the university of cambridge was reported always to have important business in the country if an arab came to visit the colleges. but what a lift above the stevedores, pewterers, and feather pretenders to be a professor of music! angela would plant her palace in this region, the most fitting place, because the most dreary; because here there exists nothing, absolutely nothing, for the imagination to feed upon. it is, in fact, though this is not generally known, the purgatory prepared for those who have given themselves up too much to the enjoyment of roses and rapture while living at the west end. how beautiful are all the designs of nature! could there be, anywhere in the world, a more fitting place for such a purgatory than such a city? besides, once one understands the thing, one is further enabled to explain why these grim and sombre streets remain without improvement. to beautify them would seem, in the eyes of pious and religious people, almost flying in the face of providence. and yet, not really so; for it may be argued that there are other places also fitted for the punishment of these purgatorial souls--for instance, hoxton, bethnal green, battersea, and the isle of dogs. angela resolved, therefore, that on this spot the palace of joy should stand. there should be, for all who chose to accept it, a general and standing invitation to accept happiness and create new forms of delight. she would awaken in dull and lethargic brains a new sense, the new sense of pleasure; she would give them a craving for things of which as yet they knew nothing. she would place within their reach, at no cost whatever, absolutely free for all, the same enjoyments as are purchased by the rich. a beautiful dream! they should cultivate a noble discontent; they should gradually learn to be critical; they should import into their own homes the spirit of discontent; they should cease to look upon life as a daily uprising and a down-sitting, a daily mechanical toil, a daily rest. to cultivate the sense of pleasure is to civilize. with the majority of mankind the sense is undeveloped, and is chiefly confined to eating and drinking. to teach the people how the capacity of delight may be widened, how it may be taught to throw out branches in all manner of unsuspected directions, was angela's ambition. a very beautiful dream! she owned so many houses in this district that it was quite easy to find a place suitable for her purpose. she discovered upon the map of her property a whole foursquare block of small houses, all her own, bounded north, south, east, and west by streets of other small houses, similar and similarly situated. this site was about five minutes west of stepney green, and in the district already described. the houses were occupied by weekly tenants, who would find no difficulty in getting quarters as eligible elsewhere. some of them were in bad repair; and what with maintenance of roofs and chimneys, bad debts, midnight flittings, and other causes, there was little or no income derived from these houses. mr. messenger, indeed, who was a hard man, but not unjust, only kept them to save them from the small owner like mr. bunker, whose necessities and greed made him a rack-rent landlord. having fixed upon her site, angela next proceeded to have interviews--but not on the spot, where she might be recognized--with lawyers and architects, and to unfold partially her design. the area on which the houses stood formed a pretty large plot of ground, ample for her purpose, provided that the most was made of the space and nothing wasted. but a great deal was required; therefore she would have no lordly staircases covering half the ground, nor great ante-rooms, nor handsome lobbies. everything, she carefully explained, was to be constructed for use and not for show. she wanted, to begin with, three large halls: one of them was to be a dancing-room, but it might also be a children's play-room for wet weather; one was to be used for a permanent exhibition of native talent, in painting, drawing, wood and ivory-carving, sculpture, leather-work, and the like, everything being for sale at low prices; the last was to be a library, reading and writing room. there was also to be a theatre, which would serve as a concert and music room, and was to have an organ in it. in addition to these there were to be a great number of class-rooms for the various arts, accomplishments, and graces that were to be taught by competent professors and lecturers. there were to be other rooms where tired people might find rest, quiet, and talk--the women with tea and work, the men with tobacco. and there were to be billiard-rooms, a tennis-court, a racket-court, a fives-court, and a card-room. in fact, there was to be space found for almost every kind of recreation. she did not explain to her architect how she proposed to use this magnificent place of entertainment; it was enough that he should design it and carry out her ideas; and she stipulated that no curious inquirers on the spot should be told for what purpose the building was destined, nor who was the builder. one cannot get designs for a palace in a week: it was already late in the autumn, after harry had taken up his appointment, and was busy among the legs of stools, that the houses began to be pulled down and the remnants carted away. angela pressed on the work; but it seemed a long and tedious delay before the foundations were laid and the walls began slowly to rise. there should have been a great function when the foundation-stone was laid, with a procession of the clergy in white surplices and college caps, perhaps a bishop, miss messenger herself, with her friends, a lord or two, the officers of the nearest masonic lodge, a few foresters, odd fellows, buffaloes, druids, and shepherds, a flag, the charity children, a dozen policemen, and venetian masts, with a prayer, a hymn, a speech and a breakfast--nothing short of this should have satisfied the founder. yet she let the opportunity slip, and nothing was done at all; the great building, destined to change the character of the gloomy city into a city of sunshine, was begun with no pomp or outward demonstration. gangs of workmen cleared away the ignoble bricks; the little tenements vanished; a broad space bristling with little garden-walls gaped where they had stood; then the walls vanished; and nothing at all was left but holes where cellars had been; then they raised a hoarding round the whole, and began to dig out the foundation. after the hoarding was put up, nothing more for a long time was visible. angela used to prowl round it in the morning, when her girls were all at work, but fearful lest the architect might come and recognize her. as she saw her palace begin to grow into existence, she became anxious about its success. the first beatific vision, the rapture of imagination, was over, and would come no more; she had now to face the hard fact of an unsympathetic people who perhaps would not desire any pleasure--or if any, then the pleasure of a "spree," with plenty of beer. how could the thing be worked if the people themselves would not work it? how many could she reckon upon as her friends? perhaps two or three at most. oh, the herculean task, for one woman, with two or three disciples, to revolutionize the city of east london! with this upon her mind, her conversations with the intelligent young cabinet-maker became more than usually grave and earnest. he was himself more serious than of old, because he now occupied so responsible a position in the brewery. their relations remained unchanged. they walked together, they talked and they devised things in the drawing-room, and especially for saturday evenings. "i think," he said, one evening when they were alone except for nelly in the drawing-room, "i think that we should never think or talk of working-men in the lump, any more than we think of rich men in a lump. all sorts and conditions of men are pretty much alike, and what moves one moves all. we are all tempted in the same way; we can all be led in the same way." "yes, but i do not see how that fact helps." they were talking, as angela loved to do, of the scheme of the palace. "if the palace were built, we should offer the people of stepney, without prejudice to whitechapel, mile end bow, or even cable street, a great many things which at present they cannot get and do not desire. yet they have always proved extremely attractive. we offer the society of the young for the young, with dancing, singing, music, acting, entertainments--everything except, which is an enormous exception, feasting; we offer them all for nothing; we tell them, in fact, to do everything for themselves; to be the actors, singers, dancers, and musicians." "and they cannot do anything." "a few can; the rest will come in. you forget, miss kennedy, the honor and glory of acting, singing, and performing in public. can there be a greater reward than the applause of one's friends?" "it could never be so nice," said nelly, "to dance in a great hall among a lot of people as to dance up here, all by ourselves." the palace was not, in these days, very greatly in the young man's mind. he was occupied with other things: his own work and position; the wisdom of his choice; the prospects of the future. for surely, if he had exchanged the old life and got nothing in return but work at a lathe all day at tenpence an hour, the change was a bad one. nothing more had been said to him by miss kennedy about the great things he was to do, with her, for her, among his people. was he, then, supposed to find out for himself these great things? and he made no more way with his wooing. that was stopped, apparently, altogether. always kind to him; always well pleased to see him; always receiving him with the same sweet and gracious smile; always frank and open with him; but nothing more. of late he had observed that her mind was greatly occupied; she was brooding over something; he feared that it might be something to do with the associated dressmakers' financial position. she did not communicate her anxieties to him, but always, when they were alone, wanted to go back to their vision of the palace. harry possessed a ready sympathy; he fell easily and at once into the direction suggested by another's words. therefore, when angela talked about the palace, he too took up the thread of invention, and made believe with her as if it were a thing possible, a thing of brick and mortar. "i see," he went on this evening, warming to the work, "i see the opening day, long announced, of the palace. the halls are furnished and lit up; the dancing-room is ready; the theatre is completed, and the electric lights are lit; the concert-rooms are ready with their music-stands and their seats. the doors are open. then a wonderful thing happens." "what is that?" asked angela. "nobody comes." "oh!" "the vast chambers echo with the footsteps of yourself, miss kennedy, and of nelly, who makes no more noise than a demure kitten. captain sorensen and i make as much trampling as we can, to produce the effect of a crowd. but it hardly seems to succeed. then come the girls, and we try to get up a dance; but, as nelly says, it is not quite the same as your drawing-room. presently two men, with pipes in their mouths, come in and look about them. i explain that the stage is ready for them, if they like to act; or the concert-room, if they will sing; or the dancing-room, should they wish to shake a leg. they stare and they go away. then we shut up the doors and go away and cry." "o mr. goslett, have you no other comfort for me?" "plenty of comfort. while we are all crying, somebody has a happy thought. i think it is nelly." she blushed a pretty rosy red. "i am sure i could never suggest anything." "nelly suggests that we shall offer prizes, a quantity of prizes, for competition in everything, the audience or the spectators to be judges; and then the palace will be filled and the universal reign of joy will begin." "can we afford prizes?" asked angela the practical. "miss kennedy," said harry severely, "permit me to remind you that, in carrying out this project, money, for the first time in the world's history, is to be of no value." if newnham does not teach women to originate--which a thousand newnhams will never do--it teaches them to catch at an idea and develop it. the young workman suggested her palace; but his first rough idea was a poor thing compared with angela's finished structure--a wigwam beside a castle, a tabernacle beside a cathedral. angela was devising an experiment, the like of which has never yet been tried upon restless and dissatisfied mankind. she was going, in short, to say to them: "life is full, crammed full, overflowing with all kinds of delights. it is a mistake to suppose that only rich people can enjoy these things. they may buy them, but everybody may create them; they cost nothing. you shall learn music, and forthwith all the world will be transformed for you; you shall learn to paint, to carve, to model, to design, and the day shall be too short to contain the happiness you will get out of it. you shall learn to dance, and know the rapture of the waltz. you shall learn the great art of acting, and give each other the pleasure which rich men buy. you shall even learn the great art of writing, and learn the magic of a charmed phrase. all these things which make the life of rich people happy shall be yours; and they _shall cost you nothing_. what the heart of man can desire shall be yours, _and for nothing_. i will give you a house to shelter you, and rooms in which to play; you have only to find the rest. enter in, my friends; forget the squalid past; here are great halls and lovely corridors--they are yours. fill them with sweet echoes of dropping music; let the walls be covered with your works of art; let the girls laugh and the boys be happy within these walls. i give you the shell, the empty carcass; fill it with the spirit of content and happiness." would they, to begin with, "behave according"? it was easy to bring together half a dozen dressmakers: girls always like behaving nicely; would the young men be equally amenable? and would the policeman be inevitable, as in the corridors of a theatre? the police, however, would have to be voluntary, like every other part of the institution, and the guardians of the peace must, like the performers in the entertainments, give their services for nothing. for which end, harry suggested, it would be highly proper to have a professor of the noble art of self-defence, with others of fencing, single-stick, quarter-staff, and other kindred objects. chapter xix. dick the radical. in the early days of winter, the walls of the palace being now already well above the hoarding, angela made another important convert. this was no other than dick coppin, the cousin of whom mention has been already made. "i will bring him to your drawing-room," said harry. "that is, if he will come. he does not know much about drawing-rooms, but he is a great man at the stepney advanced club. he is a reddest of red-hot rads, and the most advanced of republicans. i do not think he would himself go a-murdering of kings and priests, but i fancy he regards these things as accidents naturally rising out of a pardonable enthusiasm. his manners are better than you will generally find, because he belongs to my own gentle craft. you shall tame him, miss kennedy." angela said she would try. "he shall learn to waltz," harry went on. "this will convert him from a fierce republican to a merely enthusiastic radical. then he shall learn to sing in parts; this will drop him down into advanced liberalism. and if you can persuade him to attend your evenings, talk with the girls, or engage in some art, say painting, he will become, quite naturally, a mere conservative." with some difficulty harry persuaded his cousin to come with him. dick coppin was not, he said of himself, a dangler after girls' apron-strings, having something else to think of; nor was he attracted by the promise, held out by his cousin, of music and singing. but he came under protest, because music seemed to him an idle thing while the house of lords remained undestroyed, and because this cousin of his could somehow make him do pretty nearly what he pleased. he was a man of harry's own age; a short man, with somewhat rough and rugged features--strong, and not without the beauty of strength. his forehead was broad; he had thick eyebrows, the thick lips of one who speaks much in public, and a straight chin--the chin of obstinacy. his eyes were bright and full; his hair was black; his face was oval; his expression was masterful; it was altogether the face of a man who interested one. angela thought of his brother, the captain in the salvation army; this man, she felt, had all the courage of the other, with more common-sense; yet one who, too, might become a fanatic--who might be dangerous if he took the wrong side. she shook hands with him and welcomed him. then she said that she wanted dancing men for her evenings, and hoped that he could dance. it was the first time in his life that mr. coppin had been asked that question, and also the first time that he had thought it possible that any man in his senses, except a sailor, should be expected to dance. of course he could not, and said so bluntly, sticking his thumbs in his waistcoat pockets, which is a gesture peculiar to the trade, if you care to notice so small a fact. "your cousin," said angela, "will teach you. mr. goslett, please give mr. coppin a lesson in a quadrille. nelly, you will be his partner. now, if you will make up the set, i will play." an elderly bishop of calvinistic principles could not have been more astonished than was this young workman. he had not the presence of mind to refuse. before he realized his position, he was standing beside his partner: in front of him stood his cousin, also with a partner; four girls made up the set. then the music began, and he was dragged, pushed, hustled, and pulled this way and that. he would have resented this treatment but that the girls took such pains to set him right, and evidently regarded the lesson as one of the greatest importance. nor did they cease until he had discerned what the mathematician called the law of the quadrille, and could tread the measure with some approach to accuracy. "we shall not be satisfied, mr. coppin," said angela, when the quadrille was finished, "until we have taught everybody to dance." "what is the good of dancing?" he asked good-humoredly, but a good deal humiliated by the struggle. "dancing is graceful; dancing is a good exercise; dancing should be natural to young people; dancing is delightful. see--i will play a waltz; now watch the girls." she played. instantly the girls caught each other by the waist and whirled round the room with brightened eyes and parted lips. harry took nelly in the close embrace which accompanies the german dance, and swiftly, easily, gracefully, danced round and round the room. "is it not happiness that you are witnessing, mr. coppin?" asked angela. "tell me, did you ever see dressmakers happy before? you, too, shall learn to waltz. i will teach you, but not to-night." then they left off dancing and sat down, talking and laughing. harry took his violin and discoursed sweet music, to which they listened or not as they listed. only the girl who was lame looked on with rapt and eager face. "see her!" said angela, pointing her out. "she has found what her soul was ignorantly desiring. she has found music. tell me, mr. coppin, if it were not for the music and this room, what would that poor child be?" he made no reply. never before had he witnessed, never had he suspected, such an evening. there were the girls whom he despised, who laughed and jested with the lads in the street, who talked loud and were foolish. why, they were changed! what did it mean? and who was this young woman, who looked and spoke as no other woman he had ever met, yet was only a dressmaker? "i have heard of you, mr. coppin," this young person said, in her queen-like manner, "and i am glad that you have come. we shall expect you, now, every saturday evening. i hear that you are a political student." "i am a republican," he replied. "that's about what i am." again he stuck his thumbs into his waistcoat pockets. "yes. you do not perhaps quite understand what it is that we are doing here, do you? in a small way--it is quite a little thing--it may interest even a political student like yourself. the interests of milliners and dressmakers are very small compared with the house of lords. still--your sisters and cousins----" "it seems pleasant," he replied, "if you don't all get set up with high notions. as for me, i am for root-and-branch reform." "yes: but all improvement in government means improvement of the people, does it not? else, i see no reason for trying to improve a government." he made no reply. he was so much accustomed to the vague denunciations and cheap rhetoric of his class that a small practical point was strange to him. "now," said angela, "i asked your cousin to bring you here, because i learn that you are a man of great mental activity, and likely, if you are properly directed, to be of great use to us." he stared again. who was this dressmaker who spoke about directing him? the same uncomfortable feeling came over him--a cold doubt about himself, which he often felt when in the society of his cousin. no man likes to feel that he is not perfectly and entirely right, and that he must be right. "we are a society," she went on, "of girls who want to work for ourselves; we all of us belong to your class: we therefore look to you for sympathy and assistance. yet you hold aloof from us. we have had some support here already, but none from the people who ought most to sympathize with us. that is, i suppose, because you know nothing about us. very well, then. while your cousin is amusing those girls, i will tell you about our association." * * * * * * * "now you understand, mr. coppin. you men have long since organized yourselves--it is our turn now; and we look to you for help. we are not going to work any longer for a master: we are not going to work long hours any longer; and we are going to get time every day for fresh air, exercise, and amusement. you are continually occupied, i believe, at your club, denouncing the pleasures of the rich. but we are actually going to enjoy all those pleasures ourselves, and they will cost us nothing. look round this room--we have a piano lent to us: there is your cousin with his fiddle, and captain sorensen with his; we are learning part-songs, which cost us three-halfpence each; we dance; we play; we read--a subscription to smith's is only three guineas a year; we have games which are cheap: the whole expense of our evenings is the fire in winter and the gas. on saturday evenings we have some cake and lemonade, which one of the girls makes for us. what can rich people have more than society, lights, music, singing, and dancing?" he was silent, wondering at this thing. "don't you see, mr. coppin, that if we are successful we shall be the cause of many more such associations? don't you see, that if we could get our principle established, we should accomplish a greater revolution than the overthrow of the lords and the church, and one far more beneficial?" "you can't succeed," he said. "it's been tried before." "yes--by men: i know it. and it has always broken down because the leaders were false to their principles and betrayed the cause." "where are the girls to get the money to start with?" "we are fortunate," angela replied. "we have this house and furniture given to us by a lady interested in us. that, i own, is a great thing. but other rich people will be found to do as much. why, how much better it is than leaving money to hospitals!" "rich people!" he echoed with contempt. "yes: rich people, of whom you know so little, mr. coppin, that i think you ought to be very careful how you speak of them. but think of us--look at the girls. do they not look happier than they used to look?" he replied untruthfully, because he was not going to give in to a woman, all of a sudden, that he did not remember how they used to look, but that undoubtedly they now looked very well. he did not say--which he felt--that they were behaving more quietly and modestly than he had ever known them to behave. "you," angela went on, with a little emphasis on the pronoun, which made her speech a delicate flattery--"you, mr. coppin, cannot fail to observe how the evening's relaxation helps to raise the whole tone of the girls. the music which they hear sinks into their hearts and lifts them above the little cares of their lives; the dancing makes them merry; the social life, the talk among ourselves, the books they read, all help to maintain a pure and elevated tone of thought. i declare, mr. coppin, i no longer know these girls. and then they bring their friends, and so their influence spreads. they will not, i hope, remain in the workrooms all their lives. a woman should be married; do not you think so, mr. coppin?" he was too much astonished at the whole conversation to make any coherent reply. "i think you have perhaps turned your attention too much to politics, have you not? yet practical questions ought to interest you." "they say, at the club," he answered, "that this place is a sham and a humbug." "will you bring your friends here to show them that it is not?" "harry stood up for you the other night. he's plucky, and they like him for all he looks a swell." "does he speak at your club?" "sometimes--not to say speak. he gets up after the speech, and says so and so is wrong. yet they like him--because he isn't afraid to say what he thinks. they call him gentleman jack." "i thought he was a brave man," said angela, looking at harry, who was rehearsing some story to the delight of nelly and the girls. "yes--the other night they were talking about you, and one said one thing and one said another, and a chap said he thought he'd seen you in a west end music-hall, and he didn't believe you were any better than you should be." "oh!" she shrank as if she had been struck some blow. "he didn't say it twice. after he'd knocked him down, harry invited that chap to stand up and have it out. but he wouldn't." it was a great misfortune for harry that he lost the soft and glowing look of gratitude and admiration which was quite wasted upon him. for he was at the very point, the critical point, of the story. angela had made another convert. when dick coppin went home that night, he was humbled but pensive. here was a thing of which he had never thought; and here was a woman the like of whom he had never imagined. the house of lords, the church, the land laws, presented no attraction that night for his thoughts. for the first time in his life he felt the influence of a woman. chapter xx. down on their luck. engaged in these pursuits, neither angela nor harry paid much heed to the circle at the boarding-house, where they were still nominally boarders. for angela was all day long at her association, and her general assistant, or prime-minister, after a hasty breakfast, hastened to his daily labor. he found that he was left entirely to his own devices: work came in which he did or left undone, miss messenger's instructions were faithfully carried out, and his independence was respected. during work-time he planned amusements and surprises for miss kennedy and her girls, or he meditated upon the monotony of man, a subject which i may possibly explain later on; or when he knocked off, he would go and see the drayman roll about the heavy casks as if they were footballs; or he would watch the machinery and look at the great brown mass of boiling hops, or he would drop suddenly upon his cousin josephus, and observe him faithfully entering names, ticking off and comparing, just as he had done for forty years, still a junior clerk. but he gave no thought to the boarders. one evening, however, in late september, he happened to look in toward nine o'clock, the hour when the frugal supper was generally spread. the usual occupants of the room were there, but there was no supper on the table, and the landlady was absent. harry stood in the doorway, with his hands in his pockets, carelessly looking at the group. suddenly he became aware, with a curious sinking of heart, that something was gone wrong with all of them. they were all silent, all sitting bolt upright, no one taking the least notice of his neighbor, and all apparently in some physical pain. the illustrious pair were in their usual places, but his lordship, instead of looking sleepy and sleepily content, as was his custom at the evening hour, sat bolt upright and thrummed the arm of his chair with his fingers, restless and ill at ease; opposite to him sat his consort, her hands tightly clasped, her bright beady eyes gleaming with impatience, which might at any moment break out into wrath. yet the case was completely drawn up, as harry knew, because he had finished it himself, and it only remained to make a clean copy before it was "sent in" to the lord chancellor. as for the professor, he was seated at the window, his legs curled under the chair, looking moodily across stepney green--into space, and neglecting his experiments. his generally cheerful face wore an anxious expression as if he was thinking of something unpleasant, which would force itself upon his attention. josephus was in his corner, without his pipe, and more than usually melancholy. his sadness always, however, increased in the evening, so that he hardly counted. daniel, frowning like a rhine baron of the good old time, had his books before him, but they were closed. it was a bad sign that even the version in the hebrew had no attraction for him. mr. maliphant alone was smiling. his smiles, in such an assemblage of melancholy faces, produced an incongruous effect. the atmosphere was charged with gloom--it was funereal: in the midst of it the gay and cheerful countenance, albeit wrinkled, of the old man, beamed like the sun impertinently shining amid fog and rain, sleet and snow. the thing was absurd. harry felt the force of miss kennedy's remark that the occupants of the room reminded her of a fortuitous concourse of flies, or ants, or rooks, or people in an omnibus, each of whom was profoundly occupied with its own affairs and careless of its neighbors. out of six in the room, five were unhappy: they did not ask for, or expect, the sympathies of their neighbors; they did not reveal their anxieties; they sat and suffered in silence; the sixth alone was quite cheerful: it was nothing to him what experiences the rest were having, whether they were enjoying the upper airs, or enduring hardness. he sat in his own place near the professor: he laughed aloud; he even talked and told stories, to which no one listened. when harry appeared, he was just ending a story which he had never begun: "so it was given to the other fellow. and he came from baxter street, close to the city hall, which is generally allowed to be the wickedest street in new york city." he paused a little, laughed cheerfully, rubbed his dry old hands together, smoked his pipe in silence, and then concluded his story, having filled up the middle in his own mind, without speech. "and so he took to the coasting trade off the andes." harry caught the eye of the professor, and beckoned him to come outside. "now," he said, taking his arm, "what the devil is the matter with all of you?" the professor smiled feebly under the gas-lamp in the street, and instantly relapsed into his anxious expression. "i suppose," he said, "that is, i guess, because they haven't told me, that it's the same with them as with me." "and that is----?" the professor slapped his empty pockets: "want of cash," he said. "i'm used to it in the autumn, just before the engagements begin. bless you! it's nothing to me; though, when you've had no dinner for a week, you do begin to feel as if you could murder and roast a cat, if no one was looking. i've even begun to wish that the eighth commandment was suspended during the autumn." "do you mean, man, that you are all hungry?" "all except old maliphant, and he doesn't count. josephus had some dinner, but he says he can't afford supper and dinner too at the rate his heels wear out. yes, i don't suppose there's been a dinner apiece among us for the last week." "good heavens!" harry hurried off to find the landlady. she was in the kitchen sitting before the fire, though it was a warm night. she looked up when her lodger entered, and harry observed that she, too, wore an air of dejection. "well, mrs. bormalack." she groaned and wiped away a tear. "my heart bleeds for them, mr. goslett," she said. "i can't bear to set eyes on them; i can't face them. because to do what i should like to do for them, would be nothing short of ruin. and how to send them away i cannot tell." he nodded his head encouragingly. "you are a young man, mr. goslett, and you don't consider--and you are thinking day and night of that sweet young thing, miss kennedy. and she of you. oh! you needn't blush; a handsome fellow like you is a prize for any woman, however good-looking. besides, i've got eyes." "still, that doesn't help us much to the point, mrs. bormalack, which is, what can we do for them?" "oh, dear me! the poor things don't board and lodge any more, mr. goslett. they've had no board to-day. if i did what i should like to do--but i can't. there's the rent and rates and all. and how i can keep them in the house, unless they pay their rent, i can't tell. i've never been so miserable since captain saffrey went away, owing for three months." "not enough to eat?" "lady davenant came to me this morning, and paid the rent for this week, but _not the board_; said that her nephew nathaniel hadn't sent the six dollars, and they could only have breakfast, and must find some cheap place for dinner somewhere else. in the middle of the day they went out. her ladyship put quite a chirpy face upon it; said they were going into the city to get dinner, but his lordship groaned. dinner! they came home at two, and his groans have been heart-rending all the afternoon. i never heard such groaning." "poor old man!" "and there's the professor, too. it's low water with him. no one wants conjuring till winter comes. but he's quite used to go without his dinner. you needn't mind him!" "eels," said harry, "are used to being skinned. yet they wriggle a bit." he produced a few coins and proffered a certain request to the landlady. then he returned to his fellow-lodgers. presently there was heard in the direction of the kitchen a cheerful hissing, followed by a perfectly divine fragrance. daniel closed his eyes, and leaned back in his chair. the professor smiled. his lordship rolled in his chair and groaned. presently mrs. bormalack appeared, and the cloth was laid. his lordship showed signs of an increasing agitation. the fragrance increased. he leaned forward clutching the arm of his chair, looking to his wife as if for help and guidance at this most difficult crisis. he was frightfully hungry; all his dinner had been a biscuit and a half, his wife having taken the other half. what is a biscuit and a half to one accustomed to the flesh-pots of canaan city? "clara martha," he groaned, trying to whisper, but failing in his agitation, "i must have some of that beefsteak or i shall----" here he relapsed into silence again. it was not from a desire to watch the sufferings of the unlucky peer, or in order to laugh at them, that harry hesitated to invite him. now, however, he hesitated no longer. "i am giving a little supper to-night, lady davenant, to--to--celebrate my birthday. may i hope that you and his lordship will join us?" her ladyship most affably accepted. well, they were fed; they made up for the meagreness of the midday meal by such a supper as should be chronicled, so large, so generous was it. such a supper, said the professor, as should carry a man along for a week, were it not for the foolish habit of getting hungry twice at least in the four-and-twenty hours. after supper they all became cheerful, and presently went to bed as happy as if there were no to-morrow, and the next day's dinner was assured. when they were gone, harry began to smoke his evening pipe. then he became aware of the presence of the two who were left--his cousin josephus and old mr. maliphant. the former was sitting in gloomy silence, and the latter was making as if he would say something, but thought better of it, and smiled instead. "josephus," said harry, "what the devil makes you so gloomy? you can't be hungry still?" "no," he replied. "it isn't that; a junior clerk fifty-five years old has no right to get hungry." "what is it, then?" "they talk of changes in the office, that is all. some of the juniors will be promoted; not me, of course, and some will have to go. after forty years in the brewery, i shall have to go. that's all." "seems rough, doesn't it? can't you borrow a handful of malt, and set up a little brewery for yourself?" "it is only starvation. after all, it doesn't matter--nobody cares what happens to a junior clerk. there are plenty more. and the workhouse is said to be well managed. perhaps they will let me keep their accounts." "when do you think--the--the reduction will be made?" "next month, they say." "come, cheer up, old man," said his cousin. "why, if they do turn you out--which would be a burning shame--you can find something better." "no," replied josephus sadly, "i know my place. i am a junior clerk. they can be got to do my work at seven bob a week. ah! in thousands." "well, but can't you do anything else?" "nothing else." "in all these years, man, have you learned nothing at all?" "nothing at all." is there, thought harry, gazing upon his luckless cousin, a condition more miserable than that of the cheap clerk? in early life he learns to spell, to read, to write, and perhaps keep books, but this only if he is ambitious. here his education ends; he has no desire to learn anything more; he falls into whatever place he can get, and then he begins a life in which there is no hope of preferment and no endeavor after better things. there are, in every civilized country, thousands and thousands of these helpless and hopeless creatures: they mostly suffer in silence, being at the best ill-fed and ill-paid, but they sometimes utter a feeble moan, when one of them can be found with vitality enough about their pay and prospects. no one has yet told them the honest truth--that they are already paid as much as they deserve; that their miserable accomplishments cannot for a moment be compared with the skill of an artisan; that they are self-condemned because they make no effort. they have not even the energy to make a union; they have not the sense of self-protection; they are content if they are not hungry, if they have tobacco to smoke and beer to drink. "how long is it since you--did--whatever it was you did, that kept you down?" asked the younger man, at length. "i did nothing. it was an accident. unless," added josephus with a smile--"unless it was the devil. but devils don't care to meddle with junior clerks." "what was the accident, then?" "it was one day in june; i remember the day quite well. i was alone in my office, the same office as i am in still. the others, younger than myself, and i was then twenty-one, were gone off on business. the safe stood close to my desk. there was a bundle of papers in it sealed up, and marked 'mr. messenger, private,' which had been there a goodish while, so that i supposed they were not important: some of the books were there as well, and mr. messenger himself had sent down, only an hour before ... before.... it happened, a packet of notes to be paid into the bank. the money had been brought in by our country collectors--fourteen thousand pounds, in country bank-notes. now remember, i was sitting at the desk and the safe was locked, and the keys were in the desk, and no one was in the office except me. and i will swear that the notes were in the safe. i told mr. messenger that i would take my oath to it, and i would still." josephus grew almost animated as he approached the important point in his history. "well?" "things being so--remember, no one but me in the office, and the keys----" "i remember. get along." "i was sent for." "by mr. messenger?" "mr. messenger didn't send for junior clerks. he used to send for the heads of departments, who sent for the chief clerks, who ordered the juniors. that was the way in those days. no, i was sent for to the chief clerk's office and given a packet of letters for copying. that took three minutes. when i came back the office was still empty, the safe was locked, and the keys in my desk." "well?" "well--but the safe was empty!" "what! all the money gone?" "all gone, every farthing--with mr. messenger's private papers." "what a strange thing!" "no one saw anybody going into the office or coming out. nothing else was taken." "come--with fourteen thousand pounds in his hand, no reasonable thief would ask for more." "and what is more extraordinary still, not one of those notes has ever since been presented for payment." "and then, i suppose, there was a row." josephus assented. "first, i was to be sacked at once; then i was to be watched and searched; next, i was to be kept on until the notes were presented and the thief caught. i have been kept on, the notes have not been presented; and i've had the same pay, neither more nor less, all the time. that's all the story. now, there's to be an end of that. i'm to be sent away." mr. maliphant had not been listening to the story at all, being pleasantly occupied with his own reminiscences. at this point one of them made him laugh and rub his hands. "when mr. messenger's father married susannah coppin, i have heard----" here he stopped. "halloo!" cried harry. "go on, venerable. why, we are cousins or nephews, or something, of miss messenger. josephus, my boy, cheer up!" mr. maliphant's memory now jumped over two generations, and he went on: "caroline coppin married a sergeant in the army, and a handsome lad--i forget his name. but mary coppin married bunker. the coppins were a good old whitechapel stock, as good as the messengers. as for bunker, he was an upstart, he was; and came from barking, as i always understood." then he was once more silent. chapter xxi. lady davenant. it was a frequent custom with lady davenant to sit with the girls in the workroom in the morning. she liked to have a place where she could talk; she took an ex-professional interest in their occupation; she had the eye of an artist for their interpretation of the fashion. moreover, it pleased her to be in the company of miss kennedy, who was essentially a woman's woman. men who are so unhappy as to have married a man's woman will understand perfectly what i mean. on the morning after harry's most providential birthday, therefore, when she appeared no one was in the least disturbed. but to-day she did not greet the girls with her accustomed stately inclination of the head which implied that, although now a peeress, she had been brought up to their profession and in a republican school of thought, and did not set herself up above her neighbors. yet respect to rank should be conceded, and was expected. in general, too, she was talkative, and enlivened the tedium of work with many an anecdote illustrating canaan city and its ways, or showing the lethargic manners of the davenants, both her husband and his, to say nothing of the grandfather, contented with the lowly occupation of a wheelwright while he might have soared to the british house of lords. this morning, however, she sat down and was silent, and her head drooped. angela, who sat next her and watched, presently observed that a tear formed in her eye, and dropped upon her work, and that her lips moved as if she was holding a conversation with herself. thereupon she arose, put her hand upon the poor lady's arm, and drew her away without a word to the solitude of the dining-room, where her ladyship gave way and burst into an agony of sobbing. angela stood before her, saying nothing. it was best to let the fit have its way. when the crying was nearly over, she laid her hand upon her hair and gently smoothed it. "poor dear lady," she said, "will you tell me what has happened?" "everything," she gasped. "oh, everything! the six months are all gone, all but one. nephew nathaniel writes to say that, as we haven't even made a start all this time, he reckons we don't count to make any; and he's got children, and as for business, it's got down to the hard pan, and dollars are skurce, and we may come back again right away, and there's the money for the voyage home whenever we like, but no more." "oh!" said angela, beginning to understand. "and ... and your husband?" "there's where the real trouble begins. i wouldn't mind for myself, money or no money. i would write to the queen for money. i would go to the workhouse. i would beg my bread in the street, but the case i would never give up--never--never--never." she clasped her hands, dried her eyes, and sat bolt upright, the picture of unyielding determination. "and your husband is not, perhaps, so resolute as yourself?" "he says, 'clara martha, let us go hum. as for the title, i would sell it to nephew nathaniel, who's the next heir, for a week of square meals; he should have the coronet, if i'd got it, for a month's certainty of steaks and chops and huckleberry pie; and as for my seat in the house of lords, he should have it for our old cottage in canaan city, which is sold, and the school which i have given up and lost.' he says: 'pack the box, clara martha--there isn't much to pack--and we will go at once. if the american minister won't take up the case for us, i guess that the case may slide till nathaniel takes it up for himself.' that is what he says, miss kennedy. those were his words. oh! oh! oh! mr. feeblemind! oh! mr. facing-both-ways!" she wrung her hands in despair, for it seemed as if her husband would be proof against even the scorn and contempt of these epithets. "but what do you mean to do?" "i shall stay," she replied. "and so shall he, if my name is lady davenant. do you think i am going back to canaan city to be scorned at by aurelia tucker? do you think i shall let that poor old man, who has his good side, miss kennedy--and as for virtue he is an angel, and he knows not the taste of tobacco or whiskey--face his nephew, and have to say what good he has done with all those dollars? no, here we stay." she snapped her lips, and made as if she would take root upon that very chair. "shall he part with his birthright like esau, because he is hungry? never! the curse of esau would rest upon us. "he's at home now," she went on, "preparing for another day without dinner; groans won't help him now; and this time there will be no supper--unless mr. goslett has another birthday." "why! good gracious, you will be starved." "better starve than to go home as we came. besides, i shall write to the queen when there's nothing left. when nathaniel's money comes, which may be to-morrow, and may be next month, i shall give a month's rent to mrs. bormalack, and save the rest for one meal a day. yes, as long as the money lasts, he shall eat meat--once a day--at noon. he's been pampered, like all the canaan city folk; set up with turkey roast and turkey boiled, and ducks and beef every day, and buckwheat cakes and such. oh! a change of diet would bring down his luxury and increase his pride." angela thought that starvation was a new way of developing pride of birth, but she did not say so. "is there no way," she asked, "in which he can earn money?" she shook her head. "as a teacher he was generally allowed to be learned, but sleepy. in our city, however, the boys and girls didn't expect too much, and it's a sleepy place. in winter they sit round the stove and they go to sleep; in summer they sit in the shade and they go to sleep. it's the sleepiest place in the states. no, there's no kind o' way in which he can earn any money. and if there were, did you ever hear of a british peer working for his daily bread?" "but you, lady davenant? surely your ladyship would not mind--if the chance offered--if it were a thing kept secret--if not even your husband knew--would not object to earning something every week to find that square meal which your husband so naturally desires?" her ladyship held out her hands without a word. angela, in shameful contempt of political economy, placed in them the work which she had in her own, and whispered: "you had better," she said, "take a week in advance. then you can arrange with mrs. bormalack for the usual meals on the old terms; and if you would rather come here to work, you can have this room to yourself all the morning. thank you, lady davenant. the obligation is entirely mine, you know. for, really, more delicate work, more beautiful work, i never saw. do all american ladies work so beautifully?" her ladyship, quite overcome with these honeyed words, took the work and made no reply. "only one thing, dear lady davenant," angela went on, smiling: "you must promise me not to work too hard. you know that such work as yours is worth at least twice as much as mine. and then you can push on the case, you know." the little lady rose, and threw her arms round angela's neck. "my dear!" she cried with more tears, "you are everybody's friend. oh! yes, i know. and how you do it and all--i can't think, nor mrs. bormalack neither. but the day may come--it shall come--when we can show our gratitude." she retired, taking the work with her. her husband was asleep as usual, for he had had breakfast, and as yet the regular pangs of noon were not active. the case was not spread out before him, as was usual ever since mr. goslett had taken it in hand. it was ostentatiously rolled up, and laid on the table, as if packed ready for departure by the next mail. his wife regarded him with a mixture of affection and contempt. "he would sell the crown of england," she murmured, "for roast turkey and apple fixin's. the davenants couldn't have been always like that. it must be his mother's blood. yet she was a church-member, and walked consistent." she did not wake him up, but sought out mrs. bormalack, and presently there was a transfer of coins and the resurrection of smiles and _doux parler_, that fairy of sweet speech, who covers and hides beneath the cold wind of poverty. "tell me, mr. goslett," said angela, that evening, still thinking over the sad lot of the claimants, "tell me: you have examined the claim of these people--what chance have they?" "i should say none whatever." "then what makes them so confident of success?" "hush! listen. they are really confident. his noble lordship perfectly understands the weakness of his claim, which depends upon a pure assumption, as you shall hear. as for the little lady, his wife, she has long since jumped to the conclusion that the assumption requires no proof. therefore, save in moments of dejection, she is pretty confident. then they are hopelessly ignorant of how they should proceed and of the necessary delays, even if their case was unanswerable. they thought they had only to cross the ocean and send in a statement in order to get admitted to the rank and privilege of the peerage. and i believe they think that the queen will, in some mysterious way, restore the property to them." "poor things!" "yes, it's rather sad to think of such magnificent expectations. besides, it really is a most beautiful case. the last lord davenant had one son. that only son grew up, had some quarrel with his father, and sailed from the port of bristol, bound for some american port, i forget which. neither he nor his ship was ever heard of again. therefore the title became extinct." "well?" "very good. now the story begins. his name was timothy clitheroe davenant, the name always given to the eldest son of the family. now, our friend's name is timothy clitheroe davenant, and so was his father's, and so was his grandfather's." "that is very strange." "it is very strange--what is stranger still is, that his grandfather was born, according to the date on his tomb, the same year as the lost heir, and at the same place--davenant, where was the family-seat." "can there have been two of the same name born in the same place and in the same year?" "it seems improbable, almost impossible. moreover, the last lord had no brother, nor had his father, the second lord. i found that out at the heralds' college. consequently, even if there was another branch, and the birth of two timothys in the same year was certain, they would not get the title. so that their one hope is to be able to prove what they call the 'connection.' that is to say, the identity of the lost heir with this wheelwright." "that seems a very doubtful thing to do, after all these years." "it is absolutely impossible, unless some documents are discovered which prove it. but nothing remains of the wheelwright." "no book? no papers?" "nothing, except a small book of songs, supposed to be convivial, with his name on the inside cover, written in a sprawling hand, and misspelt, with two v's--'davvenant,' and above the name, in the same hand, the day of the week in which it was written, 'satturday,' with two t's. no christian name." "does it not seem as if the absence of the christian name would point to the assumption of the title?" "yes: they do not know this, and i have not yet told them. it is, however, a very small point, and quite insufficient in itself to establish anything." "yes," angela mused. she was thinking whether something could not be done to help these poor people and settle the case decisively for them one way or the other. "what is to be the end of it?" harry shrugged his shoulders. "who knows how long they can go on? when there are no more dollars, they must go home again. i hear they have got another supply of money: mrs. bormalack has been paid for a fortnight in advance. after that is gone--perhaps they had better go too." "it seems a pity," said angela, slightly reddening at mention of the money, "that some researches could not be made, so as to throw a little light upon this strange coincidence of names." "we should want to know first what to look for. after that, we should have to find a man to conduct the search. and then we should have to pay him." "as for the man, there is the professor; as for the place, first, there is the heralds' college, and secondly, there are the parish registers of the village of davenant; and as for the money, why, it would not cost much, and i believe something might be advanced for them. if you and i, mr. goslett, between us, were to pay the professor's expenses, would he go about for us?" she seemed to assume that he was quite ready to join her in giving his money for this object. yet harry was now living, having refused his guardian's proffered allowance, on his pay by the piece, which gave him, as already stated, tenpence for every working hour. "what would the professor cost?" she asked. "the professor is down upon his luck," said harry. "he is so hard up at present that i believe we would get it for nothing but his expenses. eighteen shillings a week would buy him outright until his engagements begin again. if there were any travelling expenses, of course that would be extra. but the village of davenant is not a great way off. it is situated in essex, and essex is now a suburb of london, its original name having been east-end-seaxas, which is not generally known." "very well," she replied gravely. "that would be only nine shillings apiece, say eleven hours of extra work for you; and probably it would not last long, more than a week or two. will you give two hours a day to his lordship?" harry made a wry face, and laughed. this young person had begun by turning him into a journeyman cabinet-maker, and was now making him work extra time. what next? "am i not your slave, miss kennedy?" "o mr. goslett, i thought there was to be no more nonsense of that kind! you know it can lead to nothing--even if you desired that it should." "even? miss kennedy, can't you see----" "no--i can see nothing--i will hear nothing. do not--o mr. goslett--we have been--we are--such excellent friends. you have been so great a help to me: i look to you for so much more. do not spoil all; do not seek for what you could never be: pray, pray, do not!" she spoke with so much earnestness; her eyes were filled with such a frankness; she laid her hand upon his arm with so charming _camaraderie_, that he could not choose but obey. "it is truly wonderful," he said, thinking, for the thousandth time, how this pearl among women came to stepney green. "what is wonderful?" she blushed as she asked. "you know what i mean. let us both be frank. you command me not to say the thing i most desire to say. very good, i will be content to wait, but under one promise----" "what is that?" "if the reason or reasons which command my silence should ever be removed--mind, i do not seek to know what they are--you will yourself----" "what?" she asked, blushing sweetly. "you will yourself--tell me so." she recovered her composure and gave him her hand. "if at any time i can listen to you, i will tell you so. does that content you?" certainly not, but there was no more to be got; therefore harry was fain to be contented whether he would or not. and this was only one of a hundred little skirmishes in which he endeavored to capture an advanced fort or prepared to lay the siege in form. and always he was routed with heavy loss. "and now," she went on, "we will get back to our professor." "yes. i am to work two extra hours a day that he may go about in the luxury of eighteen shillings a week. this it is to be one of the horny-handed. what is the professor to do first?" "let us," she said, "find him and secure his services." it has been seen that the professor was already come to the period of waist-tightening, which naturally follows a too continued succession of banyan-days. he listened with avidity to any proposition which held forth a prospect of food. the work, he said, only partly understanding it, would be difficult, but, therefore, the more to be desired. common conjurers, he said, would spoil such a case. as for himself, he would undertake to do just whatever they wanted with the register, whether it was the substitution of a page or the tearing out of a page, under the very eyes of the parish clerk. "there must be," he said, "a patter suitable to the occasion. i will manage that for you. i'm afraid i can't make up as i ought for the part, because it would cost too much, but we must do without that. and now, miss kennedy, what is it exactly that you want me to do?" he was disappointed on learning that there would be no "palming" of leaves, old or new, among the registers; nothing, in fact, but a simple journey, and a simple examination of the books. and though, as he confessed, he had as yet no experience in the art of falsifying parish registers, where science was concerned its interests were above those of mere morality. chapter xxii. daniel fagg. what would have happened if certain things had not happened? this is a question which is seldom set on examination papers, on account of the great scope it offers to the imaginative faculty, and we all know how dangerous a thing it is to develop this side of the human mind. many a severe historian has been spoiled by developing his imagination. but for this, scott might have been another alison and thackeray a mill. in this stepney business the appearance of angela certainly worked changes at once remarkable and impossible to be dissociated from her name. thus, but for her, the unfortunate claimants must have been driven back to their own country like baffled invaders "rolling sullenly over the frontier." nelly would have spent her whole life in the sadness of short rations and long hours, with hopeless prayers for days of fatness. rebekah and the improvers and the dressmakers and the apprentices would have endured the like hardness. harry would have left the joyless city to its joylessness, and returned to the regions whose skies are all sunshine--to the young and fortunate--and its pavements all of gold. and there would have been no palace of delight. and what would have become of daniel fagg, one hardly likes to think. the unlucky daniel had, indeed, fallen upon very evil days. there seemed to be no longer a single man left whom he could ask for a subscription to his book. he had used them all up. he had sent begging letters to every fellow of every scientific society; he had levied contributions upon every secretary; he had attacked in person every official at the museums of great russell street and south kensington; he had tried all the publishers; he had written to every bishop, nobleman, clergyman, and philanthropist of whom he could hear, pressing upon them the claims of his great discovery. now he could do no more. the subscriptions he had received for publishing his book were spent in necessary food and lodgings: nobody at the museum would even see him; he got no more answers to his letters: starvation stared him in the face. for three days he had lived upon ninepence. threepence a day for food. think of that, ye who are fed regularly, and fed well. threepence, to satisfy all the cravings of an excellent appetite! there was now no more money left. and in two days more the week's rent would be due. on the morning when he came forth, hungry and miserable, without even the penny for a loaf, it happened that angela was standing at her upper window, on the other side of the green, and, fortunately for the unlucky scholar that she saw him. his strange behavior made her watch him. first he looked up and down the street in uncertainty; then, as if he had business which could not be delayed a moment, he turned to the right and marched straight away toward the mile end road. this was because he thought he would go to the head of the egyptian department at the british museum and borrow five shillings. then he stopped suddenly: this was because he remembered that he would have to send in his name, and that the chief would certainly refuse to see him. then he turned slowly and walked, dragging his limbs and hanging his head in the opposite direction--because he was resolved to make for the london docks, and drop accidentally into the sluggish green water, the first drop of which kills almost as certainly as a glass of bourbon whiskey. then he thought that there would be some luxury in sitting down for a few moments to think comfortably over his approaching demise, and of the noise it would make in the learned world, and how remorseful and ashamed the scholars--especially he of the egyptian department--would feel for the short balance of their sin-laden days, and he took a seat on a bench in the green-garden with this view. as he thought he leaned forward, staring into vacancy, and in his face there grew so dark an expression of despair and terror that angela shuddered and ran for her hat, recollecting that she had heard of his poverty and disappointments. "i am afraid you are not well, mr. fagg." he started and looked up. in imagination he was already lying dead at the bottom of the green-water, and before his troubled mind there were floating confused images of his former life, now past and dead and gone. he saw himself in his australian cottage arriving at his grand discovery; he was lecturing about it on a platform; he was standing on the deck of a ship, drinking farewell nobblers with an enthusiastic crowd; and he was wandering hungry, neglected, despised, about the stony streets of london. "well? no: i am not well," he replied presently, understanding things a little. "is it distress of mind or of body, mr. fagg?" "yesterday it was both; to-night it will be both; just now it is only one." "which one?" "mind," he replied fiercely, refusing to acknowledge that he was starving. he threw his hat back, dashed his subscription book to the ground, and banged the unoffending bench with his fists. "as for mind," he went on, "it's a pity i was born with any. i wish i'd had no more mind than my neighbors. it's mind, and nothing else, that has brought me to this." "what is this, mr. fagg?" "nothing to you. go your ways; you are young; you have yet your hopes, which may come to nothing, same as mine; even though they are not, like mine, hopes of glory and learning. there's mr. goslett in love with you; what is mind to you? nothing. and you in love with him. very likely he'll go off with another woman, and then you'll find out what it is to be disappointed. what is mind to anybody? nothing. do they care for it in the museum? no. does the head of the egyptian department care for it? not he; not a bit. it's a cruel and a selfish country." "o mr. fagg!" she disregarded his allusion to herself, though it was sufficiently downright. "yes: but i will be revenged. i will do something--yes--something that shall tell all australia how i have been wronged; the colony of victoria shall ring with my story. it shall sap their loyalty; they shall grow discontented; they will import more irishmen; there shall be separation. yes: my friends shall demand reparation in revenge for my treatment." "it is christian to forgive, mr. fagg." "i will forgive when i have had my revenge. no one shall say i am vindictive. ah!"--he heaved a profound sigh. "they gave me a dinner before i came away; they drank my health; they all told me of the reception i should get, and the glory that awaited me. look at me now. not one penny in my pocket. not one man who believes in the discovery. therefore i may truly say that it is better to be born without a brain." "this is your subscription-book, i believe." she took and turned over its pages. "come, mr. fagg, you have come to the fifty-first copy of the book. fifty-one copies ordered beforehand does not look like disbelief. may i add my name? that will make fifty-two. twelve shillings and sixpence, i see. oh, i shall look forward with the greatest interest to the appearance of the book, i assure you. yet you must not expect of a dressmaker much knowledge of hebrew, mr. fagg. you great scholars must be contented with the simple admiration of ignorant work-girls." he was too far gone in misery to be easily soothed, but he began to wish he had not said that cruel thing about possible desertion by her lover. "admiration!" he echoed with a hollow groan. "and yesterday nothing to eat further than threepence, and the day before the same, and the day before that. in australia, when i was in the shoemaking line, there was always plenty to eat. starvation, i suppose, goes to the brain. and is the cause of suicide, too. i know a beautiful place in the london docks, where the water's green with minerals. i shall go there." he pushed his hands deeper into his pockets, while his bushy eyebrows frowned so horribly that two children who were playing in the walk screamed with terror and fled without stopping. "that water poisons a man directly." "come, mr. fagg," said angela, "we allow something for the superior activity of great minds. but we must not talk of despair, when there should be nothing beyond a little despondency." he shook his head. "too much reading has probably disordered your digestion, mr. fagg. you want rest and society, with sympathy--a woman's sympathy. scholars, perhaps, are sometimes jealous." "reading has emptied my purse," he said. "sympathy won't fill it." "i do not know--sympathy is a wonderful medicine sometimes; it works miracles. i think, mr. fagg, you had better let me pay my subscription in advance--you can give me the change when you please." she placed a sovereign in his hand. his fingers clutched it greedily. then his conscience smote him--her kind words, her flattery, touched his heart. "i cannot take it," he said. "mr. goslett warned me not to take your money. besides (he gasped, and pointed to the subscription list)--fifty-one names! they've all paid their money for printing the book. i've eaten up all the money, and i shall eat up yours as well. take the sovereign back--i can starve. when i am dead i would rather be remembered for my discovery than for a shameful devourer of subscription money." she took him by the arm, and led him unresisting to the establishment. "we must look after you, mr. fagg," she said. "now i have got a beautiful room, where no one sits all day long except sometimes a crippled girl, and sometimes myself. in the evening the girls have it. you may bring your books there, if you like, and sit there to work when you please. and by the way"--she added this as if it were a matter of the very least consequence, hardly worth mentioning--"if you would like to join us any day at dinner (we take our simple meals at one), the girls, no doubt, will all think it a great honor to have so distinguished a scholar at table with them." mr. fagg blushed with pleasure. why--if the british museum treated him with contumely; if nobody would subscribe to his book; if he was weary of asking and being refused--here was a haven of refuge, where he would receive some of the honor due to a scholar. "and now that you are here, mr. fagg"--said angela, when she had broken bread and given thanks--"you shall tell me all about your discovery. because, you see, we are so ignorant, we girls of the working classes, that i do not exactly know what is your discovery." he sat down and asked for a piece of paper. with this assistance he began his exposition. "i was drawn to my investigation," he said solemnly, "by a little old book about the wisdom of the ancients; that is now five years ago, and i was then fifty-five years of age. no time to be lost (says i to myself) if anything is to be done. the more i read and the more i thought--i was in the shoemaking trade and i'm not ashamed to own it; for it's a fine business for such as are born with a head for thinking--the more i thought, i say, the more i was puzzled. for there seemed to me no way possible of reconciling what the scholars said." "you have not told me the subject of your research yet." "antiquity," he replied grandly. "all antiquity was the subject of my research. first, i read about the egyptians and the hieroglyphics; then i got hold of a new book, all about the assyrians and the cuniform character." "i see," said angela. "you were attracted by the ancient inscriptions?" "naturally. without inscriptions where are you? the scholars said this, and the scholars said that--they talked of reading the egyptian language and the assyrian and the median and what not. that wouldn't do for me." the audacity of the little man excited angela's curiosity, which had been languid. "pray go on," she said. "the scholars have the same books to go to as me, yet they don't go--they've eyes as good, but they won't use them. now follow me, miss, and you'll be surprised. when abraham went down into egypt, did he understand their language, or didn't he?" "why, i suppose--at least, it is not said that he did not." "of course he did. when joseph went there, did he understand them? of course he did. when jacob and his sons came into the country, did they talk a strange speech? not they. when solomon married an egyptian princess, did he understand her talk? why, of course he did. now, do you guess what's coming next?" "no--not at all." "none of the scholars could. listen, then: if they all understood each other, they must all have talked the same language--mustn't they?" "why, it would seem so." "it's a sound argument, which can't be denied. nobody can deny it--i defy them. if they understood each other there must have been a common language. where did this common language spread? over all the countries thereabout. what was the common language? hebrew." "oh," said angela, "then they all talked hebrew?" "every man jack--nothing else known. what next? they wanted to write it. now we find what seems to be one character in egypt, and another in syria, and another in arabia, and another in phoenicia, and another in judæa. bless you! i know all about these alphabets. what i say is--if a common language, then a common alphabet to write it with." "i see. a common alphabet, which you discovered, perhaps?" "that, young lady, is my discovery--that is the greatest discovery of the age. i found it myself, once a small shoemaker in a little victorian township--i alone found out that common alphabet, and have come over here to make it known. not bad, says you, for a shoemaker, who had to teach himself his own hebrew." "and the scholars here----" "they're jealous--that's what it is; they're jealous. most of them have written books to prove other things, and they won't give in and own that they've been wrong. my word! the scholars----" he paused and shook his hand before her face. "some of them have got the hebrew alphabet, and try to make out how one letter is a house and another a bull's head. and so on. and some have got the cuneiforms, and they make out that one bundle of arrows is an a and another a b. and so on. and some have got the hieroglyphic, and it's the same game with all. while i--if you please--with my little plain discovery just show that all the different alphabets--different to outward seeming--are really one and the same." "this is very interesting," said angela. the little man was glowing with enthusiasm and pride. he was transformed; he walked up and down throwing about his arms; he stood before her looking almost tall; his eyes flashed with fire, and his voice was strong. "and can you read inscriptions by your simple alphabet?" "there is not," he replied, "a single inscription in the british museum that i can't read. i just sit down before it, with my hebrew dictionary in my hand--i didn't tell you i learned hebrew on purpose, did i?--and i read that inscription, however long it is. ah!" "this seems extraordinary. can you show me your alphabet?" he sat down and began to make figures. "what is the simplest figure? a circle; a square; a naught? no. a triangle. very good, then. do you think they were such fools as to copy a great ugly bull's head when they'd got a triangle ready to their hands, and easy to draw? not they: they just made a triangle--so--" [he drew an equilateral triangle on its base], "and called it the first letter; and two triangles, one atop the other--so--and called that the second letter. then they struck their triangle in another position, and it was the third letter; and in another, and its fourth----" angela felt as if her head was swimming as he manipulated his triangles, and rapidly produced his primitive alphabet, which really did present some resemblance to the modern symbols. "there--and there--and there--and what is that; and this? and so you've got the whole. now, young lady, with this in your hand, which is the key to all learning--and the hebrew dictionary, there's nothing you can't manage." "and an account of this is to be given in your book, is it?" "that is the secret of my book. now you know what it was i found out; now you see why my friends paid my passage home, and are now looking for the glory which they prophesied." "don't get gloomy again, mr. fagg. it is a long lane, you know, that has no turning. let us hope for better luck." "no one will ever know," he went on, "the inscriptions that i have found--and read--in the museum. they don't know what they've got. i've told nobody yet, but they are all in the book, and i'll tell you beforehand, miss kennedy, because you've been kind to me. yes, a woman is best; i ought to have gone to the woman first. i would marry you, miss kennedy--i would indeed; but--i am too old, and besides, i don't think i could afford a family." "i thank you, mr. fagg, all the same. you do me a great honor. but about these inscriptions?" "mind, it's a secret." he lowered his voice to a whisper. "there's cuniform inscriptions in the museum with david and jonathan on them--ah!--and balaam and balak--aho!"--he positively chuckled over the thought of these great finds--"and the whole life of jezebel--jezebel! what do you think of that? and what else do you think they have got, only they don't know it? the two tables of stone! nothing short of the two tables, with the ten commandments written out at length!" angela gazed with amazement at this admirable man: his faith in himself; his audacity; the grandeur of his conceptions; the wonderful power of his imagination overwhelmed her. but, to be sure, she had never before met a genuine enthusiast. "i know where they are kept; nobody else knows. it is in a dark corner; they are each about two feet high, and there's a hole in the corner of each for moses' thumb to hold them by. think of that! i've read them all through--only," he added with a look of bewilderment, "i think there must be something wrong with my hebrew dictionary, because none of the commandments read quite right. one or two come out quite surprising. yet the stones must be right, mustn't they? there can be no question about that, and the discovery must be right. no question about that. and as for the dictionaries--who put them together? tell me that! yah! the scholars!" chapter xxiii. the missing link. the professor then started on his quest with a cheerful heart, caused by the certainty of dinner for some days to come. but he was an honest professor, and he did not prolong his absence for the sake of those dinners. on the other hand, he made the most rapid dispatch consistent with thorough work, and returned after an absence of four days, bearing with him the fruits of his research. "i think," said harry, after reading his report, "i think, miss kennedy, that we have found the missing link." "then they really will make their claim good?" "i did not say that--quite. i said that we have found a missing link. there might be, if you will think of it--two. one of them would have connected the condescending wheelwright with his supposed parent, the last lord davenant. the other would connect him with--quite another father." the truth, which was for some time carefully concealed from the illustrious pair, was, in fact, this. there is a village of davenant, surrounding or adjoining a castle of davenant, just as alnwick, arundel, durham, lancaster, chepstow, ragland, and a great many more english towns have a castle near them. and whether davenant town was built to be protected by the castle, or the castle for the protection of the town, is a point on which i must refer you to the county historian, who knows all about it, and is not likely to deceive you on so important a point. the castle is now a picturesque ruin, with a country-house built beside it. in this country-house the last lord davenant died and the last heir to the title was born. there is an excellent old church, with a tower and ivy, and high-pitched roof, as an ancient church should have, and in the family vault under the chancel all the davenants, except the last heir, lie buried. there is also in the village a small country inn called the davenant arms, where the professor put up and where he made himself extraordinarily popular, because, finding himself among an assemblage of folk slow to see and slower still to think, he astonished them for four nights consecutively. the rustics still tell, and will continue to tell, so long as memory lasts, of the wonderful man who took their money out of their waistcoats, exchanged handkerchiefs, conveyed potatoes into strange coat-pockets, read their thoughts, picked out the cards they had chosen, made them take a card he had chosen whether they wanted it or not, caused balls of glass to vanish, changed halfpence into half-crowns, had a loaded pistol fired at himself and caught the ball, with other great marvels, all for nothing, to oblige and astonish the villagers, and for the good of the house. these are the recreations of his evening hours. the mornings he spent in the vestry of the old church searching the registers. there was nothing professional about it, only the drudgery of clerk's work; to do it at all was almost beneath his dignity; yet he went through with it conscientiously, and restrained himself from inviting the sexton, who stayed with him, to lend him his handkerchief or to choose a card. nor did he even hide a card in the sexton's pocket, and then convey it into the parish register. nothing of the sort. he was sternly practical, and searched diligently. nevertheless, he noted how excellent a place for the simple feasts would be the reading-desk. the fact is, that gentlemen of his profession never go to church, and, therefore, are ignorant of the uses of its various parts. on sunday morning they lie in bed; on sunday afternoon they have dinner, and perhaps the day's paper, and on sunday evening they gather at a certain house of call for conjurers in drury lane, and practise on each other. there is, therefore, no room in the conjurer's life for church. some remedy should be found for this by the bishops. "what have i got to look for?" said the professor, as the sexton produced the old books. "well, i've got to find what families there were living here a hundred years ago, or thereabouts, named davenant, and what christian names they had, and whether there were two children born and baptized here in one year, both bearing the name of davenant." the sexton shook his head. he was only a middle-aged man, and therefore not yet arrived at sextonial ripeness; for a sexton only begins to be mellow when he is ninety or thereabouts. he knew nothing of the davenants except that there were once lords davenant, now lying in the family vault below the chancel, and none of them left in the parish at all, nor any in his memory, nor in that of his father's before him, so far as he could tell. after a careful examination of the books, the professor was enabled to state with confidence that at the time in question the davenant name was borne by none but the family at the castle; that there were no cousins of the name in the place; and that the heir born in that year was christened on such a day, and received the name of timothy clitheroe. if this had been the only evidence, the case would have made in favor of the canaan city claimant; but, unfortunately, there was another discovery made by the professor, at sight of which he whistled, and then shook his head, and then considered whether it would not be best to cut out the page, while the sexton thought he was forcing a card, or palming a ball, or boiling an egg, or some other ingenious feat of legerdemain. for he instantly perceived that the fact recorded before his eyes had an all-important bearing upon the case of his illustrious friends. the little story which he saw was, in short, this: in the same year of the birth of the infant timothy clitheroe, there was born of a poor vagrant woman, who wandered no one knew where from, into the parish and died in giving him to the world, a man-child. there was no one to rejoice over him, or to welcome him, or to claim him: therefore he became parish property, and had to be christened, fed, flogged, admonished, and educated, so far as education in those days was considered necessary, at the charge of the parish. the first step was to give him a name. for it was formerly, and may be still, a custom in country parishes to name a waif of this kind after the village itself, which accounts for many odd surnames, such as stepney, marylebone, or hoxton. it was not a good custom, because it might lead to complications, as perhaps it did in this case, when there was already another family legitimately entitled to bear the name. the authorities, following this custom, conferred upon the baby the lordly name of davenant. then, as it was necessary that he should have a christian name, and it would be a pity to waste good richard or robin upon a beggar brat, they gave him the day of the week on which he was born. this was intended to keep him humble, and to remind him that he had no right to any of the distinguished christian names bestowed upon respectably born children. he was called saturday davenant. the name, the date, and the circumstances were briefly recorded in the parish register. in most cases this book contains three entries for each name--those of the three important events in his life; the beginning, the marrying, which is the making or the marring, and the ending. one does not of course count the minor occasions in which he may be mentioned, as on the birth or death of a child. the professor turned over the pages of the register in vain for any farther entry of this saturday davenant. he appeared no more. his one public appearance, as far as history records it, was on that joyful occasion when, held in hireling arms, he was received into the christian church. the one thing to which he was born was his brotherhood in the christian faith--no doubt the grandest of all possessions, yet in itself not professing to provide the material comforts of life. the baby was presented at the font, received a contemptuous name, squealed a little, no doubt, when he felt the cold water, and then--then--nothing more. what he did, whither he went, where he died, might be left to conjecture. a parish brat, a cottage home, bread and bacon to eat, with more bread and bacon, plenty of stick, the church catechism, and particular attention called to the clauses about picking and stealing; practical work as a scarecrow at seven; the plough later on; for pleasures, quarter-staff, wrestling, fighting, bull-baiting and perhaps poaching, with strong beer and small beer for drink; presently a wife, then children, then old age, then death. one was free to conjecture, because there was no more mention of this baby; he did not marry in the parish, nor did he die in it. he, therefore, went away. in those days, if a man went away it was for two reasons: either he fell into trouble and went away, to escape the wrath of the squire; or he enlisted, marched off with beer in his head and ribbons in his hat, swore terribly with the army in flanders, and presently earned the immortal glory which england rejoices to confer upon the private soldier who falls upon the ensanguined field. the enjoyment of this glory is such a solid, substantial, and satisfying thing that fighting and war and the field of honor are, and always will be, greatly beloved and desired by private soldiers. there was no other entry of this boy's name. when the professor had quite satisfied himself upon this point he turned back to the first entry, and then became aware of a note, in faded ink, now barely legible, written in the margin. it was as follows, and he copied it exactly: "ye above sd saturday dnt was a roag in grane; he was bro't up in the fear of god yet feared him not; taught his duty, yet did it not; admonished without stint of rodd in virtue, yet still inclined to vice: he was appd to the wheelwright--was skillful, yet indolent; notorious as a poacher who could not be caught; a deceiver of maidens; a tosspot and a striker. compelled to leave the parish to avoid prison and the lash he went to london, _latronum officina_. was reported to have been sent to his majesty's plantations in virginia, whereof nothing certain is known." this was the note which the professor read and copied out, with misgivings that it would not prove acceptable. of course, he knew the story and quite understood what this might mean. the next day, nothing more remaining to be found in the register, the professor examined the brasses and tablets in the church, and paid a visit to the castle. and when he had faithfully executed his commission, he went away, amid the regrets of the villagers, who had never before been entertained by so delightful and surprising a stranger, and brought back his spoils. "what are we to think," said harry, after reading this report. "'the roag in grane,' this wheelwright by trade, who can he be but the grandfather of our poor old friend?" "i fear it must be so," said angela. "saturday davenant. remember the little book." "yes," said harry, "the little book came into my mind at once." "not a doubt," added the professor. "why, it stands to reason. the fellow found himself a long way from england, among strangers, with no money and only his trade. what was to prevent him from pretending to be one of the family whose name he bore?" "and at the same time," said harry, "with reserve. he never seems to have asserted that he was the son of lord davenant: he only threw out ambiguous words; he fired the imagination of his son; he christened him by the name of the lost heir; he pretended that it was his own christian name, and it was not until they found out that this was the hereditary name that the claim was thought of. this poacher and striker seems to have possessed considerable native talent." "but what," asked angela, "are we to do?" "let us do nothing, miss kennedy. we have our secret, and we may keep it for the present. meantime, the case is hopeless on account of the absolute impossibility of connecting the wheelwright with the man supposed to have been drowned. let them go on 'enjoying' the title, ignorant of the existence of this unlucky saturday davenant." so, for the present, the thing was hidden away, and nothing was said about it. and though about this time the professor gave one or two entertainments in the drawing-room, we cannot suppose that his silence was bought, and it would be unjust to the noble profession of which he was a member to think that he would let out the secret had not miss kennedy paid him for their performance. indeed, the professor was an extremely honorable man, and would have scorned to betray confidence, and it was good to miss kennedy to find out that an evening of magic and miracle would do the girls good. but a profound pity seized the heart of angela. these poor people who believed themselves to be entitled to an english peerage, who were so mistaken, who would be so disappointed, who were so ignorant, who knew so little what it was they claimed--could not something be done to lessen their disappointment, to break their fall? she pondered long over this difficulty. that they would in the end have to return to their own country was a thing about which there could be no doubt whatever; that they should return with no knowledge whatever of the reality of the thing they had claimed; what it meant, what it involved, its splendors and its obligations, seemed to her a very great pity. a little experience, she thought even a glimpse of the life led by the best bred and most highly cultivated and richest people in england would be of so much advantage to them that it would show them their own unfitness for the rank which they assumed and claimed. and presently she arrived at a project which she put into execution without delay. what this was you will presently see. chapter xxiv. lord jocelyn's troubles. as the season advanced and the autumn deepened into winter, angela found that there were certain social duties which it was impossible altogether to escape. the fiction of the country-house was good enough for the general world, but for her more intimate friends and cousins this would not do for long. therefore, while she kept the facts of her present occupation and place of residence a secret from all except constance woodcote, now the unsympathizing, she could not wholly shut herself off from the old circle. among others there was one lady whose invitations she was in a sense bound to accept. what her obligations were, and who this lady was, belong in no way to this history--that is to say, the explanation belongs to angela's simple chronicle of the old days, when she was only miss messenger, the heiress presumptive of the great brewery. therefore, it need not concern us. suffice it to say that she was a lady in society, and that she gave great dinners, and held other gatherings, and was at all times properly awake to the attractions which the young and beautiful and wealthy angela messenger lent to her receptions. on this occasion constance woodcote, among others, was invited to meet her old friend; she came, but she was ungracious, and angela felt, more than she had expected, how great already was the gulf between the old days of newnham and her life of active, practical work. six months before such coldness would have hurt and pained her; now she hardly felt it. yet constance meant to demonstrate by a becoming frost of manner how grievous was her disappointment about those scholarships. then there were half a dozen men--unmarried men, men in society, men of clubs, men who felt strongly that the possession of miss messenger's millions might reconcile them to matrimony, and were much interested by the possibility of an introduction to her, and came away disappointed because they got nothing out of her, not even an encouragement to talk; and everybody said that she was singularly cold, _distraite_, and even embarrassed that evening; and those who had heard that miss messenger was a young lady of great conversational powers went away cynically supposing that any young lady with less than half her money could achieve the same reputation at the same cost of energy. the reason of this coldness, this preoccupation, was as follows. the dinner-party was large, and the conversation by no means general. so far as angela was concerned, it was held entirely with the man who took her down, and his name was lord jocelyn le breton--a rugged-faced man, with a pleasing manner and an agreeable voice; no longer young. he talked to her a good deal in a light, irresponsible vein, as if it mattered very little what he said so that it amused the young lady. he discoursed about many things, principally about dinners, asking angela what were her own views as to dinners, and expostulating with her feminine contempt for the subject. "each dinner," he said, "should be like a separate and distinct work of art, and should be contrived for different kinds of wine. there should be a champagne dinner, for instance, light, and composed of many dishes, but some of these substantial; there should be a claret dinner, grave and conscientious; a burgundy dinner of few courses, and those solid; a german wine dinner, in which only the simplest _plates_ should appear. but unto harmony and consistency in dining we have not yet arrived. perhaps, miss messenger, you may be induced to bring your intellect to bear upon the subject. i hear you took high honors at newnham lately." she laughed. "you do too much honor to my intellect, lord jocelyn. at newnham they teach us political economy, but they have not trusted us with the art of dining. do you know, we positively did not care much what we had for dinner!" "my ward, harry, used to say--but i forget if you ever met him." "i think not. what is his name?" "well, he used to bear my name, and everybody knew him as harry le breton; but he had no right to it, because he was no relation of mine, and so he gave it up and took his own." "oh!" angela felt profoundly uninterested in mr. harry le breton. "yes. and now you never will meet him. for he is gone." lord jocelyn uttered these words in so sepulchral a tone that angela gave them greater significance than they deserved. "i am very sorry," she said. "no, miss messenger, he is not dead. he is only dead to society. he has gone out of the world; he has returned to--in fact, his native rank in life." angela reddened. what could he mean? "you interest me, lord jocelyn? do you say that your ward has voluntarily given up society, and--and--everything?" she thought of herself for the moment, and also, but vaguely, of harry goslett. for although she knew that this young man had refused some kind of offer which included idleness, she had never connected him in her mind quite with her own rank and station. how could she? he was only a cabinet-maker, whose resemblance to a gentleman she had learned to accept without any further wonder. "he gave up everything; he laughed over it--he took a header into the mob, just as if he was going to enjoy the plunge. but did you not hear of it? everybody talked about it--the story got into the society journals, and people blamed me for telling him the truth." "i have not been in london much this year, therefore i heard nothing," said angela. just then the dinner came to an end. "will you tell me more about your ward, lord jocelyn?" she asked as she left him. his words had raised in her mind a vague and uncertain anxiety. half an hour later he came to her side. the room by this time was all full, and angela was surrounded. but she made room for lord jocelyn, and presently the others dropped away and they could talk. a young lady began, too, a long and very brilliant piece of music, under cover of which everybody could talk. "do you really want to hear my trouble about harry?" he asked. "you look a very sympathetic young lady, and perhaps you will feel for me. you see i brought him up in ignorance of his father, whom he always imagined to be a gentleman, whereas he was only a sergeant in a line regiment. what is it, miss messenger?" for she became suddenly white in the cheek. could there be two harrys, sons of sergeants, who had taken this downward plunge? mere wonderful than a pair of timothy clitheroes. "it is nothing, lord jocelyn. pray go on. your adopted son, then----" "i had always resolved to tell him all about his people when he was twenty-three. who would have thought, however, that he would take it as he did?" "you forget that you have not told me what he did do. if i am to sympathize you must tell me all." "as far as the world knows, he went away on leave, so to speak. perhaps it is only on leave, after all. but it is a long leave, and it looks more like desertion." "you are mysterious, lord jocelyn." "are you curious, miss messenger?" "say i am sympathetic. tell me as much as you can about your ward." lord jocelyn looked in his listener's face. yes; there was sympathy in it and interest, both, as phrenologists say, largely developed. "then i will explain to you, miss messenger, how the boy did this most remarkable and unexpected thing." he paused a moment, considering. "imagine a boy whom i had taken away from his own people at three, or thereabouts, so that he should never know anything of them at all, or dream about them, or yearn, you know, or anything of that kind--an orphan, too, with nothing but an uncle bunker--it is inconceivable!" "but we do not get on," said angela, in great impatience; yet relieved to find from the reference to her worthy friend, bunker, that there was only one harry. "what is inconceivable?" "i am coming to that. i gave the boy the best education i could get for him; he was so eager and apt that he taught himself more than he could be taught; if he saw anybody doing a thing well, he was never satisfied till he could do it as well himself--not better, mark you! a cad might have wanted to do it better; a gentleman is content to do it as well as any--any other gentleman. there is hardly anything he could not do; there was nobody who did not love him; he was a favorite in society; he had hosts of friends; nobody cared who was his father: what did that matter? as i put it to him, i said, 'look at so-and-so and so-and-so, who are their fathers? who cares? who asks?' yet when he learned the truth, he broke away, gave up all, and went back to his own relations--to whitechapel!" angela blushed again, and her lip trembled a little. than she said softly: "to whitechapel! that is very interesting to me. because, lord jocelyn, i belong to whitechapel myself." "do you?" she might as well have said that she belonged to seven dials. in fact, much better, because in his young days, his corinthian days, lord jocelyn had often repaired to seven dials to see noble sportsmen _chez_ ben caunt, and rat-killing, and cock-fighting, and many other beautiful forms of sport. "do you really? do you belong to that remarkable part of london?" "certainly. my grandfather--did you know him?" lord jocelyn shook his head. "he had the brewery, you know, messenger, marsden & company, in whitechapel. he was born there, and always called himself a whitechapel man. he seemed to be proud of it, so that in common filial respect i, too, should be proud of it. i am, in fact, a whitechapel granddaughter." "but that does not seem to help my unlucky harry." "it gives one a little more sympathy, perhaps," she said. "and that is, you know, so very useful a possession." "yes," but he did not seem to recognize its usefulness as regards his ward. "well, he went to whitechapel with a light heart. he would look round him, make the acquaintance of his own people, then he would come back again, and we would go on just as usual. at least he did not exactly say this, but i understood him so. because it seemed impossible that a man who had once lived in society, among ourselves, and formed one of us, could ever dream of living down there." angela laughed. from her superior knowledge of "down there," she laughed. "he went away and i was left without him, for the first time for twenty years. it was pretty dull. he said he would give the thing a trial; he wrote to me that he was trying it; that it was not so bad as it seemed, and yet he talked as if the experiment would be a short one. i left him there. i went away for a cruise in the mediterranean; when i came home he returned to me." "he did return, then?" "yes, he came back one evening, a good deal changed. i should not have thought it possible for a boy to change so much in so short a time. he wasn't ill-fed; he hadn't suffered any privation, apparently; but he was changed: he was more thoughtful; his smile and his laugh were not so ready. poor boy!" lord jocelyn sighed heavily. angela's sympathy grew deeper, for he evidently loved the "boy." "what had he done, then?" "he came to say farewell to me; he thanked me, for you know what a good honest lad would say; and he told me that he had an offer made to him of an unexpected nature which he had determined to accept. you see, he is a clever fellow with his fingers; he can play and paint and carve, and do all sorts of things. and among his various arts and accomplishments he knows how to turn a lathe, and so he has become a joiner or a cabinet-maker, and he told me that he has got an appointment in some great factory or works or something, as a cabinet-maker in ordinary." "what is his name?" "harry goslett." "goslett, goslett!" here she blushed again, and once more made play with the fan. "has he got a relation, a certain mr. bunker?" "why--yes--i told you, an uncle bunker." "then i remember the name. and, lord jocelyn, i hope you will be grateful to me, because i have been the humble means of procuring him this distinguished post. mr. bunker, in fact, was, or conceived that he had been, useful to my grandfather, and was said to be disappointed at getting nothing by the will. therefore i endeavored to make some return by taking his nephew into the house. that is all." "and a great deal more than enough, because, miss messenger, you have all out of your kindness done a great mischief, for if you had not employed him i am quite certain no one else would. then he would have to come back to me. send him away. do send him away. do send him away, miss messenger. there are lots of cabinet-makers to be had. then he will come back to society, and i will present him to you, and he shall thank you." she smiled and shook her head. "people are never sent away from the brewery so long as they behave properly. but it is strange indeed, that your ward should voluntarily surrender all the advantages of life and social position for the hard work and poor pay of an artisan. was it--was it affection for his cousins?" she blushed deeply as she put this question. "strange, indeed. when he came to me the other night, he told me a long story about men being all alike in every rank of life. i have noticed much the same thing in the army; of course he did not have the impudence to say that women are all alike; and he talked a quantity of prodigious nonsense about living among his own people. presently, however, i got out of him the real truth." "what was that?" "he confessed that he was in love." "with a young lady of whitechapel? this does great credit to the excellent education you gave him, lord jocelyn." she blushed for the fourth or fifth time, and he wondered why, and she held her fan before her face. "but, perhaps," she added, "you are wrong, and women of all ranks, like men, are the same." "perhaps i ought not to have told you this, miss messenger. now you will despise him. yet he had the impudence to say that she was a lady--positively a lady--this whitechapel dressmaker." "a dressmaker!--oh!" she threw into her voice a little of that icy coldness with which ladies are expected to receive this kind of announcement. "ah! now you care no more about him. i might have known that your sympathy would cease directly you heard all. he went into raptures over this young milliner. she is beautiful as the day; she is graceful, accomplished, well-bred, well-mannered, a queen----" "no doubt," said angela, still frozen. "but really, lord jocelyn, as it is mr. goslett, the cabinet-maker, and not you, who is in love with this paragon, we may be spared her praises." "and, which is more remarkable still, she won't have anything to say to him." "that is indeed remarkable. but perhaps as she is the queen of dressmakers, she is looking for the king of cabinet-makers." "no doubt," said lord jocelyn; "i think the music is coming to an end. however, miss messenger, one favor." "a dozen, lord jocelyn, if i can grant them." "he refuses to take any help from me; he lives on work paid for at the rate of tenpence an hour. if you will not send away--then--oh, then----" "quick, lord jocelyn, what is it?" "tax the resources of the brewery. put on the odd twopence. it is the gift of the samaritan--make it a shilling an hour." "i will, lord jocelyn--hush! the music is just over, and i hope that the dressmaker will relent, and there will be a wedding in stepney church, and that they will be happy ever after. o brave and loyal lover! he gives up all, all"--she looked round the room, the room filled with guests, and her great eyes became limpid, and her voice fell to a murmur--"for love, for love. do you think, lord jocelyn, that the dressmaker will continue to be obdurate? but perhaps she does not know, or cannot suspect, what he has thrown away--for her sake--happy dressmaker!" "i think," said lord jocelyn afterward, "that if harry had seen miss messenger before he saw his dressmaker we shouldn't have heard so much about the beautiful life of a working-man. why the devil couldn't i wait? this girl is a helen of troy, and harry should have written his name paris and carried her off, by gad! before menelaus or any other fellow got hold of her. what a woman! what a match it would have been!" chapter xxv. an invitation. very shortly after the fatal discovery made by the professor, lord davenant received the outside recognition, so to speak, of his rank. it is true that no one within a mile of stepney green--that is, anywhere between aldgate pump and bow church--would have had the hardihood to express a doubt on the validity of a claim which conferred a lustre upon the neighborhood; yet even lord davenant, not remarkable for quickness of perception, was sharp enough to know that recognition at stepney is not altogether the same thing as recognition at westminster. he was now once more tolerably comfortable in his mind. the agonies of composition were over, thanks to his young friend's assistance; the labor of transcription was finished; he felt, in looking at the bundle of papers, all the dignity of successful authorship; the case, in fact, was now complete and ready for presentation to the queen, or to any one, lord chancellor, prime minister, lord chamberlain, or american minister, who would undertake and faithfully promise to lay it before her majesty. for his own part, brought up in the belief that the british lion habitually puts his heroic tail between his legs when the name of america is mentioned, he thought that the minister of the states was the proper person to present his case. further, the days of fatness were come again. clara martha, in some secret way only known to herself, was again in command of money; once more bacon and tea, and bread and butter, if not coffee, cream, and buckwheat cakes, with maple syrup and hot compone--delicacies of his native land--were spread upon the board at eight in the morning; and again the succulent steak of stepney, yielding to none, not even to him of fleet street, appeared at stroke of one; and the noble lord could put up his feet and rest the long and peaceful morning through, unreproached by his consort. therefore he felt no desire for any change, but would have been quite content to go on for ever enjoying his title among this simple folk, and careless about the splendors of his rank. how clara martha got the money he did not inquire. we, who know, may express our fears that here was another glaring violation of political economy, and that the weekly honorarium received every saturday by lady davenant was by no means adequately accounted for by her weekly work. still her style was very fine, and there were no more delicate workers in the association than the little peeress with the narrow shoulders and the bright eyes. not one word, mark you, spoken of saturday davenant--that "roag in grane" and the professor as respectful as if his lordship had sat through thirty years of deliberation in the upper house, and mr. goslett humbly deferential to her ladyship, and in secret confidential and familiar, even rollicking, with my lord, and miss kennedy respectfully thoughtful for their welfare. this serenity was troubled and dissipated by the arrival of a letter addressed to lady davenant. she received it--a simple letter on ordinary notepaper--with surprise, and opened it with some suspicion. her experience of letters was not of late happy, inasmuch as her recent correspondence had been chiefly with american friends, who reminded her how they had all along told her that it was no good expecting that the davenant claim would be listened to, and now she saw for herself, and had better come home again and live among the plain folk of canaan, and praise the lord for making her husband an american citizen; with much more to the same effect, and cruel words from nephew nathaniel, who had no ambition, and would have sold his heirship to the coronet for a few dollars. she looked first at the signature, and turned pale, for it was from the mysterious young lady, almost divine in the eyes of stepney, because she was so rich, miss messenger. "lord!" cried mrs. bormalack. "do read it quick." her ladyship read it through very slowly, much too slowly for her landlady's impatience. her pale cheeks flushed with pride and joy when she comprehended what the letter meant; she drew herself up straight, and her shoulders became so sloping that the uneasy feeling about her clothes, already alluded to, once more passed through mrs. bormalack's sympathetic mind. "it will be a change, indeed, for us," she murmured, looking at her husband. "change?" cried the landlady. "what change?" asked his lordship. "clara martha, i do not want any change; i am comfortable here. i am treated with respect, the place is quiet; i do not want to change." he was a heavy man and lethargic--change meant some kind of physical activity--he disliked movement. his wife tossed her head with impatience. "oh," she cried, "he would rather sit in his armchair than walk even across the green to get his coronet. shame upon him! oh! carpenter! shh!" his lordship quailed and said no more. that allusion to his father's trade was not intended as a sneer; the slothfulness of his parent it was which the lady hurled at his lordship's head. no one could tell, no living writer is able to depict faithfully, the difficulties encountered and overcome by this resolute woman in urging her husband to action; how she had first to persuade him to declare that he was the heir to the extinct title; how she had next to drag him away from canaan city; how she had to bear with his moanings, lamentations, and terrors, when he found himself actually on board the steamer, and saw the land slowly disappearing, while the great ship rolled beneath his unaccustomed feet, and consequences which he had not foreseen began to follow. these were things of the past, but it had been hard to get him away even from wellclose square, which he found comfortable, making allowance for the disrespectful dane; and now--but it must and should be done. "his lordship," said the little woman, thinking she had perhaps said too much, "is one of them who take root wherever you set them down. he takes after his grandfather, the honorable timothy clitheroe. set himself down in canaan city, and took root at once, never wanted to go away. and the davenants, i am told, never left the village from the day they built their castle there till the last lord died there. in other people, mrs. bormalack, it might be called sloth, but in his lordship's case we can only say that he is quick to take root. that is all, ma'am. and when we move him, it is like tearing him up by the roots." "it is," said his lordship, clinging to the arms of the chair; "it is." the letter was as follows, and lady davenant read it aloud: "dear lady davenant: i have quite recently learned that you and lord davenant are staying at a house on stepney green which happens to be my property. otherwise, perhaps, i might have remained in ignorance of this most interesting circumstance. i have also learned that you have crossed the atlantic for the purpose of presenting a claim to the davenant title, which was long supposed to be extinct, and i hasten to convey to you my most sincere wishes for your success. "i am at this moment precluded from doing myself the pleasure of calling upon you, for reasons with which i will not trouble you. i hope, however, to be allowed to do so before very long. meantime, i take the liberty of offering you the hospitality of my own house in portman square, if you will honor me by accepting it, as your place of residence during your stay in london. you will perhaps find portman square a central place, and more convenient for you than stepney green, which, though it possesses undoubted advantages in healthful air and freedom from london fog, is yet not altogether a desirable place of residence for a lady of your rank. "i am aware that in addressing you without the ceremony of an introduction, i am taking what may seem to you a liberty. i may be pardoned on the ground that i feel so deep an interest in your romantic story, and so much sympathy with your courage in crossing the ocean to prosecute your claim. such claims as these are, you know, jealously regarded and sifted with the greatest care, so that there may be difficulty in establishing a perfectly made-out case, and one which shall satisfy the house of lords as impregnable to any attack. there is, however, such a thing as a moral certainty, and i am well assured that lord davenant would not have left his native country had he not been convinced in his own mind that his cause is a just one, and that his claim is a duty owed to his illustrious ancestors. so that, whether he wins or loses, whether he succeeds or fails, he must in either case command our respect and our sympathy. under these circumstances i trust that i may be forgiven, and that your ladyship will honor my poor house with your presence. i will send, always provided that you accept, my carriage for you on any day that you may appoint. your reply may be directed here, because all letters are forwarded to me, though i am not, at the present moment, residing at my own town-house. "believe me to remain, dear lady davenant, yours very faithfully, "angela marsden messenger." "it is a beautiful letter!" cried mrs. bormalack, "and to think of miss messenger knowing that this house is one of hers! why, she's got hundreds. now, i wonder who could have told her that you were here?" "no doubt," said her ladyship, "she saw it in the papers." "what a providence that you came here! if you had stayed at wellclose square, which is a low place and only fit for foreigners, she never would have heard about you. well, it will be a sad blow losing your ladyship, but of course you must go. you can't refuse such a noble offer; and though i've done my best, i'm sure, to make his lordship comfortable, yet i know that the dinner hasn't always been such as i could wish, though as good as the money would run to. and we can't hope to rival miss messenger, of course, in housekeeping, though i should like to hear what she gives for dinner." "you shall, mrs. bormalack," said her ladyship; "i will send you word myself, and i am sure we are very grateful to you for all your kindness, and especially at times when my husband's nephew, nathaniel, who is not the whole-souled and high-toned man that the heir to a peerage ought to be----" "don't speak of it," interrupted the good landlady, "don't speak of it, your ladyship. it will always be my pride to remember that your ladyship thought i did my little best. but, then, with mutton at eleven-pence ha'penny!" the name of portman square suggested nothing at all to the illustrious pair. it might just as well have been wellclose square. but here was an outside recognition of them; and from a very rich young lady, who perhaps was herself acquainted with some of the members of the upper house. "it is a proper letter," said lady davenant critically; "a letter written in a becoming spirit. there's many things to admire in england, but the best thing is the respect to rank. now, in our own city did they respect his lordship for his family? not a mite. the boys drew pictures of him on the walls with a crown on his head and a sword in his hand." "must we go, clara martha?" his lordship asked in a tremulous voice. "yes, we must go; we must show people that we are ready to assume the dignity of the position. as for my husband, mrs. bormalack"--she looked at him sideways while she addressed the landlady--"there are times when i feel that nothing but noble blood confers real dignity"--his lordship coughed--"real dignity and a determination to have your rights, and behavior according." lord davenant straightened his back and held up his head. but when his wife left him he drooped it again and looked sad. lady davenant took the letter with her to show miss kennedy. "i shall never forget old friends, my dear," she said kindly, when angela had read it through, "never; and your kindness in my distress i could not forget if i tried." the tears stood in her eyes as she spoke. "we are standing now on the very threshold of greatness; this is the first step to recognition; a short time more and my husband will be in his right place among the british peers. as for myself, i don't seem to mind any, miss kennedy. it's for him that i mind. once in his own place, he will show the world what he is capable of. you only think of him as a sleepy old man, who likes to put up his feet and shut his eyes. so he is--so he is. but wait till he gets his own. then you will see. as for eloquence, now, i remember one fourth of july--but of course we were americans then." "indeed, lady davenant, we shall all be rejoiced if you succeed. but do not forget miss messenger's warning. there is a moral success, and there is a legal success. you may have to be contented with the former. but that should be enough for you, and you would then return to your own people with triumph." "aurelia tucker," said her ladyship, smiling gently, "will wish she hadn't taken up the prophesyin' line. i shall forgive her, though envy is indeed a hateful passion. however, we cannot all have illustrious ancestors, though, since our own elevation, there's not a man, woman, or child in canaan city, except the dutchman, who hasn't connected himself with an english family, and the demand for red books and books of the county families is more than you could believe, and they do say that many a british peer will have to tremble for his title." "come," said angela, interrupting these interesting facts, "come, lady davenant. i knew beforehand of this letter, and miss messenger has given me work in anticipation of your visit." she led the little lady to the showroom, and here, laid on chairs, were marvels. for there were dresses in silk and in velvet: dresses of best silk, moire antique, brocaded silk, silk that would stand upright of itself, without the aid of a chair-back, and velvet of the richest, the blackest, and the most costly. there could be no doubt whatever as to the person for whom these dresses had been designed, because nobody else had such narrow and such sloping shoulders. never in her dreams had her ladyship thought it possible that she should wear such dresses. "they are a present from miss messenger," said miss kennedy. "now, if you please, we will go into the trying-on room." then lady davenant discovered that these dresses were trimmed with lace, also of the most beautiful and delicate kind. she had sometimes seen lace during her professional career, but she never possessed any, and the sight of it created a kind of yearning in her heart to have it on, actually on her sleeves and round her neck. when she dressed in her velvet with the lace trimming, she looked a very stately little lady. when angela had hung about her neck a heavy gold chain with a watch and seals; when she had deftly added a touch to her still luxuriant hair, and set in it a small aigrette of brilliants; when she had put on her a pair of gloves and given her a large and beautifully painted fan, there was no nobler-looking lady in the land, for all she was so little. then angela courtesied low and begged her ladyship to examine the dress in the glass. her ladyship surveyed herself with an astonishment and delight impossible to be repressed, although they detracted somewhat from the dignity due to the dress. "o aurelia!" she exclaimed, as if in the joy of her heart she could have wished her friend to share her happiness. then miss kennedy explained to her that the velvet and magnificent silk dresses were for the evening only, while for the morning there were other black silk dresses, with beautiful fur cloaks and things for carriage exercise, and all kinds of things provided, so that she might make a becoming appearance in portman square. "as for his lordship," miss kennedy went on, "steps have been taken to provide him also with garments due to his position. and i think, lady davenant, if i may venture to advise----" "my dear," said her ladyship, simply, "just tell me, right away, what am i to do." "then you are to write to miss messenger and tell her that you will be ready to-morrow morning, and say any kind of thing that occurs to your kind heart. and then you will have undisturbed possession of the big house in portman square, with all its servants, butler, coachman, footmen, and the rest of them at your orders. and i beg--that is, i hope--that you will make use of them. remember that a nobleman's servant expects to be ordered, not asked. drive every day; go to the theatres to amuse yourself--i am sure, after all this time, you want amusement." "we had lectures at canaan city," said her ladyship. "shall we go to lectures?" "n--no. i think there are none. but you should go to concerts, if you like them, and to picture galleries. be seen about a good deal; make people talk about you, and do not press your case before you have been talked about." "do you think i can persuade timothy--i mean, his lordship--to go about with me?" "you will have the carriage, you know; and if he likes he can sleep at the theatre; you have only to take a private box--but be seen and talked about." this seemed very good advice. lady davenant laid it to her heart. then she took off her magnificent velvet and put on the humble stuff again, with a sigh. happily, it was the last day she would wear it. on returning to the boarding-house, she found her husband in great agitation, for he too had been "trying on," and he had been told peremptorily that the whole of the existing wardrobe must be abolished, and changed for a new one which had been provided for him. the good old coat, whose sleeves were so shiny, whose skirts so curly, whose cuffs so worn, must be abandoned; the other things, which long custom had adapted to every projection of his figure, must go too; and, in place of them, the new things which he had just been trying on. "there's a swallow-tail, clara martha, for evening wear. i shall have to change my clothes, they tell me, every evening; and frock-coats to button down the front like a congressman in a statue; and--o clara martha, we are going to have a terrible time!" "courage, my lord," she said. "the end will reward us. only hold up your head, and remember that you are enjoying the title." the evening was rather sad, though the grief of the noble pair at leaving their friends was shared by none but their landlady, who really was attached to the little bird-like woman, so resolute and full of courage. as for the rest, they behaved as members of a happy family are expected to behave--that is to say, they paid no heed whatever to the approaching departure of two out of their number, and josephus leaned his head against the wall, and daniel fagg plunged his hands into his hair, and old mr. maliphant sat in the corner with his pipe in his mouth and narrated bits of stories to himself, and laughed. chapter xxvi. lord davenant's greatness. probably no greater event had ever happened within the memory of stepney green than the arrival of miss messenger's carriage to take away the illustrious pair from the boarding-house. mrs. bormalack felt, with a pang, when she saw the pair of grays, with the coachman and footman on the box, actually standing before her own door, for all to see, as if she had not thoroughly appreciated the honor of having a peer and his consort residing under her roof, and paying every week for board and lodging the moderate sum of--but she could not bear to put it into words. now, however, they were going. his lordship, in his new frock-coat tightly buttoned, stood, looking constrained and stiff, with one hand on the table and the other thrust into his breast, like a certain well-known statue of washington. his wife had instructed him to assume this attitude. with him were daniel fagg, the professor, and harry, the rest of the boarders being engaged in their several occupations. mrs. bormalack was putting the final touches to lady davenant's morning toilet. "if i was a lord," said daniel, "i should become a great patron to discoverers. i would publish their works for them." "i will, mr. fagg, i will," said his lordship; "give me time to look around and see how the dollars come in. because, gentlemen, as clara martha--i mean her ladyship--is not ready yet, there is time for me to explain that i don't quite know what is to happen next, nor where those dollars are to come from, unless it is from the davenant estates. but i don't think, mr. fagg, that we shall forget old friends. a man born to a peerage, that is an accident, or the gift of providence; but to be a hebrew scholar comes from genius. when a man has been a school-teacher for near upon forty years he knows what genius means--and it's skurse, even in amer'ca." "then, my lord," said daniel, producing his note-book, "i may put your lordship's name down for----how many copies?" "wal, mr. fagg, i don't care how many copies you put my name down for, provided you don't ask for payment until the way is clear. i don't suppose they will play it so low on a man as to give him his peerage without a mite of income, even if it has to be raised by a tax on something." "american beef will have to be taxed," said harry. "never fear, my lord, we will pull you through somehow. as miss messenger said, 'moral certainty' is a fine card to play, even if the committee of the house of lords don't recognize the connection." the professor looked guilty, thinking of that "roag in grane," saturday davenant, wheelwright, who went to the american colonies. then her ladyship appeared complete and ready, dressed in her black silk with a fur cloak and a magnificent muff of sable--stately, gracious, and happy. after her, mrs. bormalack, awed. "i am ready, my lord," she said, standing in the doorway. "my friends, we shall not forget those who were hospitable to us, and kind in the days of our adversity. mr. fagg, you may depend upon us. you have his lordship's permission to dedicate your book to his lordship. we shall sometimes speak of your discovery. the world of fashionable london shall hear of your circles." "triangles, my lady," said daniel, bowing. "i beg your pardon, mr. fagg; i ought to have known, and the triangle goes with the fife and the drum in all the militia regiments. professor, if there is any place in portman square where an entertainment can be held, we will remember you. mr. goslett--ah, mr. goslett, we shall miss you very much. often and often has my husband said that, but for your own timely aid, he must have broken down. what can we now do for you, mr. goslett?" nothing could have been more generous than this dispensing of patronage. "nothing," said harry. "but i thank you all the same." "perhaps miss messenger wants a cabinet made?" "no, no," he cried hastily. "i don't want to make cabinets for miss messenger. i mend the office stools for the brewery, and i work--for--for miss kennedy," he added, with a blush. lady davenant nodded her head and laughed. so happy was she that she could even show an interest in something outside the case. "a handsome couple," she said simply. "yes, my dear, go on working for miss kennedy, because she is worth it--and now, my lord. gentlemen, i wish you farewell." she made the most stately, the most dignified obeisance, and turned to leave them; but harry sprang to the front and offered his arm. "permit me, lady davenant." it was extraordinary enough for the coachman to be ordered to stepney green to take up a lord--it was more extraordinary to see that lord's noble lady falling on the neck of an ordinary female in a black stuff gown and an apron--namely, mrs. bormalack; and still more wonderful to see that noble lady led to the carriage by a young gentleman who seemed to belong to the place. "i know him," said james, the footman, presently. "who is he?" "he's mr. le breton, nephew or something of lord jocelyn. i've seen him about; and what he's doing on stepney green the lord only knows." "james," said the coachman. "john," said the footman. "when you don't understand what a young gentleman is a-doin', what does a man of your experience conclude?" "john," said the footman, "you are right as usual; but i didn't see her." there was a little crowd outside, and it was a proud moment for lady davenant when she walked through the lane (which she could have wished a mile long) formed by the spectators, and took her place in the open carriage, beneath the great fur rug. his lordship followed with a look of sadness, or apprehension, rather than triumph. the door was slammed, the footman mounted the box, and the carriage drove off--one boy called "hooray!" and jumped on the curbstone. to him lord davenant took off his hat. another turned catherine-wheels along the road, and lord davenant took off his hat to him, too, with aristocratic impartiality; till the coachman flicked at him with his whip, and then he ran behind the carriage and used language for a quarter of a mile. "timothy," said her ladyship--"would that aurelia tucker were here to see!" he only groaned: how could he tell what sufferings in the shape of physical activity might be before him? when would he be able to put up his feet again? one little disappointment marred the complete joy of the departure: it was strange that miss kennedy, who had taken so much interest in the business--who had herself tried on the dresses--should not have been there to see. it was not kind of her, who was usually so very kind, to be absent on this important occasion. they arrived at portman square a little before one. miss messenger sent them her compliments by her own maid, and hoped they would be perfectly comfortable in her house, which was placed entirely at their disposal; she was only sorry that absence from town would prevent her from personally receiving lady davenant. the spaciousness of the rooms, the splendor of the furniture, the presence of many servants, awed the simple little american woman. she followed her guide, who offered to show them the house and led them into all the rooms, the great and splendidly furnished drawing-room, the dining-room, the morning-room, and the library, without saying a word. her husband walked after her in the deepest dejection, hanging his head and dangling his hands, in forgetfulness of the statuesque attitude. he saw no chance whatever for a place of quiet meditation. presently they came back to the morning-room--it was a pleasant, sunny room; not so large as the great dining-room, nor so gaunt in its furniture, nor was it hung with immense pictures of game and fruit, but with light and bright water-colors. "i should like," said her ladyship, hesitating, because she was a little afraid that her dignity demanded that they should use the biggest room of all--"i should like, if we could, to sit in this room when we are alone." "certainly, my lady." "we are simple people," she went on, trying to make it clear why they liked simplicity; "and accustomed to a plain way of life--so that his lordship does not look for the splendor that belongs to his position." "no, my lady." "therefore, if we may use this room mostly, and--and--keep the drawing-room for when we have company----" she looked timidly at the grave young woman who was to be her maid. "certainly, my lady." "as for his lordship," she went on, "i beg he may be undisturbed in the morning when he sits in the library--he is much occupied in the morning." "yes, my lady." "i think i noticed," said lord davenant, a little more cheerfully, "as we walked through the library, a most beautiful chair." he cleared his throat, but said no more. then they were shown to their own rooms, and told that luncheon would be served immediately. "and i hope, clara martha," said his lordship, when they were alone, "that luncheon in this house means something solid and substantial--fried oysters now, with a beefsteak and tomatoes, and a little green corn in the ear, i should like." "it will be something, my dear, worthy of our rank. i almost regret now that you are a teetotaler--wine, somehow, seems to belong to a title. do you think that you could break your vow and take one glass, or even two, of wine--just to show that you are equal to the position." "no, clara martha," her husband replied with decision. "no--i will not break the pledge--not even for a glass of old bourbon." there were no fried oysters at that day's luncheon, nor any green corn in the ear; but it was the best square meal that his lordship had ever sat down to in his life. yet it was marred by the presence of an imposing footman, who seemed to be watching to see how much an american could eat. this caused his lordship to drop knives and upset glasses, and went very near to mar the enjoyment of the meal. after the luncheon he bethought him of the chair in the library, and retired there. it was indeed a most beautiful chair--low in the seat, broad and deep, not too soft--and there was a footstool. his lordship sat down in this chair, beside a large and cheerful fire, put up his feet, and surveyed the room. books were ranged round all the walls--books from floor to ceiling. there was a large table with many drawers, covered with papers, magazines, and reviews, and provided with ink and pens. the door was shut, and there was no sound save of a passing carriage in the square. "this," said his lordship "seems better than stepney green; i wish nathaniel were here to see me." with these words upon his lips, he fell into a deep slumber. at half-past three his wife came to wake him up. she had ordered the carriage and was ready and eager for another drive along those wonderful streets which she had seen for the first time. she roused him with great difficulty, and persuaded him, not without words of refusal, to come with her. of course she was perfectly wide awake. "this," she cried, once more in the carriage, "this is london, indeed. oh! to think we have wasted months at stepney, thinking that was town. timothy, we must wake up; we have a great deal to see and to learn. look at the shops, look at the carriages. do tell! it's better than boston city. now that we have got the carriage we will go out every day and see something; i've told them to drive past the queen's palace, and to show us where the prince of wales lives. before long we shall go there ourselves, of course, with the rest of the nobility. there's only one thing that troubles me." "what is that, clara martha? you air thinkin', perhaps, that it isn't in nature for them to keep the dinners every day up to the same pitch of elevation?" she repressed her indignation at this unworthy suggestion. "no, timothy; and i hope your lordship will remember that in our position we can afford to despise mere considerations of meat and drink, and wherewithal we shall be clothed." she spoke as if pure christianity was impossible beneath their rank, and, indeed, she had never felt so truly virtuous before. "no, timothy, my trouble is that we want to see everything there is to be seen." "that is so, clara martha. let us sit in this luxurious chaise and see it all. i never get tired o' sittin', and i like to see things." "but we can only see the things that cost nothing or the outside things, because we've got no money." "no money at all?" "none; only seven shillings and three-pence in coppers." this was the dreadful truth. mrs. bormalack had been paid, and the seven shillings was all that remained. "and, oh, there is so much to see! we'd always intended to run round some day, only we were too busy with the case to find the time, and see all the shows we'd heard tell of--the tower of london and westminster abbey, and the monument and mr. spurgeon's tabernacle--but we never thought things were so grand as this. when we get home we will ask for a guidebook of london, and pick out all the things that are open free." that day they drove up and down the streets, gazing at the crowds and the shops. when they got home tea was brought them in the morning-room, and his lordship, who took it for another square meal, requested the loaf to be brought, and did great things with the bread and butter--and having no footman to fear. at half-past seven a bell rang, and presently miss messenger's maid came and whispered that it was the first bell, and would her ladyship go to her own room, and could she be of any help? lady davenant rose at once, looking, however, much surprised. she went to her own room, followed by her husband, too much astonished to ask what the thing meant. there was a beautiful fire in the room, which was very large and luxuriously furnished, and lit with gas burning in soft-colored glass. "nothing could be more delightful," said her ladyship, "and this room is a picture. but i don't understand it." "perhaps it's the custom," said her husband, "for the aristocracy to meditate in their bedrooms." "i don't understand it," she repeated. "the girl said the _first_ bell. what's the second? they can't _mean_ us to go to bed." "they must," said his lordship. "yes, we must go to bed. and there will be no supper to-night. to-morrow, clara martha, you must speak about it, and say we're accustomed to later hours. at nine o'clock or ten we can go with a cheerful heart--after supper. but--well--it looks a soft bed, and i dare say i can sleep in it. you've nothing to say, clara martha, before i shut my eyes. because if you have, get it off your mind, so's not to disturb me afterward." he proceeded to undress in his most leisurely manner, and in ten minutes or so was getting into bed. just as his head fell upon the pillows there was a knock at the door. it was the maid who, came to say that she had forgotten to tell her ladyship that dinner was at eight. "what?" cried the poor lady, startled out of her dignity. "do you mean to say that we've got to have dinner?" "certainly, my lady;" this young person was extremely well behaved, and in presence of her masters and mistresses and superiors knew not the nature of a smile. "my!" her ladyship standing at the door, looked first at the maid without and then at her husband, whose eyes were closed, and who was experiencing the first and balmy influences of sweet sleep. she felt so helpless that she threw away her dignity and cast herself upon the lady's maid. "see now!" she said, "what is your name, my dear?" "campion, my lady." "i suppose you've got a christian name?" "i mean that miss messenger always calls me campion." "well, then, i suppose i must, too. we are simple people, miss campion, and not long from america, where they do things different, and have dinner at half-past twelve and supper at six. and my husband has gone to bed. what is to be done?" that a gentleman should suppose bed possible at eight o'clock in the evening, was a thing so utterly inconceivable that campion could for the moment suggest nothing. she only stared. presently she ventured to suggest that his lordship might get up again. "get up, timothy; get up this minute!" her ladyship shook and pushed him till he opened his eyes and lifted his head. "don't stop to ask questions, but get up right away." then she ran back to the door. "miss campion!" "yes, my lady." "i don't mind much about myself, but it might not look well for his lordship not to seem to know things just exactly how they're done in england. so please don't tell the servants, miss campion." she laid her hand on the maid's arm, and looked so earnest, that the girl felt sorry for her. "no, my lady," she replied. and she kept her word, so that though the servants all knew how the noble lord and his lady had been brought from stepney green, and how his lordship floundered among the plates at lunch, and ate up half a loaf with afternoon tea, they did not know that he went to bed instead of dressing for dinner. "and, miss campion," she was now outside the door, holding it ajar, and the movements of a heavy body hastily putting on clothes could be distinctly heard, "you will please tell me, presently, what time they do have things." "yes, my lady." "family prayers now? his lordship will lead, of course--a thing he is quite used to, and can do better than most, having always----" here she stopped, remembering that there was no absolute necessity to explain the duties of a village schoolmaster. "there are no family prayers, my lady, and your ladyship can have dinner or any other meal at any time you please." "his lordship's time for meals will be those of his brother peers." "yes, my lady. breakfast at ten?" "ten will do perfectly." it was two hours later than their usual time and her husband's sufferings would be very great. still, everything must give way to the responsibilities of the rank. "will your ladyship take luncheon at half-past one, and tea at half-past five, and dinner at eight?" "yes, now that we know them, these hours will suit me perfectly. we do not in our own country take tea before dinner, but after it. that is nothing, however. and supper?" "your ladyship can have supper whenever you want it," replied the maid. she hesitated for a moment and then went on. "it is not usual for supper to be served at all." "oh! then we must go without." by this time her husband was dressed, and, obedient to instruction, he had put on his new dress-coat, without, however, making any alteration in the rest of his morning garments. the effect, therefore, when they descended to the drawing-room would have been very startling, but for the fact that there was nobody to see it. if luncheon was a great meal, dinner was far more magnificent and stately; only there were two footmen instead of one, and his lordship felt that he could not do that justice to the dinner which the dinner deserved, because those two great hulking fellows in livery watched him all the time. after dinner they sat in the great drawing-room, feeling very magnificent, and yet uncomfortable. "the second dinner," said his lordship, in a half-whisper, "made me feel, clara martha, that we did right to leave canaan city. i never before knew what they really meant by enjoying a title, and i don't think i ever thoroughly enjoyed it before. the red mullet was beautiful, and the little larks in paper baskets made me feel a lord all over." chapter xxvii. the same signs. "this he has done for love." when angela returned to her dressmakery, it was with these words ringing in her ears, like some refrain which continually returns and will not be silenced. "this he has done--for love." it was a great deal to do--a great deal to give up; she fully realized, after her talk with lord jocelyn, how much it was that he had given up--at her request. what had she herself done, she asked, in comparison? she had given money--anybody could give money. she had lived in disguise, under false pretences, for a few months; but she never intended to go on living in the east end, after she had set her association on a firm basis. to be sure, she had been drawn on into wider schemes, and could not retire until these, including the palace of delight, were well started. but this young man had given up all, cheerfully, for her sake. because she was a dressmaker, and lived at stepney, he would be a workman and live there as well. for her sake he had given up for ever the life of ease and culture which might have been his, among the gentlefolk to whom he belonged; for her sake he left the man who stood to him _in loco parentis_; for her sake he gave up all things that are dear to young men, and became a servant. and without a murmur. she watched him going to his work in the morning, cheerful, with the sunshine ever in his face--in fact, sunshine lived there--his head erect, his eyes fearless, not repenting at all of his choice, perhaps hopeful that in the long run those impediments spoken of might be removed; in that hope he lived. should that hope be disappointed--what then? only to have loved, to have sacrificed so much for the sake of love, angela said to herself, thinking of something she had read, was enough. then she laughed, because this was so silly, and the young man deserved to have some reward. then, as a first result of this newly acquired knowledge, the point of view seemed changed. quite naturally, after the first surprise at finding so much cultivation in a working-man, she regarded him, like all the rest, from her own elevated platform. in the same way he, from his own elevation, had been, in a sense, looking down upon herself, though she did not suspect the fact. one might pause here, in order to discuss how many kinds of people do consider themselves on a higher level than their neighbors. my own opinion is that every man thinks himself on so very high a platform as to entitle him to consider the greater part of mankind quite below him; the fact that no one else thinks so has nothing to do with it. any one, however, can understand how angela would at first regard harry, and harry the fair dressmaker. further, that, whatever acquaintance or intimacy grew up between them, the first impression would always remain, with the mental attitude of a slight superiority in both minds, so long as the first impression, the first belief as to the real facts, was not removed. now that it was removed on one side, angela, for her part, could no longer look down; there was no superiority left, except in so far as the daughter of a whitechapel brewer might consider herself of finer clay than the son of a sergeant in the army, also of whitechapel origin. all for love of her. the words filled her heart: they made her cheeks burn and her eyes glow. it seemed so great and noble a thing to do; so grand a sacrifice to make. she remembered her words of contempt when, in a shamefaced, hesitating way, as if it was something wrong, he had confessed that he might go back to a life of idleness. why, she might have known--she ought to have known--that it was not to an ignoble life among ignoble people that he would go. yet she was so stupid. what a sacrifice to make! and all for love of her! then the flower of love sprang up and immediately blossomed, and was a beauteous rose, ready for her lover to gather and place upon his heart. but as yet she hardly knew it. yet she had known all along that harry loved her. he never tried to conceal his passion. "why," she said to herself, trying to understand the meaning of the sudden change in herself--"why, it only seemed to amuse me; the thing was absurd; and i felt pity for him, and a little anger because he was so presumptuous; and i was a little embarrassed for fear i had compromised myself with him. but it wasn't absurd at all; and he loves me, though i have no fortune. oh, heaven! i am a she-dives, and he doesn't know it, and he loves me all the same." she was to tell him when the "impediments" were removed. why, they were removed already. but should she tell him? how could she dare to tell him? no girl likes to do her own wooing; she must be courted; she must be won. besides--perhaps--but here she smiled--he was not so very much in love, after all. perhaps he would change; perhaps he would grow tired and go home and desert her; perhaps he would fall in love with some one else. and perhaps angela, the strong-minded student of newnham, who would have no love or marriage, or anything of the kind, in her life, was no stronger than any of her sisters at the approach of love the unconquered. she came back the evening after that dinner. her cheek had a new color upon it; there was a new smile upon her lips; there was a new softness in her eyes. "you look so beautiful this evening," said nelly. "have you been happy while you were away?" "i have heard something that has made me happier," said angela. "but you, dear nelly, have not. why are your cheeks so pale, and what is the meaning of the dark lines under your eyes?" "it is nothing," the girl replied quickly. "i am quite well." but she was not. she was nervous and preoccupied. there was something on her mind. then harry came, and they began to pass the evening in the usual way, practising their songs, with music, and the little dance, without which the girls could not have gone away happy. and angela, for the first time, observed a thing which struck a chill to her heart, and robbed her of half her joy. why had she never before discovered this thing? ah! ignorant maiden, despite the wisdom of the schools. hypatia herself was not more ignorant than angela, who knew not that the chief quality of the rose of love in her heart was to make her read the hearts of others. armed with this magic power, she saw what she might have seen long before. in the hasty glance, the quick flush, the nervous trembling of her hands, poor nelly betrayed her secret. and by those signs the other girl, who loved the same man, read that secret. "o selfish woman!" said angela's heart. "is your happiness to be bought at such a cost?" a girl of lower nature might have been jealous. angela was not. it seemed to her no sin in nelly that she thought too much of such a man. but she pitied her. nor did she, as some women might have done, suspect that harry had trifled with her feelings. she knew that he had not. she had seen them together, day after day; she knew what his bearing had always been toward her, frank, courteous, and brotherly. he called her by her christian name; he liked her, her presence was pleasant; she was pretty, sweet, and winning. no: she did not suspect him. and yet, what should she say to the poor girl? how comfort her? how reconcile her to the inevitable sorrow? "nelly," she whispered at parting, "if you are unhappy, my child, you must tell me what it is." "i cannot," nelly replied. "but oh! do not think about me, miss kennedy; i am not worth it." perhaps she, too, had read those same signs and knew what they meant. chapter xxviii. harry finds liberty. mention has been made of the stepney advanced club, where dick coppin thundered, and burning questions were discussed, and debates held on high political points, and where more ideas were submitted and more projects set forth in a single year than in all the rest of london in two years. the members of the advanced club were mostly young men, but there was a sprinkling among them of grizzled beards who remembered ' and the dreams of chartism. they had got by this time pretty well all they clamored for in their by-gone days, and when they thought of this, and remembered how everything was to go well as soon as the five points of the charter were carried, and how every thing still remained in the same upside-down, topsy-turvy, one-sided, muddle-headed perverseness just as if those points had not been carried, they became sad. nevertheless, the habit of demanding remained, because the reformer is like the daughter of the horse-leech, and still cries for more. yet they had less confidence than of old in the reformer's great nostrum of destruction. the younger men, of course, were quite sure, absolutely sure, that with a little more upsetting and down-pulling the balance would be set right, and a beautiful straight level of universal happiness would be reached. angela heard, from time to time, of the meetings of this club. harry told her how his cousin dick had surpassed himself; how they were going to abolish crown, church, and house of lords, with landlordism, lawyers, established armies, pauperdom, divesdom, taxes, and all kinds of things which the hateful tory or that pitiful creature the moderate liberal considers necessary for the welfare of the state. and she knew that harry went there and spoke occasionally, and that he had made in a quiet way some sort of mark among the members. one evening, about this time, she met dick coppin returning from his work, in which, unlike his cousin, he did not disdain the apron nor the box of tools. "there's going to be a debate on sunday," he said, half shyly and half boastfully, "at the club. it's on the abolition of the house of lords. i am going to speak, and if you like to come, you and one or two of the girls, i'll pass you in, and you will hear a thing or two that will open your eyes." "that is very good of you, mr. coppin. i always like to have my eyes opened. will there be many speakers?" "there will be me," he replied with simple grandeur. "i don't think, when i've said my say, that there will remain much more to be said by anybody. cousin harry may get up, perhaps"--his face assumed a little uneasiness--"but no, i don't think he will find any holes in me. i've got the facts; i've gone to the right quarter to get 'em. no: he can't deny my facts." "very well, mr. coppin. perhaps we will go to hear you. but be very sure about your facts." angela said nothing about the proposed debate or her intention of being present, but she learned from harry that there really was going to be a field-night, and that dick coppin was expected to come out in more than his usual strength. the informant said nothing about his own intentions. indeed, he had none, but he was falling into the habit of spending an hour or two at the club on sunday evening before finishing off with the girls; sometimes he spoke, but oftener he listened and came away silent and reflected. the advanced club offered ample material for one who knows how to reflect. humanity is a grand subject, and, in fact, is the only subject left for an epic poem. but perhaps the action would drag. here, harry saw, was a body of men, old and young, all firmly persuaded that things were wrong; that things might be made better, yet casting about blindly for a remedy, and crying aloud for a leader. and those who desired to lead them had nothing to offer but a stone instead of bread. the fact that this young man did listen and reflect shows how greatly he was changed from him whom we first met in the prologue. regular hours, simple living, reasonably hard work strengthened his nerves for anything; he was harder; the men with whom he talked were rougher, and the old carelessness was gone. he kept his gayety of heart, yet it was sobered; he felt responsible. he knew so much more than the men around him that he felt a consuming desire to set them right, but could not, for he was tongue-tied; he had not yet found liberty, as the old preachers used to say; when he felt most strongly that the speakers were on a false track he spoke most feebly; he wanted to be a prophet, and there were only confused ideas, blurred perceptions to work upon. now the first steps toward being a prophet--which is a most laudable ambition--is to see quite clearly one's self and to understand what one means. he could set a man right as to facts, he could shut up a speaker and make the club laugh, but he could not move them. as yet harry was only in the position occupied during a long life by the late prophet of chelsea, inasmuch as he distinctly perceived the folly of his neighbors, but could teach no way of wisdom. this is a form of prophetical utterance which has never possessed much weight with the people; they want direct teaching and a leader who knows what he means and whither he would conduct them, if it be only in the direction of one of those poor, old worn-out panaceas once warranted to guarantee universal happiness, like the ballot-box. not that harry grew miserable over his failure to prophesy--not at all; he only wished for words of wisdom and power, and sat meanwhile with his hands in his pockets and his hat pulled over his eyes like a minister in the house of commons, while the members of the club poured forth their frothy declamation, each louder than his predecessor, trying to catch the applause of an assembly which generally shouted for the loudest. the times might be out of joint, but harry felt no inspiration as to the way of setting them right; if a thing came to him he would say it--if not, he would wait. the great secret about waiting is that while a man waits he thinks, and if he thinks in solitude and waits long enough, letting words lie in his brain and listening to ideas which come upon him, sometimes singly and slowly, sometimes in crowds like the fancies of a wakeful night, there presents itself an idea at last which seizes upon him and holds him captive, and works itself out in his brain while he mechanically goes on with the work, the rest, the toil, and the pleasure of his daily life. solitary work is favorable to meditation; therefore, while harry was shaping things at his lathe undisturbed by no one, his brain was at work. and a thought came to him which lay there dimly perceived at first, but growing larger daily till it filled his head and drew unto itself all his other thoughts, so that everything he saw, or read, or heard, or meditated upon, became like a rill or rivulet which goes to swell a great river. and it was this thought, growing into shape at last, which he proclaimed to the members of the advanced club on the night of their great debate. it was not a large hall, but it was perfectly filled with people; chiefly they were men and young men, but among them were a good many women and girls. does it ever occur to the "better class" that the work of woman's emancipation is advancing in certain circles with rapid strides? that is so, nevertheless; and large, if not pleasant, results may be expected in a few years therefrom. it must be remembered that for the most part they start perfectly free from any trammels of religion. it has been stated that the basis of all their philosophy is, and always will be, the axiom that every one must get as much as possible for herself out of the rather limited ration of pleasure supplied to humanity. whether that is true i know not. angela watched these women with curiosity; they were mostly young, and some of them were pretty, and there was absolutely nothing to show that they thought differently from any other women. some of them had brought their work; some were talking; they were not excited by the prospect of the coming debate--they expected, in fact, nothing more than they had already heard over and over again. there was too much gas, the atmosphere was already heavy and the walls already shiny, before the meeting began. on the platform was a chair for the chairman, with a table and a hammer and a decanter of water and a glass. angela sat far back against the door, with captain sorensen and nelly. she was silent, wondering at these people and why they should trouble themselves about the house of lords, and whether they never felt any desire at all for the religion which brings joy and happiness to so many suffering lives. presently she saw harry walk slowly up the middle aisle and take a place, for there was no chair, on the steps which led to the platform. she was so far back that he could not see her, for which afterward she was glad. the chairman, a man stricken in years, with gray hair and a grizzled beard, and one of those ex-chartists of whom we have spoken, took the chair, hammered the table, and opened the debate. he was a man of great reputation, having been all his life an irreconcilable, and he was suspected of being a socialist, and was certainly a red republican. he began in the usual way by stating as an axiom that the people can do no wrong; that to intrust the destinies of a nation to the people is to insure its greatness; that manhood is the only rank--and so forth, all in capital letters with notes of admiration. the words were strong, but they produced no effect, because the speech had been made before a great many times, and the people knew it by heart. therefore, though it was the right thing to say, and the thing expected of a chairman, nobody paid any attention. the discussion, which was all one-sided, then began. two or three young men rose one after the other; they were listened to with the indulgence which is always accorded to beginners. none of them made a point, or said a good thing, or went outside the theories of untaught, if generous youth, and their ignorance was such as to make angela almost weep. then dick coppin mounted the platform, and advanced, amid the plaudits of the expectant audience. he ran his fingers through his coarse, black hair, straightened himself up to his full height of five feet six, drank a little water, and then, standing beside the chairman's table with his right hand resting upon it when he was not waving it about, he began, slowly at first, but afterward with fluent speech and strong words, and a ringing voice, the harangue which he had so carefully prepared. of course, he condemned the house of lords tooth and nail; it must be destroyed root and branch; it was a standing insult to the common sense of the nation; it was an effete and worn-out institution, against which the enlightenment of the age cried out aloud; it was an obstruction to progress; it was a menace to the people; it was a thing of the past; it was an enemy of the working-man; it was a tyrant, who had the will but not the power to tyrannize any longer; it was a toothless old wolf, who could bark but could not bite. those free and enlightened men sitting before him, members of the advanced club, had pronounced its doom--therefore, it must go. the time had come when the nation would endure no longer to have a privileged class, and would be mocked no more by the ridiculous spectacle of hereditary legislators. he pursued this topic with great freedom of language and a great eloquence of a rough and uncultivated kind; his hearers, getting gradually warmed, interrupted him by those plaudits which go straight to the heart of the born orator, and stir him to his strongest and his best. then he changed his line and attempted to show that the families which compose the upper house are themselves, as well as their institution, worn-out, used up, and lost to the vigor which first pushed them to the front. where were now their fighting men? he asked. where were their orators? which among them all was of any real importance to his party? which of them had in modern times done anything, proposed anything, or thought of anything for the advancement of knowledge or the good of the people? not one able man, he said, among them; luxury had ruined and corrupted all; their blood was poisoned; they could drink and eat; they could practise other luxurious habits, which he enumerated with fidelity, lest there should be any mistake about the matter; and then they could go to the house reeling into it drunk with wine, and oppose the will of the people. then he turned from generalities to particulars, and entertained his audience with anecdotes gleaned, heaven knows how, from the private histories of many noble families, tending to show the corruption into which the british aristocracy had fallen. these anecdotes were received with that keenness which always awaits stories which show how wicked other people are, and what are the newest fashions and hitherto unknown forms of vice. angela marvelled, on her part, to hear "scandal about queen elizabeth" at stepney. then, after an impeachment which lasted for half an hour, he thundered forth an appeal--not at all novel to his hearers, yet still effective, because his voice was like a trumpet--to the men before him to rise in their millions, their majesty, and their might, and to bear the accursed thing down. he sat down, at last, wiping his forehead, and exhausted but triumphant. never before had he so completely carried his audience with him; never before had he obtained such flow of language, and such mastery over his voice; never before had he realized so fully that he was, he himself, an orator inferior to none. as he sat down, while the men clapped their hands and cheered, a vision of greatness passed before his mind. he would be the leader of the people; they should look to him as they had never yet looked to any man for guidance. and he would lead them. whither? but, this, in the dream of the moment, mattered nothing. a cold chill came over him as he saw his cousin harry leap lightly to the platform and take his place at the table. for he foresaw trouble; and all the more because those of the audience who knew gentleman jack laughed in expectation of that trouble. fickle and fleeting is the breath of popular favor; only a moment before and they were cheering him to the skies; now they laughed because they hoped he was to be made to look a fool. but the orator took heart, considering that his facts were undeniable. when the tumult had subsided, harry, to everybody astonishment, laid his hand upon his cousin's shoulder--a gesture of approbation--and looked round the room, and said quietly, but loud enough to be heard by all: "my cousin, dick coppin, can talk. that was a very good speech of his, wasn't it?" voices were heard asking if he could better it. "no," harry replied, "i can't, i wish i could." he took his place beside the table, and gazed for a few moments at the faces below him. angela observed that his face was pale, though the carriage of his head was brave. "i wish," he repeated, "that i could. because, after all these fireworks, it is such a tame thing just to tell you that there wasn't a word of sense in the whole speech." here there were signs of wrath, but the general feeling was to let the speaker have his say. "do you suppose--any of you--that dick believes that the lords go rolling drunk to the house? of course he doesn't. do you suppose that he thinks you such fools as to believe it? of course he doesn't. but then, you see, dick must have his fireworks. and it was a first-rate speech. do you suppose he believes the lords are a worn-out lot? not he. he knows better. and if any of you feel inclined to think so, go and look at them. you will find them as well set up as most, and better. you can hear some of them in the house of commons, where you send them, you electors. wherever there are englishmen working, fighting, or sporting, there are some of those families among them. as for their corruption, that's fireworks, too. dick has told you some beautiful stories which he challenged anybody to dispute. i dare say they are all true. what he forgot to tell you is that he has picked out these stories from the last hundred and fifty years, and expects you to believe that they all happened yesterday. shall we charge you, members of the club, with all the crimes of the whitechapel road for a hundred years? if you want to upset the house of lords, go and do it. but don't do it with lies on your lips, and on false pretences. you know how virtuous and moral you are yourselves. then just remember that the members of the house of lords are about as moral as you are, or rather better. abolish the house of lords if you like. how much better will you be when it is gone? you can go on abolishing. there is the church. get it disestablished. think how much better you will all be when the churches are pulled down. yet you couldn't stay away any more then than you do. you want the land laws reformed. get them reformed, and think how much land you will get for yourselves out of that reform. "dick coppin says you have got the power. so you have. he says the last reform bill gave it to you. there he makes a mistake. you have always had the power. you have always had all the power there is. it is yours, because you are the people, and what the people want they will have. your power is your birthright. you are an irresistible giant, who has only to roar in order to get what he wants. "well, why don't you roar? because you don't know what you do want. because your leaders don't know any more than yourselves; because they go bawling for things which will do you no good, and don't know what it is you do want. "you think that by making yourselves into clubs and calling yourselves radicals, you are getting forward. you think that by listening to a chap like my cousin dick, who's a clever fellow and a devil for fireworks, you somehow improve your own condition. did you ever ask yourselves what difference the form of government makes? i have been in america where, if anywhere, the people have it their own way. do you think work is more plentiful, wages better, hours shorter, things cheaper in a republic? do you think the heels of your boots last any longer? if you do, think so no longer. whether the house of lords, or the church, or the land laws stand or fall, that, my friends, makes not the difference of a penny-piece to any single man among us. you who agitate for their destruction are generously giving your time and trouble for things which help no man. and yet there are so many things that can help us. "it comes of your cursed ignorance" (harry was warming up)--"i say, your cursed ignorance. you know nothing; you understand nothing of your own country. you do not know how its institutions have grown up; why it is so prosperous; why changes, when they have to be made, should be made slowly and not before they are necessary; nor how you yourselves may climb up, if you will, into a life above you, much happier, much more pleasant. you do not respect the old institutions, because you don't know them; you desire new things because you don't understand the old. go--learn--make your orators learn, and make them teach you. and then send them to the house of commons to represent you. "you think that governments can do everything for you. you fools! has any government ever done anything for you? has it raised your wages--has it shortened your hours? can it protect you against rogues and adulterers? will it ever try to better your position? never, never, never!--because it cannot. does any government ask what you want--what you ought to want? no. can it give you what you want? no. "listen. you want clean streets and houses in which decent folks can live. the government has appointed sanitary officers. yet, look about you! put your heads in the courts of whitechapel. what has the sanitary officer done? you want strong and well-built houses. there are government inspectors; yet, look at the lath and plaster houses that a child could kick over. you want honest food--all that you eat and drink is adulterated. how does the government help you there? "you have the power--all the power there is. you cannot use it, because you don't know how. you expect the government to use your power--to do your work. my friends, i will tell you the secret. whatever you want done you must do for yourselves! no one else will do it for you. you must agree that such and such shall be done; and then, be very sure, you will get it done. "in politics you are used as the counters of a game--each side plays with you. not for you, mind. you get nothing, whichever side is in--you are the pawns. "it is something, perhaps, to take even so much part in the game; but, as you get nothing but the honor, i am rather surprised at your going on with it. and, if i might advise, it would be that we give that game over, and play one by ourselves, in which there really is something to be got. "what we must play for is what we want. what we have got to do is, to remember that when we say we will have a thing--nobody can resist us. have it we must, because we are the masters. "now then, what do we want?" harry was quite serious by this time, and so were the faces of those who listened--though there was a little angry doubt on some of them. no one replied to the question. some of the younger men looked as if they might, perhaps, have answered in the words of the sailor--"more rum." but they refrained, and preserved silence. "what do we want? has any one of you considered what we do want? let me tell you a few things. i can't think of many; but i know a few that you ought to put first. "you want your own local government--what every little country town has, you have not. you want to elect your own aldermen, mayors, guardians, and school-boards--be yourselves--be yourselves. get that first, and abolish the house of lords afterward. "there is your food? you ought to get your beef from america, at threepence a pound, and you are contented to give a shilling. you ought to have your fish at twopence a pound, and you pay whatever they choose to charge you. you drink bad beer, bad spirits, bad tea, bad cocoa, bad coffee, because you don't know that the things are bad and dear; and because you don't understand that you have only got to resolve in order to get all this changed. it is, you see, your cursed ignorance. "there are your houses! the rich people--having more knowledge than you, and more determination--have found out how to build houses so as to prevent fevers. you live in houses built to catch fever--fever-traps! when you find out what you want, you will refuse to live in such houses. you will refuse to let anybody live in such houses. you will come out of them--you will have them pulled down. "when it comes to building up better houses, you will remember that paid inspectors are squared by the builders--so that the cement is mud and sand; and the bricks are crumbling clay; and the walls crack, and the floors are shaky. therefore you will be your own inspectors. "the government makes us send our children to boarding schools to be educated. that would be very noble of the government if they had first considered--which nobody has--what sort of education a working-man wants. as yet they have only got as far as spelling. when a boy can spell they think he is educated. once it was all kings of israel--now it is all spelling. is that what you want? do you think it matters how you spell, so that you know? are you contented that your children shall know nothing about this great country--nothing of its wealth and people; nothing of their duties as citizens; nothing of their own trade? shall they not be taught that theirs is the power--that they can do what they like, and have what they like, if they like? "do you resolve that the education of your children shall be real, and it will become real; but don't look to government to do it or it will continue to be spelling. find out the thing that you want, and send your own men to the school-boards to get that thing done. "another thing that you want is pleasure--men can't do without it. can government give you that? they can shut the public-houses at twelve--what more can they do? but you--you do not know how to enjoy yourselves. you don't know what to do. you can't play music, nor sing, nor paint, nor dance--you can do nothing. you get no pleasure out of life, and you won't get it--even by abolishing everything. "take that simple question of a holiday. we take ours, like the fools we are, all in droves, by thousands and millions, on bank holidays. why do we do that? why do we not insist on having our holidays at different times in the year, without these monstrous crowds which render enjoyment impossible? and why do we not demand--what is granted to every little quill-driving clerk in the city--our fortnight every year with nothing to do, and drawing full pay? that is one of your wants, and you don't know it. the reform of the land laws, my brothers, will not bring you one inch nearer getting this want." at this point the chairman nodded his head approvingly. perhaps he had never before realized how all his life he had neglected the substance and swallowed the shadow. the old man sat listening patiently with his head in his hands. never before had any workman--any one of his own class--spoken like this young fellow, who talked and looked like a swell--though they knew him for what he was. pleasure! yes--he had never consisted that life might have its delights. yet, what delights? "there is another thing, and the blackest of all." harry paused a moment: but the men were listening, and now in earnest. "i mean the treatment of your girls--your sisters and your daughters! men, you have combined together and made your unions for yourselves--you have forced upon your employers terms which nothing but combination would have compelled them to accept. you are paid twice what you received twenty years ago. you go in broadcloth--you are well fed. you have money in your pocket. but you have clean forgotten the girls. "think of the girls. "they have no protection but a government act forbidding more than ten hours' work. who cares for a government act? it is defied daily. those who frame these acts know very well that they are powerless to maintain them; because, my friends, the power is with the people--you. if you resolve that an act shall become a law, you make it so. everything, in the end, is by the people and through the people. "you have done nothing for your girls--you leave them to the mercies of employers, who have got to cut down expenses to the last farthing. they are paid starvation wages. they are kept in unwholesome rooms. they are bound to the longest hours. they are oppressed with fines. the girls grow up narrow-chested, stooping, consumptive--they are used up wholesale. and what do you do for them. nothing. there are girls and women in this hall: can any one of them here get up and say that the working-men have raised a finger for them? "the worst charge any man can bring against you is that you care nothing for your girls. "why, it is only the other day that a dressmakers' association has been opened among you--you all know where it is. you all know what it tries to do for the girls. yet, what single man among you has ever had the pluck to stand up for his sisters who are working in it?" then harry stepped right to the edge of the platform and spread out his hands, changing his voice. "you are good fellows," he said, "and you've given me fair play. there isn't a country in the world, except ireland, where i could have had this fair play. don't misunderstand me--i tell you, and i don't think you knew it before, that the time has come when the people should leave off caring much about the government, or expecting any good thing for themselves from any government; because it can't be done in that way. you must find out for yourselves what you want, and then you must have that done. you must combine for these things as you did for wages, and you will get them. and if you spend half the energy in working for yourselves that you have spent in working for things that do you no good you will be happy indeed. "your politics, i say again, will do nothing for you--do you hear--nothing at all; but yours is the power. let us repeat it again and again--all the power is yours. try what government can do. send dick coppin into parliament--he's a clever chap--and tell him to do what he can for you. he will do nothing. therefore, work for yourselves, and by yourselves. make out what you want, and resolve to have it--nobody can prevent you. the world is yours to do what you like with. here in england, as in america, the working-man is master--provided the working-man knows what he wants. the first thing you want, i reckon, is good lodging. the second, is good food. the third is good drink--good, unadulterated beer, and plenty of it. the fourth is good and sensible education. the fifth is holiday and pleasure; and the last, which is also the first, is justice for our girls. but don't be fools. i have been among you in this club a good many times. it goes to my heart every time i come to see so many clever men and able men wasting their time in grievances which don't hurt them, when they are surrounded by a hundred grievances which they have only to perceive in order to sweep them away. "i am a radical, like yourselves; but i am a social radical. as for your political jaw, it plays the game of those who use you. politics is a game of lying accusations and impossible promises. the accusations make you angry--the promises make you hopeful. but you get nothing in the long run; and you never will. because--promise what they may--it is not laws or measures that will improve our lot; it is by our own resolution that it shall be improved. hold out your hands and take the things that are offered you--everything is yours if you like to have it. you are in a beautiful garden filled with fruits, if you care to pick them; but you do not. you lie grubbing in the mud, and crying out for what will do you no good. voices are calling to you--they offer you such a life as was never yet conceived by the lordliest house of lords--a life full of work, and full of pleasure. but you don't hear--you are deaf. you are blind--you are ignorant." he stopped; a hoarse shout greeted his peroration. harry wondered for a moment if this was applause or disapproval. it was the former. then one man rose and spoke. "damn him!" he cried. yet the phrase was used in no condemnatory spirit; as when a mother addresses her boy as a naughty little rogue-pogue. "damn him! he shall be our next member." "no," said harry, clapping his cousin on the shoulder, "here is your next member; dick coppin is your boy. he is clever--he is ambitious. tell him what you want, and he'll get it for you if any one can. but, o men! find out what you want, and have it. yours--yours--yours is the power. you are the masters of the world. leave the humbug of radicalism, and liberalism, and toryism. let dead politics bury their dead--learn to look after your own interests. you are the kings and lords of humanity. the old kings and lords are no more--they are swept away! they are only shadows of the past. with you are the sceptre and the crown. you sit upon the throne, and when you know how to reign, you shall reign as never yet king was known to reign; but _first find out what you want_." he lightly leaped from the platform and stepped down the hall--he had said his say, and was going. the men laughed and shouted--half angry, half pleased, but wholly astonished; and dick coppin, with a burning cheek, sat humiliated yet proud of his cousin. at the door harry met miss kennedy, with captain sorensen and nelly. "we have heard your speech," said angela, with brightened eyes and glowing cheeks. "oh, what did i tell you? you can speak, you can persuade; you can lead. what a career--what a career lies before the man who can persuade and lead!" chapter xxix. the figureheads. it was sunday morning, after breakfast, and harry was sitting in the boarding-house common room, silently contemplating his two fellow-boarders, josephus and mr. maliphant. the circle at bormalack's was greatly broken up. not to speak of the loss of the illustrious pair, daniel fagg had now taken to live entirely among the dressmakers, except in the evenings, when their music and dancing drove him away; in fact, he regarded the place as his own, and had so far forgotten that he took his meals there by invitation as to criticise the dinners, which were always good, although plain, and to find fault with the beer, which came from messenger's. miss kennedy, too, only slept at the boarding-house, though by singular forgetfulness she always paid the landlady every saturday morning in advance for a week's board and lodging. therefore josephus and the old man for the most part sat in the room alone, and were excellent company, because the ill-used junior clerk never wanted to talk with anybody, and the aged carver of figureheads never wanted a listener. almost for the first time harry considered this old man, the rememberer of fag-ends and middle-bits of anecdote, with something more than a passing curiosity and a sense of irritation caused by the incongruity of the creature. you know that whenever you seriously address yourself to the study of a person, however insignificant in appearance, that person assumes an importance equal to any lord. a person, you see, is an individual, or an indivisible thing. wherefore, let us not despise our neighbor. the ancient mr. maliphant was a little, thin old man, with a few gray hairs left, but not many; his face was inwrapped, so to speak, in a pair of very high collars, and he wore a black silk stock, not very rusty, for he had been in the reign of the fourth george a dapper young fellow, and possessed a taste in dress beyond the lights of limehouse. but this was in his nautical days, and before he developed his natural genius for carving ship's figureheads. he had no teeth left, and their absence greatly shortened the space between nose and chin, which produced an odd effect; he was closely shaven; his face was all covered over like an ocean with innumerable wrinkles, crows-feet, dimples, furrows, valleys, and winding watercourses, which showed like the universal smile of an accurate map. his forehead, when the original thatch was thick, must have been rather low and weak; his eyes were still bright and blue, though they wandered while he talked; when he was silent they had a far-off look; his eyebrows, as often happens with old men, had grown bushy and were joined across the bridge; when his memory failed him, which was frequently the case, they frowned almost as terribly as those of daniel fagg; his figure was spare and his legs thin, and he sat on one side of the chair with his feet twisted beneath it; he never did anything, except to smoke one pipe at night; he never took the least notice of anybody; when he talked, he addressed the whole company, not any individual; and he was affected by no man's happiness or suffering. he had lived so long that he had no more sympathy left; the world was nothing more to him; he had no further interest in it; he had gone beyond it and out of it; he was so old that he had not a friend left who knew him when he was young; he lived apart; he was, perforce, a hermit. harry remembered, looking upon this survival, that the old man had once betrayed a knowledge of his father and of the early history of the coppin and messenger families. he wondered now why he had not tried to get more out of him. it would be a family chronicle of small beer, but there could be nothing, probably, very disagreeable to learn about the career of the late sergeant, his father, nor anything painful about the course of the coppins. on this sunday morning, when the old man looked as if the cares of the week were off his mind, his memory should be fresh--clearer than on a week-day. in the happy family of boarders, none of whom pretended to take the least interest in each other, nobody ever spoke to mr. maliphant, and nobody listened when he spoke, except mrs. bormalack, who was bound by rules of politeness, or took the least notice of his coming or his going; nobody knew how he lived or what he paid for his board and lodging, or anything else about him. once, it was certain, he had been in the mercantile marine. now he had a "yard;" he went to his yard every day; it was rumored that in this yard he carved figureheads all day for large sums of money; he came home in the evening in time for supper; a fragrance, as of rum and water, generally accompanied him at that time; and after a pipe and a little more grog, and a few reminiscences chopped up in bits and addressed to the room at large, the old fellow would retire for the night. a perfectly cheerful and harmless old man, yet not companionable. "did you know my father, mr. maliphant?" asked harry, by way of opening up the conversation. "he was a sergeant, you know, in the army." mr. maliphant started and looked bewildered; he had been, in imagination, somewhere off cape horn, and he could not get back at a moment's notice. it irritated him to have to leave his old friends. "your father, young gentleman?" he asked in a vexed and trembling quaver. "did i know your father? pray, sir, how am i to know that you ever had a father?" "you said, the other day, that you did. think again. my father, you know, married caroline coppin." "ay, ay--caroline coppin--i remember caroline coppin. oh, yes, sister, she was, to bob--when bob was third mate of an east indiaman; a devil of a fellow was bob, though but a boy, and if living now, which i must misdoubt, would be but sixty or thereabouts. everybody, young man, knew bob coppin," ... here he relapsed into silence. when he spoke again, he carried on aloud the subject of his thoughts--"below he did his duty. such a man, sir, was bob coppin." "thank you, mr. maliphant. i seem to know bob quite well from your description. and now he's gone aloft, hasn't he? and when the word comes to pass all hands, there will be bob with a hitch of his trousers and a kick of the left leg. but about my mother." "young gentleman, how am i to know that you were born with a mother? law, law! one might as well"---- here his voice dropped again, and he finished the sentence with the silent motion of his lips. "caroline coppin, you know; your old friend." he shook his head. "no--oh, no! i knew her when she was as high as that table. my young friend, not my old friend, she was. how could she be my old friend? she married sergeant goslett, and he went out to india and--and--something happened there. perhaps he was cast away. as many get cast away in those seas." "is that all you can remember about her?" "i can remember," said the old man, "a wonderful lot of things at times. you mustn't ask any man to remember all at once. not at his best, you mustn't, and i doubt i am hardly at what you may call my tip-top ripest--yet. wait a bit, young man; wait a bit. i've been to a many ports and carved figureheads for a many ships, and they got cast away, one after the other, but dear to memory still, and paid for. like sergeant goslett. a handsome man he was, with curly brown hair, like yours, young gentleman. i remember how he sang a song in this very house when caroline--or was it her sister?--had it, and i forget whether it was bunker married her sister or after caroline's baby was born, which was when the child's father was dead. a beautiful evening we had." caroline's baby, harry surmised, was himself. "where was caroline's baby born?" harry asked. "where should he be? why, o' course, in his mother's own house." "why should he be born in his mother's own house? i did not know that his mother had a house." the old man looked at him with pity. "young man," he said, "you know nothing. your ignorance is shameful." "but why?" "enough said, young gentleman," replied mr. maliphant with dignity. "enough said: youth should not sport with age; it doth not become gray hairs to--to----" he did not finish the sentence, except to himself, but what he did say was something emphatic and improving, because he shook his head a good deal over it. presently he got up and left the room. harry watched him getting his hat and tying his muffler about his neck. when things were quite adjusted the old man feebly tottered down the steps. harry took his hat and followed him. "may i walk with you, sir?" he asked. "surely, surely!" mr. maliphant was surprised. "it is an unusual thing for me to have a companion. formerly they came--ah--all the way from rotherhithe to--to--sing and drink with me." "will you take my arm?" harry asked. the little old man, who wore black trousers and a dress-coat out of respect of the day, but, although the month was december, no great-coat--in fact he had never worn a great-coat in all his life--was trotting along with steps which showed weakness, but manifest intention. harry wondered where he meant to go. he took the proffered arm, however, and seemed to get on better for the support. "are you going to church, sir," asked harry, when they came opposite the good old church of stepney, with its vast acres of dead men, and heard the bells ringing. "no, young gentleman; no, certainly not. i have more important business to look after." he quickened his steps, and they left the church behind them. "church?" repeated mr. maliphant with severity. "when there's property to look after the bells may ring as loud as they please. church is good for paupers and church-wardens. where would the property be, do you think, if i were not on the spot everyday to protect it?" he turned off the high street into a short street of small houses neither better nor worse than the thousands of houses around: it was a cul-de-sac, and ended in a high brick wall, with a large gateway in the middle, and square stone pillars, and a ponderous pair of wooden gates, iron-bound as if they guarded things of the greatest value. there was also a small wicket beside it, which the old man carefully unlocked and opened, looking round to see that no burglars followed. harry saw within a tolerably large yard, in the middle of which was a little house of one room. the house was a most wonderful structure; it was built apparently of packing-cases nailed on four or eight square posts; it was furnished with a door, a window, and a chimney, all complete; it was exactly like a doll's house, only that it was rather larger, being at least six feet high and eight feet square. the house was painted green; the roof was painted red; the door blue; there was also a brass knocker; so that in other respects it was like a doll's house. "aha!" cried the old man, rubbing his hands and pointing to the house. "i built it, young man. that is my house, that is; i laid the foundations; i put up the walls; i painted it. and i very well remember when it was. let me see. mr. messenger, who was a younger man than me by four years, married in that year, or lost his son--i forget which"--(his voice lowered, and he went on talking to himself). "caroline's grandfather went bankrupt in the building trade; or her father perhaps, who afterward made money and left houses. and here i am still. this is my property, young gentleman, and i come here every day to execute orders. oh! yes"--he looked about him in mild kind of doubt--"i execute orders. perhaps the orders don't come in so thick as they did. but here i am--ready for work--always ready, and i see my old friends, too, aha! they come as thick as ever, bless you, if the orders don't. quite a gathering in here some days." harry shuddered, thinking who these old friends might be. "sundays and all i come here, and they come too. a merry company!" the garrulous old man opened the door of the little house. harry saw that it contained a cupboard with some simple cooking utensils, and a fireplace, where the proprietor began to make a fire, and one chair, and a little table, and a rack with tools; there were also one or two pipes and a tobacco jar. he looked about the yard. a strange place, indeed! it was adorned, or rather furnished, with great ships' figureheads, carved in wood, standing in rows and circles, some complete, some half-finished, some just begun; so that here was a lively peggy with rudimentary features just emerging from her native wood, and here a saucy sal of wapping still clothed in oak up to her waist; and here a neptune, his crowned head only as yet indicated, though the weather-beaten appearance of his wood showed that the time was long since he was begun; or a father thames, his god-like face as yet showing like a blurred dream. or there were finished and perfect heads, painted and gilded, waiting for the purchaser who never came. they stood, or sat--whichever a head and shoulder can be said to do--with so much pride, each so rejoicing in himself, and so disdainful of his neighbor, in so haughty a silence that they seemed human and belonging to the first circles of stepney; harry thought, too, that they eyed him curiously, as if he might be the long-expected ship-owner come to buy a figurehead. "here is property, young man!" cried the old man; he had lit his fire now and came to the door, craning forward and spreading his hands, "look at the beauties. there's truth! there's expression! mine, young man, all mine. hundreds--thousands of pounds here, to be protected." "do you come here every day?" harry asked. "every day. the property must be looked after." "and do you sit here all day by yourself?" "why, who else should i sit with? and a man like me never sits alone. bless your heart, young gentleman, of a morning when i sit before the fire and smoke a pipe, this room gets full of people. they crowd in, they do. dead people, i mean, of course. i know more dead men than living. they're the best company, after all. bob coppin comes, for one." harry began to look about, wondering whether the ghost of bob might suddenly appear at the door. on the whole he envied the old man his company of departed friends. "so you talk," he said; "you and the dead people?" by this time the old man had got into his chair and harry stood in the doorway, for there really was not room for more than one in the house at the same time, to say nothing of inconveniencing and crowding the merry company of ghosts. "you wouldn't believe," said the old man, "the talks we have nor the yarns we spin, when we're here together." "it must be a jovial time," said harry. "do they drink?" mr. maliphant screwed up his lips and shook his head mysteriously. "not of a morning," he replied, as if in the evening the old rollicking customs were still kept up. "and you talk about old times--eh?" "there's nothing else to talk about, as i know." "certainly not. sometimes you talk about my--about caroline coppin's father, i suppose. i mean the one who made money, not the one who went bankrupt." "houses," said mr. maliphant; "houses it was." "oh!" "twelve houses there were, all his own. two sons and two daughters to divide among. bob coppin sold his at once--bunker bought 'em--and we drank up the money down poplar-way, him and me and a few friends together, in a friendly and comfortable spirit. a fine time we had, i remember. jack coppin was in his father's trade and he lost his money; speculated, he did. builders are a believin' people. bunker got his houses too." "jack was my cousin dick's father, i suppose," said harry. "go ahead, old boy. the family history is reeling on beautifully. where did the other houses go?" but the old man had gone off on another tack. "there were more coppins," he said. "when i was a boy, to be a coppin of stepney was a thing of pride. josephus' father was church-warden, and held up his head." "did he, really?" "if i hadn't the property to look after, i would show you his tombstone in stepney church-yard." "that," said harry, "would be a great happiness for me. as for caroline coppin, now----" "she was a pretty maid, she was," the old man went on. "i saw her born and brought up. and she married a sojer." "i know, and her three houses were lost, too, i suppose?" "why should her houses be lost, young man?" mr. maliphant asked with severity. "houses don't run away. this property doesn't run away. when she died she left a baby, she did, and when the baby was took--or was stolen--or something--bunker said those houses were his. but not lost. you can't lose a house. you may lose a figurehead." he got up and looked outside to see if his were safe. "or a big drum. but not a house." "oh!" harry started. "bunker said the houses were his, did he?" "of course he did." "and if the baby had not died, those houses would still be the property of that baby, i suppose." but mr. maliphant made no reply. he was now in the full enjoyment of the intoxication produced by his morning-pipe, and was sitting in his arm-chair with his feet on the fender, disposed, apparently, for silence. presently he began to talk, as usual, to himself. nor could he be induced, by any leading questions, to remember anything more of the things which harry wanted him to remember. but he let his imagination wander. gradually the room became filled with dead people, and he was talking with them. nor did he seem to know that harry was with him at all. harry slipped quietly away, shutting the door after him, so that the old man might be left quite alone with the ghosts. the yard, littered with wood, crowded with the figureheads, all of which seemed turning inquiring and jealous eyes upon the stranger, was silent and ghostly. thither came the old man every day, to sit before the fire in his little red-and-green doll's house, to cook his own beefsteak for himself, to drink his glass of grog after dinner, to potter about among his carved heads, to talk to his friends the ghosts, to guard his property, and to execute the orders which never came. for the shipbuilders who had employed old mr. maliphant were all dead and gone, and nobody knew of his yard any more, and he had it all to himself. the tide of time had carried away all his friends and left him alone; the memory of him among active men was gone; no one took any more interest in him, and he had ceased to care for anything: to look back was his only pleasure. no one likes to die at any time, but who would wish to grow so old? and those houses. why, if the old man's memory was right, then bunker had simply appropriated his property. was that, harry asked, the price for which he traded the child away? he went straight away to his cousin dick, who, mindful of the recent speech at the club, was a little disposed to be resentful. it fortunately takes two to make a quarrel, however, and one of those two had no intention of a family row. "never mind, dick," he said in answer to an allusion to the speech. "hang the club. i want to ask you about something else. now, then. tell me about your grandfather." "i cannot. he died before i can remember. he was a builder." "did he leave property?" "there were some houses, i believe. my father lost his share, i know. speculated it away." "your uncle bob. what became of his share?" "bob was a worthless chap. he drank everything, so of course he drank up his houses." "then we come to the two daughters. bunker married one, and of course he got his wife's share. what became of my mother's share?" "indeed, harry, i do not know." "who would know?" "bunker ought to be able to tell you all about it. of course he knows." "dick," said harry, "should you be astonished to learn that the respectable uncle bunker is a mighty great rogue? but say nothing, dick. say nothing. let me consider how to bring the thing home to him." chapter xxx. the professor's proposal. when the professor called upon angela that same sunday morning and requested an interview, she perceived that something serious was intended. he had on, as if for an occasion, a new coat with a flower in the buttonhole, a chrysanthemum. his face was extremely solemn, and his fingers, which always seemed restless and dissatisfied unless they were making things disappear and come again, were quite still. certainly, he had something on his mind. the drawing-room had one or two girls in it, who were reading and talking, though they ought to have been in church--angela left their religious duties to their own consciences. but the dining-room was empty and the interview was held there. the professor had certainly made up in his own mind exactly what was going to be said: he had dramatized the situation--a very good plan if you are quite sure of the replies; otherwise, you are apt to be put out. "miss kennedy," he began, with a low voice, "allow me, first of all, to thank you for your great kindness during a late season of depression." "i am very glad it is a _late_ season," said angela; "that means, i presume, that the depression has passed away." "quite, i am glad to say; in fact," the professor laughed cheerfully, "i have got engagements from now to nearly the end of april in the country, and am in treaty for a west-end engagement in may. industry and application, not to speak of talent, will make their way in the long run. but i hope i am none the less grateful to you for your loan--let me call it a loan--when things were tight. i assure you, miss kennedy, that the run into the country, after those parish registers, was as good as a week's engagement, simple as it looked, and as for that saturday night for your girls----" "o professor, we were agreed that it should appear to be given by you for nothing." "never mind what it was agreed. you know very well what was paid for it. now, if it hadn't been for that night's performance and that little trip into the country, i verily believe they would have had to send for a nice long box for me--a box that can't be palmed, and i should have gone off in it to a country where perhaps they don't care for conjuring." "in that case, professor, i am very glad to have been of help." "and so," he went on--following the programme he had laid down in his own mind--"and so i came here to-day to ask if your interest in conjuring could be stimulated to a professional height." "really, i do not know. professional? you mean----" "anybody can see that you've showed an interest in the subject beyond what is expected or found in women. what i came here to-day for is to ask whether you like the conjurer well enough to take to conjuring?" angela laughed and was astonished, after being told by daniel fagg that he would honor her by making her his wife, but for certain reasons of age. now, having became hardened, it seemed but a small thing to receive the offer of a conjurer, and the proposal to join the profession. "i think it must be the science, professor," she said; "yes, it must be the science that i like so much. not the man who exhibits his skill in the science. yes, i think of your admirable science." "ah," he heaved a deep sigh, "you are quite right, miss; science is better than love. love! what sort of a thing is that, when you get tired of it in a month? but science fills up all your life: people are always learning--always." "i am so glad, professor, that i can agree with you entirely." "which makes me bolder," he said, "because we could be useful to each other, without pretending to be in love, or any nonsense of that sort." "indeed. now, i shall be very pleased to be useful to you without, as you say, any foolish pretence or nonsense." "the way is this: you can play, can't you?" "yes." "and sing?" "yes." "did you ever dance in tights?" "no, i never did that." "ah, well--it's a pity; but one can't expect everything. and no doubt you'd take to it easy. they all do. did you ever sing on the stage--at a music-hall, i mean?" "no. i never did." "there was a chap--but i suppose he was a liar--said you used to sing under an electric light at the canterbury, with a character dance, and a topical song, and a kick up at the finish." "yes, professor. i think that 'chap' must certainly be written down a liar. but go on." "i told him he was, and he offered to fight me for half a crown. when i said i'd do it, and willingly, for a bob, he went away. i think he's the fellow harry goslett knocked down one night. bunker put him up to it. bunker doesn't like you. never mind him. look here, now." "i am looking as hard as i can." "there's some things that bring the money in, and some that don't. dressmaking don't; conjurin' does." "yet you yourself, professor--" "why," he asked, "because i am only four-and-twenty, and not much known as yet. give me time; wait. lord! to see the clumsy things done by the men who've got a name. and how they go down; and a child would spot the dodge! now, mark my words--if you go in with me, there's a fortune in it." "for your sake, i am glad to hear it; but it must be without me." "it is for your sake that i tell you of it." he was not in love at all. love and science have never yet really composed their differences; and there was not the least dropping of his voice, or any sign of passion in his speech. "for your sake," he repeated. "because, if you can be got to see your way as i see it, there's a fortune for both of us." "oh!" "yes: now, miss, listen. conjuring, like most things, is makin' believe and deceivin'. what we do is, to show you one thing and to do another. the only thing is, to do it so quick that it shan't be seen even by the few men who know how it is done. no woman yet was ever able to be a conjurer, which is a rum thing, because their fingers do pretty for music, and lace-work, and such. but for conjurin', they haven't the mind. you want a man's brain for such work." "i have always," said angela, "felt what poor, weak things we are, compared with men." "yes, you are," continued the professor gallantly. "but you do have your uses in the world--most things have. now, as a confederate or assistant, there's nobody like a woman. they do what they are told to do. they are faithful over the secrets. they learn their place on the platform and they stay there. some professors carry about a boy with them. but you can't place any real trust in a boy; he's always up to tricks, and if you wallop him--likely as not, next night he'll take and spoil your best trick out of revenge. some have a man to help, but then he learns the secrets and tries to cut you out; but with a woman you're always pretty safe. a daughter's best; because then you pocket all the money yourself. but a wife is next best so long as she keeps steady and acts on the square." "i never thought of it before," said angela, "but i suppose it is as you say, and the real object for which women were created must have been the assistance of conjurers." "of course," said the professor, failing to see the delicate sarcasm of this remark--"of course. what better thing could they do? why, here you sit slaving all day long, and all the year round; and what are you the better for it? a bare living--that's all you get out of it. whether you go into shops, behind a bar, or into the workroom, it's the same story--a bare living. look at the conjurin' line now: you live in splendor; you go on the stage in a most beautiful costume--silks and satins, gold and spangles; tights, if you like. you travel about the country free. you hear the people clapping their hands whenever you go in; and believin' that you do it all yourself. you've got nothing to do but just what you are told, and that's your life--with pockets full of money, and the proud consciousness that you are making your fortune." "it certainly seems very beautiful to look at; are there no drawbacks?" "none," answered the enthusiast. "it's the best profession in the world--there's no danger in it. there's no capital required. all it wants is cleverness. that's why i come to you; because you are a real clever girl, and what's more, you're good-looking--it is not always that looks and brains go together." "very well, professor. let us come to the point--what is it you want me to do?" "i want you, miss kennedy, to go about the country with me. you shall be my assistant; you shall play the piano, and come on dressed in a pink costume--which generally fetches at an entertainment. nothing to say; and i will teach you by degrees all the dodges, and the way it's done you will learn. you'll be surprised when you find how easy it is, and yet how you can't do it. and when you hear the people telling what they saw, and you know just exactly what they could have seen if they'd had their eyes in their heads, you'll laugh--you will." "but i'm afraid i can't think----" "don't raise difficulties, now," he spoke persuasively. "i am coming to them directly. i've got ideas in my head which i can't carry through without a real, clever confederate. and you must be that confederate. electricity: now"--he lowered his voice, and whispered--"none of the conjurers have got a battery at work. think of new feats of marvel and magic never before considered possible; and done secret by electricity. what a shame--what a cruel shame, to have let the world get hold of electricity! why, it ought to have been kept for conjurers. and telephones--again, what a scope there is in a good telephone! you and me together, miss kennedy, could knock up an entertainment as nobody ever yet dreamed of. if you could dance a bit it would be an advantage. but, if you won't, of course, we must give it up. and, as to the dressmaking rubbish, why in a week you will be wondering how in the world you ever came to waste your time upon it at all, while such a chance was going about in the world. not that i blame you for it; not at all. it was your ignorance kept you out of it, and your good luck threw you in the way of it." "that may be so. but still, i am not sure----" "i haven't done yet. look here! i've been turning the thing over in my own mind a good bit. the only way i can think of for such a girl as you to go about the country with a show is for you to be married to the showman--so i'll marry you before we start, and then we shall be comfortable and happy, and ready for the fortune to come in. and you'll be quite sure of your share in it." "thank you, professor." "very good, then; no need for thanks. i've got engagements in the country for over three months. we'll marry at once, and you can spend that time in learning." angela laughed. were women of "her class," she thought, so easily won, and so unceremoniously wooed? were there no preliminary advances, soft speeches, words of compliment and flattery? "i've been laying out a plan," the professor went on, "for the most complete thing you ever saw! never before attempted on any stage! marvelous optical illusion. hush--electricity!" [he said this in a stage whisper.] "you are to be a fairy. stale old business, isn't it? but it always pays. silk stockin's and gauze, with a wand. i'm sinbad the sailor, or robinson crusoe. it doesn't matter what; and then you----" "stay a moment, professor"--she laid her hand upon his arm--"you have not waited for my answer. i cannot, unfortunately, marry you; nor can i go about the country with you; nor can i possibly become your confederate and assistant." "you can't marry me? why not, when i offer you a fortune?" "not even for fortune." "why not?" "well, for many reasons. one of them is that i cannot leave my dressmaking--rubbish, as it seems to you. that is, indeed, a sufficient reason." "oh!"--his face becoming sad--"and i set my heart upon it! the very first time i saw you i said to myself, 'there's a girl for the business--never was such a girl!' and to think you're thrown away on a dressmaking business. oh! it's too bad! and that you're contented with your lot, humble as it is, when i offer to make you an artist, and to give you a fortune. that's what cuts me to the quick--that you should be contented." "i am very much ashamed of myself," said angela, with contrition; "but, you see, what you ask is impossible." "and i only made up my mind last night that i would marry you, if nothing else would do." "did you--poor professor! i am quite sorry for you; but you should never marry a woman unless you are in love with her. now it's quite clear that you are not in love with me." "love! i've got my work to think of." "then good-morning, professor. let us part friends, if i cannot accept your offer." he took her offered hand with reluctance, and in sorrow more than in anger. "do you really understand," he asked, "what you are throwing away? fame and fortune--nothing less." she laughed, and drew back her hand, shaking her head. "oh, the woman's a fool!" cried the professor, losing his temper, and slamming the door after him. chapter xxxi. captain coppin. it was at this time that tom coppin, captain coppin of the salvation army, paid his only visit to angela, that visit that caused so much sensation among the girls. he chose a quiet evening early in the week. why he came has never been quite clear. it was not curiosity, for he had none; nor was it a desire to study the kind of culture which angela had introduced among her friends, for he had no knowledge of, or desire for, culture at all. nor does the dressmakers' workshop afford a congenial place for the exercise of that soldier's gifts. he came, perhaps, because he was passing on his way from a red-hot prayer meeting to a red-hot preaching, and he thought he would see the place which among others, the advanced club for instance, was keeping his brother from following in his own steps, and helping him to regard the world, its pleasures and pursuits, with eyes of affection. one knows not what he expected to find or what he proposed by going there, because the things he did find completely upset all his expectations, if he had any. visions, perhaps, of the soul-destroying dance, and the red cup, and the loud laughter of fools, and the talk that is as the crackling of thorns, were in his mind. the room was occupied, as usual, with the girls, angela among them. captain sorensen was there too; the girls were quietly busy, for the most part, over "their own" work, because, if they would go fine, they must make their own fineries; it was a frosty night, and the fire was burning clear; in the most comfortable chair beside it sat the crippled girl of whom we know; the place was hers by a sort of right; she was gazing into the flames, listening lazily to the music--angela had been playing--and doing nothing, with contentment. life was so sweet to the child when she was not suffering pain, and was warm, and was not hungry, and was not hearing complaints, that she wanted nothing more. nelly, for her part, sat with hands folded pensively, and angela wondered what, of late days, it was that seemed to trouble her. suddenly the door opened, and a man, dressed in a tight uniform of dark cloth and a cap of the same, with "s. s." upon it, like the lord mayor's gold chain, stood before them. he did not remove his cap, but he looked round the room, and presently called in a loud, harsh voice: "which of you here answers to the name of kennedy?" "i do," replied angela; "my name is kennedy. what is yours, and why do you come here?" "my name is coppin. my work is to save souls. i tear them out of the very clutches and claws of the devil; i will have them; i leave them no peace until i have won them; i cry aloud to them; i shout to them; i pray for them; i sing to them; i seek them out in their hiding-places, even in their dens and courts of sin; there are none too far gone for my work; none that i will let go once i get a grip of them; once my hand is on them out they must come if the devil and all his angels were pulling them the other way. for my strength is not of myself; it is----" "but why do you come here?" asked angela. the man had the same black hair and bright eyes as his brother; the same strong voice, although a long course of street-shouting had made it coarse and rough; but his eyes were brighter, his lips more sensitive, his forehead higher; he was like his brother in all respects, yet so unlike that, while the radical had the face of a strong man, the preacher had in his the indefinable touch of weakness which fanaticism always brings with it. whatever else it was, however, the face was that of a man terribly in earnest. "i have heard about you," he said. "you are of those who cry peace when there is no peace; you entice the young men and maidens who ought to be seeking pardon and preaching repentance, and you destroy their souls with dancing and music. i come here to tell you that you are one of the instruments of the devil in this wicked town." "have you really come here, mr. coppin, on purpose to tell me that?" "that," he said, "is part of my message." "do you think," asked angela, because this was almost intolerable, "that it is becoming a preacher like yourself to invade a quiet and private house in order to insult a woman?" "truth is not insult," he said. "i come here as i would go to a theatre or a singing-hall or any soul-destroying place. you shall hear the plain truth. with your music and your dancing and your pleasant ways, you are corrupting the souls of many. my brother is hardened in his unrepentance since he knew you. my cousin goes on laughing, and dances over the very pit of destruction, through you. these girls----" "oh!" cried rebekah, who had no sympathy with the salvation army, and felt herself an authority when the religious question was touched, "they are all mad. let him go away." "i would," replied the captain, "that you were half as mad. oh! i know you now; i know you snug professors of a saturday religion----" "your mission," angela interrupted, "is not, i am sure, to argue about another sect. come, mr. coppin, now that you have told us who you are and what is your profession and why you come here, you might like to preach to us. do so, if you will. we were sitting here quietly when you came, and you interrupt nothing. so that, if it would really make you feel any happier, you may preach to us for a few minutes." he looked about him in hesitation. this kind of preaching was not in his line: he loved a vast hall with a thousand faces looking at him; or a crowd of turbulent roughs ready to answer the message with a volley of brickbats; or a chance gathering of unrepentant sinners in a wide thoroughfare. he could lift up his voice to them; but to preach in a quiet room to a dozen girls was a new experience. and it was not the place which he had expected. his brother, in their last interview, had thrown in his teeth this house and its doings as offering a more reasonable solution of life's problems than his own. "you want everybody," he said, "to join you in singing and preaching every day; what should we do when there was nobody left to preach at? now, there, what they say is, 'let us make ourselves comfortable.' there's a deal in that, come to think of. "look at those girls now: while you and your happy elizas are trampin' in the mud with your flag and your procession, and gettin' black eyes and brickbats, they are singin' and laughin' and dancin', and makin' what fun they can for themselves. it seems to me, tom, that if this kind of thing gets fashionable you and your army will be played out." well, he had come to see this place, which had offered pleasure instead of repentance, as a method of improving life. they were not laughing and singing at all; there were no men present except one old gentleman in a blue coat with brass buttons. to be sure, he had a fiddle lying on a chair beside him. there was no indication whatever of the red cup, and no smell of tobacco. now, pleasure without drink, tobacco, and singing had been in tom's unregenerate days incomprehensible. "i would rather," said dick, "see an army of miss kennedy's girls than an army of hallelujah polls." yet they seemed perfectly quiet. "make 'em happy, tom, first," said dick, who was still thinking over harry's speech as a possible point of departure. happiness is not a word in the dictionary of men like tom coppin; they know what it means; they know a spree; they understand drink; they know misery, because it is all round them--the misery of hunger, of disease, of intemperance, of dirt, of evil temper, of violence; the misery which the sins of one bring all, and sins of all upon each. indeed, we need not go to whitechapel to find out misery. but they know not happiness. for such as captain coppin there is, as an alternative for misery, the choice of glory. what they mean by glory is ecstasy, the rapture, the mysteries of emotional religion; he, they believe, is the most advanced who is most often hysterical; dick, like many of his followers, yearned honestly and unselfishly to extend this rapture which he himself so often enjoyed: but that there should be any other way out of the misery save by way of the humble stool of conviction, was a thing which he could not understand. happiness, calm, peace, content, the sweet enjoyment of innocent recreation--these things he knew nothing of; they had not come his way. he had come; he had seen; no doubt the moment his back was turned the orgy would begin. but he had delivered his message: he had warned the young woman who had led the girls--that calm, cold woman who looked at him with curiosity and was so unmoved by what he said: he might go. with his whole heart he had spoken and had so far moved no one except the daughter of the seventh-day independent--and her only a little. this kind of thing is very irritating. suppose you were to put a red-hot poker into a jug of water without producing any steam or hissing at all, how, as a natural philosopher, would you feel? "you may preach to us, if you like," said miss kennedy. she sat before him, resting her chin upon her hand. he knew that she was beautiful, although women and their faces, graces, and sweet looks played no part at all in his thoughts. he felt, without putting the thing into words, that she was beautiful. also, that she regarded him with a kind of contempt, as well as curiosity; also, that she had determined not to be moved by anything he might say; also, that she relied on her own influence over the girls. and he felt for a moment as if his trusty arms were dropping from his hands and his whole armor was slipping from his shoulders. not her beauty; no, fifty helens of troy would not have moved this young apostle; but her position as an impregnable outsider. for against the curious outsider, who regard captains in the salvation army only as so many interesting results of growing civilization, their officers are powerless indeed. if there is any real difference between the working-man of england and the man who does other work, it is that the former is generally emotional and the latter is not. to the man of emotion things cannot be stated too strongly; his leader is he who has the greatest command of adjectives; he is singularly open to the charm of eloquence; he likes audacity of statement; he likes to be moved by wrath, pity, and terror; he has no eye for shades of color; and when he is most moved he thinks he is most right. it is this which makes him so angry with the people who cannot be moved. angela was one of those persons who cannot be moved by the ordinary methods. she looked at tom as if he was some strange creature, watching what he did, listening to what he said, as if she was not like unto him. it is not quite a fair way of describing angela's attitude of mind; but it is near enough; and it represents what passed through the brain of the salvation captain. "will you preach to us?" she repeated the third time. he mechanically opened his hymn-book. "number three hundred and sixty-two," he said quietly. he sang the hymn all by himself, at the top of his voice, so that the windows rattled, to one of those rousing and popular melodies which have been pressed into the service of the army; it was, in fact, "molly darling," and the people at stepney green asked each other in wonder if a meeting of the salvation army was actually being held at miss kennedy's. when he had finished his hymn he began to preach. he stammered at first, because the surroundings were strange; besides, the cold, curious eyes of miss kennedy chilled him. presently, however, he recovered self-possession, and began his address. there is one merit, at least, possessed by these preachers; it is that of simplicity. whatever else they may be, they are always the same; even the words do not vary while there is but one idea. if you want to influence the dull of comprehension, such as the common donkey, there is but one way possible. he cannot be led, or coaxed, or persuaded; he must be thwacked. father stick explains and makes apparent, instantly, what the logic of all the schools has failed to prove. in the same way, if you wish to awaken the spiritual emotions among people who have hitherto been strange to them, your chance is not by argument, but by appeals, statements, prophecies, threats, terrors, and pictures, which, in fact, do exactly correspond, and produce the same effect as father stick; they are so many knock-down blows; they belabor and they terrify. the preacher began: the girls composed themselves to listen, with the exception of rebekah, who went on with her work ostentatiously, partly to show her disapproval of such irregular proceedings and partly as one who, having got the truth from an independent source, and being already advanced in the narrow way, had no occasion for the captain's persuasion. it is one thing to hear the voice of a street preacher in his own church, so to speak, that is, on the curbstone, and quite another thing to hear the same man and the same person in a quiet room. tom coppin had only one sermon, though he dressed it up sometimes, but not often, in new words. yet he was relieved of monotony by the earnestness which he poured into it. he believed in it, himself; that goes a long way. angela began by thinking of the doctrine, but presently turned her attention to the preacher, and began to think what manner of man he was. personally he was pale and thin, with strong black hair, like his brother, and his eyes were singularly bright. here was a man of the people: self-taught; profoundly ignorant as to the many problems of life and its solutions; filled, however, with that noble sympathy which makes prophets, poets, martyrs; wholly possessed of faith in his narrow creed, owning no authority of church or priest; believing himself under direct divine guidance, chosen and called, the instrument of merciful heaven to drag guilty souls from the pit; consciously standing as a servant, day and night, before a throne which other men regard afar off or cannot see at all; actually living the life of hardship, privation, and ill-treatment, which he preached; for the sake of others, enduring hardness, poverty, contumely; taking all these things as part and parcel of the day's work; and, in the name of duty, searching into corners and holes of this great town for the vilest, the most hardened, the most depraved, the most blinded to a higher life. this, if you please, is not a thing to be laughed at. what did wesley more? what did whitfield? nay, what did paul? they paid him for his services, it is true; they gave him five-and-twenty shillings a week; some of this great sum he gave away; the rest provided him with poor and simple food. he had no pleasures or joys of life; he had no recreations; he had no hope of any pleasures; some of the officers of his army--being men and women as well as preachers--loved each other and were married; but this man had no thought of any such thing, he, as much as any monk, was vowed to the service of the master, without rest or holiday, or any other joy than that of doing the work that lay before him. a great pity and sympathy filled angela's heart as she thought of these things. the man before her was for the moment a prophet; it mattered nothing that his creed was narrow, his truths only half truths, his doctrine commonplace, his language in bad taste, his manner vulgar; the faith of the man covered up and hid these defects; he had a message to mankind; he was delivering that message; to him it was a fresh, new message, never before intrusted to any man; he had to deliver it perpetually, even though he went in starvation. angela's heart softened as she realized the loyalty of the man. he saw the softening in her eyes and thought it was the first sign of conviction. but it was not. meantime, if angela was thinking of the preacher, the girls, of course with the exception of rebekah, were trembling at his words. suddenly--the unexpected change was a kind of rhetorical trick which often proved effective--the preacher ceased to denounce and threaten, and spoke of pardon and peace; he called upon them in softer voice, in accents full of tears and love, to break down their pride, to hear the voice that called them.... we know well enough what he said, only we do not know how he said it. angela looked about the room. the captain sat with his hands on his knees, and his face dutifully lifted to the angle which denotes attention; his expression was unmoved; evidently, the captain was not open to conviction. as for the girls, they might be divided into classes. they had all listened to the threats and the warnings, though they had heard them often enough before; now, however, some of them seemed as if they were impatient, and as if with a little encouragement they could break into scoffing. but others were crying, and one or two were steadfastly regarding the speaker, as if he had mesmerized them. among these was nelly. her eyes were fixed, her lips were parted, her breathing was quick, her cheek was pale. great and wonderful is the power of eloquence; there are few orators; this ex-printer, this uneducated man of the ranks was, like his brother, born with the gift that is so rare. he should have been taken away and taught, and kept from danger, and properly fed and cared for. and now it is too late. they said of him in his connection that he was blessed in the saving of souls: the most stubborn, the most hardened, when they fell under the magic of his presence and his voice, were broken and subdued; what wonder that a weak girl should give way? when he paused he looked round; he noted the faces of those whom he had mesmerized; he raised his arm; he pointed to nelly and beckoned her, without a word, to rise. then the girl stood up as if she could not choose but obey. she moved a step toward him; in a moment she would have been at his feet, with sobs and tears, in the passion of self-abasement which is so dear to the revivalist. but angela broke the spell. she sprang toward her, caught her in her own arms, and passed her hand before her eyes. "nelly!" she said gently. "nelly, dear." the girl sank back in her chair, and buried her face in her hands. but the moment was gone, and captain coppin had lost his recruit. they all breathed a deep sigh. those who had not been moved looked at each other and laughed; those who were, dried their eyes and seemed ashamed. "thank you," said angela to the preacher. "you have preached very well, and i hope your words will help us on our way, even though it is not quite your way." "then be of our way. cease from scoffing." she shook her head. "no, i do not scoff, but i cannot join your way. leave us now, mr. coppin. you are a brave man. let us reverence courage and loyalty. but we will have no more sermons in this room. good-night." she offered him her hand, but he would not take it, and with a final warning, addressed to angela in particular and the room in general, he went as he had come, without greeting or word of thanks. "these salvation people," said rebekah, "are all mad. if people want the way of truth there's the chapel in redman's row, and father's always in it every saturday." "what do you say, captain sorensen?" asked angela. "the church of england," said the captain, who had not been moved a whit, "says that two sacraments are necessary. i find nothing about stools of repentance. come, nelly, my girl, remember that you are a church-woman." "yet," said angela, "what are we to say when a man is so brave and true, and when he lives the life? nelly dear--girls all--i think that religion should not be a terror but a great calm and a trust. let us love each other and do our work and take the simple happiness that god gives, and have faith. what more can we do? to-night, i think, we cannot dance or sing, but i will play to you." she played to them--grand and solemn music--so that the terror went out of their brains, and the hardening out of their hearts, and next day all was forgotten. in this manner and this once did tom coppin cross angela's path. now he will cross it no more, because his work is over. if a man lives on less than the bare necessaries in order to give to others; if he does the work of ten men; if he gives himself no rest any day in the week, what happens to that man when typhus seizes him? he died, as he had lived, in glory, surrounded by joyful jane, hallelujah jem, happy polly, thankful sarah, and the rest of them. his life has been narrated in the "_war cry_;" it is specially recorded of him that he was always "on the mountains," which means, in their language, that he was a man of strong faith, free from doubt, and of emotional nature. the extremely wicked and hardened family, consisting of an old woman and half a dozen daughters, for whose soul's sake he starved himself and thereby fell an easy prey to the disease, have nearly all found a refuge in the workhouse, and are as hardened as ever, though not so wicked, because some kinds of wickedness are not allowed in that place of virtue. therefore it seems almost as if poor tom's life has been fooled away. according to a philosophy which makes a great deal of noise just now, every life is but a shadow, a dream, a mockery, a catching at things impossible, and a waste of good material, ending with the last breath. then all our lives are fooled away, and why not tom's as well as the rest? but if the older way of thinking is, after all, right, then that life can hardly have been wasted which was freely given--even if the gift was not accepted--for the advantage of others. because the memory and the example remain, and every example--if boys and girls could only be taught this copy-book truth--is like an inexhaustible horn, always filled with precious seed. chapter xxxii. bunker at bay. harry was thinking a good deal about the old man's strange story of the houses. there was, to be sure, little dependence to be placed in the rambling, disjointed statements made by so old a man. but, then, this statement was so clear and precise. there were so many children--there were so many houses (three for each child), and he knew exactly what became of all those houses. if the story had been told by a man in the prime of life, it could not have been more exact and detailed. but what were the houses--where were they? and how could he prove that they were his own? what did bunker get when he traded the child away? harry had always been of opinion that he got a sum of money down, and that he was now ashamed of the transaction, and would fain have it remain unknown. this solution accounted, or seemed to account, for his great wrath and agitation when the subject was mentioned. out of a mischievous delight in making his uncle angry, harry frequently alluded to this point; but the story of the houses was a better solution still. it accounted for mr. bunker's agitation as well as his wrath. but his wrath and his terror appeared to harry to corroborate very strongly the old man's story. and the longer he thought about it the more strongly he believed it. harry asked his landlady whether, in her opinion, if mr. maliphant made a statement, that statement was to be accepted as true? mrs. bormalack replied that as he never made any statement, except in reference to events long since things of the past, it was impossible for her to say whether they were true or not; that his memory was clean gone for things of the present--so that of to-day and yesterday he knew nothing; that his thoughts were always running on the old days; and that when he could be heard right through, without dropping his voice at all, he sometimes told very interesting and curious things. his board and lodging were paid for him by his grandson, a most respectable gentleman, and a dockmaster; and that as to the old man's business he had none, and had had none for many years, being clean forgotten--although he did go every day to his yard, and stayed there all day long. harry thought he would pay him another visit. perhaps something more would be remembered. he went there again in the morning. the street, at the end of which was the yard, was as quiet as on the sunday, the children being at school and the men at work. the great gates were closed and locked, but the small side-door was unlocked. when he opened it all the figureheads turned quickly and anxiously to look at him. at least harry declares they did, and spiritualists will readily believe him. was he, they asked, going to take one of them away and stick it on the bow of a great ship, and send it up and down upon the face of the ocean to the four corners of the world. ha! they were made for an active life. they pined away in this inactivity. a fig for the dangers of the deep! from saucy sal to neptune they all asked the same question in the same hope. harry shook his head, and they sighed sadly and resumed sadly their former positions, as they were, eyes front, waiting till night should fall and the old man should go, and they could talk with each other. "this," thought harry, "is a strange and ghostly place." you know the old and creepy feeling caused by the presence, albeit unseen, of ghosts. one may feel it anywhere and at all times--in church, at a theatre, in bed at night--by broad daylight--in darkness or in twilight. this was in the sunshine of a bright december day--the last days of the year were singularly bright and gracious. the place was no dark chamber or gloomy vault, but a broad and open yard, cheerfully decorated with carved figureheads. yet, even here, harry experienced the touch of ghostliness. the place was so strange that it did not astonish him at all to see the old man suddenly appear in the door of his doll's house, waving his hand and smiling cheerily, as one who speeds the parting guest. the salutations were not intended for harry, because mr. maliphant was not looking at him. presently he ceased gesticulating, became suddenly serious (as happens to one when his friend's back is turned, or he has vanished), and returned to his seat by the fire. harry softly followed, and stood before him waiting to be recognized. the old man looked up at last, and nodded his head. "been entertaining your friends, mr. maliphant?" "bob was here, only bob. you have just missed bob," he replied. "that's a pity--never mind. can you, my ancient, carry your memory back some twenty years? you did it, you know, last sunday for me." "twenty years? ay, ay--twenty years. i was only sixty-five or so then. it seems a long time until it is gone--twenty years! well, young man, twenty years--why, it is only yesterday!" "i mean to the time when caroline coppin, you know your old friend caroline, was married." "that was twenty years before, and more; when william the fourth died and queen victoria (then a young thing) came long to reign over us----" his voice sank, and he continued the rest of his reminiscence to himself. "but caroline coppin?" "i'm telling you about caroline coppin, only you won't listen." there was nothing more to be got out of him. his recent conversation with bob's spirit had muddled him for the day, and he mixed up caroline with her mother or grandmother. he relapsed into silence, and sat with his long pipe unfilled in his hand, looking into the fireplace; gone back in imagination to the past. as the old man made no sign of conversation, but rather of a disposition to "drop off" for a few minutes, harry began to look about the room. on the table lay a bundle of old letters. it was as if the living and the dead had been reading them together. harry took them up and turned them over, wondering what secrets of long ago were contained in those yellow papers, with their faded ink. the old man's eyes were closed--he took no heed of his visitor; and harry standing at the table began shamelessly to read the letters. they were mostly the letters of a young sailor addressed to one apparently a good deal older than himself--for they abounded in such appellations as "my ancient," "venerable," "old salt," and so forth. but the young man did not regard his correspondent with the awe which age should inspire, but rather as a gay and rollicking spirit who would sympathize with the high-jinks of younger men, even if he no longer shared in them, and who was an old and still delighted treader of those flowery paths which are said by moralists to be planted with the frequent pitfall and the crafty trap. "the old man," thought harry, "must have been an admirable guide to youth, and the disciple was apt to learn." sometimes the letters were signed "bob," sometimes "r. coppin," sometimes "r. c." harry, therefore, surmised that the writer was no other than his own uncle bob, whose ghost he had just missed. bob was an officer on board of an east indiaman, but he spoke not of such commonplace matters as the face of the ocean or the voice of the tempest. he only wrote from port, and told what things he had seen and done, what he had consumed in ardent drink. the letters were brief, which seemed as well, because if literary skill had been present to dress up effectively the subjects treated, a literary monument might have been erected, the like of which the world has never seen. it is, indeed, a most curious and remarkable circumstance that even in realistic france the true course of the prodigal has never been faithfully described. now the great advantage formerly possessed by the sailor--an advantage cruelly curtailed by the establishment of "homes," and the introduction of temperance--was, that he could be and was a prodigal at the end of every cruise; while the voyage itself was an agreeable interval provided for recovery, recollection, and anticipation. "bob, uncle bob, was a flyer," said harry. "one should be proud of such an uncle. with bob and bunker and the bankrupt builder, i am indeed provided." there seemed nothing in the letters which bore upon the question of his mother's property, and he was going to put them down again, when he lighted upon a torn fragment on which he saw in bob's big handwriting the name of his cousin josephus. "josephus, my cousin, that he will ... (here a break in the continuity) ... 'nd the safe the bundle ... (another break) ... for a lark. josephus is a square-toes. i hate a man who wont' drink. he will ... (another break) if he looks there. your health and song, shipmate.--r. c." he read this fragment two or three times over. what did it mean? clearly nothing to himself. "josephus is a square-toes." very likely. the prodigal bob was not. quite the contrary--he was a young man of extremely mercurial temperament. "josephus, my cousin, that he will ... 'nd the safe the bundle." he put down the paper, and without waking the old man he softly left the room and the place, shutting the door behind him; and then he forgot immediately the torn letter and its allusion to josephus. he thought next that he would go to bunker and put the question directly to him. the man might be terrified--might show confusion--might tell lies. that would matter little; but if he showed his hand too soon bunker might be put upon his guard. well, that mattered little--what harry hoped was, rather to get at the truth than to recover his houses. "i want," he said, finding his uncle at home, and engaged in his office drawing up bills--"i want a few words of serious talk with you, my uncle." "i am busy; go away--i never want to talk to you. i hate the very sight of your face." he looked indeed as if he did--if a flushing cheek and an angry glare of the eyes are any sign. "i am not going away until you have answered my questions. as to your hatred or your affection, that does not concern me at all. now will you listen, or shall i wait?" "to get rid of you the sooner," growled bunker, "i will listen now. if i was twenty years younger i'd kick you out." "if you were twenty years younger, there might, it is true, be a fight. now then?" "well, get along--my time is valuable." "i have several times asked you what you got for me when you sold me. you have on those occasions allowed yourself to fall into a rage, which is really dangerous in so stout a man. i am not going to ask you that question any more." mr. bunker looked relieved. "because, you see, i know now what you got." mr. bunker turned very pale. "what do you know?" "i know exactly what you got when i was taken away." mr. bunker said nothing; yet there was in his eyes a look as if a critical moment long expected had at last arrived, and he waited. "when my mother died and you became my guardian, i was not left penniless." "it's a lie--you were." "if i had been, you would have handed me over to your brother-in-law, coppin, the builder; but i had property." "you had nothing." "i had three houses--one of those houses is, i believe, that which has been rented from you, by miss kennedy. i do not know yet where the other two are; but i shall find out." "you are on a wrong tack," said his uncle; "now i know why you wouldn't go away. you came here to ferret and fish, did you? you thought you were entitled to property, did you? ho!--you're a nice sort o' chap to have house property, ain't you? ha! ho!" but his laughter was not mirthful. "let me point out," harry went gravely on, "what it is you have done. the child whom you kept for a year or two was heir to a small estate, bringing in, i suppose, about eighty or a hundred pounds a year. we will say that you were entitled to keep that money in return for his support; but when that child was carried away and adopted you said nothing about the property. you kept it for yourself, and you have received the rents year after year, as if the house belonged to you. shall i go on, and tell you what judges and lawyers and police people call this sort of conduct?" "where's your proofs?" asked the other--his face betraying his emotion. "where's your proofs?" "i have none yet--i am going to search for those proofs." "you can't find them--there are none. now, young man, you have had your say, and you can go. do you hear? you can go." "you deny, then, that the houses were mine?" "if you'd come to me meek and lowly--as is your humble station in life--i would ha' told you the history of those houses. yes, your mother had them, same as her brothers and her sister. where are they now? i've got 'em all--i've got 'em all. how did i get 'em? by lawful and honorable purchase--i bought 'em. do you want proofs? you shan't have any proofs. if you'd behaved humble you should ha' seen those proofs. now you may go away and do your worst. do you hear? you may do your worst." he shook his fist in harry's face. his words were brave, but his voice was shaky and his lips were trembling. "i don't believe you," said harry. "i am certain that you did not buy my houses. there was no one left to care for my interests, and you took those houses." "this is the reward," said bunker, "for nussin' of this child for nigh upon three years. who would take an orphan into his bosom? but it was right, and i'd do it again. yes. i'd do it again." "i don't doubt you," the ungrateful nephew replied, "especially if that other orphan had three substantial houses, and there was nobody but yourself to look after him." "as for your proofs, go and look for them. when you've found 'em, bring 'em to me--you and your proofs." harry laughed. "i shall find them," he said; "but i don't know where or when. meantime you will go on as you do now--thinking continually that they may be found. you won't be able to sleep at night--you will dream of police courts. you will let your thoughts run on handcuffs--you will take to drink. you will have no pleasure in your life. you will hasten your end; you will----" here he desisted; for his uncle (dropping into his chair) looked as if he was about to swoon. "remember, i shall find these proofs some day. a hundred a year, for twenty years, is two thousand pounds. that's a large sum to hand over; and then, there is the interest. upon my word, my uncle, you will have to begin the world again." chapter xxxiii. mr. bunker's letter. two days after this angela received a wonderful letter. it was addressed to miss messenger, and was signed benjamin bunker. it ran as follows: "honored miss: as an old and humble friend of your late lamented grandfather, whose loss i can never recover from, nor has it yet been made up to me in any way"--angela laughed--"i venture to address the following lines in secrecy and confidence, knowing that what ought not to be concealed should be told in the proper quarter, which is you, miss, and none other. "everybody in these parts knows me; everybody knows bunker, your grandfather's right-hand man; wherefore what i write is with no other design than to warn you and to put you on your guard against the deceitful, and such as would abuse your confidingness, being but young--ay, yes, and therefore ignorant of dodges, and easy to come round. "you have been come round, and that in such a shameful way that i cannot bear myself any longer, and must take the liberty of telling you so, being an old and confidential adviser. your grandfather used to say that even the brewery wouldn't be where it is now if it hadn't been for me, not to speak of the house property, which is now a profitable investment, with rents regular and respectable tenants, whereas before i took it in hand the houses were out of repair, the rents backward, and the tenants too often such as would bring discredit on any estate. i therefore beg to warn you against two persons--young, i am sorry to say, which makes it worse, because it is only the old who should be thus depraved--whom you have benefited and they are unworthy of it. "one of them is a certain miss kennedy, a dressmaker, at least she says so. the other is--i write this with a blush of indignant shame--my own nephew, whose name is harry goslett." "bunker!" murmured angela. "is this fair to your own tenant and your own nephew?" "as regards my nephew, you have never inquired about him, and it was out of your kindness and a desire to mark your sense of me, that you gave him a berth in the brewery. that young man, miss, who calls himself a cabinet-maker and doesn't seem to know that a joiner is one thing and a cabinet-maker another, now does the joinery for the brewery, and makes, i am told, as much as two pounds a week, being a handy chap. if you asked me first, i should have told you that he is a lazy, indolent, free and easy, disrespectful, dangerous young man. he has been no one knows where; no one knows where he has worked, except that he talks about america; he looks like a betting man; i believe he drinks of a night; he has been living like a gentleman, doing no work, and i believe, though up to the present i haven't found out for certain, that he has been in trouble and knows what is a convict's feelings when the key is turned. because he is such a disgrace to the family, for his mother was a coppin and came of a respectable whitechapel stock, though not equal to the bunkers or the messengers, i went to him and offered him five-and-twenty pounds out of my slender stock to go away and never come back any more to disgrace us. five-and-twenty pounds i would have given to save messenger's brewery from such a villain." "bunker, bunker!" murmured angela again. "but he wouldn't take the money. you thought to do me a good turn and you done yourself a bad one. i don't know what mischief he has already done in the brewery, and perhaps he is watched; if so it may not yet be too late. send him about his business. make him go. you can then consider some other way of making it up to me for all that work for your grandfather whereof you now sweetly reap the benefit. "the other case, miss, is that of the young woman, kennedy by name, the dressmaker." "what of her, bunker?" asked angela. "i hear that you are givin' her your custom, not knowing, maybe, the kind of woman she is nor the mischief she's about. she's got a house of mine on false pretences." "really, bunker," said angela, "you are too bad." "otherwise i wouldn't let her have it, and at the end of the year out she goes. she has persuaded a lot of foolish girls, once contented with their lowly lot and thankful for their wages and their work, nor inclined to grumble when hours were long and work had to be done. she has promised them the profits, and meantime she feeds them up so that their eyes swell out with fatness. she gives them short hours, and sends them out into the garden to play games. games, if you please, and short hours for such as them. in the evening it's worse, for then they play and sing and dance, having young men to caper about with them, and you can hear them half a mile up the mile end road, so that it is a scandal to stepney green, once respectable, and the police will probably interfere. where she came from, who she was, how she got her money, we don't know. some say one thing, some say another; whatever they say it's a bad way. the worst is that when she smashes, as she must, because no ladies who respect virtue and humble-mindedness with contentment will employ her, that the other dressmakers and shops will have nothing to do with her girls, so that what will happen to them no one can tell. "i thought it right, miss, to give you this information, because it is certain that if you withdraw your support from these two undeserving people, they must go away, which as a respectable stepney man, i unite in wishing may happen before long, when the girls shall go on again as before and leave off dancing and singing to the rich, and be humble and contented with the trust to which they were born. "and as regards the kindness you were meditating toward me, miss, i think that i may say that none of my nephews--one of whom is a radical, and another a captain in the salvation army--deserves to receive any benefits at your hands, the least of all that villain who works in the brewery. wherefore, it may take the form of something for myself. and it is not for me to tell you, miss, how much that something ought to be for a man in years, of respectable station, and once the confidential friend of your grandfather, and prevented thereby from saving as much as he had otherwise a right to expect. "i remain, miss, your humble servant, "benjamin bunker." "this," said angela, "is a very impudent letter. how shall we bring him to book for it?" when she learned, as she speedily did, the great mystery about the houses and the coppin property, she began to understand the letter, the contents of which she kept to herself for the present. this was perhaps wise, for the theory implied rather than stated in the letter, that both should be ordered to go, for if one only was turned out of work both would stay. this theory made her smile and blush, and pleased her, insomuch that she was not so angry as she might otherwise have been, and should have been, with the crafty double-dealer who wrote the letter. it happened that mr. bunker had business on stepney green that morning, while angela was reading the letter. she saw him from the window, and could not resist the temptation of inviting him to step in. he came, not in the least abashed, and with no tell-tale signal of confusion in his rosy cheeks. "come in, mr. bunker," said angela. "come in; i want five minutes' talk with you. this way, please, where we can be alone." she led him into the refectory, because daniel fagg was in the drawing room. "i have been thinking, mr. bunker," she said, "how very, very fortunate i was to fall into such hands as yours, when i came to stepney." "you were, miss, you were. that was a fall, as one may say, which meant a rise." "i am sure it did, mr. bunker. you do not often come to see us, but i hope you approve of our plans." "as for that," he replied, "it isn't my business. people come to me and i put them in the way. how they run in the way is not my business to inquire. as for you and your girls, now, if you make the concern go, you may thank me for it. if you don't, why, it isn't my fault." "very well put, indeed, mr. bunker. in six months the first year, for which i paid the rent, will come to an end." "it will." "we shall then have to consider a fresh agreement. i was thinking, mr. bunker, that, seeing how good a man you are, and how generous, you would like to make your rent, like the wages of the girls, depend upon the profits of the business." "what?" he asked. angela repeated her proposition. he rose, buttoned his coat, and put on his hat. "rent depend on profits? is the girl mad? rent comes first and before anything else. rent is even before taxes; and as for rates--but you're mad. my rent depend on profits! rent, miss, is sacred. remember that." "oh!" said angela. "and what is more," he added, "people who don't pay up get sold up. it's a christian duty to sell 'em up. i couldn't let off my own nephews." "as for one of them, you would like to sell him up, would you not, mr. bunker?" "i would," he replied truthfully. "i should like to see him out of the place. you know what i told you when you came. have nothing to do, i said, with that chap. keep him at arm's length, for he is a bad lot. now you see what he has brought you to. singin', dancin', playin', laughin', every night; respectable ladies driven away from your shop; many actually kept out of the place; expenses doubled; all through him. what's more--bankruptcy ahead! don't i know that not a lady in stepney or mile end comes here? don't i know that you depend upon your west end connection? when that goes, where are you? and all for the sake of that pink and white chap! well, when one goes, the other'll go too, i suppose. rent out of profits, indeed! no, no, miss; it'll do you good to learn a little business, even if you do get sold up." "thank you, mr. bunker. do you know, i do not think you will ever have the pleasure of selling me up?" she laughed so merrily that he felt he hated her quite as much as he hated his nephew. why, six months before, no one laughed in stepney at all; and to think that any one should laugh at him, would have been an impossible dream. "you laugh," he said gravely, "and yet you are on the brink of ruin. where's your character? wrapped up with the character of that young man. where's your business! drove away--by him. you laugh. ah! i'm sorry for you, miss, because i thought at one time you were a plain-spoken, honest sort of young woman; if i'd ha' known that you meant to use my house--mine, the friend of all the respectable tradesmen--for such wicked fads as now disgrace it, i'd never ha' taken you for a tenant." "oh yes, you would, mr. bunker." she laughed again, but not merrily this time. "oh yes--you would. you forget the fittings and the furniture, the rent paid in advance, and the half-crown an hour for advice. is there anything, i should like to know, that you would not do for half a crown an hour?" he made no reply. "why, again, do you hate your nephew? what injury have you done him that you should bear him such ill will?" this, which was not altogether a shot in the dark, went straight to mr. bunker's heart. he said nothing, but put on his hat and rushed out. clearly these two, between them, would drive him mad. chapter xxxiv. proofs in print. "it is quite finished now," said daniel fagg, blotting the last page. when he began to live with the dressmakers, angela, desiring to find him some employment, had suggested that he should rewrite the whole of his book, and redraw the illustrations. it was not a large book, even though it was stuffed and padded with readings of inscriptions and tablets. an ordinary writer would have made a fair copy in a fortnight. but so careful an author as daniel, so anxious to present his work perfect and unassailable, and so slow in the mere mechanical art of writing, wanted much more than a fortnight. his handwriting, like his hebrew, had been acquired comparatively late in life; it was therefore rather ponderous, and he had never learned the art of writing half a word and leaving the other half to be guessed. then there were the hebrew words, which took a great deal of time to get right; and the equilateral triangles, which also caused a considerable amount of trouble. so that it was a good six weeks before daniel was ready with a fair copy of his manuscript. he was almost as happy in making this transcript as he had been with the original document; perhaps more so, because he was now able to consider his great discovery as a whole, to regard it as an architect may regard his finished work, and to touch up, ornament, and improve his translations. "it is quite complete," he repeated, laying the last page in its place and tapping the roll affectionately. "here you will find the full account of the two tables of stone and a translation of their contents, with notes. what will they say to that, i wonder?" "but how," asked angela--"how did the tables of stone get to the british museum?" mr. fagg considered his reply for a while. "there are two ways," he said, "and i don't know which is the right one. for either they were brought here when we, the descendants of ephraim, as everybody knows, landed in england, or else they were brought here by phoenician traders after the captivity. however, there they are, as anybody may see with the help of my discovery. as for the scholars, how can they see anything? wilful ignorance, miss, is their sin: pride and wilful ignorance. you're ignorant because you are a woman, and it is your nature too. but not to love darkness!" "no, mr. fagg. i lament my ignorance." "then there's the story of david and jonathan, and the history of jezebel and her great wickedness, and the life and death of king jehoshaphat, and a great deal more. now read for the first time from the arrow-headed character--so called--by daniel fagg, self-taught scholar, once shoemaker in the colony of victoria, discoverer of the primitive alphabet and the universal language." "that is, indeed, a glorious thing to be able to say, mr. fagg." "but now it is written, what next?" "you mean how can you get it printed?" "of course--that's what i mean," he replied almost angrily. "there's the book and no one will look at it. haven't i tried all the publishers? what else should i mean?" the old disappointment, kept under and forgotten during the excitement of re-writing the book, was making itself felt again. how much further forward was he--the work had been finished long before. all he had done the last six weeks was to write it afresh. "i've only been wasting my time here," he said querulously. "i ought to have been up and about. i might have gone to oxford, where, i am told, there are young men who would, perhaps, give me a hearing. or, there's cambridge--where they have never heard of my discovery. you've made me waste six weeks and more." angela forbore to ask him how he would have lived during those six weeks. she replied softly: "nay, mr. fagg; not wasted the time. you were overworked; you wanted rest. besides, i think, we may find a plan to get this book published." "what plan--how?" "if you would trust the manuscript to my hands. yes, i know well how precious it is, and what a dreadful thing it would be to lose it. but you have a copy, and you can keep that while i take the other." "where are you going to take it?" "i don't know yet--to one of the publishers, i suppose." he groaned. "i have been to every one of them--not a publisher in london but has had the offer of my book. they won't have it, any of them. oh, it's their loss--i know that. but what is it to me?" "will you let me try--will you trust me with the manuscript?" he reluctantly and jealously allowed her to take away the precious document. when it was out of his hands he tried to amuse himself with the first copy, but found no pleasure in it at all; because he thought continually of the scorn which had been hurled upon him and his discovery. he saw the heads of departments, one after the other, receiving him politely and listening to what he had to say. he saw them turning impatient--interrupting him, declining to hear any more--referring him to certain books in which he would find a refutation of his theories; and finally refusing even to see him. never was discoverer treated with such contempt--even the attendants at the museum took their cue from the chiefs, and received his advances with scorn. should they waste their time--the illiterate--in listening unprofitably to one whom the learned dr. birch and the profound mr. newton had sent away in contempt? better sit in the spacious halls, bearing the wand of office and allowing the eyelids to fall gently, and the mind to wander away among pleasant pastures, where there was drink with tobacco. then there were the people who had subscribed. some of them were gentlemen connected with australia. they had tossed him the twelve-and-sixpence in the middle of his talk, as if to get rid of him. some of them had subscribed in pity for his poverty--some persuaded by his importunity. there was not one among them all (he reflected with humiliation) who subscribed because he believed. stay--there was this ignorant dressmaker. one convert out of all to whom he had explained his discovery; one, only one. there have been many religious enthusiasts--prophets, preachers, holders of strange doctrines--who have converted women so that they believed them inspired of heaven. yet these men made other converts; whereas he (fagg) had but this one, and she was not in love with him, because he was old now and no longer comely. this was a grand outcome of that australian enthusiasm! that day mr. fagg was disagreeable, considered as a companion. he found fault with the dinner, which was excellent, as usual. he complained that the beer was thick and flat; whereas it sparkled like champagne, and was as clear as a bell. he was cross in the afternoon, and wanted to prevent the child who sat in the drawing-room from practising her music; and he went out for his walk in a dark and gloomy mood. angela let him have his querulous way unrebuked, because she knew the cause of it. he was suffering from that dreadful, hopeless anger which falls upon the unappreciated. he was like some poet, who brings out volume after volume, yet meets with no admirers, and remains obscure. he was like some novelist who has produced a masterpiece--which nobody will read--or like some actor (the foremost of his age) who depletes the house; or like a dramatist, from whose acted works the public fly; or like a man who invents something which is to revolutionize things. only people prefer their old way! good heavens! is it impossible to move this vast inert mass called the world? why, there are men who can move it at their will--even by a touch of their little finger--and the unappreciated with all their efforts cannot make the slightest impression. this, from time to time, makes them go mad! and at such periods they are unpleasant persons to meet. they growl at their clubs, they quarrel with their blood relations--they snarl at their wives, they grumble at their servants! daniel was having such a fit. it lasted two whole days, and on the second rebekah took upon herself to lead him aside and reprove him for the sin of ingratitude--because it was very well known to all that the man would have gone to the workhouse but for miss kennedy's timely help. she asked him sternly what he had done to merit that daily bread which was given him without a murmur? and what excuse he could make for his bad temper and his rudeness toward the woman who had done so much for him? he had no excuse to make--because rebekah would not have understood the true one--wherefore she bade him repent and reform, or he would hear more from her. this threat frightened him, though it could not remove his irritation and depression; but, on the third day, sunshine and good cheer and hope, new hope and enthusiasm, returned to him. for miss kennedy announced to him with many smiles that a publisher had accepted his manuscript; and that it had already been sent to the printers. "he will publish it for you," she said, "at no cost to yourself. he will give you as many copies as you wish to have for presentation among your friends and among your subscribers. you will like to send copies to your subscribers, will you not?" he rubbed his hands and laughed aloud. "that," he said, "will prove that i did not eat up the subscriptions." "of course,"--angela smiled, but did not contradict the proposition--"of course, mr. fagg. and if ever there was any doubt in your own mind about that money it is now removed, because the book will be in their hands; and all they wanted was the book." "yes, yes; and no one will be able to say--you know what. will they?" "no, no; you will have proofs sent you." "proofs," he murmured, "proofs in print!--will they send me proofs soon?" "i believe you will have the whole book set up in a few weeks." "oh, the whole book! my book set up in print?" "yes. and if i were you, i would send an announcement of the work by the next mail to your australian friends. say that your discovery has at length assumed its final shape, and is now ripe for publication, after being laid before all the learned societies of london; and that it has been accepted by messrs. ----, the well-known publishers, and will be issued almost as soon as this announcement reaches melbourne. here is a slip that i have prepared for you." he took it with glittering, eyes and stammering voice. the news seemed too good to be true. "now, mr. fagg, that this has been settled, there is another thing which i should like to propose for your consideration. did you ever hear of that great roman who saved his country in a time of peril, and then went back to the plough?" daniel shook his head. "is there any hebrew inscription about him?" he asked. "not that i know of. what i mean is this: when your volume is sent, mr. fagg--when you have sent it triumphantly to all the learned societies and all your subscribers, and all the papers and everywhere (including your australian friends), because the publisher will let you have as many copies as you please--would it not be a graceful thing, and a thing for future historians to remember, that you left england at the moment of your greatest fame, and went back to australia to take up--your old occupation?" daniel never had considered the thing in this light, and showed no enthusiasm at the proposal. "when your friends in victoria prophesied fortune and fame, mr. fagg, they spoke out of their hopes and their pride in you. of course, i do not know much about these things. how should i? yet i am quite certain that it takes a long time for a learned discovery to make its way. there are jealousies--you have experienced them--and unwillingness to admit new things. you have met with that, too; and reluctance to unlearn old things. why, you have met with that as well." "i have," he said, "i have." "as for granting a pension to a scholar--or a title, or anything of that sort--it is really never done. so that you would have to make your own living if you remained here." "i thought that when the book was published people would buy it." angela shook her head. "oh, no! that is not the kind of book which is bought--very few people know anything about inscriptions. those who do will go to the british museum and read it there--one copy will do for all." daniel looked perplexed. "you do not go back empty-handed," she said. "you will have a fine story to tell of how the great scholars laughed at your discovery, and how you got about and told people, and they subscribed, and your book was published, and how you sent it to all of them--to show the mistake they had made--and how the english people have got the book now, to confound the scholars; and how your mission is accomplished, and you are at home again--to live and die among your own people. it will be a glorious return, mr. fagg. i envy you the landing at melbourne--your book under your arm. you will go back to your old township--you will give a lecture in the schoolroom on your stay in england, and your reception. and then you will take your old place again and follow your old calling, exactly the same as if you had never left it, but for the honor and reverence which people will pay you!" daniel cooed like a dove. "it may be," the siren went on, "that people will pay pilgrimages to see you in your old age. they will come to see the man who discovered the primitive alphabet and the universal language. they will say: 'this in daniel fagg--the great daniel fagg, whose unaided intellect overset and brought to confusion all the scholars, and showed their learning was but vain pretence; who proved the truth of the scriptures by his reading of tablets and inscriptions; and who returned when he had finished his task, with the modesty of a great mind, to his simple calling.'" "i will go," said daniel, banging the table with his fist; "i will go as soon as the book is ready." chapter xxxv. then we'll keep company. after the celebrated debate on the abolition of the lords, dick coppin found that he took for the moment a greatly diminished interest in burning political questions. he lost, in fact, confidence in himself, and went about with hanging head. the sunday evening meetings were held as usual, but the fiery voice of dick the radical was silent, and people wondered. this was the effect of his cousin's address upon him. as for the people, it had made them laugh, just as dick's had made them angry. they came to the hall to get these little emotions, and not for any personal or critical interest in the matter discussed; and this was about all the effect produced by them. one evening the old chartist who had taken the chair met dick at the club. "come out," he said, "come out and have a crack while the boys wrangle." they walked from redman's lane, where the club stands, to the quiet side pavement of stepney green, deserted now because the respectable people were all in church, and it was too cold for the lounging of the more numerous class of those who cannot call themselves respectable. the ex-chartist belonged, like daniel fagg, to the shoemaking trade in its humbler lines. the connection between leather and socialism, chartism, radicalism, atheism, and other things detrimental to old institutions, has frequently been pointed out, and need not be repeated. it is a reflecting trade, and the results of meditation are mainly influenced by the amount of knowledge the meditation brings with it. in this respect the chartist of thirty years ago had a great advantage over his successors of the present day, for he had read. he knew the works of owen, of holyoke, and of cobbett. he understood something of what he wanted, and why he wanted it. the proof of which is that they have got all they wanted, and we still survive. when next the people make up their minds that they want another set of things they will probably get them, too. "let us talk," he said. "i've been thinking a bit about that chap's speech the other night--i wanted an answer to it." "have you got one?" "it's all true what he said--first of all, it's true. the pinch is just the same. whether the liberals are in or the tories, government don't help us. why should we help them?" "is that all your answer?" "wait a bit, lad--don't hurry a man. the chap was right. we ought to co-operate and get all he said, and a deal more; and once we do begin, mind you, there'll be astonishment--because you see, dick, my lad, there's work before us. but we must be educated; we must all be got to see what we can do if we like. that chap's clever now, though he looks like a swell." "he's got plenty in him. but he'll never be one of us." "if we can use him, what matter whether he is one of us or not? come to that--who is 'us'? you don't pretend before me that you call yourself one of the common workmen, do you? that does for the club; but, between ourselves, why, man! you and me, we're leaders. we've got to think for 'em. what i think is--make that chap draw up a plan, if he can, for getting the people to work together--for we've got all the power at last, dick. we've got all the power. don't forget when we old 'uns are dead and gone, who done it for you." he was silent for a moment. then he went on: "we've got what we wanted--that's true; and we seem to be no better off--that's true, too. but we are better off, because we feel that every man has his share in the rule of the nation. that's a grand thing. we are not kept out of our vote--we don't see, as we used to see, our money spent for us without having a say. that's a very grand thing, which he doesn't understand, nor you neither, because you are too young. everything we get, which makes us feel our power more, is good for us. the chap was right; but he was wrong as well. don't give up politics, lad." "what's the good if nothing comes?" "there's a chance now for the working-man, such as he has never had before in history. you are the lad to take that chance. i've watched you, dick, since you first began to come to the club--there's life in you. lord! i watch the young fellows one after the other. they stamp and froth, but it comes to nothing. you're different--you want to be something better than a bellows; though your speech the other night came pretty nigh to the bellows kind." "well, what is the chance?" "the house, dick. the working-men will send you there, if you can show them that you've got something in you. it isn't froth they want--it's a practical man, with knowledge. you go on reading, go on speaking, go on debating. keep it up. get your name known; don't demean yourself. get reported; and learn all that there is to learn. once in the house, dick, if you are not afraid----" "i shall not be afraid." "humph! well, we shall see. well, there's your chance. a working-man's candidate--one of ourselves. that's a card for you to play; but not so ignorant as your mates. eh? able (if you want) to use the swell's sneerin' talk--so's to call a man a liar, without sayin' the words. to make him feel like a fool and a whipped cur, with just showing your white teeth! learn them ways, dick--they'll be useful." "but if," said the young man doubtfully, "if i am to keep on debating, what subjects shall we take up at the club?" "i should go in for practical subjects. say that the club is ready to vote for the abolition of the lords and the church, and reform of the land laws when the time comes. you haven't got the choice of subjects that we had. lord! what with rotten boroughs and the black book of pensions, and younger sons, and favoritism in the service, why, our hands were full." "what practical subjects?" "why, them as your cousin talked about. there's the wages of the girls--there's food and fish and drink. there's high rent--there's a world of subjects. you go, and find out all about them. give up the rest for a spell, and make yourself master of all these questions. if you do, dick, i believe your fortune is made." dick looked doubtful--it seemed disheartening to be sent back to the paltry matter of wages, prices, and so on, when he was burning to lead in something great. yet the advice was sound. "sometimes i think, dick," the old man went on, "that the working-man's best friend would be the swells, if they could be got hold of. they've got nothing to make out of the artisan. they don't run factories, nor keep shops. they don't care, bless you, how high his wages are. why should they? they've got their farmers to pay the rent; and their houses, and their money in the funds. what does it matter to them? they're well brought up, most of them--civil in their manner, and disposed to be friendly if you're neither standoffish nor familiar; but know yourself, and talk accordin'." "if the swells were to come to us, we ought to go to them--remember that, dick. very soon there will be no more questions of tory and liberal; but only what is the best thing for us. you play your game by the newest rules. as for the old ones, they've seen their day." dick left him; but he did not return to the club. he communed beneath the stars, turning over these and other matters in his mind. "yes, the old man was right. the old indignation times were over. the long list of crimes which the political agitator could bring against king, church, lords, and commons thirty, forty, fifty years ago, are useless now. they only serve to amuse an audience not too critical." he was ashamed of what he had himself said about the lords. such charges are like the oratory of an ex-minister on the stump--finding no accusation too reckless to be hurled against his enemies. he was profoundly ambitious. to some men, situated like himself, it might have been a legitimate and sufficient ambition to recover by slow degrees and thrift, and in some trading way, the place in the middle class from which the coppins had fallen. not so to dick coppin--he cared very little about the former greatness of the coppins, and the position once occupied by coppin the builder (his father), before he went bankrupt. he meant secretly something very much greater for himself. he would be a member of parliament--he would be a working-man's member. there have already been half a dozen working-men's members in the house. their success has not hitherto been marked, probably because none of them have shown that they know what they want--if, indeed, they want anything. up to the last few days dick simply desired in the abstract to be one of them; only, of course, a red-hot radical--an irreconcilable. now, however, he desired more. his cousin's words and the chartist's words fell on fruitful soil. he perceived that to become a power in the house one must be able to inform the house on the wants--the programme of his constituents--what they desire, and mean to have. dick always mentally added that clause, because it belongs to the class of speech in which he had been brought up--"and we mean to have it." you accompany the words with a flourish of the left hand, which is found to be more effective than the right for such purposes. they don't really mean to have it, whatever it may be. but with their audiences it is necessary to put on the appearance of strength before there arises any confidence in strength. disestablishers of all kinds invariably mean to have it, and the phrase is, perhaps, getting played out. dick went home to his lodgings and sat among his books, thinking. he was a man who read. for the sake of being independent, he became a teetotaler--so that, getting good wages, he was rich. he would not marry, because he did not want to be encumbered. he bought such books as he thought would be useful to him, and read them, but no others. he was a man of energy and tenacity, whose chief fault was the entire absence as yet of sympathy and imagination--if these could be supplied in any way, dick coppin's course would be assured. for with them would come play of fancy, repartee, wit, illustration, and the graces as well as the strength of oratory. he went on monday evening to see miss kennedy. he would find out from her, as a beginning, all that she could tell him about the wages of women. "but i have told you," she said, "i told you all the first night you came here--have you forgotten? then, i suppose, i must tell you again." the first time he was only bored with the story, because he did not see how he could use it for his own purposes--therefore he had forgotten the details. she told him the sad story of woman's wrongs, which go unredressed while their sisters clamor for female suffrage and make school boards intolerable by their squabbles. the women do but copy the men; therefore, while the men neglect the things that lie ready to their hand and hope for things impossible, under new forms of government, what wonder if the women do the like? this time dick listened, because he now understood that a practical use might be made out of the information. he was not a man of highly sensitive organization, nor did he feel any indignation at the things angela told him, seeing that he had grown up among these things all his life, and regarded the inequalities of wages and work as part of the bad luck of being born a woman. but he took note of all, and asked shrewd questions and made suggestions. "if," he said, "there's a hundred women asking for ten places, of course the governor'll give them to the cheapest." "that," replied angela, "is a matter of course as things now are. but there is another way of considering the question. if we had a woman's trade union, as we shall have before long, where there are ten places only ten women should be allowed to apply, and just wages be demanded." "how is that to be done?" "my friend, you have yet a great deal to learn." dick reddened and replied rudely, that if he had, he did not expect to learn it from a woman. "a great deal to learn," she repeated gently. "above all, you have got to learn the lesson which your cousin began to teach you the other night, the great lesson of finding out what you want and then getting it for yourselves. governments are nothing; you must help yourselves; you must combine." he was silent. the girl made him angry, yet he was afraid of her because no other woman he had ever met spoke as she did or knew so much. "combine," she repeated. "preach the doctrine of combination; and teach us the purposes for which we ought to combine." the advice was just what the cobbler had given. "oh, mr. coppin"--her voice was as winning as her eyes were kind and full of interest--"you are clever; you are persevering; you are brave; you have so splendid a voice; you have such a natural gift of oratory, that you ought to become--you must become--one of the leaders of the people." pride fell prone, like dagon--before these words. dick succumbed to the gracious influence of a charming woman. "tell me," he said, reddening, because it is humiliating to seek help of a girl, "tell me what i am to do." "you are ambitious, are you not?" "yes," he replied coldly, "i am ambitious. i don't tell them outside," he jerked his thumb over his shoulder to indicate the advanced club, "but i mean to get into the 'ouse--i mean the house." one of his little troubles was the correction of certain peculiarities of speech common among his class. it was his cousin who first directed his attention to this point. "yes: there is no reason why you should not get into the house," said angela. "but it would be a thousand pities if you should get in yet." "why should i wait, if they will elect me?" "because, mr. coppin, you must not try to lead the people till you know whither you would lead them: because you must not pretend to represent the people till you have learned their condition and their wants; because you must not presume to offer yourself till you are prepared with a programme." "yet plenty of others do." "they do; but what else have they done?" "only tell me--then--tell me what to do. am i to read?" "no; you have read enough for the present. rest your eyes from books; open them to the world; see things as they are. look out of this window. what do you see?" "nothing; a row of houses; a street; a road." "i see, besides, that the houses are mean, dirty, and void of beauty: but i see more. i see an organ player; on the curbstone the little girls are dancing; in the road the ragged boys are playing. look at the freedom of the girls' limbs; look at the careless grace of the children. do you know how clever they are? some of them, who sleep where they can and live as they can, can pick pockets at three, go shop-lifting at four, plot and make conspiracies at five; see how they run and jump and climb." "i see them. they are everywhere. how can we help that?" "you would leave these poor children to the government and the police. yet i think a better way to redeem these little ones is for the working-men to resolve together that they shall be taken care of, taught, and apprenticed. spelling, which your cousin says constitutes most of the school board education, does not so much matter. take them off the streets and train them to a trade. do you ever walk about the streets at night? be your own police and make your streets clean. do you ever go into the courts and places where the dock laborers sleep? have a committee for every one such street or court, and make them decent. when a gang of roughs make the pavement intolerable, you decent men step off and leave them to the policeman, if he dares interfere. put down the roughs yourselves with a strong hand. clear out the thieves' dens, and the drinking shops; make roughs and vagabonds go elsewhere. i am always about among the people; they are full of sufferings which need not be; there are a great many workers--ladies, priests, clergymen--among them trying to remove some of the suffering. but why do you not do this for yourselves? be your own almoners. i find everywhere, too, courage and honesty, and a desire for better things. show them how their lot may be alleviated." "but i don't know how," he replied, humbly. "you must find out, if you would be their leader. and you must have sympathy. never was there yet a leader of the people who did not feel with them as they feel." this saying was too hard for the young man, who had, he knew, felt hitherto only for himself. "you say what harry says. i sometimes think----" he stopped short, as if an idea had suddenly occurred to him. "look here, is it true that you and harry are keeping company?" "no, we are not," angela replied with a blush. "oh! i thought you were. is it off, then?" "it never was--more--on--than it is at present, mr. coppin." "oh!" he looked doubtful. "well," he said, "i suppose there is no reason why a girl should tell a lie about such a simple thing." he certainly was a remarkably rude young man. "either you are, or you ain't. that's it, isn't it? and you ain't?" "we are not," said angela, with a little blush, for the facts of the case were, from one point of view, against her. "then if you are not--i don't care--though it's against my rules, and i did say i would never be bothered with a woman.... look here--you and me will." "will what?" "will keep company," he replied firmly. "oh! i know it's a great chance for you--but then, you see, you ain't like the rest of 'em, and you know things, somehow, that may be useful--though how you learned 'em, nor where you came from, nor what's your character--there--i don't care, we'll keep company!" "oh!" "yes; we'll begin next sunday. you'll be useful to me, so that the bargain is not all one side." it was not till afterward that angela felt the full force of this remark. "as for getting married, there's no hurry; we'll talk about that when i'm member. of course it would be silly to get married now." "of course," said angela. "let's get well up the tree first. lord help you! how could i climb, to say nothing o' you, with a round half-dozen o' babies at my heels?" "but, mr. coppin," she said, putting aside these possibilities, "i am sorry to say that i cannot possibly keep company with you. there is a reason--i cannot tell you what it is--but you must put that out of your thoughts." "oh!" his face fell, "if you won't, you won't. most girls jump at a man who's in good wages and a temperance man, and sought after, like me. but--there--if you won't, there's an end. i'm not going to waste my time cryin' after any girl." "we will remain friends, mr. coppin?" she held out her hand. "friends? what's that? we might ha' been pals--i mean partners." "but i can tell you all i think; i can advise you in my poor way still, whenever you please to ask my advice, even if i do not share your greatness. and believe me, mr. coppin, that i most earnestly desire to see you not only in the house, but a real leader of the people, such a leader as the world has never yet beheld. to begin with, you will be a man of the very people." "ay!" he said, "one of themselves!" "a man not to be led out of his way by flatterers." "no," he said with a superior smile, "no one, man or woman, can flatter me." "a man who knows the restless unsatisfied yearnings of the people, and what they mean, and has found out how they may be satisfied." "ye--yes!" he replied, doubtfully, "certainly." "a man who will lead the people to get what is good for themselves and by themselves, without the help of government." and no thunders in the commons? no ringing denunciation of the hereditary house? nothing at all that he had looked to do and to say? call this a leadership? but he thought of the chartist and his new methods. by different roads, said montaigne, we arrive at the same end. chapter xxxvi. what will be the end? the end of the year drew near--the end of that last year of ' , which, whatever its shortcomings, its burning heat of july and its wretched rain of august, went out in sweet and gracious sunshine, and a december like unto the april of a poet. for six months angela had been living among her girls. the place was become homelike to her. the workwomen were now her friends--her trusted friends. the voice of calumny about her antecedents was silent, unless it was the voice of bunker. the palace of delight (whose meaning was as yet unknown and unsuspected,) was rising rapidly, and indeed was nearly complete--a shell which had to be filled with things beautiful and delightful, of which angela did not trust herself to speak. she had a great deal to think of in those last days of the year ' . the dressmaking was nothing--that went on. there was some local custom, and more was promised. it seemed as if (on the soundest principles of economy) it would actually pay. there was a very large acquaintance made at odd times among the small streets and mean houses of stepney. it was necessary to visit these people and to talk with them. angela had nothing to do with the ordinary channels of charity. she would help neither curate nor sister of mercy, nor bible-woman. why, she said, do not the people stand shoulder to shoulder and help themselves? to be sure, she had the great advantage over professional visitors that she was herself only a work-woman, and was not paid for any services; and, as if there was not already enough to make her anxious, there was that lover of hers. were she and harry keeping company? dick coppin asked this question; and angela (not altogether truthfully) said that they were not. what else were they doing, indeed? no word of love now. had he not promised to abstain? yet she knew his past--she knew what he had given up for her sake, believing her only a poor dressmaker; all for love of her, and she could not choose but let her heart go forth to so loyal and true a lover. many ladies, in many tales of chivalry, have demanded strange services from their lovers: none so strange as that asked by angela when she ordered her lover not only to pretend to be a cabinet-maker, and a joiner, but to work at his trade and to live by it. partly in self-reproach--partly in admiration--she watched him going and coming to and from the brewery, where he now earned (thanks to lord jocelyn's intervention) the sum of a whole shilling an hour. for there was nothing in his bearing or his talk to show that he repented his decision. he was always cheerful, always of good courage--more, he was always in attendance on her. it was he who thought for her; invented plans to make her evenings attractive; brought raw lads (recruits in the army of culture) from the advanced club and elsewhere, and set them an example of good manners; and was her prime minister, her aide-de-camp, her chief vizier. and the end of it all--nay, the thing itself being so pleasant, why hasten the end? and, if there was to be an end, could it not be connected with the opening of the palace? yes. when the palace was ready to open its gates then would angela open her arms. for the moment it was the sweet twilight of love--the half-hour before the dawn. the sweet uncertainty, when all was certainty. and, as yet, the palace was only just receiving its roof. the fittings and decorations, the organ and the statues, and all, had still to be put in. when everything was ready, then--then--angela would somehow, perhaps, find words to bid her lover be happy, if she could make him happy. there could be but one end. angela came to whitechapel incognito--a princess disguised as a milkmaid; partly out of curiosity, partly to try her little experiment for the good of work-girls, with the gayety and light heart of youth--thinking that before long she would return to her old place, just as she had left it. but she could not. her old views of life were changed, and a man had changed them. more than that--a man whose society, whose strength, whose counsel had become necessary to her. "who," she asked herself, "would have thought of the palace except him? could i, could any woman? i could have given away money--that is all. i could have been robbed and cheated; but such an idea--so grand, so simple; it is a man's, not a woman's. when the palace is completed; when all is ready for the opening, then----" and the air became musical with the clang and clash of wedding bells--up the scale, down the scale; in thirds, in fifths; with triple bob-majors and the shouts of the people, and the triumphant strains of a wedding march. how could there be any end but one?--seeing that not only did this young man present himself nearly every evening at the drawing-room, when he was recognized as the director of ceremonies or the leader of the cotillon or deviser of sports, from an acting proverb to a madrigal; but that later the custom was firmly established that he and angela should spend their sundays together. when it rained, they went to church together, and had readings in the drawing-room in the afternoon, with, perhaps, a little concert in the evening, of sacred music, to which some of the girls would come. if the day was sunny and bright, there were many places where they might go--for the east is richer than the west in pretty and accessible country places. they would take the tram along the mile end road, past the delightful old church of bow, to staring stratford, with its fine town-hall and its round dozen of churches and chapels; a town of , people, and quite a genteel place, whose residents preserve the primitive custom of fetching the dinner-beer themselves from its native public-houses on sunday, after church. at stratford there are a good many ways open if you are a good walker, as angela was. you may take the romford road, and presently turn to the left and find yourself in a grand old forest (only there is not much of it left) called hainault forest. when you have crossed the forest you get to chigwell; and then, if you are wise, you will take another six miles (as angela and harry generally did) and get to epping, where the toothsome steak may be found, or haply the simple cold beef--not to be despised after a fifteen miles' walk--and so home by tram. or you may take the northern road at stratford, and walk through leytonstone and woodford; and, leaving epping forest on the right, walk along the bank of the river lea till you come to waltham abbey, where there is a church to be seen, and a cross and other marvels. or you may go still further afield and take train all the way to ware, and walk through country roads and pleasant lanes, if you have a map, to stately hatfield, and on to st. albans; but do not try to dine there, even if you are only one-and-twenty, and a girl. all these walks and many more were taken by angela with her companion on that blessed day, which should be spent for good of body as well as soul. they are walks which are beautiful in the winter as well as in the summer--though the trees are leafless, there is an underwood faintly colored with its winter tint of purple; and there are stretches of springy turf and bushes hung with catkins; and, above all, there was nobody in the forest or on the roads except angela and harry. sometimes night fell on them when they were three or four miles from epping. then, as they walked in the twilight, the trees on either hand silently glided past them like ghosts, and the mist rose and made things look shadowy and large; and the sense of an endless pilgrimage fell upon them--as if they would always go on like this, side by side. then their hearts would glow within them, and they would talk; and the girl would think it no shame to reveal the secret thoughts of her heart, although the man with her was not her accepted lover. as for her reputation, where was it? not gone, indeed, because no one among her old friends knew of these walks and this companionship, but in grievous peril. or, when the day was cloudy, there was the city. i declare there is no place which contains more delightful walks for a cloudy sunday forenoon, when the clang of the bells has finished, and the scanty worshippers are in their places, and the sleepy sextons have shut the doors, than the streets and lanes of the old city. you must go as harry did, provided with something of ancient lore, otherwise the most beautiful places will quite certainly be thrown away and lost for you. take that riverside walk from billingsgate to blackfriars. why, here were the quays, the ports, the whole commerce of the city in the good old days. here was cold herbergh, that great many-gabled house, where harry, prince of wales, "carried on" with falstaff and his merry crew. here was queen hithe--here dowgate with walbrook. here baynard's castle, and close by the tower of montfichet; also, a little to the north, a thousand places dear to the antiquarian--even though they have pulled down so much. there is tower royal, where richard the second lodged his mother. there is the church of whittington, close by the place where his college stood. there are the precincts of paul's, and the famous street of chepe. do people ever think what things have been done in chepe? there is austin friars, with its grand old church now given to the dutch, and its quiet city square, where only a few years ago lived lettice langton (of whom some of us have heard). there is tower hill, on which was the residence of alderman medlycott, guardian of nelly carellis; and west of paul's there is the place where once stood the house of dr. gregory shovel, who received the orphan kitty pleydell. but, indeed, there is no end to the histories and associations of the city; and a man may give his life profitably to the mastery and mystery of its winding streets. here they would wander in the quiet sunday forenoon, while their footsteps echoed in the deserted street, and they would walk fearless in the middle of the road, while they talked of the great town, and its million dwellers, who come like the birds in the morning, and vanish like the birds in the evening. or they would cross the river and wander up and down the quaint old town of rotherhithe, or visit southwark, the town of hops and malt, and all kinds of strange things; or deptford, the deserted, or even greenwich; and if it was rainy they would go to church. there are a great many places of worship about whitechapel, and many forms of creed, from the baptist to the man with the biretta; and it would be difficult to select one which is more confident than another of possessing the real philosopher's stone--the thing for which we are always searching, the whole truth. and everywhere church and chapel filled with the well-to-do and the respectable, and a sprinkling of the very poor; but of the working-men--none. "why have they all given up religion?" asked angela. "why should the work-men all over the world feel no need of religion--if it were only the religious emotion?" harry, who had answers ready for many questions, could find none for this. he asked his cousin dick, but he could not tell. personally, he said, he had something else to do; but if the women wanted to go to church they might. and so long as the parsons and priests did not meddle with him, he should not meddle with them. but these statements hardly seemed an answer to the question. perhaps in berlin or in paris they could explain more clearly how this strange thing has come to pass. chapter xxxvii. truth with faithfulness. to possess pure truth--_and to know it_--is a thing which affects people in two ways, both of them uncomfortable to their fellow-creatures. it impels some to go pointing out the purity of truth to the world at large, insisting upon it, dragging unwilling people along the road which leads to it, and dwelling upon the dangers which attend the neglect of so great a chance. others it affects with a calm and comfortable sense of superiority. the latter was rebekah's state of mind. to be a seventh day independent was only one degree removed from belonging to the chosen people, to begin with: and that there is but one chapel in all england where the truth reposes for a space as the ark of the covenant reposed in shiloh, "in curtains," is, if you please, a thing to be proud of! it brings with it elevation of soul. there is at present, whatever there may once have been, no proselytizing zeal about the seventh day independents; they are, in fact, a torpid body; they are contented with the conviction--a very comforting one, and possessed by other creeds besides their own--that, sooner or later, the whole world will embrace their faith. perhaps the jews look forward to a day when, in addition to the restoration, which they profess to desire, all mankind will become proselytes in the court of the gentiles: it is something little short of this that the congregation of seventh day independents expect in the dim future. what a splendid, what a magnificent field for glory--call it not vain-glory!--does this conviction present to the humble believer! there are, again, so very few of them, that each one may feel himself a visible pillar of the catholic church, bearing on his shoulders a perceptible and measurable quantity of weight. each is an atlas. it is, moreover, pleasing to read the holy scriptures, especially the books of the prophets, as written especially for a connection which numbers just one chapel in great britain and seven in the united states. how grand is the name of catholic applied to just one church! catholicity is as yet all to come, and exists only as a germ or seedling! the early christians may have experienced the same delight. rebekah, best and most careful of shopwomen and accountants, showed her religious superiority more by the silence of contempt than by zeal for conversion. when captain tom coppin, for instance, was preaching to the girls, she went on with her figures, casting up, ruling in red ink, carrying forward in methodical fashion, as if his words could not possibly have any concern with her; and when a church bell rang, or any words were spoken about other forms of worship, she became suddenly deaf and blind and cold. but she entreated angela to attend their services. "we want everybody to come," she said; "we only ask for a single hearing; come and hear my father preach." she believed in the faith of the seventh day. as for her father--when a man is paid to advocate the cause of an eccentric or a ridiculous form of belief; when he has to plead that cause week by week to the same slender following, to prop up the limp, and to keep together his small body of believers: when he has to maintain a show of hopefulness, to strengthen the wavering, to confirm the strong, to encourage his sheep in confidence; when he gets too old for anything else, and his daily bread depends upon this creed and no other--who shall say what, after a while, that man believes or does not believe? red-hot words fall from his lips, but they fall equally red-hot each week; his arguments are conclusive, but they were equally conclusive last week; his logic is irresistible; his encouragement is warm and glowing; but logic and encouragement alike are those of last week and many weeks ago. surely, surely there is no worse fate possible for any man than to preach, week by week, any form whatever of dogmatic belief, and to live by it; surely, nothing can be more deadly than to simulate zeal, to suppress doubt, to pretend certainty. but this is dangerous ground, because others besides seventh day independents may feel that they are upon it, and that beneath them are quagmires. "come," said rebekah. "we want nothing but a fair hearing." their chapel was endowed, which doubtless helped the flock to keep together. it had a hundred and ten pounds a year belonging to it, and a little house for the minister, and there were scanty pew rents, which almost paid for the maintenance of the fabric and the old woman who cleaned the windows and dusted the pews. if the reverend percival hermitage gave up that chapel he would have no means of subsistence at all. let us not impute motives. no doubt he firmly believed what he taught: but his words, like his creed, were stereotyped; they had long ceased to be persuasive; they now served only to preserve. if angela had accepted that invitation for any given day there would have been, she knew very well, a sermon for the occasion, conceived, written, and argued out expressly for herself. and this she did not want. therefore, she said nothing at all of her intentions, but chose one saturday when there was little doing and she could spare a forenoon for her visit. the chapel of the seventh day independents stands at redman's lane, close to the advanced club house. it is a structure extremely plain and modest in design. it was built by an architect who entertained humble views--perhaps he was a churchman--concerning the possible extension of the connection, because the whole chapel if quite filled would not hold more than two hundred people. the front, or façade, is flat, consisting of a surface of gray brick wall, with a door in the middle and two circular windows, one on each side. over the door there are two dates--one of erection, the other of restoration. the chapel within is a well-proportioned room, with a neat gallery running round three sides, resting on low pillars, and painted a warm and cheerful drab; the pews are painted of the same color. at the back are two windows with semi-circular arches, and between the windows stands a small railed platform with a reading-desk upon it for the minister. beside it are high seats with cushions for elders, or other ministers if there should be any. but these seats have never been occupied in the memory of man. the pews are ranged in front of the platform, and they are of the old and high-backed kind. it is a wonderful--a truly wonderful--thing that clergymen, priests, ministers, padres, rabbis, and church architects, with church-wardens, sidesmen, vergers, bishops, and chapel-keepers of all persuasions, are agreed, whatever their other differences, in the unalterable conviction that it is impossible to be religious, that is, to attend services in a proper frame of mind, unless one is uncomfortable. therefore we are offered a choice. we may sit in high-backed, narrow-seated pews, or we may sit on low-backed, narrow-seated benches: but sit in comfort we may not. the seventh day people have got the high-backed pew (which catches you on the shoulder-blade and tries the backbone, and affects the brain, causing softening in the long run) and the narrow seat (which drags the muscles and brings on premature paralysis of the lower limbs). the equally narrow, low-backed bench produces injurious effects of a different kind, but similarly pernicious. how would it be to furnish one aisle, at least, of a church with broad, low, and comfortable chairs having arms? they should be reserved for the poor who have so few easy-chairs of their own. rightly managed and properly advertised, they might help toward a revival of religion among the working classes. above the reading platform in the little chapel they have caused to be painted on the wall the ten commandments--the fourth emphasized in red--with a text or two, bearing on their distinctive doctrine; and in the corner is a little door leading to a little vestry; but, as there are no vestments, its use is not apparent. as for the position taken by these people it is perfectly logical, and, in fact, impregnable. there is no answer to it. they say, "here is the fourth commandment. all the rest you continue to observe. why not this? when was it repealed? and by whom?" if you put these questions to bishop or presbyter, he has no reply. because that law has never been repealed. yet as the people of the connection complain, though they have reason and logic on their side, the outside world will not listen, and go on breaking the commandment with a light and unthinking heart. it is a dreadful responsibility--albeit a grand thing--to be in possession of so simple a truth of such vast importance; and yet to get nobody ever to listen. the case is worse even than that of daniel fagg. angela noted all these things as she entered the little chapel a short time after the service had commenced. it was bewildering to step out of the noisy streets, where the current of saturday morning was at flood, into this quiet room with its strange service and its strange flock of nonconformists. the thing, at first, felt like a dream: the people seemed like the ghosts of an unquiet mind. there were very few worshippers; she counted them all: four elderly men, two elderly women, three young men, two girls, one of whom was rebekah, and five boys. sixteen in all. and standing on the platform was their leader. rebekah's father, the rev. percival hermitage, was a shepherd who from choice led his flock gently, along peaceful meadows and in shady, quiet places; he had no prophetic fire; he had evidently long since acquiesced in a certain fact that under him, at least, whatever it might do under others, the connection would not greatly increase. perhaps he did not himself desire an increase, which would give him more work. perhaps he never had much enthusiasm. by the simple accident of birth he was a seventh day christian; being of a bookish and unambitious turn, and of an indolent habit of body, mentally and physically unfitted for the life of a shop, he entered the ministry; in course of time he got this chapel, where he remained, tolerably satisfied with his lot in life, a simple, self-educated, mildly pious person, equipped with the phrases of his craft, and comforted with the consciousness of superiority and separation. he looked up from his book in gentle surprise when angela entered the chapel. it was seldom that a stranger was seen there--once, not long ago, there was a boy who had put his head in at the door and shouted "hoo!" and ran away again; once there was a drunken sailor who thought it was a public-house, and sat down and began to sing and wouldn't go, and had to be shoved out by the united efforts of the whole small congregation. when he was gone they sang an extra hymn to restore a religious calm--but never a young lady before. angela took her seat amid the wondering looks of the people, and the minister went on in a perfunctory way with his prayers and his hymns and his exposition. there certainly did seem to an outsider a want of heart about the service, but that might have been due to the emptiness of the pews. when it came to the sermon, angela thought the preacher spoke and looked as if the limit of endurance had at last almost arrived, and he would not much longer endure the inexpressible dreariness of the conventicle. it was not so; he was always mildly sad; he seemed always a little bored; it was no use pretending to be eloquent any more; fireworks were thrown away; and as for what he had to say, the congregation always had the same thing, looked for the same thing, and would have risen in revolt at the suggestion of a new thing. his sermon was neither better nor worse than may be heard any day in church or chapel; nor was there anything in it to distinguish it from the sermons of any other body of christians. the outsider left off listening and began to think of the congregation. in the pew with her was a man of sixty or so, with long black hair streaked with gray, brushed back behind his ears. he was devout and followed the prayers audibly, and sang the hymns out of a manuscript music-book, and read the text critically. his face was the face of a bulldog for resolution. the man, she thought, would enjoy going to the stake for his opinions, and if the seventh day independents were to be made the national established church he would secede the week after and make a new sect, if only by himself. such men are not happy under authority; their freedom of thought is as the breath of their nostrils, and they cannot think like other people. he was not well dressed, and was probably a shoemaker or some such craftsman. in front of her sat a family of three. the wife was attired in a sealskin rich and valuable, and the son, a young man of one or two and twenty, had the dress and appearance of a gentleman--that is to say, of what passes for such in common city parlance. what did these people do in such a place? yet they were evidently of the religion. then she noticed a widow and her boy. the widow was not young; probably, angela thought, she had married late in life. her lips were thin and her face was stern. "the boy," thought angela, "will have the doctrine administered with faithfulness." only sixteen altogether; yet all, except the pastor, seemed to be grimly in earnest and inordinately proud of their sect. it was as if the emptiness of their benches and their forsaken condition called upon them to put on a greater show of zeal and to persuade themselves that the cause was worth fighting for. the preacher alone seemed to have lost heart. but his people, who were accustomed to him, did not notice this despondency. then angela, while the sermon went slowly on, began to speculate on the conditions belonging to such a sect. first of all, with the apparent exception of the lady in sealskin and her husband and son, the whole sixteen--perhaps another two or three were prevented from attending--were of quite the lower middle class; they belonged to the great stratum of society whose ignorance is as profound as their arguments are loud. but the uncomfortableness of it! they can do no work on the saturday--"neither their man-servant nor their maid-servant"--their shops are closed and their tools put aside. they lose a sixth part of the working time. the followers of this creed are as much separated from their fellows as the jews. on the sunday they may work if they please, but on that day all the world is at church or at play. angela looked round again. yes; the whole sixteen had upon their faces the look of pride; they were proud of being separated; it was a distinction, just as it is to be a samaritan. who would not be one of the recipients, however few they be in number, of truth? and what a grand thing, what an inspiriting thing, it is to feel that some day or other, perhaps not to-day nor to-morrow, nor in one's lifetime at all, the whole world will rally round the poor little obscure banner, and shout all together, with voice of thunder, the battle-cry which now sounds no louder than a puny whistle-pipe! yet, on the whole, angela felt it must be an uncomfortable creed; better be one of the undistinguished crowd which flocks to the parish church and yearns not for any distinction at all. then the sermon ended and they sang another hymn--the collection in use was a volume printed in new york, and compiled by the committee of the connection, so that there were manifestly congregations on the other side of the atlantic living in the same discomfort of separation. at the departure of the people rebekah hurried out first, and waited in the doorway to greet angela. "i knew you would come some day," she said, "but oh! i wish you had told me when you were coming, so that father might have given one of his doctrine sermons. what we had to-day was one of the comfortable discourses to the professed members of the church which we all love so much. i am so sorry. oh, he would convince you in ten minutes!" "but, rebekah," said angela, "i should be sorry to have seen your service otherwise than usual. tell me, does the congregation to-day represent all your strength?" rebekah colored. she could not deny that they were, numerically, a feeble folk. "we rely," she said, "on the strength of our cause--and some day--oh! some day--the world will rally round us. see, miss kennedy, here is father; when he has said good-by to the people"--he was talking to a lady in sealskin--"he will come and speak to us." "i suppose," said angela, "that this lady is a member of your chapel?" "yes," rebekah whispered. "oh, they are quite rich people--the only rich people we have. they live at leytonstone; they made their money in the book-binding, and are consistent christians. father,"--for at this moment mr. hermitage left his rich followers in the porch--"this is miss kennedy, of whom you have heard so much." mr. hermitage took her hand with a weary smile, and asked rebekah if miss kennedy would come home with her. they lived in a small house next door to the chapel. it was so small that there was but one sitting-room, and this was filled with books. "father likes to sit here," said rebekah, "by himself all day. he is quite happy if he is let alone. sometimes, however, he has to go to leytonstone." "to the rich people?" "yes," rebekah looked troubled. "a minister must visit his flock, you know: and if they were to leave us it would be bad for us, because the endowment is only a hundred and ten pounds a year, and out of that the church and the house have got to be kept in repair. however, a clergyman must not be dictated to, and i tell father he should go his own way and preach his own sermons. whatever people say, truth must not be hidden away as if we were ashamed of it! hush! here he is." the good man welcomed angela, and said some simple words of gratitude about her reception of his daughter. he had a good face, but he wore an anxious expression as if something was always on his mind; and he sighed when he sat down at his table. angela stayed for half an hour, but the minister said nothing more to her; only when she rose to go he murmured with another heavy sigh, "there's an afternoon service at three." it is quite impossible to say whether he intended this announcement as an invitation to angela, or whether it was a complaint, wrung from a heavy heart, of a trouble almost intolerable. chapter xxxviii. i am the dressmaker. it happened on this very same saturday that lord jocelyn, feeling a little low, and craving for speech with his ward, resolved that he would pay a personal visit to him in his own den, where, no doubt, he would find him girt with a fair white apron and crowned with brown paper, proudly standing among a lot of his brother workmen--glorious fellows!--and up to his knees in shavings. it is easy to take a cab and tell the driver to go to the mile end road. had lord jocelyn taken more prudent counsel with himself he would have bidden him drive straight to messenger's brewery; but he got down where the whitechapel road ends and the mile end road begins, thinking that he would find his way to the brewery with the greatest ease. first, however, he asked the way of a lady with a basket on her arm; it was, in fact, mrs. bormalack going a-marketing, and anxious about the price of greens; and he received a reply so minute, exact, and bewildering, that he felt, as he plunged into the labyrinthine streets of stepney, like one who dives into the dark and devious ways of the catacombs. first of all, of course, he lost himself; but as the place was strange to him, and a strange place is always curious, he walked along in great contentment. nothing remarkable in the streets and houses unless, perhaps, the entire absence of anything to denote inequality of wealth and position, so that, he thought with satisfaction, the happy residents in stepney all receive the same salaries and make the same income, contribute the same amount to the tax collectors, and pay the same rent. a beautiful continuity of sameness; a divine monotony realizing partially the dreams of the socialist. presently he came upon a great building which seemed rapidly approaching completion; not a beautiful building, but solid, big, well proportioned and constructed of real red brick, and without the "queen anne" conceits which mostly go with that material. it was so large and so well built that it was evidently intended for some special purpose; a purpose of magnitude and responsibility, requiring capital; not a factory, because the windows were large and evidently belonged to great halls, and there were none of the little windows in rows which factories must have in the nature of things; not a prison, because prisons are parsimonious to a fault in the matter of external windows; nor a school--yet it might be a school; then--how should so great a school be built in stepney? it might be a superior almshouse, or union--yet this could hardly be. while lord jocelyn looked at the building, a working-man lounged along, presumably an out-of-working man, with his hands in his pockets and kicking stray stones in the road, which is a sign of the penniless pocket, because he who yet can boast the splendid shilling does not slouch as he goes, or kick stones in the road, but holds his head erect and anticipates with pleasure six half-pints in the immediate future. lord jocelyn asked that industrious idle, or idle industrious, if he knew the object of the building. the man replied that he did not know the object of the building; and to make it quite manifest that he really did not know he put an adjective before the word object, and another--that is, the same--before the word building. with that he passed upon his way, and lord jocelyn was left marvelling at the slender resources of our language which makes one adjective do duty for so many qualifications. presently, he came suddenly upon stepney church, which is a landmark or initial point, like the man on the chair in the maze of hampton court. here he again asked his way, and then, after finding it and losing it again six times more, and being generally treated with contumely for not knowing so simple a thing, he found himself actually at the gates of the brewery, which he might have reached in five minutes had he gone the shortest way. "so," he said, "this is the property of that remarkably beautiful girl, miss messenger; who could wish to start better? she is young; she is charming, she is queenly, she is fabulously rich; she is clever; she is--ah! if only harry had met her before he became an ass!" he passed the gate and entered the courtyard, at one side of which he saw a door on which was painted the word "office." the brewery was conservative; what was now a hive of clerks and writers was known by the same name and stood upon the same spot as the little room built by itself in the open court in which king messenger i., the inventor of the entire, had transacted by himself, having no clerks at all, the whole business of the infant brewery for his great invention. lord jocelyn pushed open the door and stood irresolute, looking about him; a clerk advanced and asked his business. lord jocelyn was the most polite and considerate of men: he took off his hat, humbly bowed, and presented his card. "i am most sorry to give trouble," he said. "i came to see----" "certainly, my lord." the clerk, having been introduced to lord davenant, was no longer afraid of tackling a title, however grand, and would have been pleased to show his familiarity with the great even to a royal highness. "certainty, my lord. if your lordship will be so good as to write your lordship's name in the visitors' book, a guide shall take your lordship round the brewery immediately." "thank you, i do not wish to see the brewery," said the visitor. "i came to see a--a--a young man who, i believe, works in this establishment: his name is goslett." "oh!" replied the clerk, taken aback, "goslett? can any one," he asked generally of the room he had just left, "tell me whether there's a man working here named goslett?" josephus--for it was the juniors' room--knew and indicated the place and man. "if, my lord," said the clerk, loath to separate himself from nobility, "your lordship will be good enough to follow me, i can take your lordship to the man your lordship wants. quite a common man, my lord--quite. a joiner and carpenter. but if your lordship wants to see him----" he led lord jocelyn across the court, and left him at the door of harry's workshop. it was not a great room with benches, and piles of shavings, and a number of men. not at all; there were racks with tools, a bench, and a lathe; there were pieces of furniture about waiting repair; there was an unfinished cabinet with delicate carved work, which lord jocelyn recognized at once as the handiwork of his boy; and the boy himself stood in the room, his coat off and his cuffs turned up, contemplating the cabinet. it is one of the privileges of the trade that it allows--nay, requires--a good deal of contemplation. presently harry turned his head and saw his guardian standing in the doorway. he greeted him cheerfully and led him into the room, where he found a chair with four legs and begged him to sit down and talk. "you like it, harry?" harry laughed. "why not?" he said. "you see i am independent, practically. they pay me pretty well according to the work that comes in. plain work, you see--joiners' work." "yes, yes, i see. but how long, my boy--how long?" "well, sir, i cannot say. why not all my life?" lord jocelyn groaned. "i admit," said harry, "that if things were different i should have gone back to you long ago. but now i cannot, unless----" "unless what?" "unless the girl who keeps me here goes away herself or bids me go." "then you are really engaged to the dress--i mean--the young lady?" "no, i am not. nor has she shown the least sign of accepting me. yet i am her devoted and humble servant." "is she a witch--this woman? good heavens, harry! can you, who have associated with the most beautiful and best-bred women in the world, be so infatuated about a dressmaker?" "it is strange, is it not? but it is true. the thought of her fills my mind day and night. i see her constantly. there is never one word of love, but she knows already, without that word." "strange, indeed," repeated lord jocelyn. "but it will pass. you will awake, and find yourself again in your right mind, harry." he shook his head. "from this madness," he said, "i shall never recover--for it is my life. whatever happens, i am her servant." "it is incomprehensible," replied his guardian; "you were always chivalrous in your ideas of women. they are unusual in young men of the present day; but they used to sit well upon you. then, however, your ideal was a lady." "it is a lady still," said the lover, "and yet a dressmaker. how this can be, i do not know; but it is. in the old days men became the servants of ladies. i know now what a good custom it was, and how salutary to the men. petit jehan de saintre, in his early days, had the best of all possible training." "but if petit jehan had lived at stepney----?" "then there is another thing--the life here is useful." "you now tinker chairs, and get paid a shilling an hour. formerly, you made dainty, carved workboxes and fans, and pretty things for ladies, and got paid by their thanks. which is the more useful life?" "it is not the work i am thinking of--it is the---- do you remember what i said the last time i saw you?" "perfectly--about your fellow-creatures, was it not? my dear harry, it seems to me as if our fellow-men get on very well in their own way without our interference." "yes--that is to say, no. they are all getting on as badly as possible; and somehow i want, before i go away, to find out what it is they want. they don't know; and how they should set about getting it--if it is to be got--as i think it is. you will not think me a prig, sir?" "you will never be a prig, harry, under any circumstances. does, then, the lady of your worship approve of this?--this study of humanity?" "perfectly--if this lady did not approve of it, i should not be engaged upon it." "harry, will you take me to see this goddess of stepney green--it is there, i believe, that she resides?" "yes; i would rather not. yet (the young man hesitated for a moment)--miss kennedy thinks that i have always been a working-man. i would not undeceive her yet. i would rather she did not know that i have given up, for her sake, such a man as you, and such companionship as yours." he held out both his hands to his guardian, and his eyes for a moment were dim. lord jocelyn made no reply for a moment--then he cleared his throat and said he must go; asked harry rather piteously could he do nothing for him at all? and made slowly for the door. the clerk who received the distinguished visitor was standing at the door of the office, waiting for another glimpse of the noble and illustrious personage. presently he came back and reported that his lordship had crossed the yard on the arm of the young man called goslett, and that on parting with him he had shaken him by the hand, and called him "my boy." whereat many marvelled, and the thing was a stumbling-block; but josephus said it was not at all unusual for members of his family to be singled out by the great for high positions of trust; that his own father had been churchwarden of stepney, and he was a far-off cousin of miss messenger's; and that he could himself have been by this time superintendent of his sunday-school if it had not been for his misfortunes. presently the thing was told to the chief accountant, who told it to the chief brewer; and if there had been a chief baker one knows not what would have happened. lord jocelyn walked slowly away in the direction of stepney green. she lived there, did she? oh, and her name was miss kennedy; ah, and a man, by calling upon her, might see her. very good--he would call. he would say that he was the guardian of harry, and that he took a warm interest in him; and that the boy was pining away--which was not true; and that he called to know if miss kennedy as a friend would divine the cause--which was crafty. quite a little domestic drama he made up in his own mind, which would have done beautifully had it not been completely shattered by the surprising things which happened, as will immediately be seen. presently he arrived at stepney green and stopped to look about him. a quiet, george-the-third looking place, with many good and solid houses, and a narrow strip of garden running down the middle--in which of these houses did miss kennedy dwell? there came along the asphalt walk an old, old man; he was feeble, and tottered as he went. he wore a black silk stock and a buttoned-up frock-coat. his face was wrinkled and creased. it was, in fact, mr. maliphant going rather late (because he had fallen asleep by the fire) to protect the property. lord jocelyn asked him politely if he would tell him where miss kennedy lived. the patriarch looked up, laughed joyously, and shook his head--then he said something inaudibly, but his lips moved; and then pointing to a large house on the right, he said aloud: "caroline coppin's house it was--she that married sergeant goslett. mr. messenger, whose grandmother was a coppin, and a good old whitechapel family, had the deeds. my memory is not so good as usual this morning, young man, or i could tell you who had the house before caroline's father; but i think it was old mr. messenger, because the young man who died the other day, and was only a year or two older than me, was born there himself." then he went on his way, laughing and wagging his head. "that is a wonderful old man," said lord jocelyn. "caroline coppin's house--that is, harry's mother's house. pity she couldn't keep it for her son--the sergeant was a thrifty man, too. here is another native; let us try him." this time it was daniel fagg, and in one of his despondent moods, because none of the promised proofs had arrived. "can you tell me, sir," asked lord jocelyn, "where miss kennedy lives?" the "native," who had sandy hair and a gray beard, and immense sandy eyebrows, turned upon him fiercely, shaking a long finger in his face, as if it was a sword. "mind you," he growled, "miss kennedy's the only man among you! you talk of your scholars! gar!--jealousy and envy. but i've remembered her--posterity shall know her when the head of the egyptian department is dead and forgotten." "thank you," said lord jocelyn, as the man left him. "i am likely to be forwarded at this rate." he tried again. this time it happened to be none other than mr. bunker. the events of the last few weeks were preying upon his mind--he thought continually of handcuffs and prisons. he was nervous and agitated. but he replied courteously, and pointed out the house. "ah!" said lord jocelyn, "that is the house which an old man, whom i have just asked, said was caroline coppin's." "old man--what old man?" (mr. bunker turned pale--it seemed as if the atmosphere itself was full of dangers.) "'ouse was whose? that 'ouse, sir, is mine--mine, do you hear?" lord jocelyn described the old man--in fact, he was yet within sight. "i know him," said mr. bunker. "he's mad, that old man--silly with age; nobody minds him. that 'ouse, sir, is mine." "oh! and you" (for lord jocelyn now recollected him)--"are mr. bunker, are you? do you remember me? think, man." mr. bunker thought his hardest; but if you do not remember a man, you might as well stand on your head as begin to think. "twenty years ago," said lord jocelyn, "i took away your nephew, who has now come back here." "you did, you did," cried bunker eagerly. "ah, sir, why did you let him come back here? a bad business--a bad business." "i came to see him to-day, perhaps to ask him why he stays here." "take him away again, sir--don't let him stay. rocks ahead, sir!" mr. bunker put up hands in warning. "when i see youth going to capsize on virtue it makes my blood, as a christian man, to curdle--take him away." "certainly it does you great credit, mr. bunker, as a christian man; because curdled blood must be unpleasant. but what rocks?" "a rock--one rock, a woman. in that 'ouse, sir, she lives; her name is miss kennedy--that is what she calls herself. she's a dressmaker by trade, she says; and a captivator of foolish young men by nature--don't go anigh her. she may captivate you. daniel fagg made her an offer of marriage, and he's sixty. he confessed it to me. she tried it on with me; but a man of principles is proof. the conjurer wanted to marry her. my nephew, dick coppin, is a fool about her." "she must be a very remarkable woman," said lord jocelyn. "as for that boy, harry goslett" (bunker uttered the name with an obvious effort)--"he's further gone than all the rest put together. if it wasn't for her, he would go back to where he came from." "ah! and where is that?" "don't you know, then? you, the man who took him away? don't you know where he came from? was it something very bad?" there was a look of eager malignity about the man's face--he wanted to hear something bad about his nephew. lord jocelyn encouraged him. "perhaps i know--perhaps i do not." "a disgraceful story, no doubt," said bunker, with a pleased smile. "i dreaded the worst when i saw him with his white hands, and his sneerin', fleerin' ways. i thought of newgate and jailbirds--i did, indeed, at once. o prophetic soul! well, now we know the worst, and you had better take him away before all the world knows it. i shan't talk, of course." "thank you, mr. bunker; and about this miss kennedy, is there anything against her except that the men fall in love with her?" "there is plenty against her; but i'm not the man to take away a woman's character. reports are about her that would astonish you. if all secrets were known, we should find what a viper we've been cherishing. at the end of her year, out she goes of my 'ouse--bag and baggage, she goes; and wherever she goes, that boy'll go after her unless you prevent it." "thank you again, mr. bunker. good-morning." angela (just returned from her chapel) was sitting at the window of the workroom, in her usual place; she looked out upon the green now and again. presently she saw mr. maliphant creep slowly along the pavement, and observed that he stopped and spoke to a gentleman. then she saw daniel fagg swinging his arms and gesticulating, as he rehearsed to himself the story of his wrongs, and he stopped and spoke to the same man. then she saw mr. bunker walking moodily on his way, and he stopped, too, and conversed with the stranger. then he turned, and she saw his face. it was lord jocelyn le breton, and he was walking with intention toward her own door! she divined the truth in a moment--he was coming to see the "dressmaker" who had bewitched his boy. she whispered to nelly that a gentleman was coming to see her who must be shown upstairs. she took refuge in the drawing-room, which was happily empty; and she awaited him with a beating heart. she heard his footsteps on the stairs--the door opened. she rose to meet him. "you here, miss messenger! this is, indeed, a surprise." "no, lord jocelyn," she replied, confused, yet trying to speak confidently; "in this house, if you please, i am not miss messenger. i am miss kennedy, the--the----" now she remembered exactly what her next words would mean to him, and she blushed violently. "i am the--the dressmaker." chapter xxxix. thrice happy boy. a man of the world at forty-five seldom feels surprised at anything, unless, indeed, like molière, he encounters virtue in unexpected quarters. this, however, was a thing so extraordinary that lord jocelyn gasped. "pardon me, miss messenger," he said, recovering himself. "i was so totally unprepared for this--this discovery." "now that you have made it, lord jocelyn, may i ask you most earnestly to reveal it to no one? i mean no one at all." "i understand perfectly. yes, miss messenger, i will keep your secret. since it is a secret, i will tell it to none. but i would ask a favor in return, if i may." "what is that?" "take me further into your confidence. let me know why you have done this most wonderful thing. i hope i am not impertinent in asking this of you." "not impertinent, certainly. and the thing must seem strange to you. and after what you told me some time ago, about----" she hesitated a moment, and then turned her clear brown eyes straight upon his face, "about your ward, perhaps some explanation is due to you." "thank you, beforehand." "first, however, call me miss kennedy here; pray--pray, do not forget that there is no miss messenger nearer than portman square." "i will try to remember." "i came here," she went on, "last july, having a certain problem in my mind. i have remained here ever since, working at that problem. it is not nearly worked out yet, nor do i think that in the longest life it could be worked out. it is a most wonderful problem, for one thing leads to another, and great schemes rise out of small, and there are hundreds of plans springing out of one--if i could only carry them out." "to assist you in carrying them out, you have secured the services of my ward, i learn." "yes; he has been very good to me." "i have never," said lord jocelyn, "been greatly tempted in the direction of philanthropy. but pray go on." "the first thing i came to establish was an association of dressmakers, myself being one. that is very simple. i have started them with a house free of rent and the necessary furniture--which i know is wrong, because it introduces an unfair advantage--and we divide all the money in certain proportions. that is one thing." "but, my dear young lady, could you not have done this from portman square?" "i could, but not so well. to live here as a workwoman among other workwomen is, at least, to avoid the danger of being flattered, deceived, and paid court to. i was a most insignificant person when i came. i am now so far advanced that a great many employers of women's labor cordially detest me, and would like to see my association ruined. "o lord jocelyn," she went on, after a pause, "you do not know, you cannot know the dreadful dangers which a rich woman has to encounter. if i had come here in my own name i should have been besieged by every plausible rogue who could catch my ear for half an hour. i should have all the clergy round me imploring help for their schools and their churches; i should have had every unmarried curate making love to me; i should have paid ten times as much as anybody else; and, worse than all, i should not have made a single friend. my sympathies, whenever i read the parable, are always with dives, because he must have been so flattered and worshipped before his pride became intolerable." "i see. all this you escaped by your assumption of the false name." "yes. i am one of themselves; one of the people; i have got my girls together; i have made them understand my project; they have become my fast and faithful friends. the better to inspire confidence, i even sheltered myself behind myself. i said miss messenger was interested in our success. she sends us orders. i went to the west end with things made up for her. thanks mainly to her, we are flourishing. we work for shorter hours and for greater pay than other girls: i could already double my staff if i could only, which i shall soon, double the work. we have recreation, too, and we dine together, and in the evening we have singing and dancing. my girls have never before known any happiness: now they have learned the happiness of quiet, at least, with a little of the culture, and some of the things which make rich people happy. oh! would you have me go away and leave them, when i have taught these things of which they never dreamed before? should i send them back to the squalid house and the bare pittance again? stay and take your luncheon with us when we dine, and ask yourself whether it would not be better for me to live here altogether--never to go back to the west end at all--than to go away and desert my girls?" she was agitated because she spoke from her heart. she went on without waiting for any reply: "if you knew the joyless lives, the hopeless days of these girls, if you could see their workrooms, if you knew what is meant by their long hours and their insufficient food, you would not wonder at my staying here, you would cry shame upon the rich woman so selfish as to spend her substance in idle follies, when she might have spent it upon her unfortunate sisters." "i think," said lord jocelyn, "that you are a very noble girl." "then there is another scheme of mine: a project so great and generous--nay, i am not singing my own praises, believe me--that i can never get it out of my mind. this project, lord jocelyn, is due to your ward." "harry was always an ingenious youth. but pray tell me what it is." "i cannot," she replied; "when i put the project into words they seem cold and feeble. they do not express the greatness of it. they would not rouse your enthusiasm. i could not make you understand in any degree the great hopes i have of this enterprise." "and it is harry's invention?" "yes--his. all i have done is to find the money to carry it out." "that is a good part of any enterprise, however." at this point the bell rang. "that is the first bell," said angela; "now they lay down their work and scamper about--at least the younger ones do--for ten minutes before dinner. come with me to the dining-room." presently the girls came trooping in, fifteen or so, with bright eyes and healthy cheeks. some of them were pretty: one, lord jocelyn thought, of a peculiarly graceful and delicate type, though too fragile in appearance. this was nelly sorensen. she looked more fragile than usual to-day, and there were black lines under her lustrous eyes. another, whom miss kennedy called rebekah, was good-looking in a different way, being sturdy, rosy-cheeked, and downright in her manner. another, who would otherwise have been quite common in appearance, was made beautiful--almost--by the patient look which had followed years of suffering; she was a cripple; all their faces during the last few months had changed for the better; not one among them all bore the expression which is described by the significant words "bold" and "common." six months of daily drill and practice in good manners had abolished that look at any rate. the dinner was perfectly plain and simple, consisting of a piece of meat with plenty of vegetables and bread, and nothing else at all. but the meat was good and well cooked, and the service was on fair white linen. moreover, lord jocelyn, sitting down in this strange company, observed that the girls behaved with great propriety. soon after they began, the door opened and a man came in. it was one of those to whom lord jocelyn had spoken on the green, the man with the bushy sandy eyebrows. he took his seat at the table and began to eat his food ravenously. once he pushed his plate away as if in a temper, and looked up as if he was going to complain. then the girl they called rebekah--she came to dinner on saturdays, so as to have the same advantages as the rest, though she did no work on that day--held up her forefinger and shook it at him, and he relapsed into silence. he was the only one who behaved badly, and miss kennedy made as if she had not seen. during the dinner the girls talked freely among themselves without any of the giggling and whispering which, in some circles, is considered good manners; they all treated miss kennedy with great respect, though she was only one workwoman among the rest. yet there was a great difference, and the girls knew it; next to her on her left sat the pretty girl whom she called nelly. when dinner was over, because it was saturday there was no more work. some of the girls went into the drawing-room to rest for an hour and read; rebekah went home again to attend the afternoon service; some went into the garden, although it was december, and began to play lawn-tennis on the asphalt; the man with the eyebrows got up and glared moodily around from under those shaggy eyebrows and then vanished. angela and lord jocelyn remained alone. "you have seen us," she said; "what do you think of us?" "i have nothing to say, and i do not know what to think." "your ward is our right hand. we women want a man to work for us always. it is his business, and his pleasure, too, to help us to amuse ourselves. he finds diversions; he invents all kinds of things for us. just now he is arranging tableaux and plays for christmas." "is it--is it--oh, miss kennedy--is it for the girls only?" "that is dangerous ground," she replied, but not severely. "do you think we had better discuss the subject from that point of view?" "poor boy!" said lord jocelyn. "it is the point of view from which i must regard it." she blushed again--and her beautiful eyes grew limpid. "do you think," she said, speaking low, "do you think i do not feel for him? yet there is a cause--a sentiment, perhaps. the time is not quite come. lord jocelyn, be patient with me!" "you will take pity on him?" "oh!" she took the hand he offered her. "if i can make him happy----" "if not," replied lord jocelyn, kissing her hand, "he would be the most ungrateful dog in all the world. if not, he deserves to get nothing but a shilling an hour for the miserable balance of his days. a shilling? no; let him go back to his tenpence. my dear young lady, you have made me at all events, the happiest of men! no, do not fear: neither by word nor look shall harry--shall any one--know what you have been so very, very good, so generous, and so thoughtful as to tell me." "he loves me for myself," she murmured. "he does not know that i am rich. think of that, and think of the terrible suspicions which grow up in every rich woman's heart when a man makes love to her. now i can never, never doubt his honesty. for my sake he has given up so much; for my sake--mine! oh! why are men so good to women?" "no," said lord jocelyn. "ask what men can ever do that they should be rewarded with the love and trust of such a woman as you?" that is, indeed, a difficult question, seeing in what words the virtuous woman has been described by one who writes as if he ought to have known. as a pendant to the picture 'tis pity, 'tis great pity we have not the eulogy of the virtuous man. but there never were any, perhaps. lord jocelyn stayed with angela all the afternoon. they talked of many things; of harry's boyhood, of his gentle and ready ways, of his many good qualities, and of angela herself, her hopes and ambitions, and of their life at bormalack's. and angela told lord jocelyn about her _protégés_, the claimants to the davenant peerage, with the history of the "roag in grane," saturday davenant; and lord jocelyn promised to call upon them. it was five o'clock when she sent him away, with permission to come again. now this, lord jocelyn felt, as he came away, was the most satisfactory, nay the most delightful, day that he had ever spent. that lucky rascal harry! to think of this tremendous stroke of fortune! to fall in love with the richest heiress in england; to have that passion returned, to be about to marry the most charming, the most beautiful, the sweetest woman that had ever been made. happy, thrice happy boy! what wonder, now, that he found tinkering chairs, in company, so to speak, with that incomparable woman, better than the soft divans of his club or the dinners and dances of society? what had he, lord jocelyn, to offer the lad, in comparison with the delights of this strange and charming courtship? chapter xl. sweet nelly. in every love-story there is always, though it is not always told, a secondary plot, the history of the man or woman who might have been left happy but for the wedding bells which peal for somebody else and end the tale. when these ring out, the hopes and dreams of some one else, for whom they do not ring, turn at last to dust and ashes. we are drawing near the church; we shall soon hear those bells. let us spare a moment to speak of this tale untold, this dream of the morning, doomed to disappointment. it is only the dream of a foolish girl; she was young and ignorant; she was brought up in a school of hardship until the time when a gracious lady came to rescue her. she had experienced, outside the haven of rest, where her father was safely sheltered, only the buffets of a hard and cruel world, filled with greedy taskmasters who exacted the uttermost farthing in work and paid the humblest farthing for reward. more than this, she knew, and her father knew, that when his time came for exchanging that haven for the cemetery, she would have to fight the hard battle alone, being almost a friendless girl, too shrinking and timid to stand up for herself. therefore, after her rescue, at first she was in the seventh heaven; nor did her gratitude and love toward her rescuer ever know any abatement. but there came a time when gratitude was called upon to contend with another feeling. from the very first harry's carriage toward nelly was marked by sympathetic and brotherly affection. he really regarded this pretty creature, with her soft and winning ways, as a girl whom he could call by her christian name and treat as one treats a sweet and charming child. she was clever at learning--nobody, not even miss kennedy, danced better; she was docile; she was sweet-tempered and slow to say or think evil. she possessed naturally, harry thought--but then he forgot that her father had commanded an east indiaman--a refinement of thought and manner far above the other girls; she caught readily the tone of her patron; she became in a few weeks, this young dressmaker, the faithful effigies of a lady under the instruction of miss kennedy, whom she watched and studied day by day. it was unfortunate that harry continued to treat her as a child, because she was already a woman. presently she began to think of him, to watch for him, to note his manner toward herself. then she began to compare and to watch his manner toward miss kennedy. then she began to wonder if he was paying attention to miss kennedy, if they were engaged, if they had an understanding. she could find none. miss kennedy was always friendly toward him, but never more. he was always at her call, her faithful servant, like the rest of them, but no more. remember that the respect and worship with which she regarded miss kennedy were unbounded. but harry she did not regard as on the same level. no one was good enough for miss kennedy. and harry, clever and bright and good as he seemed, was not too good for herself. they were a great deal together. all nelly's evenings were spent in the drawing-room; harry was there every night; they read together; they talked and danced and sang together. and though the young man said no single word of love, he was always thoughtful for her in ways that she had never experienced before. below a certain level, men are not thoughtful for women. the cheapeners of women's labor at the east end are not by any means thoughtful toward them. no one had ever considered nelly at all, except her father. need one say more? need one explain how tender flowers of hope sprang up in this girl's heart, and became her secret joy? this made her watchful, even jealous. and when a change came in miss kennedy's manner--it was after her first talk with lord jocelyn--when nelly saw her color heighten and her eyes grow brighter when harry appeared, a dreadful pain seized upon her, and she knew, without a word being spoken, that all was over for her. for what was she compared with this glorious woman, beautiful as the day, sweet as a rose in june, full of accomplishments? how could any man regard her beside miss kennedy? how could any man think of any other woman when such a goddess had smiled upon him? in some stories, a girl who has had to beat down and crush the young blossoms of love goes through a great variety of performances, always in the same order. the despair of love demands that this order shall be obeyed. she turns white; she throws herself on her bed, and weeps by herself, and miserably owns that she loves him; she tells the transparent fib to her sister or mother; she has received a blow from which she never will recover; if she is religious, it brings her nearer to heaven--all this we have heard over and over again. poor little nelly knew nothing about her grander sisters in misfortune; she knew nothing of what is due to self-respect under similar circumstances; she only perceived that she had been foolish, and tried to show as if that was not so. it was a make-believe of rather a sorry kind. when she was alone she reproached herself; when she was with miss kennedy she reproached herself; when she was with harry she reproached herself. always herself to blame, no one else, and the immediate result was that her great limpid eyes were surrounded by dark rings and her cheeks grew thin. perhaps there is no misfortune more common among women--especially among women of the better class--than that of disappointed hope. girls who are hard worked in shops have no time, as a rule, to think of love at all. love, like other gracious influences, does not come in their way. it is when leisure is arrived at, with sufficiency of food and comfort, of shelter and good clothing, that love begins. to most of angela's girls, harry goslett was a creature far above their hopes or thoughts. it was pleasant to dance with him; to hear him play, to hear him talk; but he did not belong to them. it was not for nothing that their brothers called him "gentleman jack." they were, in fact, "common girls," although angela, by the quiet and steady force of example, was introducing such innovations in the dressing of the hair, the carriage of the person, and the style of garments, that they were rapidly becoming uncommon girls. but they occupied a position lower than that of nelly, who was the daughter of a ship's captain now in the asylum; or of rebekah, who was the daughter of a minister, and had the key to all truth. to nelly, therefore, there came for a brief space this dream of love. it lasted, indeed, so brief a space--it had such slender foundations of reality--that when it vanished she ought to have let it go without a sigh, and have soon felt as if it never had come to her at all. this is difficult of accomplishment, even for women of strong nerves and good physique; but nelly tried it and partially succeeded. that is, no one knew her secret except angela, who divined it--having special reason for this insight; and rebekah, who perhaps had also her own reasons; but she was a self-contained woman, who kept her own secret. "she cannot," said rebekah, watching angela and harry, who were walking together on the green--"she cannot marry anybody else. it is impossible." "but why," said nelly--"why do they not tell us, if they are to be married?" "there are many things," said rebekah, "which miss kennedy does not tell us. she has never told us who she is or where she came from, or how she gets command of money; or how she knows miss messenger; or what she was before she came to us. because, nelly, you may be sure of one thing--that miss kennedy is a lady, born and bred. not that i want to know more than she chooses to tell, and i am as certain of her goodness as i am certain of anything. and what this place will do for the girls if it succeeds, no one can tell. miss kennedy will tell us, perhaps, some day why she has come among us, pretending to be a dressmaker." "oh!" said nelly, "what a thing for us that she did pretend! and oh, rebekah, what a thing it would be if she were to leave off pretending! but she would never desert us--never." "no, she never would." rebekah continued to watch them. "you see, nelly, if she is a lady, he is a gentleman." nelly blushed; and then blushed again for very shame at having blushed at all. "some gentleman, i am told, take delight in turning girls' heads. he doesn't do that. has he ever said a word to you that he shouldn't?" "no," said nelly, "never." "well, and he hasn't to me; though, as for you, he goes about saying everywhere that you are the prettiest girl in stepney, next to miss kennedy. and as for me and the rest, he has always been like a brother; and a good deal better than most brothers are to their sisters. being a gentleman, i mean he is no match for you and me, who are real work-girls. and there is nobody in the parish except miss kennedy for him." "yet he works for money." "so does she. my dear, i don't understand it--i never could understand it. perhaps some day we shall know what it all means. there they are, making believe. they go on making believe and pretending, and they seem to enjoy it. then they walk about together, and play in words with each other--one pretending not to understand and so on. miss kennedy says, 'but then i speak from hearsay, for i am only a dressmaker.' and he says, 'so i read, because, of course, a cabinet-maker can know nothing of these things.' mr. bunker, who ought to be made to learn the epistle of st. james by heart, says dreadful things of both of them, and one his own nephew; but what does he know?--nothing." "but, rebekah, mr. goslett cannot be a very great gentleman, if he is mr. bunker's nephew; his father was a sergeant in the army." "he is a gentleman by education and training. well, some day we shall learn more. meantime, i for one am contented that they should marry. are you, nelly?" "i, too," she replied, "am contented, if it will make miss kennedy happy." "he is not convinced of the truth," said rebekah, making her little sectarian reservation, "but any woman who would want a better husband must be a fool. as for you and me, now, after knowing these two, it will be best for us never to marry, rather than to marry one of the drinking, tobacco-smoking workmen, who would have us." "yes," said nelly, "much best. i shall never marry anybody." certainly it was not likely that more young gentlemen would come their way. one sunday evening, the girl, being alone with miss kennedy, took courage and dared to speak to her. in fact, it was angela herself who began the talk. "let us talk, nelly," she began; "we are quite alone. tell me, my dear, what is on your mind?" "nothing," said nelly. "yes there is something--tell me what it is." "oh, miss kennedy, i cannot tell you. it would be rudeness to speak of it." "there can be no rudeness, nelly, between you and me. tell me what you are thinking." angela knew already what was in her mind, but after the fashion of her sex she dissembled. the brutality of truth among the male sex is sometimes very painful; and yet we are so proud, some of us, of our earnest attachment to truth. "oh, miss kennedy, can you not see that he is suffering?" "nelly!" but she was not displeased. "he is getting thinner. he does not laugh as he used to; and he does not dance as much as he did. oh, miss kennedy, can you not take pity on him?" "nelly, you have not told me whom you mean. nay," as with a sudden change of tone she threw her arms about nelly's neck and kissed her, "nay. i know very well whom you mean, my dear." "i have not offended you?" "no, you have not offended me. but, nelly, answer me one question--answer it truthfully. do you, from your own heart, wish me to take pity on him?" nelly answered frankly and truthfully: "yes; because how can i wish anything but what will make you happy? oh, how can any of us help wishing that; and he is the only man who can make you happy. and he loves you." "you want him to love me for my sake; for my own sake. nelly, dear child, you humble me." but nelly did not understand. she had secretly offered up her humble sacrifice--her pair of turtledoves; and she knew not that her secret was known. "she loves him herself," angela was thinking, "and she gives him up for my sake." "he is not," nelly went on--as if she could by any words of hers persuade angela--"he is not like any of the common workmen. see how he walks, and how independent he is, and he talks like a gentleman. and he can do all the things that gentlemen learn to do. who is there among us all that he could look at, except you?" "nelly--do not make me vain." "as for you, miss kennedy, there is no man fit for you in all the world. you call yourself a dressmaker, but we know better; oh, you are a lady! my father says so. he used to have great ladies sometimes on board his ship. he says that never was any one like you for talk and manner. oh, we don't ask your secret, if you have one--only some of us (not i, for one) are afraid that some day you will go away, and never come back to us again. what should we do then?" "my dear, i shall not desert you." "and, if you marry him, you will remain with us? a lady should marry a gentleman, i know; she could not marry any common man. but you are, so you tell us, only a dressmaker. and he, he says, only a cabinet-maker; and dick coppin says that, though he can use the lathe, he knows nothing at all about the trade--not even how they talk, nor anything about them. if you two have secrets, miss kennedy, tell them to each other." "my secrets, if i have any, are very simple, nelly, and very soon you shall know them; and, as for his, i know them already." angela was silent awhile, thinking over this thing; then she kissed the girl, and whispered: "patience yet a little while, dear nelly. patience, and i will do, perhaps, what you desire." "father," said nelly, later on that night, sitting together by the fire, "father, i spoke to miss kennedy to-night." "what did you speak to her about, my dear?" "i told her that we knew (you and i) that she is a lady, whatever she may pretend." "that is quite true, nelly." "and i said that mr. goslett is a gentleman, whatever he may pretend." "that may be true--even though he is not a gentleman born--but that's a very different thing, my dear." "why is it different?" "because there are many ladies who go about among poor people; but no gentleman, unless it's the clergymen. ladies seem to like it--they do it, however hard the work, for nothing--and all because it is their duty, and an imitation of the lord. some of them go out nursing. i have told you how i took them out to scutari. some of them go, not a bit afraid, into the foul courts, and find out the worst creatures in the world, and help them. many of them give up their whole lives for the poor and miserable. my dear, there is nothing that a good woman will shrink from--no misery, no den of wickedness--nothing. sometimes i think miss kennedy must be one of those women. yes, she's got a little money, and she has come here to work in her own way among the people here." "and mr. goslett, father?" "men don't do what women do. there may be something in what mr. bunker says--that he has reasons of his own for coming here and hiding himself." "oh, father, you don't mean it; and his own uncle, too, to say such a thing." "yes, his own uncle. mr. goslett, certainly, does belong to the place; though why bunker should bear him so much malice is more than i can tell." "and, father, there is another reason why he should stay here." nelly blushed, and laughed merrily. "what is that, my dear?" nelly kissed him and laughed again. "it is your time for a pipe--let me fill it for you. and the sunday ration, here it is; and here is a light. oh, father, to be a sailor so long and have no eyes in your head!" "what"--he understood now--"you mean miss kennedy! nell, my dear, forgive me--i was thinking that perhaps you----" "no, father," she replied hurriedly, "that could never be. i want nothing but to stay on here with you and miss kennedy, who has been so good to us that we can never, never thank her enough; nor can we wish her too much joy. but, please, never--never say that again." her eyes filled with tears. captain sorensen took a book from the table--it was that book which so many people have constantly in their mouths, and yet it never seems to get into their hearts; the book which is so seldom read and so much commented upon. he turned it over till he found a certain passage beginning, "who can find a virtuous woman?" he read this right through to the end. one passage, "she stretcheth out her hand to the poor. yea, she reacheth forth her hands unto the needy," he read twice; and the last line, "let her own works praise her in the gates," he read three times. "my dear" he concluded, "to pleasure miss kennedy you would do more than give up a lover; ay, and with a cheerful heart." chapter xli. boxing-night. "let us keep christmas," said angela, "with something like original treatment. we will not dance, because we do that nearly every night." "let us," said harry, "dress up and act." what were they to act? that he would find for them. how were they to dress? that they would have to find for themselves. the feature of the christmas festival was that they were to be mummers, and that there was to be mummicking, and of course there would be a little feasting, and perhaps a little singing. "we must have just such a programme," said angela to their master of ceremonies, "as if you were preparing it for the palace of delight." "this is the only palace of delight," said harry, "that we shall ever see. for my own part i desire no other." "but, you know, we are going to have another one, much larger than this little place. have you forgotten all your projects?" harry laughed; it was strange how persistently miss kennedy returned to the subject again and again; how seriously she talked about it; how she dwelt upon it. "we must have," she continued, "sports which will cost nothing, with dresses which we can make for ourselves. of course we must have guests to witness them." "guests cost money," said harry. "but, of course, in a palace of delight money must not be considered. that would be treason to your principles." "we shall not give our guests anything except the cold remains of the christmas dinner. as for champagne, we can make our own with a few lemons and a little sugar. do not forbid us to invite an audience." fortunately, a present which arrived from their patron, miss messenger, the day before christmas day, enabled them to give their guests a substantial supper, at no cost whatever. the present took the form of several hampers, addressed to miss kennedy, with a note from the donor conveying her love to the girls and best wishes for the next year, when she hoped to make their acquaintance. the hampers contained turkeys, sausages, ducks, geese, hams, tongues, and the like. meantime, harry, as stage manager and dramatist, had devised the tableaux, and the girls between them had devised the dresses from a book of costumes. christmas day, as everybody remembers, fell last year on a sunday. this gave the girls the whole of saturday afternoon and evening, with monday morning for the conversion of the trying-on room into the stage, and the show-room for the audience. but the rehearsals took a fortnight, for some of the girls were stupid and some were shy, though all were willing to learn, and harry was patient. besides, there was the chance of wearing the most beautiful dresses, and no one was left out; in the allegory, a pastoral, invented by their manager, there was a part for every one. the gift of miss messenger made it possible to have two sets of guests; one set consisting of the girls' female relations, and a few private friends of miss kennedy's who lived and suffered in the neighborhood, for the christmas dinner, held on monday; and the other set was carefully chosen from a long list of the select audience in the evening. among them were dick and his friend, the ex-chartist cobbler, and a few leading spirits of the advanced club. they wanted an audience who would read between the lines. the twenty-sixth day of last december was, in the neighborhood of stepney, dull and overcast; it promised to be a day of rebuke for all quiet folk, because it was a general holiday, one of those four terrible days when the people flock in droves to favorite haunts if it is in the summer, or hang about public-houses if it is winter; when, in the evening, the air is hideous with the shouts of those who roll about the pavements; a day when even comus and his rabble rout are fain to go home for fear of being hustled and evilly treated by the holiday-makers of famous london town; a day when the peaceful and the pious, the temperate and the timid, stay at home. but to angela it was a great day, sweet and precious--to use the language of an ancient puritan and modern prig--because it was the first attempt toward the realization of her great dream; because her girls on this night for the first time showed the fruits of her training in the way they played their parts, their quiet bearing and their new refinement. after the performances of this evening she looked forward with confidence to her palace. the day began, then, at half-past with the big dinner. all the girls could bring their mothers, sisters, and female relations generally, who were informed that miss messenger, the mysterious person who interfered perpetually, like a goddess out of a machine, with some new gift, or some device for their advantage, was the giver of the feast. it was a good and ample christmas dinner served in the long work-room by angela and the girls themselves. there were the turkeys of the hamper, roasted with sausages, and roast beef and roast fowls, and roast geese and roast pork, with an immense supply of the vegetables dear to london people; and after this first course, there were plum-pudding and mince-pies. messenger's ale, with the stout so much recommended by bunker, flowed freely, and after dinner there was handed to each a glass of port. none but women and children--no boy over eight being allowed--were present at the feast, and when it was over most of the women got up and went away, not without some little talk with angela and some present in kind from the benevolent miss messenger. then they cleared all away and set out the tables again, with the same provisions, for the supper in the evening, at which there would be hungry men. all the afternoon they spent in completing their arrangements. the guests began to arrive at five. the music was supplied by angela herself, who did not act, with captain sorensen and harry. the piano was brought downstairs and stood in the hall outside the trying-on room. the performance was to commence at six, but everybody had come long before half-past five. at a quarter to six the little orchestra began to play the old english tunes dear to pantomimes. at the ringing of a bell, the music changed to a low monotonous plaint and the curtain slowly rose on the tableau. there was a large, bare, empty room; its sole furniture was a table and three chairs; in one corner was a pile of shavings; upon them sat, crouching with her knees drawn up, the pale and worn figure of a girl; beside her were the crutches which showed that she was a cripple; her white cheek was wasted and hollow; her chin was thrust forward as if she was in suffering almost intolerable. during the tableau she moved not, save to swing slowly backward and forward upon the shavings which formed her bed. on the table, for it was night, was a candle in a ginger-beer bottle, and two girls sat at the table working hard; their needles were running a race with starvation; their clothes were in rags; their hair was gathered up in careless knots; their cheeks were pale; they were pinched and cold and feeble with hunger and privation. said one of the women present, "twopence an hour, they can make. poor things! poor things!" "dick," whispered the cobbler, "you make a note of it; i guess what's coming." the spectators shivered with sympathy. they knew so well what it meant; some of them had themselves dwelt amid these garrets of misery and suffering. then voices were heard outside in the street singing. they were the waits, and they sang the joyful hymns of christmas. when the working-girls heard the singing, they paid no heed whatever, plying the needle fast and furiously; and the girl in the shavings paid no heed, slowly swinging to and fro in her pain and hunger. at the sight of this callous contempt, this disregard of the invitation to rejoice, as if there were neither hope nor joy for such as themselves, with only a mad desire to work for something to stay the dreadful pains of hunger, some of the women among the spectators wept aloud. then the waits went away; and there was silence again. then one of the girls--it was nelly--stopped, and leaned back in her chair, with her hand to her heart; the work fell from her lap upon the floor; she sprang to her feet, threw up her hands, and fell in a lifeless heap upon the floor. the other girl went on with her sewing; and the cripple went on swinging backward and forward. for they were all three so miserable that the misery of one could no more touch the other two. the curtain dropped. the tableau represented, of course, the girls who work for an employer. after five minutes it rose again. there were the same girls and others; they were sitting at work in a cheerful and well-furnished room; they were talking and laughing. the clock struck six, and they laid aside their work, pushed back the table and advanced to the front singing all together. their faces were bright and happy; they were well dressed, they looked well fed; there was no trouble among them at all; they chatted like singing-birds; they ran and played. then captain sorensen came in with his fiddle, and first he played a merry tune, at the sound of which the girls caught each other by the waist, and fell to dancing the old greek ring. then he played a quadrille, and they danced that simple figure, and as if they liked it; and then he played a waltz, and they whirled round and round. this was the labor of girls for themselves. everybody understood perfectly what was meant without the waste of words. some of the mothers present wiped their eyes and told their neighbors that this was no play acting, but the sweet and blessed truth; and that the joy was real, because the girls were working for themselves and there were no naggings, no fines, no temper, no bullying, no long hours. after this there was a concert, which seemed a falling off in point of excitement. but it was pretty. captain sorensen played some rattling sea ditties; then miss kennedy and mr. goslett played a duet; then the girls sang a madrigal in parts, so that it was wonderful to hear them, thinking how ignorant they were six months before. then miss kennedy played a solo, and then the girls sang another song. by what magic, by what mystery, were girls so transformed? then the audience talked together, and whispered that it was all the doing of that one girl--miss kennedy--who was believed by everybody to be a lady born and bred, but pretended to be a dressmaker. she it was who got the girls together, gave them the house, found work for them, arranged the time and duties, and paid them week by week for shorter hours better wages. it was she who persuaded them to spend their evenings with her instead of trapesing about the streets, getting into mischief; it was she who taught them the singing, and all manner of pretty things; and they were not spoiled by it, except that they would have nothing more to say to the rough lads and shopboys who had formerly paid them rude court and jested with them on stepney green. uppish they certainly were; what mother would find fault with a girl for holding up her head and respecting herself? and as for manners, why, no one could tell what a difference there was. the chartist looked on with a little suspicion at first, which gradually changed to the liveliest satisfaction. "dick," he whispered to his friend and disciple, "i am sure that, if the working-men like, they may find the swells their real friends. see, now we've got all the power; they can't take it from us; very good then, who are the men we should suspect? why, those who've got to pay the wages--the manufacturers and such. not the swells. make a note of that, dick. it may be the best card you've got to play. a thousand places such as this--planted all about england--started at first by a swell--why, man, the working classes would have not only all the power but all the money. oh, if i were ten years younger! what are they going to do next?" the next thing they did pleased the women, but the men did not seem to care much about it, and the chartist went on developing the new idea to dick, who drank it all in, seeing that here, indeed, was a practical and attractive idea even though it meant a new departure. but the preacher of a new doctrine has generally a better chance than one who only hammers away at an old one. the stage showed one figure. a beautiful girl, her hair bound in a fillet, clad in greek dress, simple, flowing, graceful, stood upon a low pedestal. she was intended--it was none other than nelly--to represent woman dressed as she should be. one after the other there advanced upon the stage and stood beside this statue, women dressed as women ought not to be; there they were, the hideous fashions of generations; the pinched waists, monstrous hats, high peaks, hoops and crinolines, hair piled up, hair stuffed out, gigot sleeves, high waists, tight skirts, bending walk, boots with high heels--an endless array. when nelly got down from her pedestal and the show was over, harry advanced to the front and made a little speech. he reminded his hearers that the association was only six months old; he begged them to consider what was its position now. to be sure, the girls had been started, and, that he said, was the great difficulty; but, the start once made and prejudice removed, they found themselves with work to do, and they were now paying their own way and doing well; before long they would be able to take in more hands; it was not all work with them, but there was plenty of play, as they knew. meantime the girls invited everybody to have supper with them, and after supper there would be a little dance. they stayed to supper, and they appreciated the gift of miss messenger; then they had the little dance--dick coppin now taking his part without shame. while the dancing went on the chartist sat in the corner of the room, talking with angela. when he went away his heart--which was large and generous--burned within him, and he had visions of a time when the voices of the poor shall not be raised against the rich nor the minds of the rich hardened against the poor. perhaps he came unconsciously nearer to christianity, this man who was a scoffer and an unbeliever, that night than he had ever before. to have faith in the future forms, indeed, a larger part of the christian religion than some of us ever realize. and to believe in a single woman is one step, however small, toward believing in the divine man. chapter xlii. not josephus, but another. the attractions of a yard peopled with ghosts, discontented figure-heads, and an old man, are great at first, but not likely to be lasting if one does not personally see or converse with the ghosts and if the old man becomes monotonous. we expect too much of old men. considering their years, we think their recollections must be wonderful. one says, "good heavens! methuselah must recollect william the conqueror and king john, and sir john falstaff, to say nothing of the battle of waterloo!" as a matter of fact, methuselah generally remembers nothing except that where cheapside now stands was once a green field. as for shakespeare, and coleridge, and charles lamb, he knows nothing whatever about them. you see if he had taken so much interest in life as to care about things going on, he would very soon, like his contemporaries, have worn out the machine, and would be lying, like them, in the grassy inclosure. harry continued to go to the carver's yard for some time, but nothing more was to be learned from him. he knew the family history, however, by this time, pretty well. the coppins of stepney, like all middle-class families, had experienced many ups and downs. they had been churchwardens; they had been bankrupts; they had practised many trades; and once there was a coppin who died, leaving houses--twelve houses--three apiece to his children--a meritorious coppin. where were those houses now? absorbed by the omnivorous uncle bunker. and how uncle bunker got those belonging to caroline coppin could not now be ascertained, except from uncle bunker himself. everywhere there are scrapers and scatterers; the scrapers are few, and the scatterers many. by what scatterer or what process of scattering did caroline lose her houses? meantime, harry did not feel himself obliged to hold his tongue upon the subject; and everybody knew, before long, that something was going on likely to be prejudicial to mr. bunker. people whispered that bunker was going to be caught out; this rumor lent to the unwilling agent some of the interest which attaches to a criminal. some went so far as to say that they had always suspected him because he was so ostentatious in his honesty; and this is a safe thing to say, because any person may be reasonably suspected; and if we did not suspect all the world, why the machinery of bolts and bars, keys and patent safes? but it is the wise man who suspects the right person, and it is the justly proud man who strikes an attitude and says: "what did i tell you?" as yet, however, the suspicions were vague. bunker, for his part, though not generally a thin-skinned man, easily perceived that there was a change in the way he was received and regarded; people looked at him with marked interest in the streets; they turned their heads and looked after him; they talked about him as he approached; they smiled with meaning; josephus coppin met him one day, and asked him why he would not tell his nephew how he obtained those three houses and what consideration he gave for them. he began, especially of an evening, over brandy and water, to make up mentally, over and over again, his own case, so that it might be presented at the right moment absolutely perfect and without a flaw; a paragon among cases. his nephew, whom he now regarded with a loathing almost lethal, was impudent enough to go about saying that he had got those houses unlawfully. was he? very good; he would have such law as is to be had in england, for the humiliation, punishment, stamping out, and ruining of that nephew; aye, if it cost him five hundred pounds he would. he should like to make his case public; he was not afraid; not a bit; let all the world know; the more the story was known, the more would his contemporaries admire his beautiful and exemplary virtue, patience, and moderation. there were, he said, with the smile of benevolence and blush of modesty which so well become the good man, transactions, money transactions, between himself and his sister-in-law, especially after her marriage with a man who was a secret scatterer. these money matters had been partly squared by the transfer of the houses, which he took in part payment; the rest he forgave when caroline died, and when, which showed his goodness in an electric light, he took over the boy to bring him up to some honest trade, though he was a beggar. where were the proofs of those transactions? unfortunately they were all destroyed by fire some years since, after having been carefully preserved, and docketed, and indorsed, as is the duty of every careful man of business. now by dint of repeating this precious story over and over again, the worthy man came to believe it entirely, and to believe that other people would believe it as well. it seemed, in fact, so like the truth, that it would deceive even experts, and pass for that priceless article. at the time when caroline died, and the boy went to stay with him, no one asked any questions, because it seemed nobody's business to inquire into the interest of the child. after the boy was taken away it gradually became known among the surviving members of the family that the houses had long before, owing to the profligate extravagance of the sergeant--as careful a man as ever marched--passed into the hands of bunker, who now had all the coppin houses. everything was clean forgotten by this time. and the boy must needs turn up again, asking questions. a young villain! a serpent! but he should be paid out. a very singular accident prevented the "paying out" quite in the sense intended by mr. bunker. it happened in this way: one day when miss messenger's cabinet-maker and joiner-in-ordinary, having little or nothing to do, was wandering about the brewery, looking about him, lazily watching the process of beer-making on a large extensive scale, and exchanging the compliments of the season, which was near the new year, with the workmen, it happened that he passed the room in which josephus had sat for forty years among the juniors. the door stood open, and he looked in, as he had often done before, to nod a friendly salutation to his cousin. there josephus sat, with gray hair, an elderly man among boys, mechanically ticking off entries among the lads. his place was in the warm corner near the fire; beside him stood a large and massive safe; the same safe out of which, during an absence of three minutes, the country notes had been so mysteriously stolen. the story, of course, was well known. josephus' version of the thing was also well known. everybody further knew that, until the mystery of that robbery was cleared up, josephus would remain a junior on s. a week. lastly, everybody (with the kindliness of heart common to our glorious humanity) firmly believed that josephus had really cribbed those notes, but had been afraid to present them, and so dropped them into a fire, or down a drain. it is truly remarkable to observe how deeply we respect, adore, and venerate virtue--insomuch that we all go about pretending to be virtuous; yet how little we believe in the virtue of each other! it is also remarkable to reflect upon the extensive fields still open to the moralist, after all these years of preaching and exhorting. now, as harry looked into the room, his eye fell upon the safe, and a curious thing occurred. the fragment of a certain letter from bob coppin (in which he sent a message by his friend to his cousin, squaretoes josephus) quite suddenly and unexpectedly returned to his memory--further, the words assumed a meaning. "josephus," he said, stepping into the office, "lend me a piece of paper and a pencil. thank you." he wrote down the words exactly as he recollected them--half destroyed by the tearing of the letter. " ... josephus, my cousin, that he will ... 'nd the safe the bundle ... or a lark. josephus is a squaretoes. i hate a man who won't drink. he will ... if he looks there." when he had written these words down he read them over again, while the lads looked on with curiosity and some resentment. cabinet-makers and joiners have no business to swagger about the office of young gentlemen who are clerks in breweries, as if it were their own place. it is an innovation--a levelling of rank. "josephus," harry whispered, "you remember your cousin, bob coppin?" "yes; but these are office hours. conversation is not allowed in the juniors' room." he spoke as if he was still a boy--as indeed, he was, having been confined to the society of boys, and having drawn the pay of a boy for so many years. "never mind rules--tell me all about bob." "he was a drinker and a spendthrift--that's enough about him." josephus spoke in a whisper, being anxious not to discuss the family disgrace among his fellow-clerks. "good! were you a friend as well as a cousin of his?" "no, i never was--i was respectable in those days, and desirous of getting my character high for steadiness. i went to evening lectures and taught in the wesleyan sunday-schools. of course, when the notes were stolen, it was no use trying any more for character--that was gone. a young man suspected of stealing £ , can't get any character at all. so i gave up attending the evening lectures, and left off teaching in the school, and going to church, and everything." "you were a great fool, josephus--you ought to have gone on and fought it out. now then, on the day that you lost the money, had you seen bob--do you remember?" "that day?" the unlucky junior replied; "i remember every hour as plain as if it was to-day. yes, i saw bob. he came to the office half an hour before i lost the notes. he wanted me to go out with him in the evening, i forget where--some gardens, and dancing, and prodigalities. i refused to go. in the evening i saw him again, and he did nothing but laugh while i was in misery. it seemed cruel; and the more i suffered the louder he laughed." "did you never see bob again?" "no; he went away to sea, and he came home and went away again; but somehow i never saw him. it is twenty years now since he went away last, and was never heard of, nor his ship--so, of course, he's dead long ago. but what does it matter about bob? and these are office hours; and there will, really, be things said if we go on talking--do go away." harry obeyed, and left him; but he went straight to the office of the chief accountant and requested an interview. the chief accountant sent word that he could communicate his business through one of the clerks. harry replied that his business was of a nature which could not be communicated by a clerk--that it was very serious and important business, which must be imparted to the chief alone; and that he would wait his convenience in the outer office. presently he was ushered into the presence of the great man. "this is very extraordinary," said the official. "what can your business be, which is so important that it must not be intrusted to the clerks? now come to the point, young man--my time is valuable." "i want you to authorize me to make a little examination in the junior clerks' room." "what examination, and why?" harry gave him the fragment of the letter, and explained where he found it. "i understand nothing. what do you learn from this fragment?" "there is no date," said harry, "but that matters very little. you will observe that it clearly refers to my cousin josephus coppin." "that seems evident--josephus is not a common name." "you know my cousin's version of the loss of those notes?" "certainly--he said they must have been stolen during the two or three minutes that he was out of the room." "yes--now" (harry wrote a few words to fill up the broken sentences of the letter) "read that, sir." "good heavens!" "my cousin tells me, too," he went on, "that this fellow, bob coppin, was in the office half an hour before the notes were missed--why, very likely he was at the time hanging about the place--and that in the evening, when his cousin was in an agony of distress, bob was laughing as if the whole thing was a joke." "upon my word," said the chief, "it seems plausible." "we can try the thing at once," said harry. "but i should like you to be present when we do." "undoubtedly i will be present--come, let us go at once. by the way, you were the young man recommended by miss messenger; are you not?" "yes. not that i have the honor of knowing miss messenger personally." the chief accountant laughed. cabinet-makers do not generally know young ladies of position; and this was such a remarkably cheeky young workman. they took with them four stout fellows from those who toss about the casks of beer. the safe was one of the larger kind, standing three feet six inches high, on a strong wooden box, with an open front--it was in the corner next to josephus' seat. between the back of the safe and the wall was a space of an inch or so. "i must trouble you to change your seat," said the chief accountant to josephus, "we are about to move this safe." josephus rose, and the men presently, with mighty efforts, lugged the great heavy thing a foot or two from its place. "will you look, sir?" asked harry. "if there is anything there, i should like you, who know the whole story, to find it." the chief stooped over the safe and looked behind it. everybody was now aware that something was going to happen; and though pens continued to be dipped into inkstands with zeal, and heads to be bent over desks with the devotion which always seizes a junior clerk in presence of his chief, all eyes were furtively turned to josephus' corner. "there is a bundle of papers," he said. "thank you." harry picked them up and placed them in his hands. the only person who paid no heed to the proceedings was the most concerned. the chief accountant received them (a rolled bundle, not a tied-up parcel, and covered inch deep with black dust). he opened it and glanced at the contents--then a strange and unaccountable look came into his eyes as he handed them to josephus. "will you oblige me, mr. coppin," he said, "by examining those papers?" it was the first time that the title of "mr." had been bestowed upon josephus during all the years of his long servitude. he was troubled by it, and he could not understand the expression in his chief's eyes; and when he turned to harry for an explanation he met eyes in which the same sympathy and pity were expressed. when he turned to the boys, his fellow-clerks, he was struck by their faces of wondering expectation. what was going to happen? recovering his presence of mind, he held out the dusty papers and shook the dust off them. then he began slowly to obey orders, and to examine them. suddenly he began to turn them over with fierce eagerness. his eyes flashed--he gasped. "come, josephus," said his cousin, taking his arm, "gently--gently. what are they, these papers?" the man laughed, a hysterical laugh. "they are. ha! ha! they are--ha! ha! ha!" he did not finish because his voice failed him; but he dropped into a chair, with his head in his hands. "they are country bank-notes and other papers," said harry, taking them from his cousin's hands--he had interpreted the missing words rightly. the chief looked round the room. "young men," he said solemnly, "a wonderful thing has happened. after many years of undeserved suspicion and unmerited punishment, mr. coppin's character is cleared at last. we cannot restore to him the years he has lost, but we can rejoice that his innocence is established." "come, josephus," said harry, "bear your good fortune as you have borne the bad--rouse yourself." the senior junior clerk lifted his head and looked around. his cheeks were white. his eyes were filled with tears; his lips were trembling. "take your cousin home," said the chief to harry, "and then come back to my office." harry led josephus unresisting home to the boarding-house. "we have had a shock, mrs. bormalack. nothing to be alarmed about--quite the contrary. the bank-notes have been found after all these years, and my cousin has earned his promotion and recovered his character. give him some brandy and water, and make him lie down for a bit." for the man was dazed--he could not understand as yet what had happened. harry placed him in the armchair, and left him to the care of the landlady. then he went back to the brewery. the chief brewer was with the chief accountant, and they were talking over what was best to be done; said very kind things about intelligence, without which good fortune and lucky finds are wasted. and they promised to represent harry's conduct in a proper light to miss messenger, who would be immediately communicated with; and josephus would at once receive a very substantial addition to his pay, a better position, and more responsible work. "may i suggest, gentlemen," said harry, "that a man who is fifty-five, and has all his life been doing the simple work of a junior, may not be found equal to more responsible work." "that may be the case." "my cousin, when the misfortune happened, left off taking any interest in things--i believe he has never opened a book or learned anything in all these years." "well, we shall see." a workman was not to be taken into counsel. "there is, however, something here which seems to concern yourself. your mother was one caroline coppin, was she not?" "yes." "then these papers which were deposited by some persons unknown with mr. messenger--most likely for greater care--and placed in the safe by him, belong to you; and i hope will prove of value to you." harry took them without much interest, and came away. in the evening josephus held a reception. all his contemporaries in the brewery--the men who entered with himself--all those who had passed over his head, all those with whom he had been a junior in the brewery, called to congratulate him. at the moment he felt as if this universal sympathy fully made up for all his sufferings of the past. nor was it until the morning that he partly perceived the truth--that no amount of sympathy would restore his vanished youth, and give him what he had lost. but he will never quite understand this; and he looked upon himself as having begun again from the point where he stopped. when the reception was over and the last man gone, he began to talk about his future. "i shall go on again with the evening course," he said, "just where i left off. i remember we were having monday for book-keeping by single and double entry; tuesday for french; thursday for arithmetic--we were in mixed fractions; and friday for euclid. then i shall take up my class at the sunday-school again, and shall become a full church-member of the wesleyan connection--for though my father was once churchwarden at stepney church, i always favored the wesleyans myself." he talked as if he was a boy again, with all his life before him, and, indeed, at the moment he thought he was. chapter xliii. o my prophetic soul! harry thought nothing about the papers which were found among the notes that evening, because he was wholly engaged in the contemplation of a man who had suddenly gone back thirty-five years in his life. the gray hairs, thin at the top and gone at the temples, were not, it is true, replaced by the curly brown locks of youth, though one thinks that josephus must always have been a straight-haired young man. but it was remarkable to hear that man of fifty-five talking as if the years had rolled backward, and he could take up the thread of life where he had dropped it so long ago. he spoke of his evening lectures and his sunday-school with the enthusiasm of a boy. he would study--work of that sort always paid: he would prepare his lessons for the school beforehand, and stand well with the superintendent: it was good for men in business offices, he said, to have a good character with the superintendent. above all, he would learn french and bookkeeping, with mensuration, gauging, and astronomy, at the beaumont institute. all these things would come in useful, some time or the other, at the brewery; besides, it helps a man to be considered studious in his habits. he became, in fact, in imagination a young man once more. and because in the old days, when he had a character to earn, he did not smoke tobacco, so now he forgot that former solace of the day, his evening pipe. "the brewery," he said, "is a splendid thing to get into. you can rise: you may become--ah! even chief accountant: you may look forward to draw over a thousand a year at the brewery, if you are steady and well conducted, and get a good name. it is not every one, mind you, gets the chance of such a service. and once in, always in. that's the pride of the brewery. no turning out: there you stay, with your salary always rising, till you die." in the morning, the exultation of spirits was exchanged for a corresponding depression. josephus went to the brewery, knowing that he should sit on that old seat of his no longer. he went to look at it: the wooden stool was worn black; the desk was worn black; he knew every cut and scratch in the lid at which he had written so many years. there were all the books at which he had worked so long: not hard work, nor work requiring thought, but simple entering and ticking off of names, which a man can do mechanically--on summer afternoons, with the window open and an occasional bee buzzing in from hainault forest, and the sweet smell of the vats and the drowsy rolling of the machinery--one can do the work half asleep and never make a mistake. now he would have to undertake some different kind of work, more responsible work: he would have to order and direct; he would have a chair instead of a stool, and a table instead of a desk. so that he began to wish that he had in the old days gone further in his studies--but he was always slow at learning--before the accident happened; and to wonder if anything at all remained of the knowledge he had then painfully acquired after all these years. as a matter of fact, nothing remained. josephus had become perfectly, delightfully, inconceivably stupid. he had forgotten everything, and could now learn no new thing. pending the decision of miss messenger, to whom the case was referred, they tried him with all sorts of simple work--correspondence, answering letters, any of the things which require a little intelligence. josephus could do nothing. he sat like a helpless boy and looked at the documents. then they let him alone, and for a while he came every day, sat all day long, half asleep, and did nothing, and was much less happy than when he had been kept at work from nine o'clock in the morning till six o'clock at night. when harry remembered the packet of papers placed in his hand, which was on the following morning, he read them. and the effect of his reading was that he did not go to work that morning at all. he was not a lawyer, and the principal paper was a legal instrument, the meaning of which it took him some little time to make out. "hum--hum--um--why can't they write plain english. 'i give to my said trustees, john skelton and benjamin bunker, the three freehold houses as follows: that called number twenty-nine on stepney green, forty-five in beaumont square, and twenty-three in redman's row, upon trust to apply the rents and income of the same as in their absolute discretion they may think fit for the maintenance, education, and benefit of the said caroline, until she be twenty-one years old or until she marry, and to invest from time to time the accumulations of such rents and income as is hereintofore provided, and to apply the same when invested in all respects as i direct concerning the last above-mentioned premises. and when the said caroline shall attain the age of twenty-one, or marry, i direct my said trustees to pay to her the said rents and income and the income of the accumulation of the same, if any during her life, by four equal quarterly payments for her sole and separate use, free from the debts and engagements of any husband or husbands she may marry; and i direct that on the death of the said caroline my said trustees shall hold and stand possessed of all the said premises for such person or persons and in such manner in all respects as the said caroline shall by deed or will appoint. and in default of such appointment and so far as the same shall not extend upon trust'--and so on--and so on." harry read this document with a sense, at first, of mystification. then he read it a second time, and began to understand it. "the houses," he said, "my mother's houses, are hers, free from any debts contracted by her husband: they are vested in trustees for her behalf; she could not sell or part with them. and the trustees were john skelton and benjamin bunker. john skelton--gone to abraham's bosom, i suppose. benjamin bunker--where will he go to? the houses were tied up--settled--entailed." he read the document right through for the third time. "so," he said. "the house at number twenty-nine stepney green. that is the house which bunker calls his own; the house of the associated dressmakers; and it's mine--mine." he clinched his fist and looked dangerous. "then the house at twenty-three redman's row, and at forty-five beaumont square. two more houses. also mine. and bunker, the perfidious bunker, calls them all his own! what shall be done to bunker?" "next," he went on, after reading the document again, "bunker is a fraudulent trustee, and his brother trustee too, unless he has gone dead. of that there can be no doubt whatever. that virtuous and benevolent bunker was my mother's trustee--and mine. and he calmly appropriates the trust to his own uses--uncle bunker! uncle bunker!" "i knew from the beginning that there was something wrong. first, i thought he had taken a sum of money from lord jocelyn. then i found out that he had got possession of houses in a mysterious manner. and now i find that he was simply the trustee. wicked uncle bunker!" armed with his precious document, he put on his hat and walked straight off, resolution on his front, toward his uncle's office. he arrived just when mr. bunker was about to start on a daily round among his houses. by this frequent visitation he kept up the hearts of his tenants, and taught them the meaning of necessity; so that they put by their money and religiously paid the rent. else---- "pray," said harry, "be so good as to take off your hat, and sit down and have five minutes' talk with me." "no, sir," said bunker, "i will not. you can go away, do you hear? be off; let me lock my office and go about my own business." "do take off your hat, my uncle." "go, sir, do you hear?" "sit down and let us talk--my honest--trustee!" mr. bunker dropped into a chair. in all the conversations and dramatic scenes made up in his own mind to account for the possession of the houses, it had never occurred to him that the fact of his having been a trustee would come to light. all were dead, except himself, who were concerned in that trust: he had forgotten by this time that there was any deed: by ignoring the trust he simplified, to his own mind, the transfer of the houses; and during all these years he had almost forgotten the obligations of the trust. "what do you mean?" he stammered. "virtuous uncle! i mean that i know all. do you quite understand me? i mean really and truly all. yes: all that there is to know--all that you hide away in your own mind and think that no one knows." "what--what--what do you know?" "first, i know which the houses are--i mean my houses--my mother's houses. the house in stepney green that you have let to miss kennedy is one; a house in beaumont square--do you wish to know the number?--is another; and a house in redman's row--and do you want to know the number of that?--is the third. you have collected the rents of those houses and paid those rents to your own account for twenty years and more." "go on. let us hear what you pretend to know. suppose they were caroline's houses, what then?" he spoke with an attempt at bounce; but he was pale, and his eyes were unsteady. "this next. these houses, man of probity, were not my mother's property to dispose of as she pleased." "oh! whose were they, then?" "they were settled upon her and her heirs after her; and the property was placed in the hands of two trustees: yourself, my praiseworthy; and a certain john skelton, of whom i know nothing. presumably, he is dead." mr. bunker made no reply at all. but his cheek grew paler. "shall i repeat this statement, or is that enough for you?" asked harry. "the situation is pretty, perhaps not novel: the heir has gone away, probably never to come back again; the trustee, sole surviving, no doubt receives the rents. heir comes back. trustee swears the houses are his own. when the trustee is brought before a court of law and convicted, the judge says that the case is one of peculiar enormity, and must be met by transportation for five-and-twenty years; five--and--twenty--years, my patriarch! think of that, in uniform and with short hair." mr. bunker said nothing. but by the agitation of his fingers it was plain that he was thinking a great deal. "i told you," cried harry. "i warned you, some time ago, that you must now begin to think seriously about handcuffs and prison, and men in blue. the time has come now, when, unless you make restitution of all that you have taken, action will be taken, and you will realize what it is that people think of the fraudulent trustee. uncle bunker, my heart bleeds for you." "why did you come here?" asked his uncle, piteously. "why did you come here at all? we got on very well without you--very well and comfortably, indeed." this seemed a feeble sort of bleat. but, in fact, the bunker's mind was for the moment prostrated. he had no sound resistance left. "i offered you," he went on, "twenty-five pounds--to go. i'll double it--there. i'll give you fifty pounds to go, if you'll go at once. so that there will be an end to all this trouble." "consider," said harry, "there's the rent of miss kennedy's house--sixty-five pounds a year for that; there's the house in beaumont square--fifty for that; and the house in redman's row at five-and-twenty at least: comes to a hundred and forty pounds a year, which you have drawn, my precious uncle, for twenty-one years at least. that makes, without counting interest, two thousand nine hundred and forty pounds. and you want to buy me off for fifty pounds!" "not half the money--not half the money!" his uncle groaned. "there's repairs and painting--and bad tenants; not half the money." "we will say, then," lightly replied his nephew, as if nine hundred were a trifle, "we will say two thousand pounds. the heir to that property has come back; he says, 'give me my houses, and give me an account of the discharge of your trust.' now"--harry rose from the table on which he had been sitting--"let us have no more bounce: the game is up. i have in my pocket--here," he tapped his coat-pocket, "the original deed itself. do you want to know where it was found? behind a safe at the brewery, where it was hidden by your brother-in-law, bob coppin, with all the country notes which got josephus into a mess. as for the date i will remind you that it was executed about thirty-five years ago, when my mother was still a girl and unmarried, and you had recently married her sister. i have the deed here. what is more, it has been seen by the chief accountant at the brewery, who gave it me. bunker, the game is up." he moved toward the door. "have you anything to say before i go? i am now going straight to a lawyer." "what is the--the--lowest--o good lord!--the very lowest figure that you will take to square it? oh! be merciful; i am a poor man, indeed a very poor man, though they think me warm. yet i must scrape and save to get along at all." "two thousand," said harry. "make it fifteen hundred. oh! fifteen hundred to clear off all scores, and then you can go away out of the place; i could borrow fifteen hundred." "two thousand," harry repeated. "of course, besides the houses, which are mine." "_besides_ the houses? never. you may do your worst. you may drag your poor old uncle, now sixty years of age, before the courts, but two thousand besides the houses? never!" he banged the floor with his stick, but his agitation was betrayed by the nervous tapping of the end upon the oil-cloth which followed the first hasty bang. "no bounce, if you please." harry took out his watch. "i will give you five minutes to decide; or, if your mind is already made up, i will go and ask advice of a lawyer at once." "i cannot give you that sum of money," bunker declared; "it is not that i would not; i would if i could. business has been bad; sometimes i've spent more than i've made; and what little i've saved i meant always for you--i did, indeed. i said, 'i will make it up to him. he shall have it back with----'" "one minute gone," said harry, relentlessly. "oh! this is dreadful. why, to get even fifteen hundred i should have to sell all my little property at a loss; and what a dreadful thing it is to sell property at a loss! give me more time to consider, only a week or so, just to look round." "three minutes left," said harry the hardened. "oh! oh! oh!" he burst into tears and weeping of genuine grief, and shame, and rage. "oh, that a nephew should be found to persecute his uncle in such a way! where is your christian charity? where is forgiving and remitting?" "only two minutes left," said harry, unmoved. then bunker fell upon his knees: he grovelled and implored pardon; he offered one house, two houses, and twelve hundred pounds, fifteen hundred pounds, eighteen hundred pounds. "one minute left," said harry. then he sat down and wiped the tears from his eyes, and in good round terms--in poplar, limehouse, shadwell, wapping, and ratcliff highway terms--he cursed his nephew, and the houses, and the trust, and all that therein lay, because, before the temptation came, he was an honest man, whereas now he should never be able to look stepney in the face again. "time's up," said harry, putting on his hat. in face of the inevitable, mr. bunker showed an immediate change of front. he neither prayed, nor wept, nor swore. he became once more the complete man of business. he left the stool of humiliation, and seated himself on his own windsor chair before his own table. here, pen in hand, he seemed as if he were dictating rather than accepting terms. "don't go," he said. "i accept." "very good," harry replied. "you know what is best for yourself. as for me, i don't want to make more fuss than is necessary. you know the terms?" "two thousand down; the three houses; and a complete discharge in full of all claims. those are the conditions." "yes, those are the conditions." "i will draw up the discharge," said mr. bunker, "and then no one need be any the wiser." harry laughed. this cool and business-like compromise of felony pleased him. "you may draw it up if you like. but my opinion of your ability is so great, that i shall have to show the document to a solicitor for his approval and admiration." mr. bunker was disconcerted. he had hoped--that is, thought--he saw his way; but never mind. he quickly recovered and said, with decision: "go to lawyer pike, in the mile end road." "why? is the honorable pike a friend of yours?" "no, he isn't; that is why i want you to go to him. tell him that you and i have long been wishing to clear up these accounts, and that you've agreed to take the two thousand with the houses." mr. bunker seemed now chiefly anxious that the late deplorable scene should be at once forgotten and forgiven. "he said the other day that i was nothing better than a common grinder and oppressor. now, when he sees what an honorable trustee i am, he will be sorry he said that. you can tell everybody if you like. why, what is it? here's my nephew comes home to me and says, 'give me my houses.' i say, 'prove your title.' didn't i say so? how was i to know that he was my nephew? then the gentleman comes who took him away, and says, 'he is your long-lost nephew;' and i say, 'take your houses, young man, with the accumulations of the rent hoarded up for you.' why, you can tell everybody that story." "i will leave you to tell it, bunker, your own way. everybody will believe that way of telling the story. what is more, i will not go out of my way to contradict it." "very good, then. and on that understanding i withdraw all the harsh things i may have said to you, nephew. and we can be good friends again." "certainly, if you like," said harry, and fairly ran away for fear of being called upon to make more concessions. "it's a terrible blow!" the old man sat down and wiped his forehead. "to think of two thousand down! but it might have been much worse. ah! it might have been very, very much worse. i've done better than i expected, when he said he had the papers. the young man's a fool--a mere fool. the houses let for £ a year, and they have never been empty for six months together; and the outside repairs are a trifle, and i've saved it all every year. ha! now a hundred and fifty pounds a year for twenty years and more, at compound interest only five per cent., is close on £ , . i've calculated it out often enough to know. yes, and i've made five per cent. on it, and sometimes six and seven, and more, with no losses. it might have been far, far worse. it's come to £ , if it's a penny. and to get rid of that awful fear and that devil of a boy with his grins and his sneers at £ , , why, it's cheap, i call it cheap. as for the houses, i'll get them back, see if i don't." chapter xliv. a fool and his money. mr. pike, the solicitor of the mile end road, does not belong to the story--which is a pity, because he has many enviable qualities--further than is connected with harry's interview with him. he read the documents and heard the story from beginning to end. when he had quite mastered all the details he began mildly to express astonishment and pity that any young man could be such a fool. this was hard, because harry really thought he had done a mighty clever thing. "you have been taken in, sir," said mr. pike, "in a most barefaced and impudent manner. two thousand pounds! why, the mere rent alone, without counting interest, is three thousand. go away, sir; find out this fraudulent impostor, and tell him that you will have nothing to do with him short of a full account and complete restitution." "i cannot do that," said harry. "why not?" "because i have passed my word." "i think, young man, you said you were a cabinet-maker--though you look something better." "yes, i belong to that trade." "since when, may i ask, have cabinet-makers been so punctilious as to their promises?" "the fact is," said harry gravely, "we have turned over a new leaf, and are now all on the side of truth and honor." "humph! then there is nothing to do but to give the man a receipt in full and a discharge. you are of age; you can do this if you like. shall i draw it up for you, and receive the money, and take over the houses?" this was settled, therefore, and in this way harry became a rich man, with houses and money in the funds. as for bunker, he made the greatest mistake in his life when he sent his nephew to mr. pike. he should have known, but he was like the ostrich when he runs his head into the sand, and believes from the secure retreat that he is invisible to his hunters. for his own version of the incident was palpably absurd; and, besides, mr. pike heard harry's account of the matter. therefore, though bunker thought to heap coals of fire upon his enemy's head, he only succeeded in throwing them under his feet, which made him kick--"for who can go upon hot coals and his feet not be burned?" the good man is now, therefore, laboring under a cloud of prejudice which does not seem to lift, though perhaps he will live it down. other events have happened since, which have operated to his prejudice. everybody knows how he received his nephew; what wicked things he said everywhere about him; and what rumors he spread about miss kennedy: everybody knows that he had to disgorge houses--actually, houses--which he had appropriated. this knowledge is common property; and it is extremely unpleasant for mr. bunker when he takes his walks abroad to be cruelly assailed by questions which hit harder than any brickbat: they are hurled at him by working-men and by street boys. "who stole the 'ouse?" for instance, is a very nasty thing to be said to a gentleman who is professionally connected with house property. i know not how this knowledge came to be so generally known. certainly harry did not spread it abroad. people, however, are not fools, and can put things together; where the evil-doings and backslidings of their friends are concerned they are surprisingly sharp. now when the ownership of the house in stepney green became generally known, there immediately sprang up, as always happens on occasions of discovery, rooting-out of facts, or exposure of wickedness, quite a large crop of old inhabitants ready to declare that they knew all along that the house on stepney green was one of those belonging to old mr. coppin. he bought it, they said, of mr. messenger, who was born there; and it was one of three left to caroline, who died young. who would believe that mr. bunker could have been so wicked? where is faith in brother man since so eminent a professor of honesty has fallen? mr. bunker suffers, but he suffers in silence; he may be seen any day in the neighborhood of stepney green, still engaged in his usual business; people may talk behind his back, but talk breaks no bones; they don't dare talk before his face; though he has lost two thousand pounds, there is still money left--he feels that he is a warm man, and has money to leave behind him; it will be said of him that he cut up well. warmth of all kinds comforts a man; but he confesses with a pang that he did wrong to send his nephew to that lawyer, who took the opportunity, when he drew up the discharge and receipt, of giving him an opinion--unasked and unpaid for--as to his conduct in connection with the trust. there could be no mistake at all about the meaning and force of that opinion. and, oddly enough, whenever mr. bunker sees the queen's omnibus--that dark painted vehicle, driven by a policeman--pass along the road, he thinks of mr. pike, and that opinion returns to his memory, and he feels just exactly as if a bucket of cold water was trickling down his back by the nape of the neck. even in warm weather this is disagreeable. and it shows that the lawyer must have spoken very strong words indeed, and that although mr. bunker, like the simple ones and the scorners, wished for none of the lawyer's counsel, unlike them he did not despise their reproof. yet he is happier, now that the blow has fallen, than he was while he was awaiting it and dreaming of handcuffs. we anticipate; but we have, indeed, seen almost the last of mr. bunker. it is sad to part with him. but we have no choice. in the evening harry went as usual to the drawing-room. he stayed, however, after the girls went away. there was nothing unusual in his doing so. "girls in my position," said the dressmaker, "are not tied by the ordinary rules." to-night, however, he had something to say. "congratulate me," he cried, as soon as they were alone. "i have turned out, as the story-books say, to be the heir to vast sums of money." angela turned pale. she was reassured, however, on learning the extent of the heritage. "consider my romantic story," said harry. "instead of finding myself the long-lost heir, strawberry-mark and all, to an earldom, i am the son of a sergeant in the line. and then, just as i am getting over the blow, i find myself the owner of three houses and two thousand pounds. what workman ever had two thousand pounds before? there was an under-gardener i knew," he went on meditatively, "who once got a hundred; he called it a round hundred, i remember. he and his wife went on the hospitable drink for a fortnight; then they went to hospital for a month with trimmings; and then went back to work--the money all gone--and joined the primitive methodists. can't we do something superior in the shape of a burst or a boom, for the girls, with two thousand pounds?" "tell me," said angela, "how you got it." he narrated the whole story, for her instruction and amusement, with some dramatic force, impersonating bunker's wrath, terror, and entreaties, and final business-like collapse. "so that," said angela, "you are now a man of property, and will, i suppose, give up the work at the brewery." "do you think i should?" "i do not like to see any man idle, and"--she hesitated--"especially you." "thank you," said harry. "then i remain. the question of the two thousand pounds--my cool two thousand--i am the winner of the two thousand--in reserve. as for this house, however, decided steps must be taken. listen, queen of the mystery of dress! you pay bunker sixty-five pounds a year or so for the rent of this house; that is a good large deduction from the profits of the association. i have been thinking, if you approve, that i will have this house conveyed to you in trust for the association. then you will be rent-free." "but that is a very, very generous offer. you really wish to give us this house altogether for ourselves!" "if you will accept it." "you have only these houses, and you give us the best of them. is it right and just to strip yourself?" "how many houses should i have? now there are two left, and their rent brings in seventy pounds a year, and i have two thousand pounds which will bring in another eighty pounds a year. i am rich--much too rich for a common cabinet-maker." "oh!" she said, "what can we do but accept? and how shall we show our gratitude? but, indeed, we can do nothing." "i want nothing," said harry. "i have had so much happiness in this place that i can want for nothing. it is for me to show my gratitude." "thank you," she replied, giving him her hand. he stooped and kissed it, but humbly, as one who accepts a small favor gratefully and asks for no more. they were alone in the drawing-room; the fire was low; only one lamp was burning; angela was sitting beside the fire; her face was turned from him. a mighty wave of love was mounting in the young man's brain; but a little more, a very little more, and he would have been kneeling at her feet. she felt the danger; she felt it the more readily because she was so deeply moved herself. what had she given the girls, out of her abundance, compared with what he had given out of his slender portion? her eyes filled with tears. then she sprang to her feet and touched his hand again. "do not forget your promise," she said. "my promise? oh! how long----" "patience," she replied. "give me a little while--a little while--only--and----" "forgive me," he said, kissing her hand again. "forgive me." "let me go," she went on. "it is eleven o'clock." they put out the lamp and went out. the night was clear and bright. "do not go in just yet," said harry. "it is pleasant out here, and i think the stars are brighter than they are at the west end." "everything is better here," said angela, "than at the west end. here we have hearts, and can feel for each other. here we are all alike--workmen and workwomen together." "you are a prejudiced person. let us talk of the palace of delight--your dream." "your invention," said angela. "won't my two thousand go some way in starting it? perhaps, if we could just start it, the thing would go on of its own accord. why, see what you have done with your girls already." "but i must have a big palace--a noble building, furnished with everything that we want. no, my friend, we will take your house because it is a great and noble gift, but you shall not sacrifice your money. yet we will have that palace, and before long. and when it is ready----" "yes, when it is ready." "perhaps the opening of the palace will be, for all of us, the beginning of a new happiness." "you speak in a parable." "no," she said, "i speak in sober earnestness. now let me go. remember what i say; the opening of the palace may be, if you will--for all of us----" "for you and me?" "for--yes--for you--and for me. good-night." chapter xlv. lady davenant's dinner-party. lady davenant had now been in full enjoyment of her title in portman square, where one enjoys such things more thoroughly than on stepney green, for four or five weeks. she at first enjoyed it so much that she thought of nothing but the mere pleasure of the greatness. she felt an uplifting of heart every time she walked up and down the stately stairs; another every time she sat at the well-furnished dinner table; and another whenever she looked about her in the drawing-room. she wrote copious letters to her friend aurelia tucker during these days. she explained with fulness of detail, and in terms calculated to make that lady expire of envy, the splendor of her position; and for at least five weeks she felt as if the hospitality of miss messenger actually brought with it a complete recognition of her claim. her husband, not so sanguine as herself, knew very well that the time would come when the case would have to be taken up again and sent in to the proper quarter for examination. meantime he was resigned, and even happy. three square meals a day, each of them abundant, each a masterpiece of art, were enough to satisfy that remarkable twist which, as her ladyship was persuaded, one knows not on what grounds, had always been a distinguishing mark of the davenants. familiarity speedily reconciled him to the presence of the footmen; he found in the library a most delightful chair in which he could sleep all the morning; and it pleased him to be driven through the streets in a luxurious carriage under soft, warm furs, in which one can take the air and get a splendid appetite without fatigue. they were seen about a great deal. it was a part of angela's design that they should, when the time came for going back again, seem to themselves to have formed a part of the best society in london. therefore she gave instructions to her maid that her visitors were to go to all the public places, the theatres, concerts, exhibitions, and places of amusement. the little american lady knew so little what she ought to see and whither she ought to go, that she fell back on campion for advice and help. it was campion who suggested a theatre in the evening, the exhibition of old masters or the grosvenor gallery in the morning, and regent street in the afternoon; it was campion who pointed out the recognized superiority of westminster abbey, considered as a place of worship for a lady of exalted rank, over a chapel up a back street, of the baptist persuasion, to which at her own home lady davenant had belonged. it was campion who went with her and showed her the shops, and taught her the delightful art of spending her money--the money "lent" her by miss messenger--in the manner becoming to a peeress. she was so clever and sharp, that she caught at every hint dropped by the lady's-maid; she reformed her husband's ideas of evening-dress; she humored his weaknesses; she let him keep his eyes wide open at a farce or a ballet on the understanding that at a concert or a sermon he might blamelessly sleep through it; she even began to acquire rudimentary ideas on the principles of art. "i confess, my dear aurelia," she wrote, "that habit soon renders even these marble halls familiar. i have become perfectly reconciled to the splendor of english patrician life, and now feel as if i had been born to it. tall footmen no longer frighten me, nor the shouting of one's name after the theatre. of course the outward marks of respect one receives as one's due, when one belongs, by the gift of providence, to a great and noble house." this was all very pleasant; yet lady davenant began to yearn for somebody, if it were only mrs. bormalack, with whom she could converse. she wanted a long chat. perhaps miss kennedy or mrs. bormalack, or the sprightly mr. goslett, might be induced to come and spend a morning with her, or a whole day, if only they would not feel shy and frightened in so splendid a place. meantime some one "connected with the press" got to hear of a _soi-disant_ lord davenant who was often to be seen with his wife in boxes at theatres and other places of resort. he heard, this intellectual connection of the press, people asking each other who lord davenant was; he inquired of the red book, and received no response; he thereupon perceived that here was an opportunity for a sensation and a mystery. he found out where lord davenant was living, by great good luck--it was through taking a single four of whiskey in a bar frequented by gentlemen in plush; and he proceeded to call upon his lordship and to interview him. the result appeared in a long _communique_ which attracted general and immediate interest. the journalist set forth at length and in the most graphic manner the strange and romantic career of the condescending wheelwright; he showed how the discovery was made, and how, after many years, the illustrious pair had crossed the atlantic to put forward their claim; and how they were offered the noble hospitality of a young lady of princely fortune. it was a most delightful godsend to the paper in which it appeared, and it came at a time when the house was not sitting, and there was no wringle-wrangle of debates to furnish material for the columns of big type which are supposed to sway the masses. the other papers therefore seized upon the topic and had leading articles upon it, in which the false demetrius, the pretending palæologus, perkin warbeck, lambert simnel, george psalmanazar, the languishing nobleman, the earl of mar, the count of albany, with other claims and claimants, furnished illustrations to the claims of the davenants. the publicity given to the case by these articles delighted her ladyship beyond everything, while it abashed and confounded her lord. he saw in it the beginning of more exertion, and strenuous efforts after the final recognition. and she carefully cut out all the articles and sent them to her nephew nicholas, to her friend aurelia tucker, and to the editor of the _canaan city express_ with her compliments. and she felt all the more, in the midst of this excitement, that if she did not have some one to talk to she must go back to stepney green and spend a day. or she would die. it was at this juncture that campion, perhaps inspired by secret instructions, suggested that her ladyship must be feeling a little lonely, and must want to see her friends. why not, she said, ask them to dinner? a dinner-party, lady davenant reflected, would serve not only to show her old friends the reality of her position, but would also please them as a mark of kindly remembrance. only, she reflected, dinner at stepney green had not the same meaning that it possesses at the west end. the best dinner in that locality is that which is most plentiful, and there are no attempts made to decorate a table. another thing, dinner is taken universally between one o'clock and two. "i think, clara martha," said his lordship, whom she consulted in this affair of state, "that at any time of day such a feast of belshazzar as you will give them will be grateful; and they may call it dinner or supper, which ever they please." thereupon lady davenant wrote a letter to mrs. bormalack inviting the whole party. she explained that they had met with the most splendid hospitality from miss messenger, in whose house they were still staying; that they had become public characters, and had been the subject of discussion in the papers, which caused them to be much stared at and followed in the streets, and in theatres and concert-rooms; that they were both convinced that their case would soon be triumphant; that they frequently talked over old friends of stepney, and regretted that the distance between them was so great--though distance, she added kindly, cannot divide hearts; and that, if mrs. bormalack's party would come over together and dine with them, it would be taken as a great kindness, both by herself and by his lordship. she added that she hoped they would all come, including mr. fagg and old mr. maliphant and mr. josephus, "though," she added with a little natural touch, "i doubt whether mr. maliphant ever gave me a thought; and mr. josephus was always too much occupied with his own misfortunes to mind any business of mine. and, dear mrs. bormalack, please remember that when we speak of dinner we mean what you call supper. it is exactly the same thing, only served a little earlier. we take ours at eight o'clock instead of nine. his lordship desires me to add that he shall be extremely disappointed if mr. goslett does not come; and you will tell miss kennedy, whose kindness i can never forget, the same from me, and that she must bring nelly and rebekah and captain sorensen." the letter was received with great admiration. josephus, who had blossomed into a complete new suit of clothes of juvenile cut, declared that the invitation did her ladyship great credit, and that now his misfortunes were finished he should be rejoiced to take his place in society. harry laughed, and said that of course he would go. "and you, miss kennedy?" angela colored. then she said that she would try to go. "and if mr. maliphant and daniel only go too," said harry, "we shall be as delightful a party as were ever gathered together at one dinner-table." it happened that about this time lord jocelyn remembered the american claimants, and his promise to call upon them. he therefore called, and was received with the greatest cordiality by her little ladyship, and with wondrous affability, as becomes one man of rank toward another, by lord davenant. it was her ladyship who volubly explained their claim to him, and the certainty of the assumption that their timothy clitheroe was the lost heir to the same two christian names; her husband only folded his fat hands over each other, and from time to time wagged his head. "you are the first of my husband's brother peers," she said, "who has called upon us. we shall not forget this kindness from your lordship." "but i am not a peer at all," he explained; "i am only a younger son with a courtesy title. i am quite a small personage." "which makes it all the kinder," said her ladyship; "and i must say that, grand as it is, in this big house, one does get tired of hearin' no voice but your own--and my husband spends a good deal of his time in the study. oh! a man of great literary attainments, and a splendid mathematician. i assure your lordship not a man or a boy in canaan city can come near him in algebra." "up to a certain point, clara martha," said her husband, meaning that there might be lofty heights in science to which even he himself could not soar. "quadratic equations, my lord." lord jocelyn made an original remark about the importance of scientific pursuits. "and since you are so friendly," continued her ladyship, "i will venture to invite your lordship to dine with us." "certainly. i shall be greatly pleased." "we have got a few friends coming to-morrow evening," said her ladyship, rather grandly. "friends from whitechapel." lord jocelyn looked curious. "yes, mr. josephus coppin and his cousin mr. goslett, a sprightly young man who respects rank." "he is coming, is he?" asked lord jocelyn, laughing. "and then there is miss kennedy----" "she is coming too?" he rose with alacrity. "lady davenant, i shall be most happy to come, i assure you." it was most unfortunate that next day miss kennedy had such a dreadful headache, that she found herself prevented from going with the rest. this was a great disappointment, and at the last moment old mr. maliphant could not be found, and they had to start without him. how they performed the journey, how harry managed to let most of the party go on before, because of his foolish pride, which would not let him form one of a flock all going out together, and how he with captain sorensen and nelly came on after the rest, may be passed over. when he got to portman square, he found the first detachment already arrived, and, to his boundless astonishment, his guardian. lady davenant, arrayed in her black velvet and the jewels which angela gave her, looked truly magnificent. was it possible, mrs. bormalack thought, that such a transformation could be effected in a woman by a velvet gown? she even looked tall. she received her friends with unaffected kindness, and introduced them all to lord jocelyn. "mrs. bormalack, your lordship, my former landlady, and always my very good friend. professor climo, your lordship, the famous conjurer. and i'm sure the way he makes things disappear makes you believe in magic. mr. fagg, the great scholar; of whom, perhaps, your lordship has heard. mr. josephus coppin, who has been unfortunate." lord jocelyn wondered what that meant. "miss rebekah hermitage, whose father is minister of the seventh day independents, and a most respectable connection, though small in number. captain sorensen, your lordship, who comes from the trinity almshouse, and nellie his daughter; and mr. goslett. and i think that is all; and the sooner they let us have dinner the better." lord jocelyn shook hands with everybody. when it came to harry, he laughed, and they both laughed, but they did not say why. "and where is miss kennedy?" asked her ladyship. and there were great lamentations. "i wanted your lordship to see miss kennedy. oh, there's nobody like miss kennedy--is there, nelly?" "nobody," said nelly. "there can be nobody like miss kennedy." lord jocelyn was struck with the beauty of this girl, whom he remembered seeing at the dressmakery. he began to hope that she would sit next to him at dinner. "nobody half so beautiful in all stepney, is there?" "nobody half so good," said rebekah. then the dinner was announced, and there was confusion in going down, because nobody would go before lord jocelyn, who, therefore, had to lead the way. lord davenant offered his arm to mrs. bormalack, harry to nelly, and captain sorensen to rebekah. the professor, mr. fagg, and josephus came last. "to be sure," said mrs. bormalack, looking about her, thankful that she had put on her best cap, "magnificence was expected, as was your lordship's due, but such as this--no, young man, i never take soup unless i've made it myself, and am quite sure--such as this, my lord, we did not expect." she was splendid in her beautiful best cap, all ribbons and bows, with an artificial dahlia in it of a far-off fashion--say, the forties; the sight of the table, with its plate and flowers and fruit, filled her with admiration, but, as she now says in recalling that stupendous feed, there was too much ornament, which kept her mind off the cooking, so that she really carried away no new ideas for stepney use. nelly did sit next to lord jocelyn, who talked with her, and found that she was shy until he touched upon miss kennedy. then she waxed eloquent, and told him marvels, forgetting that he was a stranger who probably knew and cared nothing about miss kennedy. but nelly belonged to that very numerous class which believes its own affairs of the highest interest to the world at large, and in this instance miss kennedy was a subject of the deepest interest to her neighbors. wherefore he listened while she told what had been done for the workgirls by one woman, one of themselves. opposite, on lady davenant's left, sat captain sorensen. in the old days the captains of east indiamen were not unacquainted with great men's tables, but it was long since he had sat at such a feast. presently lord jocelyn began to look at him curiously. "who is the old gentleman opposite?" he whispered to nelly. "that is my father; he was a captain once, and commanded a great ship." "i thought so," said lord jocelyn. "i remember him, but he has forgotten me." next to the captain sat rebekah, looking prepared for any fate, and not unduly uplifted by the splendor of the scene. but for her, as well as for nearly all who were present, the word dinner will henceforth have a new and exalted meaning. the length of the feast, the number of things offered, the appointments of the table, struck her imagination; she thought of belshazzar and of herod; such as the feast before her were those feasts of old; she tasted the champagne, and it took away her breath; yet it seemed good. mr. goslett seemed to think so too, because he drank so many glasses. so did the others, and, being inexperienced in wine, they drank with more valor than discretion, so that they began to talk loud, but that was not till later. "do people--rich people--always dine like this?" asked nelly of her neighbor. "something like this; yes, that is, some such dinner, though simpler, is always prepared for them." "i was thinking," she said, "how differently people live. i would rather live in our way--with miss kennedy--than in so much grandeur." "grandeur soon becomes a matter of habit. but as for miss kennedy, you cannot live always with her, can you?" "why not?" "well, she may marry, you know." nelly looked across the table at harry. "i suppose she will; we all of us hope she will, if it is to stay with us; but that need not take her away from us." "do you know miss messenger?" "no," said nelly; "she has been very kind to us; she is our best customer, she sends us all sorts of kind messages, and presents even; and she sends us her love and best wishes; i think she must be very fond of miss kennedy. she promises to come some day and visit us. whenever i think of miss messenger, i think, somehow, that she must be like miss kennedy; only i cannot understand miss kennedy being rich and the owner of this great house." when the ladies retired, at length, it became manifest that josephus had taken more wine than was good for him. he laughed loudly; he told everybody that he was going to begin all over again, classes and lectures and everything, including the sunday-school and the church membership. the professor, who, for his part, seemed indisposed for conversation, retained the mastery over his fingers, and began to prepare little tricks, and presently conveyed oranges into lord davenant's coat-tails without moving from his chair. and daniel fagg, whose cheek was flushed, and whose eyes were sparkling, rose from his chair, and attacked lord jocelyn, note-book in hand. "is your lo'ship," he began, with a perceptible thickness of speech--lord jocelyn recognized him as the man whom he had accosted at stepney green, and who subsequently took dinner with the girls--"is your lo'ship int'rested in hebrew schriptions?" "very much indeed," said lord jocelyn, politely. "'low me to put your lo'ship's name down for schription, twelve-and-six? book will come out next month, miss ken'dy says so." "put up your book, daniel," said harry sternly, "and sit down." "i want--show--his lo'ship--a hebrew schription." he sat down, however, obediently, and immediately fell fast asleep. said lord jocelyn to captain sorensen: "i remember you, captain, very well indeed, but you have forgotten me. were you not in command of the _sussex_ in the year of the mutiny? did you not take me out with the th?" "to be sure--to be sure i did; and i remember your lordship very well, and am very glad to find you remember me. you were younger then." "i was; and how goes it with you now, captain? cheerfully as of old?" "ay, ay, my lord. i'm in the trinity almshouse, and my daughter is with miss kennedy, bless her! therefore i've nothing to complain of." "may i call upon you, some day, to talk over old times? you used to sing a good song in those days, and play a good tune, and dance a good dance." "come, my lord, as often as you like," he replied in great good-humor. "the cabin is small, but it's cozy, and the place is hard to get at." "it is the queerest dinner i ever had, harry," lord jocelyn whispered. "i like our old captain and his daughter. is the hard-hearted dressmaker prettier than nellie?" "prettier! why, there is no comparison possible." "yet nelly hath a pleasing manner." "miss kennedy turns all her girls into ladies. come and see her." "perhaps, harry, perhaps; when she is no longer hard-hearted; when she has named the happy day." "this evening," said lady davenant, when they joined her, "will be one that i never can forget. for i've had my old friends round me, who were kind in our poverty and neglect; and now i've your lordship, too, who belongs to the new time. so that it is a joining together, as it were, and one don't feel like stepping out of our place into another quite different, as i shall tell aurelia, who says she is afraid that splendor may make me forget old friends; whereas there is nobody i should like to have with us this moment better than aurelia. but perhaps she judges others by herself." "lor!" cried mrs. bormalack, "to hear your ladyship go on! it's like an angel of goodness." "and the only thing that vexes me--it's enough to spoil it all--is that miss kennedy couldn't come. ah! my lord, if you had only seen miss kennedy! rebekah and nelly are two good girls and pretty, but you are not to compare with miss kennedy--are you, dears?" they both shook their heads, and were not offended. it was past eleven when they left to go home in cabs; one contained the sleeping forms of josephus and mr. fagg; the next contained captain sorensen and nelly, with harry. the professor, who had partly revived, came with mrs. bormalack and rebekah in the last. "you seemed to know lord jocelyn, mr. goslett," said the captain. "i ought to," replied harry simply; "he gave me my education." "he was always a brave and generous officer, i remember," the captain went on. "yes, i remember him well; all the men would have followed him everywhere. well, he says he will come and see me." "then he will come," said harry, "if he said so." "very good; if he comes, he shall see miss kennedy too." chapter xlvi. the end of the case. this dinner, to which her ladyship will always look back with the liveliest satisfaction, was the climax, the highest point, so to speak, of her greatness, which was destined to have a speedy fall. angela asked lord jocelyn to read through the papers and advise. she told him of the professor's discovery, and of the book which had belonged to the wheelwright, and everything. of course the opinion which he formed was exactly that formed by angela herself, and he told her so. "i have asked them to my house," angela wrote, "because i want them to go home to their own people with pleasant recollections of their stay in london. i should like them to feel, not that their claim had broken down, and that they were defeated, but that it had been examined, and was held to be not proven. i should be very sorry if i thought that the little lady would cease to believe in her husband's illustrious descent. will you help me to make her keep her faith as far as possible and go home with as little disappointment as possible?" "i will try," said lord jocelyn. he wrote to lady davenant that he had given careful consideration to the case, and had taken opinions, which was also true, because he made a lawyer, a herald, and a peer all read the documents, and write him a letter on the subject. he dictated all three letters, it is true; but there is generally something to conceal in this world of compromises. he went solemnly to portman square bearing these precious documents with him. to lady davenant his opinion was the most important step which had yet occurred in the history of the claim; she placed her husband in the hardest arm-chair that she could find, with strict injunctions to keep broad awake; and she had a great array of pens and paper laid out on the table in order to look business-like. it must be owned that the good feeling of the last two months, with carriage exercise, had greatly increased his lordship's tendency to sleep and inaction. as for the case, he had almost ceased to think of it. the case meant worry, copying out, writing and re-writing, hunting up facts, and remembering; when the case was put away he could give up his mind to breakfast, lunch, and dinner. never had the present moment seemed so delightful to him. lord jocelyn wore an expression of great gravity, as befitted the occasion. in fact, he was intrusted with an exceedingly delicate mission; he had to tell these worthy people that there was not the slightest hope for them; to recommend them to go home again; and, though the counsel would be clothed in sugared words, to renounce forever the hope of proving their imaginary claim. but it is better to be told these things kindly and sympathetically, by a man with a title, than by any coarse or common lawyer. "before i begin"--lord jocelyn addressed himself to the lady instead of her husband--"i would ask if you have any relic at all of that first timothy clitheroe who is buried in your cemetery at canaan city?" "there is a book," said her ladyship. "here it is." she handed him a little book of songs, roughly bound in leather; on the title-page was written at the top "satturday," and at the bottom "davvenant." lord jocelyn laid the book down and opened his case. first, he reminded them that miss messenger in her first letter had spoken of a possible moral, rather than legal, triumph; of a possible failure to establish the claim before a committee of the house of peers to whom it would be referred. this, in his opinion, was the actual difficulty; he had read the case, as it had been carefully drawn up and presented by his lordship--and he complimented the writer upon his lucid and excellent style of drawing up of facts--and he had submitted the case for the opinion of friends of his own, all of them gentlemen eminently proper to form and to express an opinion on such a subject. he held the opinions of these gentlemen in his hands. one of them was from lord de lusignan, a nobleman of very ancient descent. his lordship wrote that there were very strong grounds for supposing it right to investigate a case which presented, certainly, very remarkable coincidences, if nothing more; that further investigations ought to be made on the spot; and that, if this timothy clitheroe davenant turned out to be the lost heir, it would be another romance in the history of the peerage. and his lordship concluded by a kind expression of hope that more facts would be discovered in support of the claim. "you will like to keep this letter," said the reader, giving it to lady davenant. she was horribly pale and trembled, because it seemed as if everything was slipping from her. "the other letters," lord jocelyn went on, "are to the same effect. one is from a lawyer of great eminence, and the other is from a herald. you will probably like to keep them, too, when i have read them." lady davenant took the letters, which were cruel in their kindness, and the tears came into her eyes. lord jocelyn went on to say that researches made in their interest in the parish registers had resulted in a discovery which might even be made into an argument against the claim. there was a foundling child baptized in the church in the same year as the young heir; he received the name of the village, with the day of the week on which he was found for christian name; that is to say, he was called saturday davenant. then, indeed, his lordship became very red, and her ladyship turned still paler, and both looked guilty. saturday davenant! the words in the book. suppose they were not a date and a name, but a man's whole name instead! "he left the parish," said lord jocelyn, "and was reported to have gone to america." neither of them spoke. his lordship looked slowly around the room, as if expecting that everything, even the solid mahogany of the library shelves, would vanish suddenly away. and he groaned, thinking of the dinners which would soon be things of the golden past. "but, my friends," lord jocelyn went on, "do not be downcast. there is always a possibility of new facts turning up. your grandfather's name may have been really timothy clitheroe, in which case i have very little doubt that he was the missing heir; but he may, on the other hand, have been the saturday davenant, in which case he lived and died with a lie on his lips, which one would be sorry to think possible." "well, sir--if that is so--what do you advise that we should do now?" asked the grandson of this mystery. he seemed to have become an american citizen again, and to have shaken off the aristocratic manner. "what i should advise is this. you will never, most certainly never get recognition of your claim without stronger evidence than you at present offer. on the other hand, no one will refuse to admit that you have a strong case. therefore i would advise you to go home to your own people, to tell them what has happened--how your case was taken up and carefully considered by competent authorities"--here he named again the lawyer, the herald, and the peer--"to show them their opinions, and to say that you have come back for further evidence, if you can find any, which will connect you beyond a doubt with the lost heir." "that is good advice, sir," said the claimant. "no, clara martha, for once i will have my own way. the connection is the weak point; we must go home and make it a strong point, else we had better stay there. i said, all along, that we ought not to have come. nevertheless, i'm glad we came, clara martha. i shan't throw it in your teeth that we did come. i'm grateful to you for making us come. we've made good friends here, and seen many things which we shouldn't otherwise have seen. and the thought of this house and the meals we've had in it--such breakfasts, such luncheons, such dinners--will never leave us, i am sure." lady davenant could say nothing. she saw everything torn from her at a rough blow--her title, her consideration, the envy of her fellow-citizens, especially of aurelia tucker. she put her handkerchief to her eyes and sobbed aloud. "you should not go back as if you were defeated," lord jocelyn went on, in sympathy with the poor little woman. "you are as much entitled to the rank you claim as ever. more: your case has been talked about; it is known; should any of the antiquaries who are always grubbing about parish records find any scrap of information which may help, he will make a note of it for you. when you came you were friendless and unknown. now the press of england has taken you up; your story is romantic; we are all interested in you, and desirous of seeing you succeed. before you go you will write to the papers stating why you go, and what you hope to find. all these letters and papers and proofs of the importance of your claim should be kept and shown to your friends." "we feel mean about going back, and that's a fact," said his lordship. "still, if we must go back, why, we'd better go back with drums and trumpets than sneak back----" "ah!" said his wife, "if you'd only shown that spirit from the beginning, timothy!" he collapsed. "if we go back," she continued, thoughtfully, "i suppose there's some sort of work we can find, between us. old folks hadn't ought to work like the young, and i'm sixty-five, and so is my husband. but----" she stopped, with a sigh. "i am empowered by miss messenger," lord jocelyn went on, with great softness of manner, "to make you a little proposition. she thinks that it would be most desirable for you to have your hands free while you make those researches which may lead to the discoveries we hope for. now, if you have to waste the day in work you will never be able to make any research. therefore miss messenger proposes--if you do not mind--if you will accept--an annuity on your joint lives of six hundred dollars. you may be thus relieved of all anxiety about your personal wants. and miss messenger begs only that you may let this annuity appear the offering of sympathizing english friends." "but we don't know miss messenger," said her ladyship. "has she not extended her hospitality to you for two months and more? is not that a proof of the interest she takes in you?" "certainly it is. why--see now--we've been living here so long, that we've forgotten it is all miss messenger's gift." "then you will accept?" "oh, lord jocelyn, what can we do but accept?" "and with grateful hearts," added his lordship. "tell her that. with grateful hearts. they've a way of serving quail in her house, that----" he stopped and sighed. they have returned to canaan city; they live in simple sufficiency. his lordship, when he is awake, has many tales to tell of london. his friends believe stepney green to be a part of may-fair, and mrs. bormalack to be a distinguished though untitled ornament of london society; while as for aurelia tucker, who fain would scoff, there are her ladyship's beautiful and costly dresses, and her jewels, and the letters from lord jocelyn le breton and the rich miss messenger, and the six hundred dollars a year drawn monthly, which proclaim aloud that there is something in the claim. there are things which cannot be gainsaid. nevertheless, no new discoveries have yet rewarded his lordship's researches. chapter xlvii. a palace of delight. during this time the palace of delight was steadily rising. before christmas its walls were completed and the roof on. then began the painting, the decorating, and the fittings. and angela was told that the building would be handed over to her, complete according to the contract, by the first of march. the building was hidden away, so to speak, in a corner of vast stepney, but already rumors were abroad concerning it, and the purpose for which it was erected. they were conflicting rumors. no one knew at all what was intended by it; no one had been within the walls; no one knew who built it. the place was situated so decidedly in the very heart and core of stepney, that the outside public knew nothing at all about it, and the rumors were confined to the small folk round it. so it rose in their midst without being greatly regarded. no report or mention of it came to harry's ears, so that he knew nothing of it, and suspected nothing any more than he suspected miss kennedy of being some other person. the first of march in this present year of grace fell upon a wednesday. angela resolved that the opening-day should be on thursday, the second, and that she would open it herself; and then another thought came into her mind; and the longer she meditated upon it, the stronger hold did the idea take upon her. the palace of delight was not, she said, her own conception; it was that of the man--the man she loved. would it not be generous, in giving this place over to the people for whom it was built, to give its real founder the one reward which he asked? never any knight of old had been more loyal. he obeyed in the spirit as well as the letter her injunction not to speak of love; not only did he refrain from those good words which he would fain have uttered, but he showed no impatience, grumbled not, had no fits of sulking; he waited, patient. and in all other things he did her behest, working with a cheerful heart for her girls, always ready to amuse them, always at her service for things great and small, and meeting her mood with a ready sympathy. one evening, exactly a fortnight before the proposed opening-day, angela invited all the girls, and with them her faithful old captain and her servant harry, to follow her because she had a thing to show them. she spoke with great seriousness, and looked overcome with the gravity of this thing. what was she going to show them? they followed, wondering, while she led the way to the church, and then turned to the right among the narrow lanes of a part where, by some accident, none of the girls belonged. presently she stopped before a great building. it was not lit up, and seemed quite dark and empty. outside, the planks were not yet removed, and they wore covered with gaudy advertisements, but it was too dark to see them. there was a broad porch above the entrance, with a generously ample ascent of steps like unto those of st. paul's cathedral. angela rang a bell and the door was opened. they found themselves in an entrance-hall of some kind, imperfectly lighted by a single gas-jet. there were three or four men standing about, apparently waiting for them, because one stepped forward, and said: "miss messenger's party?" "we are miss messenger's party," angela replied. "whoever we are," said harry, "we are a great mystery to ourselves." "patience," angela whispered; "part of the mystery is going to be cleared up." "light up, bill," said one of the men. then the whole place passed suddenly into daylight, for it was lit by the electric globes. it was a lofty vestibule. on either side were cloak-rooms; opposite were entrance-doors. but what was on the other side of these entrance-rooms none of them could guess. "my friend," said angela to harry, "this place should be yours. it is of your creation." "what is it, then?" "it is your palace of delight. yes; nothing short of that. will you lead me into your palace?" she took his arm while he marvelled greatly and asked himself what this might mean. one of the men then opened the doors, and they entered, followed by the wondering girls. they found themselves in a lofty and very spacious hall. at the end was a kind of throne--a red velvet divan, semicircular under a canopy of red velvet. statues stood on either side; behind them was a great organ; upon the walls were pictures. above the pictures were trophies in arms; tapestry carpets--all kinds of beautiful things. above the entrance was a gallery for musicians; and on either side were doors leading to places of which they knew nothing. miss kennedy led the way to the semicircular divan at the end. she took the central place, and motioned the girls to arrange themselves about her. the effect of this little group sitting by themselves and in silence, at the end of the great hall, was very strange and wonderful. "my dears," she said, after a moment--and the girls saw that her eyes were full of tears--"my dears, i have got a wonderful story to tell you. listen. "there was a girl, once, who had the great misfortune to be born rich. it is a thing which many people desire. she, however, who had it knew what a misfortune it might become to her. for the possessor of great wealth, more especially if it be a woman, attracts all the designing and wicked people in the world, all the rogues and all the pretended philanthropists to her, as wasps are attracted by honey; and presently, by sad experience, she gets to look on all mankind as desirous only of robbing and deceiving her. this is a dreadful condition of mind to fall into, because it stands in the way of love and friendship and trust, and all the sweet confidences which make us happy. "this girl's name was messenger. now, when she was quite young she knew what was going to happen, unless she managed somehow differently from other women in her unhappy position. and she determined as a first step to get rid of a large quantity of her wealth, so that the cupidity of the robbers might be diverted. "now, she had a humble friend--only a dressmaker,--who, for reasons of her own, loved her and would have served her if she could. and this dressmaker came to live at the east end of london. "and she saw that the girls who have to work for their bread are treated in such a way that slavery would be a better lot for most of them. for they have to work twelve hours in the day, and sometimes more; they sit in close, hot rooms, poisoned by gas; they get no change of position as the day goes on; they have no holiday, no respite, save on sunday; they draw miserable wages, and they are indifferently fed. so that she thought one good thing miss messenger could do was to help those girls, and this was how our association was founded." "but we shall thank you, all the same," said nelly. "then another thing happened. there was a young--gentleman," angela went on, "staying at the east end too. he called himself a working-man, said he was the son of a sergeant in the army, but everybody knew he was a gentleman. this dressmaker made his acquaintance, and talked with him a great deal. he was full of ideas, and one day he proposed that we should have a palace of delight. it would cost a great deal of money; but they talked as if they had that sum, and more, at their disposal. they arranged it all; they provided for everything. when the scheme was fully drawn up, the dressmaker took it to miss messenger. o my dear girls! this _is_ the palace of delight. it is built as they proposed; it is finished; it is our own; and here is its inventor." she took harry's hand. he stood beside her, gazing upon her impassioned face; but he was silent. "it looks cold and empty now, but when you see it on the opening day; when you come here night after night; when you get to feel the place to be a part, and the best part, of your life, then remember that what miss messenger did was nothing compared with what this--this young gentleman did. for he invented it." "now," she said, rising--they were all too much astonished to make any demonstration--"now let us examine the building. this hall is your great reception-room. you will use it for the ball nights, when you give your great dances; a thousand couples may dance here without crowding. on wet days it is to be the playground of the children. it will hold a couple of thousand, without jostling against each other. there is the gallery for the music, as soon as you have got any." she led the way to a door on the right. "this," she said, "is your theatre." it was like a roman theatre, being built in the form of a semicircle, tier above tier, having no distinction in places, save that some were nearer the stage and some further off. "here," she said, "you will act. do not think that players will be found for you. if you want a theatre you must find your own actors. if you want an orchestra you must find your own for your theatre, because in this place everything will be done by yourselves." they came out of the theatre. there was one other door on that side of the hall. "this," said angela, opening it, "is the concert-room. it has an organ and a piano and a platform. when you have got people who can play and sing, you will give concerts." they crossed the hall. on the other side were two more great rooms, each as big as the theatre and the concert-room. one was a gymnasium, fitted up with bars and ropes, and parallel rods and trapezes. "this is for the young men," said angela. "they will be stimulated by prizes to become good gymnasts. the other room is the library. here they may come, when they please, to read and study." it was a noble room, fitted with shelves and the beginning of a great library. "let us go upstairs," said angela. upstairs the rooms were all small, but there were a great many of them. thus there were billiard-rooms, card-rooms, rooms with chess, dominos, and backgammon-tables laid out, smoking-rooms for men alone, tea and coffee rooms, rooms where women could sit by themselves if they pleased, and a room where all kinds of refreshments were to be procured. above these was a second floor, which was called the school. this consisted of a great number of quite small rooms, fitted with desks, tables, and whatever else might be necessary. some of these rooms were called music-rooms, and were intended for instruction and practice on different instruments. others were for painting, drawing, sculpture, modelling, wood-carving, leather-work, brass-work, embroidery, lace-work, and all manner of small arts. "in the palace of delight," said angela, "we shall not be like a troop of revellers, thinking of nothing but dance and song and feasting. we shall learn something every day; we shall all belong to some class. those of us who know already will teach the rest. and oh! the best part of all has to be told. everything in the palace will be done for nothing except the mere cleaning and keeping in order. and if anybody is paid anything, it will be at the rate of a working-man's wage--no more. for this is our own palace, the club of the working-people; we will not let anybody make money out of it. we shall use it for ourselves, and we shall make our enjoyment by ourselves. "all this is provided in the deed of trust by which miss messenger hands over the building to the people. there are three trustees. one of these, of course, is you--mr. goslett." "i have been so lost in amazement," said harry, "that i have been unable to speak. is this, in very truth, the palace of delight that we have battled over so long and so often?" "it is none other. and you are a trustee to carry out the intentions of the founder--yourself." they went downstairs again to the great hall. "captain sorensen," angela whispered, "will you go home with the girls? i will follow in a few minutes." harry and angela were left behind in the hall. she called the man in charge of the electric light, and said something to him. then he went away and turned down the light, and they were standing in darkness, save for the bright moon which shone through the windows and fell upon the white statues and made them look like two ghosts themselves standing among rows of other ghosts. "harry," said angela. "do not mock me," he replied: "i am in a dream. this is not real. the place----" "it is your own palace of delight. it will be given to the people in a fortnight. are you pleased with your creation?" "pleased? and you?" "i am greatly pleased. harry"--it was the first time she had called him by his christian name--"i promised you--i promised i would tell you--i would tell you--if the time should come----" "has the time come? o my dear love, has the time come?" "there is nothing in the way. but oh!--harry--are you in the same mind? no--wait a moment." she held him by the wrists. "remember what you are doing. will you choose a lifetime of work among working-people? you can go back, now, to your old life; but--perhaps--you will not be able to go back, then." "i have chosen, long ago. you know my choice--o love--my love." "then, harry, if it will make you happy--are you quite sure it will?--you shall marry me on the day when the palace is opened." "you are sure," she said, presently, "that you can love me, though i am only a dressmaker?" "could i love you," he replied, passionately, "if you were anything else?" "you have never told me," he said, presently, "your christian name." "it is angela." "angela! i should have known it could have been no other. angela, kind heaven surely sent you down to stay awhile with me. if, in time to come, you should be ever unhappy with me, dear, if you should not be able to bear any longer with my faults, you would leave me and go back to the heaven whence you came." they parted, that night, on the steps of mrs. bormalack's dingy old boarding-house, to both so dear. but harry, for half the night, paced the pavement, trying to calm the tumult of his thoughts. "a life of work--with angela--with angela? why, how small, how pitiful seemed all other kinds of life in which angela was not concerned!" chapter xlviii. my lady sweet. my story, alas! has come to an end, according to the nature of all earthly things. the love vows are exchanged, the girl has given herself to the man--rich or poor. my friends, if you come to think of it, no girl is so rich that she can give more, or so poor that she can give less, than herself; and in love one asks not for more or less. even the day is appointed, and nothing is going to happen which will prevent the blessed wedding-bells from ringing, or the clergyman from the sacred joining together of man and of maid, till death do part them. what more to tell? we ought to drop the curtain while the moonlight pours through the windows of the silent palace upon the lovers, while the gods and goddesses, nymphs, naiads, and oreads in marble look on in sympathetic joy. they, too, in the far-off ages, among the woods and springs of hellas, lived and loved, though their forests know them no more. yet, because this was no ordinary marriage, and because we are sorry to part with angela before the day when she begins her wedded life, we must fain tell of what passed in that brief fortnight before the palace was opened, and angela's great and noble dream became a reality. there was, first of all, a great deal of business to be set in order. angela had interviews with her lawyers, and settlements had to be drawn up about which harry knew nothing, though he would have to sign them; then there were the trust-deeds for the palace. angela named harry, dick coppin, the old chartist, now her firm and fast friend, and lord jocelyn, as joint trustees. they were to see, first of all, that no one got anything out of the palace unless it might be workmen's wages for work done. they were to carry out the spirit of the house in making the place support and feed itself, so that whatever amusements, plays, dances, interludes, or mummeries were set afoot, all might be by the people themselves for themselves; and they were to do their utmost to keep out of the discordant elements of politics, religion, and party controversy. all the girls knew by this time that miss kennedy was to be married on the second of march--the day when the palace was to be opened. they also learned, because the details were arranged and talked over every evening, that the opening would be on a very grand scale indeed. miss messenger herself was coming to hand it over in person to the trustees on behalf of the people of stepney and whitechapel. there was to be the acting of a play in the new theatre, a recital on the new organ, the performance of a concert in the new concert-room, playing all the evening long by a military band, some sort of general entertainment; and the whole was to be terminated by a gigantic supper given by miss messenger herself, to which fifteen hundred guests were bidden--namely, first, all the employees of the brewery with their wives, if they had any, from the chief brewer and the chief accountant down to the humblest boy in the establishment; and, secondly, all the girls in the association, with two or three guests for each; and, thirdly, a couple of hundred or so chosen from a list drawn up by dick coppin, and the cobbler, and harry. as for harry, he had now, by angela's recommendation, resigned his duties at the brewery, in order to throw his whole time into the arrangement for the opening day; and this so greatly occupied him that he sometimes even forgot what the day would mean to him. the invitations were sent in miss messenger's own name. they were all accepted, although there was naturally some little feeling of irritation at the brewery when it became known that there was to be a general sitting down of all together. miss messenger also expressed her wish that the only beverage at the supper should be messenger's beer, and that of the best quality. the banquet, in imitation of the lord mayor's dinner on the ninth of november, was to be a cold one, and solid, with plenty of ices, jellies, puddings, and fruit. but there was something said about glasses of wine for every guest after supper. "i suppose," said angela, talking over this pleasant disposition of things with harry, "that she means one or two toasts to be proposed. the first should be to the success of the palace. the second, i think"--and she blushed--"will be the health of you, harry, and of me." "i think so much of you," said harry, "all day long, that i never think of miss messenger at all. tell me what she is like, this giver and dispenser of princely gifts. i suppose she really is the owner of boundless wealth?" "she has several millions, if you call that boundless. she has been a very good friend to me, and will continue so." "you know her well?" "i know her very well. o harry, do not ask me any more about her or myself. when we are married i will tell you all about the friendship of miss messenger to me. you trust me, do you not?" "trust you! o angela!" "my secret, such as it is, is not a shameful one, harry; and it has to do with the very girl, this miss messenger. leave me with it till the day of our wedding. i wonder how far your patience will endure my secrets? for here is another. you know that i have a little money?" "i am afraid, my angela," said harry, laughing, "that you must have made a terrible hole in it since you came here. little or much, what does it matter to us? haven't we got the two thousand? think of that tremendous lump." "what can it matter?" she cried. "o harry, i thank heaven for letting me, too, have this great gift of sweet and disinterested love. i thought it would never come to me." "to whom, then, should it come?" "don't, harry, or--yes--go on thinking me all that you say, because it may help to make me all that you think. but that is not what i wanted to say. would you mind very much, harry, if i asked you to take my name?" "i will take any name you wish, angela. if i am your husband, what does it matter about any other name?" "and then one other thing, harry. will your guardian give his consent?" "yes, i can answer for him that he will. and he will come to the wedding if i ask him." "then ask him, harry." "so," said lord jocelyn, "the dressmaker has relented, has she? why, that is well. and i am to give my consent? my dear boy, i only want you to be happy. besides, i am quite sure and certain that you will be happy." "everybody is, if he marries the woman he loves," said the young man sententiously. "yes--yes, if he goes on loving the woman he has married. however, harry, you have my best wishes and consent, since you are good enough to ask for it. wait a bit." he got up and began to search about in drawers and desks. "i must give your fiancée a present, harry. see--here is something good. will you give her, with my best love and good wishes, this? it was once my mother's." harry looked at the gaud, set with pearls and rubies in old-fashioned style. "is it not," he asked, "rather too splendid for a--poor people in our position?" lord jocelyn laughed aloud. "nothing," he said, "can be too splendid for a beautiful woman. give it her, harry, and tell her i am glad she has consented to make you happy. tell her i am more than glad, harry. say that i most heartily thank her. yes, thank her. tell her that. say that i thank her from my heart." as the day drew near the girls became possessed of a great fear. it seemed to all as if things were going to undergo some great and sudden change. they knew that the house was secured to them free of rent; but they were going to lose their queen, that presiding spirit who not only kept them together, but also kept them happy. in her presence there were no little tempers, and jealousies were forgotten. when she was with them they were all on their best behavior. now it is an odd thing in girls, and i really think myself privileged, considering my own very small experience of the sex, in being the first to have discovered this important truth--that, whereas to boys good behavior is too often a _gêne_ and a bore, girls prefer behaving well. they are happiest when they are good, nicely dressed, and sitting all in a row with company manners. but who, when miss kennedy went away, would lead them in the drawing-room? the change, however, was going to be greater than they knew or guessed; the drawing-room itself would become before many days a thing of the past, but the palace would take its place. they all brought gifts; they were simple things, but they were offered with willing and grateful hearts. rebekah brought the one volume of her father's library which was well bound. it was a work written in imitation of hervey's "meditations," and dwelt principally with tombs, and was therefore peculiarly appropriate as a wedding present. nelly brought a ring which had been her mother's, and was so sacred to her that she felt it _must_ be given to miss kennedy; the other girls gave worked handkerchiefs, and collars, and such little things. angela looked at the table on which she had spread all her wedding presents: the plated teapot from mrs. bormalack; the girls' work; nelly's ring; rebekah's book; lord jocelyn's bracelet. she was happier with these trifles than if she had received in portman square the hundreds of gifts and jewelled things which would have poured in for the young heiress. and in the short fortnight she thought for everybody. josephus received a message that he might immediately retire on the pension which he would have received had he been fortunate in promotion, and been compelled to go by ill-health: in other words, he was set free with three hundred pounds a year for life. he may now be seen any day in the mile end road or on stepney green, dressed in the fashion of a young man of twenty-one or so, walking with elastic step, because he is so young, yet manifesting a certain gravity, as becomes one who attends the evening lectures of the beaumont institute in french and arithmetic, and takes a class on the sabbath in connection with the wesleyan body. after all, a man is only as old as he feels; and why should not josephus, whose youth was cruelly destroyed, feel young again, now that his honor has been restored to him? on the morning before the wedding, angela paid two visits of considerable importance. the first was to daniel fagg, to whom she carried a small parcel. "my friend," she said, "i have observed your impatience about your book. your publisher thought that, as you are inexperienced in correcting proofs, it would be best to have the work done for you. and here, i am truly happy to say, is the book itself." he tore the covering from the book, and seized it as a mother would seize her child. "my book!" he gasped, "my book!" yes, his book; bound in sober cloth, with an equilateral triangle on the cover for simple ornament. "the primitive alphabet, by daniel fagg!" "my book!" angela explained to him that his passage to melbourne was taken, and that he would sail in a week; and that a small sum of money would be put into his hands on landing: and that a hundred copies of the book would be sent to australia for him, with more if he wanted them. but she talked to idle ears, for daniel was turning over the leaves and devouring the contents of his book. "at all events," said angela, "i have made one man happy." then she walked to the trinity almshouse, and sought her old friend, captain sorensen. to him she told her whole story from the very beginning, begging only that he would keep her secret till the next evening. "but, of course," said the sailor, "i knew, all along, that you were a lady born and bred. you might deceive the folk here, who've no chance, poor things, of knowing a lady when they see one--how should they? but you could not deceive a man who's had his quarter-deck full of ladies. the only question in my mind was, why you did it." "you did not think that what bunker said was true--did you, captain sorensen?" "nay," he replied. "bunker never liked you; and how i am to thank you enough for all you've done for my poor girl----" "thank me by continuing to be my dear friend and adviser," said angela. "if i thought it would pleasure you to live out of this place----" "no, no," said the captain, "i could not take your money; any one may accept the provision of the asylum and be grateful." "i knew you would say so. stay on, then, captain sorensen. and as regards nelly, my dear and fond nelly----" it needs not to tell what she said and promised on behalf of nelly. and at the house the girls were trying on the new white frocks and white bonnets in which they were to go to the wedding. they were all bridemaids, but nelly had the post of honor. chapter xlix. "uprouse ye then, my merry, merry men." at nine in the morning harry presented himself at the house, no longer his own, for the signing of certain papers. the place was closed for a holiday, but the girls were already assembling in the show-room, getting their dresses laid out, trying on their gloves, and chattering like birds up in the branches on a fine, spring morning. he found angela sitting with an elderly gentleman--none other than the senior partner of the firm of her solicitors. he had a quantity of documents on the table before him, and as harry opened the door he heard these remarkable words: "so the young man does not know--even at the eleventh hour?" what it was he would learn, harry cared not to inquire. he had been told that there was a secret of some sort which he would learn in the course of the day. "these papers, harry," said his bride, "are certain documents which you have to sign, connected with that little fortune of which i told you." "i hope," said harry, "that the fortune, whatever it is, has all been settled upon yourself absolutely." "you will find, young gentleman," said the solicitor, gravely, "that ample justice--generous justice--has been done you. very well, i will say no more." "do you want me to sign without reading, angela?" "if you will so far trust me." he took the pen and signed where he was told to sign, without reading one word. if he had been ordered to sign away his life and liberty, he would have done so blindly and cheerfully at angela's bidding. the deed was signed, and the act of signature was witnessed. so that was done. there now remained only the ceremony. while the solicitor, who evidently disliked the whole proceeding, as irregular and dangerous, was putting up the papers, angela took her lover's hands in hers, and looked into his face with her frank and searching look. "you do not repent, my poor harry?" "repent?" "you might have done so much better: you might have married a lady----" the solicitor, overhearing these words, sat down and rubbed his nose with an unprofessional smile. "shall i not marry a lady?" "you might have found a rich bride: you might have led a lazy life, with nothing to do, instead of which--o harry, there is still time! we are not due at the church for half an hour yet. think. do you deliberately choose a life of work and ambition--with--perhaps--poverty?" at this point the solicitor rose from his chair and walked softly to the window, where he remained for five minutes looking out upon stepney green with his back to the lovers. if harry had been watching him, he would have remarked a curious tremulous movement of the shoulders. "there is one thing more, harry, that i have to ask you." "of course, you have only to ask me, whatever it is. could i refuse you anything, who will give me so much?" their fingers were interlaced, their eyes were looking into each other. no; he could refuse her nothing. "i give you much? o harry! what is a woman's gift of herself?" harry restrained himself. the solicitor might be sympathetic; but, on the whole, it was best to act as if he were not. law has little to do with love; cupid has never yet been represented with the long gown. "it is a strange request, harry. it is connected with my--my little foolish secret. you will let me go away directly the service is over, and you will consent not to see me again until the evening, when i shall return. you, with all the girls, will meet me in the porch of the palace at seven o'clock exactly. and, as miss messenger will come too, you will make your--perhaps your last appearance--my poor boy--in the character of a modern english gentleman in evening-dress. tell your best man that he is to give his arm to nelly; the other girls will follow two and two. oh, harry, the first sound of the organ in your palace will be your own wedding march: the first festival in your palace will be in your own honor. is not that what it should be?" "in your honor, dear, not mine. and miss messenger? are we to give no honor to her who built the palace?" "oh, yes--yes--yes!" she put the question by with a careless gesture. "but any one who happened to have the money could do such a simple thing. the honor is yours because you invented it." "from your hands, angela, i will take all the honor that you please to give. so am i doubly honored." there were no wedding bells at all: the organ was mute; the parish church of stepney was empty; the spectators of the marriage were mrs. bormalack and captain sorensen, besides the girls and the bridegroom, and dick, his best man. the captain in the salvation army might have been present as well; he had been asked, but he was lying on the sick-bed from which he was never to rise again. lord and lady davenant were there: the former sleek, well contented, well dressed in broadcloth of the best; the latter agitated, restless, humiliated, because she had lost the thing she came across the atlantic to claim, and was going home, after the splendor of the last three months, to the monotonous level of canaan city. who could love canaan city after the west end of london! what woman would look forward with pleasure to the dull and uneventful days, the local politics, the chapel squabbles, the little gatherings for tea and supper, after the enjoyment of a carriage and pair and unlimited theatres, operas, and concerts, and footmen, and such dinners as the average american, or the average englishman either, seldom arrives at seeing, even in visions? sweet content was gone; and though angela meant well, and it was kind of her to afford the ambitious lady a glimpse of that great world into which she desired to enter, the sight--even this pisgah glimpse--of a social paradise to which she could never belong destroyed her peace of mind, and she will for the rest of her life lie on a rock deploring. not so her husband: his future is assured; he can eat and drink plentifully; he can sleep all the morning undisturbed; he is relieved of the anxieties connected with his case; and, though the respect due to rank is not recognized in the states, he has to bear none of its responsibilities, and has altogether abandoned the grand manner. at the same time, as one who very nearly became a british peer, his position in canaan city is enormously raised. they, then, were in the church. they drove thither, not in miss messenger's carriage, but with lord jocelyn. they arrived a quarter of an hour before the ceremony. when the curate who was to perform the ceremony arrived, lord jocelyn sought him in the vestry and showed him a special license by which it was pronounced lawful, and even laudable, for harry goslett, bachelor, to take unto wife angela marsden messenger, spinster. and at sight of that name did the curate's knees begin to tremble, and his hands to shake. "angela marsden messenger? is it then," he asked, "the great heiress?" "it is none other," said lord jocelyn. "and she marries my ward--here is my card--by special license." "but--but--is it a clandestine marriage?" "not at all. there are reasons why miss messenger desires to be married in stepney. with them we have nothing to do. she has, of late, associated herself with many works of benevolence, but anonymously. in fact, my dear sir"--here lord jocelyn looked profoundly knowing--"my ward, the bridegroom, has always known her under another name, and even now does not know whom he is marrying. when we sign the books we must, just to keep the secret a little longer, manage that he shall write his own name without seeing the names of the bride." this seemed very irregular in the eyes of the curate, and at first he was for referring the matter to the rector, but finally gave in, on the understanding that he was to be no party to any concealment. and presently the wedding party walked slowly up the aisle, and harry, to his great astonishment, saw his bride on lord jocelyn's arm. there were cousins of the messengers in plenty who should have done this duty, but angela would invite none of them. she came alone to stepney; she lived and worked in the place alone; she wanted no consultation or discussion with the cousins; she would tell them when all was done; and she knew very well that so great an heiress as herself could do nothing but what is right, when one has time to recover from the shock, and to settle down and think things over. no doubt, though we have nothing to do with the outside world in this story, there was a tremendous rustling of skirts, shaking of heads, tossing of curls, wagging of tongues, and uplifting of hands, the next morning when angela's cards were received, and the news was in all the papers. and there was such a run upon interjections that the vocabulary broke down, and people were fain to cry to one another in foreign tongues. for thus the announcement ran: "on thursday, march , at the parish church, stepney, harry, son of the late samuel goslett, sergeant in the th regiment of the line, to angela marsden, daughter of the late john marsden messenger, and granddaughter of the late john messenger, of portman square and whitechapel." this was a pretty blow among the cousins. the greatest heiress in england, who they had hoped would marry a duke, or a marquis, or an earl at least, had positively and actually married the son of a common soldier--well, a non-commissioned officer--the same thing. what did it mean? what _could_ it mean? others, who knew harry and his story, who had sympathy with him on account of his many qualities--who owned that the obscurity of his birth was but an accident, shared with him by many of the most worthy, excellent, brilliant, useful, well-bred, delightful men of the world--rejoiced over the strange irony of fate which had first lifted this soldier's son out of the gutter, and then, with apparent malignity, dropped him back again, only, however, to raise him once more far higher than before. for, indeed, the young man was now rich--with his vats and his mashtubs, his millions of casks, his old and his mild and his bitter, and his family at nine shillings the nine-gallon cask, and his accumulated millions, "beyond the potential dream of avarice." if he chooses to live more than half his time in whitechapel, that is no concern of anybody's; and if his wife chooses to hold a sort of court at the abandoned east, to surround herself with people unheard of in society, not to say out of it, why should she not? any of the royal princes might have done the same thing if they had chosen and had been well-advised. further, if, between them, angela and her husband have established a superior aquarium, a glorified crystal palace, in which all the shows are open, all the performers are drilled and trained amateurs, and all the work actually is done for nothing; in which the management is by the people themselves, who will have no interference from priest or parson, rector or curate, philanthropist or agitator; and no patronage from societies, well-intentioned young ladies, meddling benevolent persons and officious promoters, starters, and shovers-along, with half an eye fixed on heaven and the remaining eye and a half on their own advancement--if, in fact, they choose to do these things, why not? it is an excellent way of spending their time, and a change from the monotony of society. again, it is said that harry, now harry messenger by the provision of old john messenger's will, is the president, or the chairman, or the honorary secretary--in fact, the spring and stay and prop of a new and most formidable union or association, which threatens, unless it be nipped in the bud, very considerable things of the greatest importance to the country. it is, in fact, a league of working-men for the promotion and advancement of their own interests. its prospectus sets forth that, having looked in vain among the candidates for the house of commons for any representative who had been in the past, or was likely to be in the future, of the slightest use to them in the house; having found that neither conservatives, nor liberals, nor radicals have ever been, or are ever likely to be, prepared with any real measure which should in the least concern themselves and their own wants; and fully recognizing the fact that in the debates of the house the interests of labor and the duties of government toward the laboring classes are never recognized or understood--the working-men of the country hereby form themselves into a general league or union, which shall have no other object whatever than the study of their own rights and interests. the question of wages will be left to the different unions, except in such cases where there is no union, or where the men are inarticulate (as in the leading case, now some ten years old, of the gas-stokers) through ignorance and drink. and the immediate questions before the union will be, first, the dwelling-houses of the working-men, which are to be made clean, safe, and healthy; next, their food and drink, which are to be unadulterated, pure, and genuine, and are to pass through no more hands than is necessary, and to be distributed at the actual cost price without the intervention of small shops; next, instruction, for which purpose the working-men will _elect their own school boards_, and burn all the foolish reading-books at present in use, and abolish spelling as a part of education, and teach the things necessary for all trades; next, clothing, which will be made for them by their own men working for themselves, without troubling the employers of labor at all; next, a newspaper of their own, which will refuse any place to political agitators, leaders, partisans, and professional talkers, and be devoted to the questions which really concern working-men, and especially the question of how best to employ the power which is in their hands, and report continually what is doing, what must be done, and how it must be done. and lastly, emigration, so that in every family it shall be considered necessary for some to go, and the whole country shall be mapped out into districts, and only a certain number be allowed to remain. now, the world being so small as it is, and englishmen and scotchmen being so masterful that they must needs go straight to the front and stay there, it cannot but happen that the world will presently--that is, in two generations, or three at the most--be overrun with the good old english blood: whereupon till the round earth gets too small, which will not happen for another ten thousand years or so, there will be the purest, most delightful, and most heavenly millennium. rich people may come into it if they please, but they will not be wanted: in fact, rich people will die out, and it will soon come to be considered an unhappy thing, as it undoubtedly is, to be born rich. --"whose daughters ye are," concluded the curate, closing his book, "as long as ye do well, and are not afraid with any amazement." he led the way into the vestry, where the book lay open, and sitting at the table he made the proper entries. then harry took his place and signed. now, behold! as he took the pen in his hand, lord jocelyn artfully held blotting-paper in readiness, and in such a manner as to hide the name of the bride; then angela signed; then the witnesses, lord jocelyn and captain sorensen. and then there were shaking of hands and kissing. and before they came away the curate ventured timidly to whisper congratulations and that he had no idea of the honor. and then angela stopped him, and bade him to her wedding-feast that evening at the new palace of delight. then lord jocelyn distributed largess, the largest kind of largess, among the people of the church. but it surely was the strangest of weddings. for when they reached the church door the bride and bridegroom kissed each other, and then he placed her in the carriage, in which the davenants and lord jocelyn also seated themselves, and so they drove off. "we shall see her again to-night," said harry. "come, dick, we have got a long day to got through--seven hours. let us go for a walk. i can't sit down; i can't rest; i can't do anything. let us go for a walk and wrangle." they left the girls and strode away, and did not return until it was past six o'clock, and already growing dark. the girls, in dreadful lowness of spirits, and feeling as flat as so many pancakes, returned to their house and sat down with their hands in their laps, to do nothing for seven hours. did one ever hear that the maidens at a marriage--do the customs of any country present an example of such a thing--returned to the bride's house without either bride or bridegroom? did one ever hear of a marriage where the groom left the bride at the church door, and went away for a six hours' walk? as for captain sorensen, he went to the palace and pottered about, getting snubbed by the persons in authority. there was still much to be done before the evening, but there was time: all would be done. presently he went away; but he, too, was restless and agitated; he could not rest at home; the possession of the secret, the thought of his daughter's future, the strange and unlooked-for happiness that had come to him in his old age--these things agitated him; nor could even his fiddle bring him any consolation; and the peacefulness of the almshouse, which generally soothed him, this day irritated him. therefore he wandered about, and presently appeared at the house, were he took dinner with the girls, and they talked about what would happen. the first thing that happened was the arrival of a cart--a spring-cart--with the name of a regent street firm upon it. the men took out a great quantity of parcels and brought them into the show-room. all the girls ran down to see what it meant, because on so great a day everything, said nelly, must mean something. "name of hermitage?" asked the man. "this is for you, miss. name of sorensen? this is for you." and so on, a parcel for every one of the girls. then he went away, and they all looked at each other. "hadn't you better," asked captain sorensen, "open the parcels, girls?" they opened them. "oh--h!" behold! for every girl such a present as none of them had ever imagined! the masculine pen cannot describe the sweet things which they found there; not silks and satins, but pretty things; with boots, because dressmakers are apt to be shabby in the matter of boots; and with handkerchiefs and pretty scarfs and gloves and serviceable things of all sorts. more than this: there was a separate parcel tied up in white paper for every girl, and on it, in pencil, "for the wedding supper at the palace of delight." and in it gauze, or lace, for bridemaid's head-dress, and white kid gloves, and a necklace with a locket, and inside the locket a portrait of miss kennedy, and outside her christian name, angela. also, for each girl a little note, "for ----, with miss messenger's love;" but for nelly, whose parcel was like benjamin's mess, the note was, "for nelly, with miss messenger's kindest love." "that," said rebekah, but without jealousy, "is because you were miss kennedy's favorite. well! miss messenger _must_ be fond of her, and no wonder!" "no wonder at all," said captain sorensen. and nobody guessed. nobody had the least suspicion. while they were all admiring and wondering, mrs. bormalack ran over breathless. "my dears!" she cried, "look what's come!" nothing less than a beautiful black silk dress. "now go away, captain sorensen," she said; "you men are only hindering. and we've got to try on things. oh, good gracious! to think that miss messenger would remember me, of all people in the world! to be sure, mr. bormalack was one of her collectors, and she may have heard about me----" "no," said rebekah, "it is through miss kennedy; no one has been forgotten who knew her." at seven o'clock that evening the great hall of the palace was pretty well filled with guests. some of them, armed with white wands, acted as stewards, and it was understood that on the arrival of miss messenger a lane was to be formed, and the procession to the dais at the end of the hall was to pass through that lane. outside, in the vestibule, stood the wedding-party, waiting: the bridegroom, with his best man, and the bridemaids in their white dresses, flowing gauze and necklaces, and gloves, and flowers--a very sweet and beautiful bevy of girls; harry for the last time in his life, he thought with a sigh, in evening-dress. within the hall there were strange rumors flying about. it was said that miss messenger herself had been married that morning, and that the procession would be for her wedding; but others knew better: it was miss kennedy's wedding; she had married harry goslett, the man they called gentleman jack; and miss kennedy, everybody knew, was patronized by miss messenger. at ten minutes past seven, two carriages drew up. from the first of these descended harry's bride, led by lord jocelyn; and from the second the davenants. yes, harry's bride. but whereas in the morning she had been dressed in a plain white frock and white bonnet like her bridemaids--she was now arrayed in white satin, mystic, wonderful, with white veil and white flowers, and round her white throat a necklace of sparkling diamonds, and diamonds in her hair. harry stepped forward with beating heart. "take her, boy," said lord jocelyn, proudly. "but you have married--not miss kennedy at all--but angela messenger." harry took his bride's hand in a kind of stupor. what did lord jocelyn mean? "forgive me, harry," she said, "say you forgive me." then he raised her veil and kissed her forehead before them all. but he could not speak, because all in a moment the sense of what this would mean poured upon his brain in a great wave, and he would fain have been alone. it was miss kennedy, indeed, but glorified into a great lady; oh!--oh--miss messenger! the girls, frightened, were shrinking together; even rebekah was afraid at the great and mighty name of messenger. angela went among them, and kissed them all with words of encouragement. "can you not love me, nelly," she said, "as well when i am rich as when i was poor?" then the chief officers of the brewery advanced, offering congratulations in timid accents, because they knew now that miss kennedy, the dressmaker, of whom such hard things had been sometimes said in their own presence and by their own wives, was no other than the sole partner in the brewery, and that her husband had worked among them for a daily wage. what did these things mean? they made respectable men afraid. one person there was, however, who at sight of miss messenger, for whom he was waiting with anxious heart, having a great desire to present his own case of unrewarded zeal, turned pale, and broke through the crowd with violence and fled. it was uncle bunker. and then the stewards appeared at the open doors, and the procession was formed. first the stewards themselves--being all clerks of the brewery--walked proudly at the head, carrying their white wands like rifles. next came harry and the bride, at sight of whom the guests shouted and roared; next came dick coppin with nelly, and lord jocelyn with rebekah, and the chief brewer with lady davenant, of course in her black velvet and war-paint, and lord davenant with mrs. bormalack, and the chief accountant with another bridesmaid, and captain sorensen with another, and then the rest. then the organ burst into a wedding march, rolling and pealing about the walls and roof of the mighty hall, and amid its melodious thunder, and the shouts of the wedding-guests, harry led his bride slowly through the lane of curious and rejoicing faces, till they reached the dais. when all were arranged with the bride seated in the middle, her husband standing at her right and the bridemaids grouped behind them, lord jocelyn stepped to the front and read in a loud voice part of the deed of gift, which he then gave with a profound bow to angela, who placed it in her husband's hands. then she stepped forward and raised her veil, and stood before them all, beautiful as the day, and with tears in her eyes. yet she spoke in firm and clear accents which all could hear. it was her first and last public speech; for angela belongs to that rapidly diminishing body of women who prefer to let the men do all the public speaking. "my dear friends," she said, "my kind friends: i wish first that you should clearly understand that this palace has been invented and designed for you by my husband. all i have done is to build it. now it is yours, with all it contains. i pray god that it may be used worthily, and for the joy and happiness of all. i declare this palace of delight open, the property of the people, to be administered and governed by them, and them alone, in trust for each other." this was all she said; and the people cheered again, and the organ played "god save the queen." with this simple ceremony was the palace of delight thrown open to the world. what better beginning could it have than a wedding party? what better omen could there be than that the palace, like the garden of eden, should begin with the happiness of a wedded pair? at this point there presented itself, to those who drew up the programme, a grave practical difficulty. it was this. the palace could only be declared open in the great hall itself. also, it could be only in the great hall that the banquet could take place. now, how were the fifteen hundred guests to be got out of the way and amused while the tables were laid and the cloth spread? there could not be, it is true, the splendor and costly plate and épergnes and flowers of my lord mayor's great dinner, but ornament of some kind there must be upon the tables; and even with an army of drilled waiters it takes time to lay covers for fifteen hundred people. but there was no confusion. once more the procession was formed and marched round the hall, headed by the band of the guards, visiting first the gymnasium, then the library, then the concert-room, and lastly the theatre. here they paused, and the bridal party took their seats. the people poured in; when every seat was taken, the stewards invited the rest into the concert-room. in the theatre a little sparkling comedy was played; in the concert-room a troupe of singers discoursed sweet madrigals and glees. outside the waiters ran backward and forward as busy as diogenes with his tub, but more to the purpose. when, in something over an hour, the performances were finished, the stewards found that the tables were laid, one running down the whole length of the hall, and shorter ones across the hall. everybody had a card with his place upon it; there was no confusion, and, while trumpeters blared a welcome, they all took their places in due order. angela and her husband sat in the middle of the long table; at angela's left hand was lord jocelyn, at harry's right lady davenant. opposite the bride and bridegroom sat the chief brewer and the chief accountant. the bridemaids spread out right and left. all angela's friends and acquaintances of stepney green were there, except three. for old mr. maliphant was sitting as usual in the boarding-house, conversing with unseen persons, and laughing and brandishing a pipe; and with him daniel fagg sat hugging his book. and in his own office sat bunker, sick at heart. for he remembered his officious private letter to miss messenger, and he felt that he had indeed gone and done it. the rest of the long table was filled up by the clerks and superior officers of the brewery; at the shorter tables sat the rest of the guests, including even the draymen and errand-boys. and so the feast began, while the band of the guards played for them. it was a royal feast, with the most magnificent cold sirloins of roast beef and rounds of salt beef, legs of mutton, saddles of mutton, loins of veal, ribs of pork, legs of pork, great hams, huge turkeys, capons, fowls, ducks, and geese, all done to a turn; so that the honest guests fell to with a mighty will, and wished that such a wedding might come once a month at least, with such a supper. and messenger's beer, as much as you pleased, for everybody. at a moment like this, would one, even at the high table, venture to ask, to say nothing of wishing for, aught but messenger's beer? after the hacked and mangled remains of the first course were removed, there came puddings, pies, cakes, jellies, ices, blanc-mange, all kinds of delicious things. and after this was done and eating was stayed and only the memory left of the enormous feed, the chief brewer rose and proposed in a few words the health of the bride and bridegroom. he said that it would be a lasting sorrow to all of them that they had not been present at the auspicious event of the morning; but that it was in some measure made up to them by the happiness they had enjoyed together that evening. if anything, he added, could make them pray more heartily for the happiness of the bride, it would be the thought that she refused to be married from her house in the west end, but came to stepney among the workmen and managers of her own brewery, and preferred to celebrate her wedding-feast in the magnificent hall which she had given to the people of the place. and he had one more good thing to tell them. miss messenger, when she gave that precious thing, her hand, retained her name. there would still be a messenger at the head of the good old house. harry replied in a few words, and the wedding-cake went round. then dick coppin proposed success to the palace of delight. "harry," whispered angela, "if you love me, speak now, from your very heart." he sprang to his feet, and spoke to the people as they had never heard any yet speak. after telling them what the palace was, what it was meant to be, a place for the happiness and recreation of all; how they were to make their own amusements for themselves; how there were class-rooms where all kinds of arts and accomplishments would be taught; how, to insure order and good behavior, it was necessary that they should form their own volunteer police; how there were to be no politics and no controversies within those walls, and how the management of all was left to committees of their own choosing, he said: "friends all, this is indeed such a thing as the world has never yet seen. you have been frequently invited to join together and combine for the raising of wages; you are continually invited to follow leaders who promise to reform land laws, when you have had no land and never will have any; to abolish the house of lords, in which you have no part, share, or lot; to sweep away a church which does not interfere with you; but who have nothing--no nothing to offer you, out of which any help or advantage will come to you. and you are always being told to consider life as a long period of resignation under inevitable suffering; and you are told to submit your reason, your will, yourselves, to authority, and all will be well with you. no one yet has given you the chance of making yourselves happy. in this place you will find, or you will make for yourselves, all the things which make the lives of the rich happy. here you will have music, dancing, singing, acting, painting, reading, games of skill, games of chance, companionship, cheerfulness, light, warmth, comfort--everything. when these things have been enjoyed for a time they will become a necessity for you, and a part of the education for your young people. they will go on to desire other things which cannot be found by any others for you, but which must be found by yourselves and for yourselves. my wife has placed in your hands the materials for earthly joy; it lies with you to learn how to use them; it lies with you to find what other things are necessary; how the people, who have all the power there is, must find out what they want, and help themselves to it, standing shoulder to shoulder by means of that power; how those enemies are not the rich, whom your brawlers in whitechapel road ignorantly accuse, but quite another kind--and you must find out for yourselves who these are. it is not by setting poor against rich, or by hardening the heart of rich against poor, that you will succeed; it is by independence and by knowledge. all sorts and conditions of men are alike. as are the vices of the rich, so are your own; as are your virtues, so are theirs. but, hitherto, the rich have had things which you could not get. now all that is altered: in the palace of delight we are equal to the richest; there is nothing which we, too, cannot have; what they desire we desire; what they have we shall have; we can all love; we can all laugh; we can all feel the power of music; we can dance and sing; or we can sit in peace and meditate. in this palace, as in the outer world, remember that you have the power. the time for envy, hatred, and accusations has gone by; because we working-men have, at last, all the power there is to have. let us use it well. but the palace will be for joy and happiness, not for political wrangles. brothers and sisters, we will no longer sit down in resignation; we will take the same joy in this world that the rich have taken. life is short for us all; let us make the most of it for ourselves and for each other. there are so many joys within our reach; there are so many miseries we can abolish. in this house, which is a temple of praise, we shall all together continually be thinking how to bring more sunshine into our lives, more change, more variety, more happiness." a serious ending; because harry spoke from his heart. as he took his seat in deep silence, the organ broke forth again and played, while the people stood, the grand old hundredth psalm. a serious ending to the feast; but life is serious. ten minutes later the bride rose, and the band played a joyful march, while the wedding-procession once more formed and marched down the hall, and the people poured out into the streets to cheer, and angela and her husband drove away for their honeymoon. the palace of delight is in working order now, and stepney is already transformed. a new period began on the opening night for all who were present. for the first time they understood that life may be happy; for the first time they resolved that they would find out for themselves the secret of happiness. the angel with the flaming sword has at last stepped from the gates of the earthly paradise, and we may now enter therein and taste, unreproved, of all the fruits except the apples of the tree of life--which has been removed, long since, to another place. the end. [illustration: truly yours amos lawrence r andrews print.] extracts from the diary and correspondence of the late amos lawrence; with a +brief account of some incidents in his life.+ edited by his son, william r. lawrence, m. d. boston: gould and lincoln, washington street. new york: sheldon, lamport & blakeman. london: trubner & co. . entered according to act of congress, in the year , by william r. lawrence, in the clerk's office of the district court of the district of massachusetts boston: stereotyped by hobart & robbins, new england type and stereotype foundery. press of george c. rand & avery. +to his+ only surviving brother, a m o s a. l a w r e n c e, of boston, +this volume is affectionately inscribed+, by the editor. preface. among the papers of the late amos lawrence were found copies of a large number of letters addressed to his children. with the hope that the good counsels there given, during a succession of years, extending from their childhood to adult age, might still be made profitable to their descendants, he had caused them to be carefully preserved. these letters, as well as an irregular record of his daily experience, were scattered through many volumes, and required arrangement before they could be of use to those for whom they were intended. as no one else of the immediate family could conveniently undertake the task, the editor considered it his duty to do that which could not properly be committed to one less nearly connected with the deceased. the present volume, containing what was thought most interesting among those letters and extracts, was accordingly prepared for private circulation; and an edition of one hundred copies was printed and distributed among the nearest relatives and friends. it has been thought by many that the record of such a life as is here portrayed would be useful to other readers, and especially to young men,--a class in whom mr. lawrence was deeply interested, and with whom circumstances in his own life had given him a peculiar bond of sympathy. although many, among both friends and strangers, have urged the publication of the present memorial, and some have even questioned the moral right of withholding from the view of others the light of an example so worthy of imitation, much hesitation has been felt in submitting to the public the recital of such domestic incidents as are treasured in the memory of every family; those incidents which cast a sunbeam or a shadow across every fireside, and yet possess little or no interest for the busy world without. at the solicitation of the "boston young men's christian union," the "boston young men's christian association," and the students of williams college, through their respective committees, and at the request of many esteemed citizens, the pages which were prepared for the eye of kindred and friends alone are now submitted to the public. personal feeling is forgotten in the hope that the principles here inculcated may tend to promote the ends for which the subject of this memorial lived and labored. the interest manifested in his life, and the tributes rendered to his memory, have been a source of sincere gratification to his family; and they would here tender their acknowledgments to all those who have expressed their interest and their wishes in regard to this publication. the present volume is submitted with a few unimportant omissions, and with the addition of some materials, received after the issue of the first edition, which will throw light upon the character and principles of mr. lawrence during his early business career. his course was that of a private citizen, who took but little part in public measures or in public life. to the general reader, therefore, there may be but little to amuse in a career so devoid of incident, and so little connected with the stirring events of his times; but there cannot fail to be something to interest those who can appreciate the spirit which, in this instance, led to a rare fidelity in the fulfilment of important trusts, and the consecration of a life to the highest duties. mr. lawrence was eminently a religious man, and a deep sense of accountability may be discovered at the foundation of those acts of beneficence, which, during his lifetime, might have been attributed to a less worthy motive. it has been the object of the editor to allow the subject of this memorial to tell his own story, and to add merely what is necessary to preserve the thread of the narrative, or to throw light upon the various matters touched upon in the correspondence. it is designed to furnish such materials as will afford a history of mr. lawrence's charitable efforts, rather than give a detailed account of what was otherwise an uneventful career. such selections from his correspondence are made as seemed best adapted to illustrate the character of the man; such as exhibit his good and valuable traits, without attempting to conceal those imperfections, an exemption from which would elevate him above the common sphere of mortals. most of his letters are of a strictly private nature, and involve the record of many private details. his domestic tastes, and his affection for his family, often led him to make mention of persons and events in such a way that few letters could be wholly given without invading the precincts of the family circle. the engraving at the commencement of the volume is from an original portrait, by harding, in the possession of the editor, a copy of which hangs in the library of williams college. it seems also fitting to include a portrait of the hon. abbott lawrence, who, for forty-three years, was so intimately associated with the subject of this memorial in all the trials, as well as in the triumphs, of business life, and who was still more closely connected by the bonds of fraternal affection and sympathy. a few days only have elapsed since he was removed from the scene of his earthly labors. the grave has rarely closed over one who to such energy of character and strength of purpose united a disposition so gentle and forbearing. amidst the perplexities attending his extended business relations, and in the excitement of the political struggles in which he was called to take part, he was never tempted to overstep the bounds of courtesy, or to regard his opponents otherwise than with feelings of kindness. his wealth was used freely for the benefit of others, and for the advancement of all those good objects which tended to promote the welfare of his fellow-men. that divine spark of charity, which burned with such ceaseless energy in the bosom of his elder brother, was caught up by him, and exhibited its fruits in those acts of munificence which will make him long remembered as a benefactor of his race. boston, _september_ st, . letters, requesting publication. _rooms of the boston young men's christian union, bedford-street, boston, june , ._ william r. lawrence, esq. dear sir: the undersigned, members of the government of the boston young men's christian union, some of whom have perused the excellent memoir of your honored father, feel deeply impressed with the desire that it should be published and circulated, knowing that its publication and perusal would greatly benefit the young, the old, and all classes of our busy mercantile community. remembering with pleasure the friendship which your father expressed, not only in kind words, but in substantial offerings to the treasury and library of our society, the union would be most happy, should it comport with your feelings, to be made the medium of the publication and circulation of the memoir, which you have compiled with so much ability and faithfulness. hoping to receive a favorable response to our desire, we are most truly yours, thomas gaffield, h. k. white, john sweetser, j. f. ainsworth, joseph h. allen, w. h. richardson, chas. c. smith, francis s. russell, c. j. bishop, frederic h. henshaw, f. h. peabody, charles f. potter, w. irving smith, thornton k. lothrop, arthur w. hobart. geo. s. hale. * * * * * _rooms of the boston young men's christian association, tremont temple, boston, july , ._ dear sir: the committee on the library of the boston young men's christian association beg leave, in its behalf, to tender you sincere thanks for your donation of a copy of the "diary and correspondence of amos lawrence." it will remain to the members of the association a valued memorial of one of its earliest benefactors. it will be yet more prized for its record of his invaluable legacy,--the history of a long life--a bright example. the committee, uniting with the subscribers, managers of the association, are happy to improve this opportunity to express the hope that you may be induced to give the book a more general circulation. the kindly charities of your late lamented parent are still fresh in impressions of gratitude upon their recipients. they require no herald to give them publicity. the voice of fame would do violence to their spirit. yet, now that "the good man" can no more utter his words of sympathy and counsel,--that his pen can no more subscribe its noble benefactions, or indite its lessons of wisdom and experience,--the press may silently perpetuate those which survive him. we must assure you of our pleasure in the knowledge that the liberal interest in the association, so constantly manifested by your revered father, is actively maintained by yourself. we remain, in the fraternal bonds of christian regard, yours, truly, jacob sleeper, francis d. stedman, j. s. warren, elijah swift, samuel gregory, b. c. clark, jr., luther l. tarbell, joseph p. ellicott, alonzo c. tenney, geo. n. noyes, moses w. pond, pearl martin, stephen g. deblois, w. h. jameson, henry furnas, w. f. story. franklin w. smith, } e. m. putnam, } _committee chas. l. andrews, } on geo. c. rand, } library and rooms_ h. c. gilbert, } to william r. lawrence, m.d. * * * * * _williams college, june , ._ dear sir: the students of williams college having learned that you have prepared, for private distribution, a volume illustrating the character of the late amos lawrence, whose munificence to this institution they appreciate, and whose memory they honor; the undersigned, a committee appointed for the purpose, express to you their earnest desire that you would allow it to be published. very truly yours, samuel b. forbes, e. c. smith, fred. w. beecher, henry hopkins. to w. r. lawrence, m.d., _boston_. contents. page chapter i. birth.--ancestry.--parents, chapter ii. early years.--school days.--apprenticeship, chapter iii. arrival in boston.--clerkship.--commences business.--habits, chapter iv. business habits.--his father's mortgage.--resolutions.--arrival of brothers in boston, chapter v. visits at groton.--sickness.--letter from dr. shattuck.-- engagement.--letter to rev. dr. gannett.--marriage, chapter vi. bramble news.--junior partner goes to england.--letters to brother, chapter vii. death of sister.--letters, chapter viii. domestic habits.--illness and death of wife, chapter ix. journeys.--letters.--journey to new york, chapter x. marriage.--elected to legislature.--engages in manufactures.-- reflections, chapter xi. reflections.--bunker hill monument.--letters, chapter xii. journey to canada.--letters.--diary.--charities, chapter xiii. correspondence with mr. webster.--letters, chapter xiv. testimonial to mr. webster.--dangerous illness.--letters, chapter xv. journey to new hampshire.--letters.--resigns office of trustee at hospital.--letters, chapter xvi. daily exercise.--regimen.--improving health.--letters, chapter xvii. reflections.--visit to washington.--visit to rainsford island.--reflections.--view of death.--reflections, chapter xviii. brother's death.--letters.--gifts.--letters.--birth-place.-- diary.--applications for aid.--reflections.--letter from rev. dr. stone.--diary, chapter xix. reflections.--letters.--account of efforts to complete bunker hill monument, chapter xx. interest in mount auburn.--rev. dr. sharp.--letter from bishop mcilvaine.--letter from judge story, chapter xxi. acquaintance with president hopkins.--letters.--affection for brattle-street church.--death of mrs. appleton.-- letters.--amesbury co., chapter xxii. death of his daughter.--letters.--donation to williams college.--beneficence.--letters, chapter xxiii. letter from dr. sharp.--illness and death of his son.-- letters.--afflictions, chapter xxiv. reflections.--expenditures.--letters.--donation for library at williams college.--views on study of anatomy, chapter xxv. donation to lawrence academy.--correspondence with r. g. parker.--sleigh-rides.--aversion to notoriety.--children's hospital, chapter xxvi. captain a. s. mckenzie.--diary.--aid to ireland.--madam prescott.--sir william colebrooke, chapter xxvii. mr. lawrence as an applicant.--letters.--diary.--prayer and meditations.--fac-simile of hand-writing.--liberality to a creditor.--letters, chapter xxviii. reflections.--views on holding office.--letters.--capt. a. slidell mckenzie.--death of brother and of hon. j. mason, chapter xxix. system in accounts.--letter from prof. stuart--letters.-- diary.--dr. hamilton.--father mathew, chapter xxx. codicil to will.--illness--gen. whiting.--letters.--diary, chapter xxxi. diary.--reflections.--sickness.--letter from dr. sharp.-- correspondence, chapter xxxii. amin bey.--amount of donations to williams college, chapter xxxiii. letters--likeness of abbott lawrence.--diary, chapter xxxiv. sir t. f. buxton.--letter from lady buxton.--elliott cresson.--letters, chapter xxxv. letters.--rev. dr. scoresby.--wabash college, chapter xxxvi. diary.--amount of charities.--letters.--thomas tarbell.-- uncle toby.--rev. dr. lowell, chapter xxxvii. correspondence.--diary, chapter xxxviii. mr. lawrence serves as presidential elector.--gen. franklin pierce--sudden death.--funeral, chapter xxxix. sketch of character by rev. drs. lothrop and hopkins, chapter xl. conclusion, index, diary and correspondence. chapter i. birth.--ancestry.--parents. amos lawrence was born in groton, mass., on the d of april, . his ancestor, john lawrence, was baptized, according to the records, on the th of october, , at wisset, county of suffolk, england, where the family had resided for a long period, though originally from the county of lancaster. butler, in his "history of groton," has, among other details, the following: "the first account of the ancestor of the numerous families of this name in groton and pepperell, which can be relied upon as certain, is, that he was an inhabitant of watertown as early as . he probably came in the company which came with governor winthrop, in . his given name was john, and that of his wife was elizabeth. whether they were married in england or not, has not been ascertained. their eldest child was born in watertown, january , . he removed to groton, with probably all his family, at an early period of its settlement, as his name is found in the records there in . he was an original proprietor, having a twenty-acre right." of the parents of the subject of this memoir, the same author writes: "samuel lawrence, the son of captain amos lawrence, sen., was an officer in the continental army, in the former part of the revolutionary war. he was in the battle of bunker hill, where a musket-ball passed through his beaver hat. he was also in the battle in rhode island, where he served as adjutant under general sullivan. on the d day of july, , being at home, on a furlough, for the express purpose, he was married to susanna parker. * * * * "having faithfully served in the cause of his country during the term of his engagement, he returned to his native town, to enjoy the peace and quiet of domestic life on his farm. he was elected by his townsmen to some of the highest offices in their gift; he was a deacon of the church, and a justice of the peace _quorum unus_. he took a deep interest in providing means for the education of youth, particularly in establishing and supporting the seminary in groton, which now, in gratitude to him and his sons, bears the family name. of this institution he was a trustee thirty-three years, and in its benefits and advantages he gave ample opportunities for all his children to participate. here their minds undoubtedly received some of those early impressions, the developments and consequences of which it will be the work of their biographers hereafter to portray. no deduction, however, should here be made from the importance of parental instruction, to add to the merit of academical education. the correct lessons given by the mother in the nursery are as necessary to give the right inclination to the tender mind as are those of the tutor in the highest seminary to prepare it for the business of life and intellectual greatness. in the present case, all the duties incumbent on a mother to teach her offspring to be good, and consequently great, were discharged with fidelity and success. both parents lived to see, in the subject of their care, all that they could reasonably hope or desire. he died november , , æt. seventy-three; and his venerable widow, may , , æt. eighty-nine." mr. lawrence writes, in , to a friend: "my father belonged to a company of _minute-men_ in groton, at the commencement of the revolution. on the morning of the th of april, , when the news reached town that the british troops were on the road from boston, general prescott, who was a neighbor, came towards the house on horseback, at rapid speed, and cried out, 'samuel, notify your men: _the british are coming_.' my father mounted the general's horse, rode a distance of seven miles, notified the men of his circuit, and was back again at his father's house in forty minutes. in three hours the company was ready to march, and on the next day (the th) reached cambridge. my father was in the battle of bunker hill; received a bullet through his cap, which cut his hair from front to rear; received a spent grape-shot upon his arm, without breaking the bone; and lost a large number of men. his veteran captain farwell was shot through the body, was taken up for dead, and was so reported by the man who was directed to carry him off. this report brought back the captain's voice, and he exclaimed, with his utmost power, '_it an't true; don't let my poor wife hear of this; i shall live to see my country free._' and so it turned out. this good man, who had served at the capture of cape breton in , again in , and now on bunker hill in , is connected with everything interesting in my early days. the bullet was extracted, and remains, as a memento, with his descendants. my father and mother were acquainted from their childhood, and engaged to be married some time in . they kept up a correspondence through , when he was at new york; but, on a visit to her, in (his mother having advised them to be married, as susan had better be sam's widow than his forlorn damsel), they were married; but, while the ceremony was going forward, the signal was given to call all soldiers to their posts; and, within the hour, he left his wife, father, mother, and friends, to join his regiment, then at cambridge. this was on the d day of july, . in consideration of the circumstances, his colonel allowed him to return to his wife, and to join the army at rhode island in a brief time (two or three days). he did so, and saw nothing more of home until the last day of that year. the army being in winter quarters, he got a furlough for a short period, and reached home in time to assist at the ordination of the rev. daniel chaplin, of whose church both my parents were then members. his return was a season of great joy to all his family. his stay was brief, and nothing more was seen of him until the autumn of , when he retired from the army, in time to be with his wife at the birth of their first child. from that time he was identified with everything connected with the good of the town. as we children came forward, we were carefully looked after, but were taught to use the talents intrusted to us; and every nerve was strained to provide for us the academy which is now doing so much there. we _sons_ are doing less for education _for our means_ than our father for his means." of his mother mr. lawrence always spoke in the strongest terms of veneration and love, and in many of his letters are found messages of affection, such as could have emanated only from a heart overflowing with filial gratitude. her form bending over their bed in silent prayer, at the hour of twilight, when she was about leaving them for the night, is still among the earliest recollections of her children. she was a woman well fitted to train a family for the troubled times in which she lived. to the kindest affections and sympathies she united energy and decision, and in her household enforced that strict and unhesitating obedience, which she considered as the foundation of all success in the education of children. her hands were never idle, as may be supposed, when it is remembered that in those days, throughout new england, in addition to the cares of a farming establishment, much of the material for clothing was manufactured by the inmates of the family. many hours each day she passed at the hand-loom, and the hum of the almost obsolete spinning-wheel even now comes across the memory like the remembrance of a pleasant but half-forgotten melody. chapter ii. early years.--school days.--apprenticeship. the first public instruction received by mr. lawrence was at the district school kept at a short distance from his father's house. possessing a feeble constitution, he was often detained at home by sickness, where he employed himself industriously with his books and tools, in the use of which he acquired a good degree of skill, as may be seen from a letter to his son, at groton, in : "near the barn used to be an old fort, where the people went to protect themselves from the indians; and, long since my remembrance, the old cellar was there, surrounded by elder-bushes and the like. i made use of many a piece of the elder for pop-guns and squirts, in the preparation of which i acquired a strong taste for the use of the pen-knife and jack-knife. i like the plan of boys acquiring the taste for tools, and of their taking pains to learn their use; for they may be so situated as to make a very slight acquaintance very valuable to them. and, then, another advantage is that they may have exercise of body and mind in some situations where they would suffer without. how do you employ yourself? learn as much as you can of farming; for the work of your hands in this way may prove the best resource in securing comfort to you. the beautiful images of early life come up in these bright moonlight nights, the like of which i used to enjoy in the fields below our old mansion, where i was sent to watch the cattle. there i studied astronomy to more account than ever afterwards; for the heavens were impressive teachers of the goodness of that father who is ever near to each one of his children. may you never lose sight of this truth, and so conduct yourself that at any moment you may be ready to answer when he calls!" he did not allow himself to be idle, but, from his earliest years, exhibited the same spirit of industry which led to success in after life. with a natural quickness of apprehension, and a fondness for books, he made commendable progress, in spite of his disadvantages. his father's social disposition and hospitable feelings made the house a favorite resort for both friends and strangers; and among the most welcome were old messmates and fellow-soldiers, to whose marvellous adventures and escapes the youthful listener lent a most attentive ear. in after life he often alluded to the intense interest with which he hung upon these accounts of revolutionary scenes, and times which "tried men's souls." the schoolmaster was usually billeted upon the family; and there are now living individuals high in political and social life who served in that capacity, and who look back with pleasure to the days passed under that hospitable roof. at a later period, he seems to have been transferred to another school, in the adjoining district, as will be seen by the following extract of a letter, written in , to a youth at the groton academy: "more than fifty years ago, your father and i were school children together. i attended then at the old meeting-house, or north barn, as it was called, by way of derision, where i once remember being in great tribulation at having lost my spelling-book on the way. it was afterwards restored to me by captain richardson, who found it under his pear-tree, where i had been, without leave, on my way to school, and with the other children helped myself to his fruit." from the district school, mr. lawrence entered the groton academy, of which all his brothers and sisters were members at various times. as his strength was not sufficient to make him useful upon the farm, in the autumn of he was placed in a small store, in the neighboring town of dunstable. there he passed but a few months; and, on account, perhaps, of greater facilities for acquiring a knowledge of business, he was transferred to the establishment of james brazer, esq., of groton, an enterprising and thrifty country merchant, who transacted a large business, for those times, with his own and surrounding towns. the store was situated on the high road leading from boston to new hampshire and canada, and was, consequently, a place of much resort, both for travellers and neighbors who took an interest in passing events. several clerks were employed; and, as mr. brazer did not take a very active part in the management of the business, after a year or two nearly the whole responsibility of the establishment rested upon young lawrence. the stock consisted of the usual variety kept in the country stores of those days, when neighbors could not, as now, run down to the city, thirty or forty miles distant, for any little matter of fancy, and return before dinner-time. puncheons of rum and brandy, bales of cloth, kegs of tobacco, with hardware and hosiery, shared attention in common with silks and thread, and all other articles for female use. among other duties, the young clerk was obliged to dispense medicines, not only to customers, but to all the physicians within twenty miles around, who depended on this establishment for their supply. the confidence in his good judgment was such that he was often consulted, in preference to the physician, by those who were suffering from minor ails; and many were the extemporaneous doses which he administered for the weal or woe of the patient. the same confidence was extended to him in all other matters, no one doubted his assertion; and the character for probity and fairness which accompanied him through life was here established. the quantity of rum and brandy sold would surprise the temperance men of modern days. at eleven o'clock, each forenoon, some stimulating beverage, according to the taste of the clerk who compounded it, was served out for the benefit of clerks and customers. mr. lawrence partook with the others; but, soon finding that the desire became more pressing at the approach of the hour for indulgence, he resolved to discontinue the habit altogether: "his mind was soon made up. understanding perfectly the ridicule he should meet with, and which for a time he did meet with in its fullest measure, he yet took at once the ground of _total abstinence_. such a stand, taken at such an age, in such circumstances of temptation, before temperance societies had been heard of, or the investigations had been commenced on which they are based, was a practical instance of that judgment and decision which characterized him through life."[ ] [ ] president hopkins's sermon in commemoration of amos lawrence in regard to this resolution, he writes, many years afterward, to a young student in college: "in the first place, take this for your motto at the commencement of your journey, that the difference of going _just right_, or a _little wrong_, will be the difference of finding yourself in good quarters, or in a miserable bog or slough, at the end of it. of the whole number educated in the groton stores for some years before and after myself, no one else, to my knowledge, escaped the bog or slough; and my escape i trace to the simple fact of my having put a restraint upon my appetite. we five boys were in the habit, every forenoon, of making a drink compounded of rum, raisins, sugar, nutmeg, &c., with biscuit,--all palatable to eat and drink. after being in the store four weeks, i found myself admonished by my appetite of the approach of the hour for indulgence. thinking the habit might make trouble if allowed to grow stronger, without further apology to my seniors i declined partaking with them. my first resolution was to abstain for a week, and, when the week was out, for a month, and then for a year. finally, i resolved to abstain for the rest of my apprenticeship, which was for five years longer. during that whole period, i never drank a spoonful, though i mixed gallons daily for my old master and his customers. i decided not to be a slave to tobacco in any form, though i loved the odor of it then, and even now have in my drawer a superior havana cigar, given me, not long since, by a friend, but only to smell of. i have never in my life smoked a cigar; never chewed but one quid, and that was before i was fifteen; and never took an ounce of snuff, though the scented rappee of forty years ago had great charms for me. now, i say, to this simple fact of starting _just right_ am i indebted, with god's blessing on my labors, for my present position, as well as that of the numerous connections sprung up around me. i have many details that now appear as plain to me as the sun at noonday, by which events are connected together, and which have led to results that call on me to bless the lord for all his benefits, and to use the opportunities thus permitted to me in cheering on the generation of young men who have claims upon my sympathies as relations, fellow-townsmen, or brethren on a more enlarged scale." of this period he writes elsewhere, as follows: "when i look back, i can trace the small events which happened at your age as having an influence upon all the after things. my academy lessons, little academy balls, and eight-cent expenses for music and gingerbread, the agreeable partners in the hall, and pleasant companions in the stroll, all helped to make me feel that i had a character even then; and, after leaving school and going into the store, there was not a month passed before i became impressed with the opinion that restraint upon appetite was necessary to prevent the slavery i saw destroying numbers around me. many and many of the farmers, mechanics, and apprentices, of that day, have filled drunkards' graves, and have left destitute families and friends. "the knowledge of every-day affairs which i acquired in my business apprenticeship in groton has been a source of pleasure and profit even in my last ten years' discipline." the responsibility thrown upon the young clerk was very great; and he seems cheerfully to have accepted it, and to have given himself up entirely to the performance of his business duties. his time, from early dawn till evening, was fully taken up; and, although living in the family of his employer, and within a mile of his father's house, a whole week would sometimes pass without his having leisure to pay even a flying visit. but few details of his apprenticeship can now be gathered either from his contemporaries or from any allusions in his own writings. he was disabled for a time by an accident which came near being fatal. in assisting an acquaintance to unload a gun, by some means the charge exploded, and passed directly through the middle of his hand, making a round hole like that of a bullet. sixty-three shot were picked out of the floor after the accident, and it seemed almost a miracle that he ever again had the use of his hand. chapter iii. arrival in boston.--clerkship.--commences business.--habits.--letters. on the d of april, , mr. lawrence became of age; and his apprenticeship, which had lasted seven years, was terminated. on the th of the same month, he took his father's horse and chaise, and engaged a neighbor to drive him to boston, with, as he says, many years afterwards,-- "twenty dollars in my pocket, but feeling richer than i had ever felt before, or have felt since; so rich that i gave the man who came with me two dollars to save him from any expense, and insure him against loss by his spending two days on the journey here and back (for which he was glad of an excuse)." his object was to make acquaintances, and to establish a credit which would enable him to commence business in groton on his own account, in company with a fellow-apprentice. a few days after his arrival in boston, he received the offer of a clerkship from a respectable house; and, wishing to familiarize himself with the modes of conducting mercantile affairs in the metropolis, and with the desire of extending his acquaintance with business men, he accepted the offer. his employers were so well satisfied with the capacity of their new clerk, that, in the course of a few months, they made a proposition to admit him into partnership. without any very definite knowledge of their affairs, he, much to their surprise, declined the offer. he did not consider the principles on which the business was conducted as the true ones. the result showed his sagacity; for, in the course of a few months, the firm became insolvent, and he was appointed by the creditors to settle their affairs. this he did to their satisfaction; and, having no further occupation, decided upon commencing business on his own account. he accordingly hired a small store in what was then called cornhill, and furnished it by means of the credit which he had been able to obtain through the confidence with which he had inspired those whose acquaintance he had made during his brief sojourn in boston. on the th of december, , he commenced business, after having engaged as his clerk henry whiting, in after years well and honorably known as brigadier-general whiting, of the united states army. mr. lawrence writes to general whiting, in , as follows: "i have just looked into my first sales-book, and there see the entries made by you more than forty-one years ago. ever since, you have been going up from the cornet of dragoons to the present station. abbott, who took your place, is now the representative of his country at the court of st. james." in a memorandum in one of his account-books, he thus alludes to his condition at that time: "i was then, in the matter of property, not worth a dollar. my father was comfortably off as a farmer, somewhat in debt; with perhaps four thousand dollars. my brother luther was in the practice of law, getting forward, but not worth two thousand dollars; william had nothing; abbott, a lad just fifteen years old, at school; and samuel, a child seven years old." of the manner in which he occupied himself when not engaged about his business, he writes to his son in : "when i first came to this city, i took lodgings in the family of a widow who had commenced keeping boarders for a living. i was one of her first, and perhaps had been in the city two months when i went to this place; and she, of course, while i remained, was inclined to adopt any rules for the boarders that i prescribed. the only one i ever made was, that, after supper, all the boarders who remained in the public room should remain quiet at least for one hour, to give those who chose to study or read an opportunity of doing so without disturbance. the consequence was, that we had the most quiet and improving set of young men in the town. the few who did not wish to comply with the regulation went abroad after tea, sometimes to the theatre, sometimes to other places, but, to a man, became bankrupt in after life, not only in fortune, but in reputation; while a majority of the other class sustained good characters, and some are now living who are ornaments to society, and fill important stations. the influence of this small measure will perhaps be felt throughout generations. it was not less favorable on myself than on others." mr. lawrence was remarkable through life for the most punctilious exactness in all matters relating to business. ever prompt himself in all that he undertook, he submitted with little grace to the want of the same good trait in others. he writes to a friend: "and now having delivered the message, having the power at the present moment, and not having the assurance that i shall be able to do it the next hour, i will state that i practised upon the maxim, '_business before friends_,' from the commencement of my course. during the first seven years of my business in this city, i never allowed a bill against me to stand unsettled over the sabbath. if the purchase of goods was made at auction on saturday, and delivered to me, i always examined and settled the bill by note or by crediting it, and having it clear, so that, in case i was not on duty on monday, there would be no trouble for my boys; thus keeping the business _before_ me, instead of allowing it to _drive_ me." absence from his home seemed only to strengthen the feelings of attachment with which he regarded its inmates. "my interest in home, and my desire to have something to tell my sisters to instruct and improve them, as well as to hear their comments upon whatever i communicated, was a powerful motive for me to spend a portion of each evening in my boarding-house, the first year i came to boston, in reading and study." during the same month in which he commenced his business, he opened a correspondence with one of his sisters by the following letter: "boston, december, . "dear e.: although the youngest, you are no less dear to me than the other sisters. to you, therefore, i ought to be as liberal in affording pleasure (if you can find any in reading my letters) as to s. and m.; and, if there is any benefit resulting from them, you have a claim to it as well as they. from these considerations, and with the hope that you will write to me whenever you can do so with convenience, i have begun a correspondence which i hope will end only with life. to be able to write a handsome letter is certainly a very great accomplishment, and can best be attained by practice; and, if you now begin, i have no hesitation in saying, that, by the time you are sixteen, you will be mistress of a handsome style, and thrice the quantity of ideas you would otherwise possess, by omitting this part of education. at present, you can write about any subject that will afford you an opportunity of putting together a sentence, and i shall read it with pleasure. i mention this, that you need not fear writing on subjects not particularly interesting to me; the manner at present being of as much consequence as the matter. "for our mutual pleasure and benefit, dear e., i hope you will not fail to gratify your affectionate brother amos." to show the nature of the correspondence between the parties, extracts are given below from a letter dated within a few days of the preceding, and addressed to another sister: "from you, my dear sister, the injunction not to forget the duties of religion comes with peculiar grace. you beg i will pardon you for presuming to offer good advice. does a good act require pardon? not having committed an offence, i can grant you no pardon; but my thanks i can give, which you will accept, with an injunction never to withhold any caution or advice which you may think necessary or beneficial on account of fewer years having passed over your head. * * * * "many, when speaking of perfection, say it is not attainable, or hitherto unattainable, and it is therefore vain to try or hope for it. to such i would observe, that, from motives of duty to our creator, and ambition in ourselves, we ought to strive for it, at least so far as not to be distanced by those who have preceded us. morality is strict justice between man and man; therefore, a man being moral does not imply he is a christian, but being a christian implies he is a moral man. * * * * "we ought to use our utmost endeavors to conquer our passions and evil propensities, to conform our lives to the strict rules of morality and the best practice of christianity. i cannot go further, without introducing the subject of evil speaking, which you will perhaps think i have exhausted. * * * "i do not, my dear m., set myself up as a reformer of human nature, or to find fault with it; but these observations (which have occurred to me as i am writing) may serve to show how apt we are to do things which afford us no pleasure, and which oftentimes are attended with the most disagreeable consequences. if you receive any improvement from the sentiments, or pleasure from the perusal, of this letter, the time in writing will be considered as well spent by your affectionate brother amos." chapter iv. business habits.--his father's mortgage.--resolutions.--arrival of brothers in boston. mr. lawrence had early formed, in the management of his affairs, certain principles, to which he rigidly adhered till the close of life. he writes: "i adopted the plan of keeping an accurate account of merchandise bought and sold each day, with the profit as far as practicable. this plan was pursued for a number of years; and i never found my merchandise fall short in taking an account of stock, which i did as often at least as once in each year. i was thus enabled to form an opinion of my actual state as a business man. i adopted also the rule always to have property, after my second year's business, to represent forty per cent. at least more than i owed; that is, never to be in debt more than two and a half times my capital. this caution saved me from ever getting embarrassed. if it were more generally adopted, we should see fewer failures in business. excessive credit is the rock on which so many business men are broken. "when i commenced, the embargo had just been laid, and with such restrictions on trade that many were induced to leave it. but i felt great confidence, that, by industry, economy, and integrity, i could get a living; and the experiment showed that i was right. most of the young men who commenced at that period failed by spending too much money, and using credit too freely. "i made about fifteen hundred dollars the first year, and more than four thousand the second. probably, had i made four thousand the first year, i should have failed the second or third year. i practised a system of rigid economy, and never allowed myself to spend a fourpence for unnecessary objects until i had acquired it." it is known to many of mr. lawrence's friends that his father mortgaged his farm, and loaned the proceeds to his son; thereby enabling him, as some suppose, to do what he could not have done by his own unaided efforts. to show how far this supposition is correct, the following extract is given. it is copied from the back of the original mortgage deed, now lying before the writer, and bearing date of september , . the extract is dated march, : "the review of this transaction always calls up the deep feelings of my heart. my honored father brought to me the one thousand dollars, and asked me to give him my note for it. i told him he did wrong to place himself in a situation to be made unhappy, if i lost the money. he told me he _guessed i wouldn't lose it_, and i gave him my note. the first thing i did was to take four per cent. premium on my boston bills (the difference then between passable and boston money), and send a thousand dollars in bills of the hillsborough bank to amherst, new hampshire, by my father, to my brother l. to carry to the bank and get specie, as he was going there to attend court that week. my brother succeeded in getting specie, principally in silver change, for the bills, and returned it to me in a few days. in the mean time, or shortly after, the bank had been sued, the bills discredited, and, in the end, proved nearly worthless. i determined not to use the money, except in the safest way; and therefore loaned it to messrs. parkman, in whom i had entire confidence. after i had been in business, and had made more than a thousand dollars, i felt that i could repay the money, come what would of it; being insured against fire, and trusting nobody for goods. i used it in my business, but took care to pay off the mortgage as soon as it would be received. the whole transaction is deeply interesting, and calls forth humble and devout thanksgiving to that merciful father who has been to us better than our most sanguine hopes." in alluding to this transaction in another place, he says: "this incident shows how dangerous it is to the independence and comfort of families, for parents to take pecuniary responsibilities for their sons in trade, beyond their power of meeting them without embarrassment. had my hillsborough bank notes not been paid as they were, nearly the whole amount would have been lost, and myself and family might probably have been ruined. the incident was so striking, that i have uniformly discouraged young men who have applied to me for credit, offering their fathers as bondsmen; and, by doing so, i have, i believe, saved some respectable families from ruin. my advice, however, has been sometimes rejected with anger. a young man who cannot get along without such aid will not be likely to get along with it. on the first day of january, , i had been but a few days in business; and the profits on all my sales to that day were one hundred and seventy-five dollars and eighteen cents. the expenses were to come out, and the balance was my capital. in , the sum had increased to such an amount as i thought would be good for my descendants; and, from that time, i have been my own executor. how shall i show my sense of responsibility? surely by active deeds more than by unmeaning words. god grant me to be true and faithful in his work!" having become fairly established in boston, mr. lawrence concluded to take his brother abbott, then fifteen years of age, as an apprentice. on the th of october, , abbott accordingly joined his brother, who says of him: "in , he came to me as my apprentice, bringing his bundle under his arm, with less than three dollars in his pocket (and this was his fortune); a first-rate business lad he was, but, like other bright lads, needed the careful eye of a senior to guard him from the pitfalls that he was exposed to." in his diary of february , , he writes: "in the autumn of , i boarded at granger's coffee house, opposite brattle-street church; and, in the same house, mr. charles white took up his quarters, to prepare his then new play, called the 'clergyman's daughter.' he spent some months in preparing it to secure a _run_ for the winter; and used to have tennett, canfield, robert treat paine, and a host of others, to dine with him very often. i not unfrequently left the party at the dinner-table, and found them there when i returned to tea. among the boarders was a fair proportion of respectable young men, of different pursuits; and, having got somewhat interested for white, we all agreed to go, and help bring out his 'clergyman's daughter.' mrs. darley was the lady to personate her, and a more beautiful creature could not be found. she and her husband (who sung his songs better than any man i had ever heard then) had all the spirit of parties in interest. we filled the boxes, and encored, and all promised a great run. after three nights, we found few beside the friends, and it was laid aside a failure. in looking back, the picture comes fresh before me; and, among all, i do not recollect one who was the better, and most were ruined. the theatre is no better now." in , he resumes: "about this time, my brother william made me a little visit to recruit his health, which he had impaired by hard work on the farm, and by a generous attention to the joyous meetings of the young folks of both sexes, from six miles around, which meetings he never allowed to break in upon his work. he continued his visit through the winter, and became so much interested in my business that i agreed to furnish the store next my own for his benefit. soon after that, i was taken sick; and he bought goods for himself to start with, and pushed on without fear. from that time, he was successful as a business man. he used his property faithfully, and i trust acceptably to the master, who has called him to account for his talents. our father's advice to us was, "'do not fall out by the way, for a three-fold cord is not quickly broken.'" chapter v. visits at groton.--sickness.--letter from dr. shattuck.--engagement.--letter to rev. dr. gannett.--marriage. during these years, mr. lawrence was in the habit of making occasional visits to his parents in groton, thirty-five miles distant. his custom was to drive himself, leaving boston at a late hour on saturday afternoon, and often, as he says, encroaching upon the sabbath before reaching home. after midnight, on sunday, he would leave on his return; and thus was enabled to reach boston about daybreak on monday morning, without losing a moment's time in his business. in , mr. lawrence was seized with an alarming illness, through which he enjoyed the care and skill of his friend and physician, the late dr. g. c. shattuck, who, shortly before his own death, transmitted the following account of this illness to the editor of these pages, who also had the privilege of enjoying a friendship so much prized by his father: "feb. , . "more than forty years ago, new england was visited with a pestilence. the people were stricken with panic. the first victims were taken off unawares. in many towns in the interior of the commonwealth, the people assembled in town meeting, and voted to pay, from the town treasury, physicians to be in readiness to attend on any one assailed with the premonitory symptoms of disease. the distemper was variously named, cold plague, spotted fever, and malignant remittent fever. after a day of unusual exercise, your father was suddenly taken ill. the worthy family in which he boarded were prompt in their sympathy. a physician was called: neighbors and friends volunteered their aid. remedies were diligently employed. prayers in the church were offered up for the sick one. a pious father left his home, on the banks of the nashua, to be with his son. to the physician in attendance he gave a convulsive grasp of the hand, and, with eyes brimful of tears, and choked utterance, articulated, 'doctor, if amos has not money enough, i have!' to the anxious father his acres seemed like dust in the balance contrasted with the life of his son. he was a sensible man, acting on the principle that the stimulus of reward is a salutary adjunct to the promptings of humanity. god rebuked the disorder, though the convalescence was slow. a constitution with an originally susceptible nervous temperament had received a shock which rendered him a long time feeble. an apprentice, with a discretion beyond his years, maintained a healthy activity in his mercantile operations, to the quiet of his mind. he did not need great strength; for sagacity and decision supplied every other lack. supply and demand were as familiar to him as the alphabet. he knew the wants of the country, and sources of supply. accumulation followed his operations, and religious principle regulated the distribution of the cumbrous surplus. a sensible and pious father, aided by a prudent mother, had trained the child to become the future man. you will excuse my now addressing you, when you recur to the tradition that i had participated in the joy of the house when you first opened your eyes to the light. that god's promises to the seed of the righteous may extend to you and yours, is the prayer of your _early_ acquaintance, "george c. shattuck." but few details of mr. lawrence's business from this date until are now found. suffice it to say, that, through the difficult and troubled times in which the united states were engaged in the war with england, his efforts were crowned with success. dark clouds sometimes arose in the horizon, and various causes of discouragement from time to time cast a gloom over the mercantile world; but despondency formed no part of his character, while cool sagacity and unceasing watchfulness and perseverance enabled him to weather many a storm which made shipwreck of others around him. amidst the engrossing cares of business, however, mr. lawrence found time to indulge in more genial pursuits, as will be seen from the following lines, addressed to his sister: "boston, march , . "my not having written to you since your return, my dear m., has proceeded from my having other numerous avocations, and partly from a carelessness in such affairs reprehensible in me. you will, perhaps, be surprised to learn the extent and importance of my avocations; for, in addition to my usual routine of mercantile affairs, i have lately been engaged in a negotiation of the first importance, and which i have accomplished very much to my own satisfaction. it is no other than having offered myself as a husband to your very good friend sarah richards, which offer she has agreed to accept. so, next fall, you must set your mind on a wedding. sarah i have long known and esteemed: there is such a reciprocity of feelings, sentiments, and principles, that i have long thought her the most suitable person i have seen for me to be united with. much of my time, as you may well suppose, is spent in her society; and here i cannot but observe the infinite advantage of good sense and good principles over the merely elegant accomplishments of fashionable education. by the latter we may be fascinated for a time; but they will afford no satisfaction on retrospection. the former you are compelled to respect and to love. such qualities are possessed by sarah; and, were i to say anything further in her favor, it would be that she is beloved by you. adieu, my dear sister, a. l." as this volume is intended only for the perusal of the family and friends of the late amos lawrence, no apology need be made for introducing such incidents of his life, of a domestic nature, as may be thought interesting, and which it might not seem advisable to introduce under other circumstances. of this nature are some details connected with this engagement. the young lady here alluded to, whose solid qualities he thus, at the age of twenty-five and in the first flush of a successful courtship, so calmly discusses, in addition to these, possessed personal charms sufficient to captivate the fancy of even a more philosophical admirer than himself. her father, giles richards, was a man of great ingenuity, who resided in boston at the close of the revolutionary war. he owned an establishment for the manufactory of cards for preparing wool. a large number of men were employed; and, at that time, it was considered one of the objects worthy of notice by strangers. as such, it was visited by general washington on his northern tour; and may be found described, in the early editions of morse's geography, among the industrial establishments of boston. as in the case of many more noted men of inventive genius, his plans were more vast than the means of accomplishment; and the result was, loss of a handsome competency, and embarrassment in business, from which he retired with unsullied reputation, and passed his latter years in the vicinity of boston. here the evening of his life was cheered by the constant and watchful care of his wife, whose cheerful and happy temperament shed a radiance around his path, which, from a naturally desponding character, might otherwise have terminated in gloom. she had been the constant companion of her husband in all his journeyings and residences in nearly every state in the union, where his business had called him; and, after forty years, returned to die in the house where she was born,--the parsonage once occupied by her father, the rev. amos adams, of roxbury, who, at the time of the revolution, was minister of the church now under the pastoral care of the rev. dr. putnam. sarah had been placed in the family of the rev. dr. chaplin, minister of the church at groton, and was a member of the academy when mr. lawrence first made her acquaintance. "the academy balls, the agreeable partners in the hall, the pleasant companions in the stroll," remembered with so much pleasure in after life, were not improbably associated with this acquaintance, who had become a visitor and friend to his own sisters. after a separation of four years, the acquaintance was accidentally renewed in the year . sarah was on a visit at cambridge to the family of caleb gannett, esq., then and for many years afterwards steward of harvard university. in a letter to rev. dr. gannett, dated february , , mr. lawrence thus alludes to this interview: "my first interview with you, thirty-eight years ago, when you were led by the hand into the store where i then was, in cornhill, by that friend (who was afterwards my wife), unconscious of my being within thirty miles, after a four years' separation, connects you in my thoughts with her, her children and grandchildren, in a way that no one can appreciate who has not had the experience." enclosed in this letter was a faded paper, on which were written several verses of poetry, with the following explanation: "only think of your sainted mother writing this little scrap thirty-eight years ago, when on her death-bed, for her young friend, then on a visit to her, to teach to you, who could not read; and this scrap, written upon a blank term-bill without premeditation, being preserved by that friend while she lived, and, after her death, by her daughter while she lived, and, after her death, being restored to me as the rightful disposer of it; and my happening, within four days after, to meet you under such circumstances as made it proper to show it to you." mrs. gannett's hymn for her little boy in . how can a child forgetful prove of all that wakes the heart to love, and from the path of duty stray, to spend his time in sport and play; neglectful of the blessing given, which marks the path to peace and heaven? o! how can i, who daily share a mother's kind, assiduous care, be idle, and ungrateful too; forsake the good, the bad pursue; neglectful of the blessings given, which mark the path to peace and heaven? o! how can i such folly show, when faults indulged to vices grow,-- who know that idle days ne'er make men that are useful, good, or great? dear mother, still be thou my guide, nor suffer me my faults to hide; and o may god his grace impart to fix my feeble, foolish heart, that i may wait the blessing given, which marks the path to peace and heaven! mem.--mrs. gannett died soon after writing this on a blank term-bill of harvard college, in .--a. l., . the marriage of mr. lawrence took place in boston, on the th of june, , three months after announcing his engagement to his sister. chapter vi. bramble news.--junior partner goes to england.--letters to brother. in , mr. lawrence writes as follows: "on the st of january, , i took my brother abbott into partnership on equal shares, putting fifty thousand dollars, that i had then earned, into the concern. three days afterwards, the 'bramble news' came, by which the excessive high price of goods was knocked down. our stock was then large, and had cost a high price. he was in great anguish, considering himself a bankrupt for at least five thousand dollars. i cheered him by offering to cancel our copartnership indentures, give him up his note, and, at the end of the year, pay him five thousand dollars. he declined the offer, saying i should lose that, and more beside, and, as he had enlisted, would do the best he could. this was in character, and it was well for us both. he was called off to do duty as a soldier, through most of the year. i took care of the business, and prepared to retreat with my family into the country whenever the town seemed liable to fall into the hands of the british, who were very threatening in their demonstrations. we still continue mercantile business under the first set of indentures, and under the same firm, merely adding '& co.,' as new partners have been admitted." in march, , the junior partner embarked on board the ship milo, the first vessel which sailed from boston for england after the proclamation of peace. on the eve of his departure, he received from his brother and senior partner a letter containing many good counsels for his future moral guidance, as well as instructions in relation to the course of business to be pursued. from that letter, dated march th, the following extracts are taken: "my dear brother: i have thought best, before you go abroad, to suggest a few hints for your benefit in your intercourse with the people among whom you are going. as a first and leading principle, let every transaction be of that pure and honest character that you would not be ashamed to have appear before the whole world as clearly as to yourself. in addition to the advantages arising from an honest course of conduct with your fellow-men, there is the satisfaction of reflecting within yourself that you have endeavored to do your duty; and, however greatly the best may fall short of doing all they ought, they will be sure not to do more than their principles enjoin. "it is, therefore, of the highest consequence that you should not only cultivate correct principles, but that you should place your standard of action so high as to require great vigilance in living up to it. "in regard to your business transactions, let everything be so registered in your books, that any person, without difficulty, can understand the whole of your concerns. you may be cut off in the midst of your pursuits, and it is of no small consequence that your temporal affairs should always be so arranged that you may be in readiness. "if it is important that you should be well prepared in this point of view, how much more important is it that you should be prepared in that which relates to eternity! "you are young, and the course of life seems open, and pleasant prospects greet your ardent hopes; but you must remember that the race is not always to the swift, and that however flattering may be your prospects, and however zealously you may seek pleasure, you can never find it except by cherishing pure principles, and practising right conduct. my heart is full on this subject, my dear brother, and it is the only one on which i feel the least anxiety. "while here, your conduct has been such as to meet my entire approbation; but the scenes of another land may be more than your principles will stand against. i say, _may be_, because young men, of as fair promise as yourself, have been lost by giving a small latitude (innocent in the first instance) to their propensities. but i pray the father of all mercies to have you in his keeping, and preserve you amid temptations. * * * * * "i can only add my wish to have you write me frequently and particularly, and that you will embrace every opportunity of gaining information. your affectionate brother, "amos lawrence. "to abbott lawrence." again, on the th of the month, he writes to the same, after his departure: "i hope you will have arrived in england early in april; and if so, you will be awaiting with anxious solicitude the arrival of the 'galen,' by which vessel you will receive letters from _home_, a word which brings more agreeable associations to the mind and feelings of a young stranger in a foreign land than any other in our language. i have had many fears that you have had a rough passage, as the weather on the friday following your departure was very boisterous, and continued so for a number of days, and much of the time since has been uncomfortable. i trust, however, that the same good hand which supplies our daily wants has directed your course to the desired port. "with a just reliance on that power, we need have no fear, though winds and waves should threaten our destruction. the interval between the time of bidding adieu and of actual departure called into exercise those fine feelings which those only have who can prize friends, and on that account i was happy to see so much feeling in yourself. "since your departure nothing of a public nature has transpired of particular interest. all that there is of news or interest among us you will gather from the papers forwarded. "those affairs which relate particularly to ourselves will be of as much interest as any; i shall therefore detail our business operations. * * * * * "my next and constant direction will be to keep a particular watch over yourself, that you do not fall into any habits of vice; and, as a means of preserving yourself, i would most strictly enjoin that your sabbaths be not spent in noise and riot, but that you attend the public worship of god. this you may think an unnecessary direction to you, who have always been in the habit of doing so. i hope it may be; at any rate, it will do no harm. "that you may be blessed with health, and enjoy properly the blessings of life, is the wish of your ever affectionate brother, "a. l. "to abbott lawrence." (to abbott lawrence.) "boston, april th, . "my dear brother: by the favor of heaven i trust ere this you have landed upon the soil from which sprang our forefathers. in the contemplation of that wonderful 'isle' on your first arrival, there must be a feeling bordering on devotion. the thousand new objects, which make such constant demand on your attention, will not, i hope, displace the transatlantic friends from the place they should occupy in your remembrance. already do i begin to count the days when i may reasonably hear from you. "i pray you to let no opportunity pass without writing, as you will be enabled to appreciate the pleasure your letters will give by those which you receive from home. since your departure, our father has been dangerously ill; he seems fast recovering, but we much fear a relapse, when he would, in all probability, be immediately deprived of life, or his disease would so far weaken him as to terminate his usefulness. our mother continues as comfortable as when you left us. should you live to return, probably one or both our parents may not be here to welcome you; we have particular reason for thankfulness that they have both been spared to us so long, and have been so useful in the education of their children. "all others of our connection have been in health since your departure, and a comfortable share of happiness seems to have been enjoyed by all. * * * * * "now for advice: you are placed in a particularly favorable situation, my dear brother, for improving yourself in the knowledge of such things as will hereafter be useful to you. let no opportunity pass without making the most of it. there are necessarily many vacant hours in your business, which ought not to pass unemployed. i pretend not to suggest particular objects for your attention, but only the habit generally of active employment, which, while making your time useful and agreeable to yourself, will be the best safeguard to your virtue. the american character, i trust, is somewhat respected in england at this time, notwithstanding it was lately at so low an ebb; and i would wish every american to endeavor to do something to improve it. especially do i wish you, my dear a., who visit that country under circumstances so favorable, to do your part in establishing a character for your country as well as for yourself. thus prays your affectionate brother, a. l." to his wife, at groton, mr. lawrence writes, under date of june , : "the milo got in yesterday, and brought letters from abbott, dated th april. he was then in manchester, and enjoyed the best health. he wrote to our father, which letter, i hope, will arrive at groton by to-morrow's mail. i received from him merchandise, which i hope to get out of the ship and sell this week. i suspect there are few instances of a young man leaving this town, sending out goods, and having them sold within ninety days from the time of his departure. it is eighty-four days this morning since he left home." (to abbott lawrence.) "boston, june , . "dear brother: by the arrival of the milo last saturday, and packet on monday, i received your several letters, giving an account of your proceedings. you are as famous among your acquaintances here for the rapidity of your movements as bonaparte. mr. ---- thinks that you leave bonaparte entirely in the background. i really feel a little proud, my dear brother, of your conduct. few instances of like despatch are known. "the sensations you experienced in being greeted so heartily by the citizens of liverpool, were not unlike those you felt on hearing the news of peace. i am happy to state to you that our father has so far recovered from his illness as to be able to attend to his farm. our mother's health is much as when you left. "your friends here feel a good deal of interest in your welfare, and read with deep interest your letters to them. the opportunity is peculiarly favorable for establishing a reputation as a close observer of men and manners, and for those improvements which travelling is reputed to give. "when writing to you sentences of advice, my heart feels all the tender sympathies and affections which bind me to my own children. this is my apology, if any be necessary, for so frequently touching on subjects for your moral improvement. "in any condition i can subscribe myself no other than your ever affectionate brother, a. l." chapter vii. death of sister.--letters. on the th of august, , mr. lawrence, in the following letter to his brother, announced the sudden death of a sister, who to youth and beauty united many valuable qualities of mind and character: "to you, who are at such a distance from home, and employed in the busy pursuits of life, the description of domestic woe will not come with such force as on us who were eye-witnesses to an event which we and all our friends shall not cease to deplore. we have attended this morning to the last sad office of affection to our loved sister s. although for ourselves we mourn the loss of so much excellence, yet for her we rejoice that her race is so soon run. we are permitted to hope that she is now a saint in heaven, celebrating before the throne of her father the praises of the redeemed. she met death in the enjoyment of that hope which is the peculiar consolation of the believer. this event, i know, my dear brother, is calculated to awaken all the tender recollections of home, and to call forth all your sympathy for the anguish of friends; but it is also calculated to soften the heart, and to guide you in your own preparation for that great day of account. the admonition, i hope, may not be lost on any of us, and happy will it be for us if we use it aright." (to the same.) "boston, october , . "dear abbott: by this vessel i have written to you, but am always desirous of communicating the last intelligence from home, therefore i write again. the situation of our town, our country, our friends, and all the objects of endearment, continues the same as heretofore. we are, to be sure, getting into a religious controversy which does not promise to increase the stock of charity among us, but good will undoubtedly arise from it. the passions of some of our brethren are too much engaged, and it would seem from present appearances that consequences unfavorable to the cause of our master may ensue; but the wrath of man is frequently made subservient to the best purposes, and the good of mankind may in this case be greatly promoted by what at present seems a great evil. men's passions are but poor guides to the discovery of truth, but they may sometimes elicit light by which others may get at the truth. "it does seem to me that a man need only use his common sense, and feel a willingness to be instructed in the reading of the scriptures, and there is enough made plain to his understanding to direct him in the way he should go. "others, however, think differently; but that should not be a reason with me for calling them hard names, especially if by their lives they show that they are followers of the same master." on december d, he writes again: "i heard from you verbally on the st of october, in company with a platoon of new england guards; and hope the head of the corps allowed lord wellington the honor of an introduction, and of inspecting this choice corps, which once had the honor of protecting the constitution and independence of the united states, when menaced by the 'proud sons of britain.' this is a theme on which _you_ may be allowed to dwell with some delight, although there are no recitals of hair-breadth escapes and hard-fought actions, when numbers bit the dust. yet to you, who were active in performing duty, this should be a source of comfortable feeling, as the amount of human misery has not been increased by your means. shakspeare's knight of sack thought 'the better part of valor was discretion,' but i do not believe the guards would have confirmed this sentiment, had the opportunity offered for a trial. i am really glad to hear of you in paris, and hope you will improve every moment of your time in acquiring information that will be agreeable and interesting; and, more particularly, i hope you will have gone over the ground where the great events have happened that now allow europe to repose in peace. how much should i delight in a few hours' intercourse with you; but that must be deferred to another period, perhaps to a very distant period. "i feel very healthy and very happy; my wife and children all enjoying health, and a good share of the bounties of providence in various ways. well you may be contented, you will say. what more is wanting? such is not always the lot of man possessing those blessings. there is often a voracious appetite for other and greater blessings. the desire for more splendor, the possession of more wealth, is coveted, without the disposition to use it as an accountable creature; and too late the poor man finds that all his toil for these earthly objects of his worship fails in satisfying or giving a good degree of content. i, therefore, have reason for thankfulness that i am blessed with a disposition to appreciate tolerably the temporal blessings i enjoy. to the father of all mercies i am indebted for this and every other good thing; even for the increased affection with which i think of you. that he may bless and keep you, dear abbott, is the prayer of your brother, a. l." on june th, , a few days after the birth of a daughter, he writes to a friend: "i am the richest man, i suppose, that there is on this side of the water, and the richest because i am the happiest. on the d ult. i was blessed by the birth of a fine little daughter; this, as you may well suppose, has filled our hearts with joy. s. is very comfortable, and is not less gratified than i am. i wish you were a married man, and then (if you had a good wife) you would know how to appreciate the pleasures of a parent. i have lately thought more than ever of the propriety of your settling soon. it is extremely dangerous to defer making a connection until a late period; for a man is in more and more danger of not forming one the longer he puts it off; and any man who does not form this connection grossly miscalculates in the use of the means which god has given him to supply himself with pleasures in the downhill journey of life. "he is also foolish to allow himself to be cheated in this connection by the prospect of a few present advantages, to the exclusion of the more permanent ones. every man's best pleasures should be at home; for there is the sphere for the exercise of his best virtues; and he should be particularly careful, in the selection of a partner, to get one who will jeopardize neither. on this subject, you know, i am always eloquent. but, at this time, there is reason for my being so, as it is the anniversary of my wedding day. "s. has put her eye on a _rib_ for you. the said person, you must know, is of a comely appearance (not beautiful), is rather taller than ----, has a good constitution, is perfectly acquainted with domestic economy, and has all the most desirable of the fashionable accomplishments, such as music, painting &c.; and my only objection to her is, as far as i have observed her, that she has a few thousand dollars in cash. this, however, might be remedied; for, after furnishing a house, the balance might be given to her near connections, or to some public institution. i will give no further description, but will only say that her connections are such as you would find pleasure in. no more on this subject. the subject of principal interest among us now is the new tariff of duties." * * * * chapter viii. domestic habits.--illness and death of wife. in searching for records of the business at this period, the first copied letters are found in a volume commencing with the date of march , ; since which period the correspondence, contained in many volumes, is complete. on the first page of this volume is a letter from the senior partner somewhat characteristic. it relates to a bill of exchange for two thousand rupees, which he knew was a doubtful one, but which he had taken to relieve the pressing necessities of a young englishwoman from calcutta, with a worthless husband. he writes to his friends in that city: "we have been so particular as to send a clerk to her with the money, that we might be sure of her receiving it. previous to her receiving the money from us, we were told her children were ragged, barefooted, and hungry; afterwards we knew they were kept comfortably clad." in tracing the course of business as revealed by the perusal of the correspondence, it is evident that mr. lawrence's time and attention must have been engrossed by the increasing importance and magnitude of the mercantile operations of his firm. the cares and perplexities of the day did not, however, unfit him for the quiet enjoyments of domestic life; and, however great and urgent were the calls upon his time and his thoughts from abroad, home, with its endearments, occupied the first place in his affections. so much did its interests transcend all others in his feelings, that he speaks in after life of having "watched night and day without leaving, for a fortnight," a sick child; and then being rewarded for his care by having it restored to him after the diligent application of remedies, when the physician and friends had given up all hope of recovery. with such affections and sources of happiness, connected with prosperity in his affairs, it may well be supposed that the current of life flowed smoothly on. his evenings were passed at home; and urgent must have been the call which could draw him from his fireside, where the social chat or friendly book banished the cares of the day. a gentleman, now a prominent merchant in new york, who was a clerk with mr. lawrence at this time, says of him: "when the business season was over, he would sit down with me, and converse freely and familiarly, and would have something interesting and useful to say. i used to enjoy these sittings; and, while i always feared to do anything, or leave anything undone, which would displease him, i at the same time had a very high regard, and i may say love, for him, such as i never felt for any other man beside my own father. he had a remarkable faculty of bringing the sterling money into our currency, with any advance, by a calculation in his mind, and would give the result with great accuracy in one quarter of the time which it took me to do it by figures. i used to try hard to acquire this faculty, but could not, and never saw any other person who possessed it to the degree he did. his mind was remarkably vigorous and accurate; and consequently his business was transacted in a prompt and correct manner. nothing was left undone until to-morrow which could be done to-day. he was master of and controlled his business, instead of allowing his business to master and control him. when i took charge of the books, they were kept by single entry; and mr. lawrence daily examined every entry to detect errors. he was dissatisfied with this loose way of keeping the books; and, at his request, i studied book-keeping by double entry with mr. gershom cobb, who had just introduced the new and shorter method of double entry. i then transferred the accounts into a new set of books on this plan, and well remember his anxiety during the process, and his expression of delight when the work was completed, and i had succeeded in making the first trial-balance come out right. this was the first set of books opened in boston on the new system. while mr. lawrence required all to fulfil their engagements fully and promptly, so long as they were able to do so, he was lenient to those who were unfortunate, and always ready to compromise demands against such. no case occurred, while i was with him, which i thought he dealt harshly with a debtor who had failed in business." the year opened with cheering prospects; but a cloud was gathering which was destined to cast a shadow over all these pleasant hopes. during the spring, mrs. lawrence was troubled with a cough, which became so obstinate at the beginning of the summer, that she was persuaded to remain at groton for a short period, in order to try the benefit of country air. mr. lawrence writes to her, july : "i am forcibly reminded of the blessings of wife, children, and friends, by the privation of wife and children; and, when at home, i really feel homesick and lonesome. here i am, in two great rooms, almost alone; so you must prepare at a minute's notice to follow your husband." she remained in the country for several weeks, and was summoned suddenly home by the alarming illness of her husband; the result of which, for a time, seemed very doubtful. after a season of intense anxiety and unremitted watchings at his bedside, mrs. lawrence was seized during the night with a hemorrhage from the lungs. this symptom, which so much alarmed her friends, was hailed by herself with joy, as she now had no wish to outlive her husband, whose life she had despaired of. mr. lawrence's recovery was slow; and, as soon as it was deemed prudent, he was sent to groton to recruit his strength. he writes, under date of november , : "dearest sarah: we have heard of the fire on tuesday evening, and hope the alarm has not impaired your health. i enjoy myself here as much as it is possible for any one to do under like circumstances: the idea of leaving the objects most dear to me, a wife and child sick, is too great a drawback upon my happiness to allow me as much quiet as is desirable. yet i have great reason for thankfulness that i am at this time able to enjoy the society of friends, and that you are so comfortable as to give good reason to hope that the next season will restore to you a tolerable share of health." mrs. lawrence writes, in reply to his letter: "i have just received yours, and feel better to hear that you are so well. i hope that you will leave no means unimproved to regain health. do not allow unreasonable fears on my account. i am as well as i was the week past; but we are uneasy mortals, and i do not improve as i could wish. you know me: therefore make all allowances. it is a cloudy day." it soon became evident to all that the disease under which mrs. lawrence labored was a settled consumption, and that there could be little hope of recovery. to her mother mr. lawrence writes, dec. : "since i last wrote to you, there has been no material change in sarah's situation. she suffers less pain, and has more cheerful spirits than when you were here. she is very well apprised of her situation, and complains that those who are admitted to see her look so sorrowful, that it has a painful effect upon her feelings. she is desirous of being kept cheerful and happy; and, as far as i am capable of making her so, i do it. yet i am a poor hand to attempt doing, with my feeble health, what is so foreign to my feelings. although she is much more comfortable than she was, i cannot flatter myself that she is any better. she still retains a faint hope that she may be so; yet it is but a faint one. it takes much from my distress to see her so calm, and so resigned to the will of the almighty. although her attachments to life are as strong and as numerous as are the attachments of most, i believe the principle of resignation is stronger. she is a genuine disciple of christ; and, if my children walk in her steps, they will all be gathered among the blest, and sing the song of the redeemed. should it be the will of god that we be separated for a season, there is an animation in the hope that we shall meet again, purified from the grossness of the flesh, and never to be parted. 'god tempers the wind to the shorn lamb.' i shall have, therefore, no more put upon me than i am able to bear; yet i know not how to bring my mind to part with so excellent a friend, and so good a counsellor." on jan. , , he writes: "sarah has continued to sink since you left, and is now apparently very easy, and very near the termination of her earthly career. she may continue two or three days; but the prospect is, that she will not open her eyes upon another morning. she suffers nothing, and it is, therefore, no trial to our feelings, compared with what it would be did she suffer. her mind is a little clouded at times, but, in the main, quite clear. we shall give you early information of the event which blasts our dearest earthly hopes. _but god reigns: let us rejoice._" a few hours before her death, she called for a paper (now in possession of the writer), and, with a pencil, traced, in a trembling hand, some directions respecting small memorials to friends, and then added: "feeling that i must soon depart from this, i trust, to a better world, i resign very dear friends to god, who has done so much for me. i am in ecstacies of love. how can i praise him enough! to my friends i give these tokens of remembrance." on the th of january, , mr. lawrence closed the eyes of this most beloved of all his earthly objects, and immediately relapsed into a state of melancholy and gloom, which was, no doubt, greatly promoted by the peculiar state of health and physical debility under which he had labored since his last illness. a valued friend writes, a few days after the death of mrs. l.: "it was my privilege to witness the closing scene; to behold faith triumphing over sense, and raising the soul above this world of shadows. it was a spectacle to convince the sceptic, and to animate and confirm the christian. about a week before her death, her increasing weakness taught her the fallacy of all hope of recovery. from this time, it was the business of every moment to prepare herself and her friends for the change which awaited her. serene, and even cheerful, she could look forward without apprehension into the dark valley, and beyond it she beheld those bright regions where she should meet her saviour, through whose mediation she had the blessed assurance that her sins were pardoned, and her inheritance secure. god permitted a cloud to obscure the bright prospect; it was but for a moment, and the sun broke forth with redoubled splendor. on the last night of her life, she appeared to suffer extremely, though, when asked, she constantly replied in the negative. she repeated, in a feeble voice, detached portions of hymns of which she had been fond. towards morning, as she appeared nearly insensible, mrs. r. was persuaded to lie down and rest. shortly after, sarah roused herself, and said to l., 'i am going; call my mother.' mrs. r. was at her bedside immediately, and asked her if she was sensible that she was leaving the world. she answered 'yes,' and expressed her resignation. "mrs. r. then repeated a few lines of pope's dying christian, and the expiring saint, in broken accents, followed her. on her mother's saying 'the world recedes,' she added, 'it disappears,--heaven opens.' these were the last words i heard her utter. she then became insensible, and in about ten minutes expired. not a sound interrupted the sacred silence; the tear of affection was shed, but no lamentation was heard. the eye of affection dwelt on the faded form, but faith pointed to those regions where the blessed spirit was admitted to those joys which eye has not seen, nor ear heard, neither hath it entered into the heart of man to conceive. mr. l. is wonderfully supported. he feels as a man and a christian." upon this letter mr. lawrence has endorsed the following memorandum: "i saw this letter to-day for the first time. my son-in-law handed to me yesterday a number of memorials of my beloved daughter, who was called home on the second day of december last, when only a few months younger than her mother, whose death is so beautifully described within. the description brought the scene back to my mind with a force that unmanned me for a time, and leads me to pray most earnestly and humbly that i may be found worthy to join them through the beloved, when my summons comes. a. l. "february th, ." chapter ix. journeys.--letters.--journey to new york. the sense of loss and the state of depression under which mr. lawrence labored were so great, that he was advised to try a change of scene; and accordingly, after having placed his three children with kind relatives in the country, he left boston, on a tour, which lasted some weeks, through the middle states and virginia. he wrote many letters during this time, describing the scenes which he daily witnessed, and particularly the pleasure which he experienced in virginia from the unbounded hospitality with which he was welcomed by those with whom he had become acquainted. he also visited washington, and listened to some important debates on the admission of missouri into the union, which produced a strong and lasting influence upon his mind respecting the great questions then discussed. in a letter to his brother from the latter city, dated feb. th, after describing a visit to the tomb of washington at mount vernon, he writes: "friend webster has taken a stand here which no man can surpass; very few are able to keep even with him. he has made a wonderful argument for the united states bank. if he does not stand confessedly first among the advocates here, he does not stand second. tell brother l. of this; it will do him good." on march , he writes to his sister, after his return to boston: "i am once more near the remains of her who was lately more dear to me than any other earthly object, after an absence of two months; my health much improved,--i may say restored; my heart filled with gratitude to the author of all good for so many and rich blessings, so rapidly succeeding such severe privations and trials." a few days later, he writes to his sister-in-law: "sunday evening, april , . "dear s.: it is proper that i should explain to you why my feelings got so much the better of my reason at the celebration of the sacrament this morning. the last time i attended that service was with my beloved s., after an absence on her part of fifteen months, during which period you well know what passed in both our minds. on this occasion our minds and feelings were elevated with devotion, and (as i trust) suitably affected with gratitude to the father of mercies for once more permitting her to celebrate with her husband this memorial of our saviour. then, indeed, were our hearts gladdened by the cheering prospect of her returning health and continued life. the consideration that i had since this period been almost within the purlieu of the grave, that my beloved sarah had fallen a sacrifice to her care and anxiety for me, and that i was for the first time at the table of the lord without her, with a view to celebrate the most solemn service of our religion, overwhelmed me as a torrent, and my feelings were too powerful to be restrained; i was almost suffocated in the attempt. "comment is unnecessary. god grant us a suitable improvement of the scene! "your affectionate brother, a. l." on april , he writes to a friend in england: "since i last wrote, family misfortunes, of which you have from time to time been apprised, have pressed heavily upon me. i am now in tolerable health, and hope soon to see it entirely confirmed." after a visit to his parents, at groton, he says, on april : "i arrived at home last saturday night, at eleven o'clock, after rather an uncomfortable ride. however, i had the satisfaction on monday of exercising my right of suffrage, which, had i not done, i should have felt unpleasantly. i wrote to m., on tuesday, under a depression of spirits altogether greater than i have before felt. the effect of hope upon my feelings, before i saw the little ones, was very animating; since that time (although i found them all i could desire), the stimulus is gone, and i have been very wretched. the principles i cherish will now have their proper effect, although nature must first find its level. do not imagine i feel severely depressed all the time; although i certainly have much less of animal spirits than i had before my return, i do not feel positively unhappy. under all the circumstances it is thought best for me to journey. hitherto, i have experienced the kind protection of an almighty friend; it will not hereafter be withheld. commending all dear friends and myself to him, i remain your truly affectionate brother, "a. l." to another sister he writes five days afterwards, before commencing a second journey: "in a few moments i am off. i gladly seize the leisure they furnish me, to tell you i feel well, and have no doubt of having such a flow of spirits as will make my journey pleasant. at any rate, i start with this determination. you know not, dear e., the delight i feel in contemplating the situation of my little ones; this (if no higher principle) should be sufficient to do away all repining and vain regrets for the loss of an object so dear as was their mother. in short, her own wishes should operate very strongly against these regrets. i hope to be forgiven the offence, if such it be; and to make such improvement of it as will subserve the purposes of my heavenly father, who doth not willingly afflict the children of men, but for their improvement. my prayer to god is, that the affliction may not be lost upon me; but that it may have the effect of making me estimate more justly the value of all temporal objects, and, by thus softening the heart, open it to the kind influences of our holy religion, and produce that love and charity well pleasing to our father. i have no object in view further south than baltimore; from thence i shall go across the alleghanies, or journey through the interior to the northern border of this country. at baltimore i remain a few days; my business there is as delegate from brattle-street church, in the settlement of a minister, a young gentleman named sparks, from connecticut." (to abbott lawrence.) "philadelphia, april , . "dear brother: when i see how people in other places are doing business, i feel that we have reason to thank god that we are not obliged to do as they do, but are following that regular and profitably safe business that allows us to sleep well o' nights, and eat the bread of industry and quietness. the more i see of the changes produced by violent speculation, the more satisfied i am that our maxims are the only true ones for a life together. different maxims may prove successful for a part of life, but will frequently produce disastrous results just at the time we stand most in need; that is, when life is on the wane, and a family is growing around us. "two young brokers in ---- have played a dashing game. they have taken nearly one hundred thousand dollars from the bank, without the consent of the directors. a clerk discounted for them. they have lost it by united states bank speculations. "look after clerks well, if you wish to keep them honest. too good a reputation sometimes tempts men to sin, upon the strength of their reputation. "as to business, it must be bad enough; that is nothing new; but patience and perseverance will overcome all obstacles, and, notwithstanding all things look so dark, i look for a good year's work. "you must remember that i have done nothing yet, and i have never failed of accomplishing more than my expectations; so i say again, we will make a good year's work of it yet, by the blessing of heaven." from lancaster, penn., april , he writes to his sister: "my feelings are usually buoyant, except occasionally when imagination wanders back to departed days; then comes over me a shadow, which, by its frequency, i am now enabled to dispel without violence, and even to dwell upon without injury." (to abbott lawrence.) "baltimore, may , . "dear brother: i arrived in this city this morning, in the steamboat, from norfolk, and have found a number of letters from you and brother w. from the present aspect of affairs in this city, i fear that i shall make but a short stay. at no period has the face of affairs been more trying to the feelings of the citizens. baltimore has never seen but two days which will compare with last friday: one of those was the mob day, the other was the day of the attack by the british. "nearly one half the city, embracing its most active and hitherto wealthiest citizens, have stopped or must stop payment. confidence is prostrated, capital vanished. "i am rejoiced to hear of your easy situation, and hope it may continue. avoid responsibilities, and all is well with us. i am in no wise avaricious, and of course care not whether we make five thousand dollars more or less, if we risk twenty thousand to do it. "i have a high eulogium to pay the virginians, which i must reserve for another letter; as also an account of my travels from petersburg." in a letter to a friend, dated at baltimore, he says: "since i have been here, i have been constantly occupied; and, although the heavy cloud which overhangs this city is discharging its contents upon their heads, they bear it well, resolving that, if they are poor, they will not be unsocial, nor uncivil, and on this principle they meet in little groups, without much style or ceremony, and pass sensible and sociable evenings together. "i have really become very much interested in some of the people here. "and now my advice to you is, get married, and have no fear about the expense being too great. if you have two children born unto you within a twelve-month, you will be the richer man for it. nothing sharpens a man's wits, in earning property and using it, better than to see a little flock growing up around him. so i say again, man, fear not." on his return, it seems to have been his object to interest himself as much as possible in business, and thus endeavor to divert his mind from those painful associations, which, in spite of all his efforts, would sometimes obtain the mastery. in the mean time, he had given up his house, and resided in the family of his brother abbott; where he was welcomed as an inmate, and treated with so much sympathy and considerate kindness, that his mind, after a time, recovered its tone: his health was restored, and he was once more enabled to give his full powers to the growing interests of his firm. for the few succeeding years, he was engaged in the usual routine of mercantile affairs, and has left but few memorials or letters, except those relating to his business. in the winter of , he made a visit to new york, which he describes in his diary under date of february , : "yesterday was one of the most lovely winter days. to-day the snow drives into all the cracks and corners, it being a boisterous easterly snow-storm, which recalls to my mind a similar one, which i shall never forget, in february, . "i went to new york during that month, for the new england bank, with about one hundred thousand dollars in foreign gold, the value of which by law at the mint was soon to be reduced from eighty-seven to eighty-five cents per pennyweight, or about that. i also had orders to buy bills with it, at the best rate i could. accordingly i invested it, and had to analyze the standing of many who offered bills, as drawers or endorsers. "some of the bills were protested for non-acceptance, and were returned at once, and damages claimed. this was new law in new york, and resisted; but the merchants were convinced by suits, and paid the twenty per cent. damages. the law of damage was altered soon after. "on my return, i took a packet for providence, and came at the rate of ten knots an hour for the first seven hours of the night. i was alarmed by a crash, which seemed to me to be breaking in the side of the ship, within a few inches of my head. i ran upon deck, and it was a scene to be remembered. beside the crew, on board were the officers of a wrecked vessel from portsmouth, n. h., and some other old ship-masters, all at work, and giving directions to a coaster, which had run foul of us, and had lost its way. by favor and labor, we were saved from being wrecked; but were obliged to land at some fifteen miles from providence, and get there as we could through the snow. i arrived there almost dead with headache and sickness. madam dexter and her daughter left the day before, and reached home in perfect safety before the storm. such are the scenes of human life! here am i enjoying my own fireside, while all who were then active with me in the scenes thus recalled are called to their account, excepting philip hone, m. van schaick, n. goddard, chancellor kent, and his son-in-law, isaac hone." chapter x. marriage.--elected to legislature.--engages in manufactures.--reflections. in april, , mr. lawrence was married to mrs. nancy ellis, widow of the late judge ellis, of claremont, n. h., and daughter of robert means, esq., of amherst, in the same state. his children, who had been placed with his parents and sisters at groton, were brought home; and he was now permitted again to unite his family under his own roof, and to enjoy once more those domestic comforts so congenial to his taste, and which each revolving year seemed to increase until the close of his life. mr. lawrence was elected a representative from boston to the legislature for the session of and ; and this was the only occasion on which he ever served in a public legislative body. although deeply engaged in his own commercial pursuits, he was constantly at his post in the house of representatives; and attended faithfully to the duties of his office, although with much sacrifice to his own personal interests. very little is found among his memoranda relating to this new experience. as a member of a committee of the legislature having in charge the subject of the erection of wooden buildings in boston, he seems to have had a correspondence with the late hon. john lowell, who took strong ground before the committee against the multiplication of buildings of this material, and backed his arguments with some very characteristic statements and observations. on one of these letters mr. lawrence made a memorandum, dated march, , as follows: "the _boston rebel_ was a true man, such as we need more of in these latter days. the open-mouthed lovers of the _dear people_ are self-seekers in most instances. beware of such." the following extract is taken from a letter, dated january th, , addressed by mr. lawrence to hon. frederic wolcott, of connecticut, respecting a son who was about to be placed in his counting-room, and who, in after years, became his partner in business: "h. will have much leisure in the evening, which, if he choose, may be profitably devoted to study; and we hope he will lay out such a course for himself, as to leave no portion of his time unappropriated. it is on account of so much leisure, that so many fine youths are ruined in this town. the habit of industry once well fixed, the danger is over. "will it not be well for him to furnish you, at stated periods, an exact account of his expenditures? the habit of keeping such an account will be serviceable, and, if he is prudent, the satisfaction will be great, ten years hence, in looking back and observing the process by which his character has been formed. if he does as well as he is capable, we have no doubt of your experiencing the reward of your care over him." for the several following years, mr. lawrence was deeply engaged in business; and the firm of which he was the senior partner became interested in domestic manufactures, which, with the aid of other capitalists, afterwards grew into so much importance, until now it has become one of the great interests of the country. apart from all selfish motives, he early became one of the strongest advocates for the protection of american industry, believing that the first duty of a government is to advance the interests of its own citizens, when it can be accomplished with justice to others; and in opposition to the system of free trade, which, however plausible in theory, he considered prejudicial to the true interests of our own people. he was conscientious in these opinions; and, in their support, corresponded largely with some of the leading statesmen at washington, as well as with prominent opponents at the south, who combatted his opinions while they respected the motives by which he was actuated. he tested his sincerity, by embarking a large proportion of his property in these enterprises; and, to the last, entertained the belief that the climate, the soil, and the habits of the people, rendered domestic manufactures one of the permanent and abiding interests of new england. during seasons of high political excitement and sectional strife, he wrote to various friends at the south, urging them to discard all local prejudices, and to enter with the north into manly competition in all those branches of domestic industry which would tend, not only to enrich, but also to improve the moral and intellectual character of their people. he watched, with increasing interest, the progress of lowell and other manufacturing districts, and was ever ready to lend a helping hand to any scheme which tended to advance their welfare. churches, hospitals, libraries, in these growing communities, had in him a warm and earnest advocate; and it was always with honest pride that he pointed out to the intelligent foreigner the moral condition of the operative here, when compared with that of the same class in other countries. on the st of january, in each year, mr. lawrence was in the habit of noting down, in a small memorandum-book, an accurate account of all his property, in order that he might have a clear view of his own affairs, and also as a guide to his executors in the settlement of his estate, in case of his death. this annual statement commences in , and, with the exception of , when he was in great affliction on account of the death of his wife, is continued every year until that of his own death, in . in this little volume the following memorandum occurs, dated january , : "i have been extensively engaged in business during the last two years, and have added much to my worldly possessions; but have come to the same conclusions in regard to them that i did in . i feel distressed in mind that the resolutions then made have not been more effectual in keeping me from this _overengagedness_ in business. i now find myself so engrossed with its cares, as to occupy my thoughts, waking or sleeping, to a degree entirely disproportioned to its importance. the quiet and comfort of home are broken in upon by the anxiety arising from the losses and mischances of a business so extensive as ours; and, above all, that communion which ought ever to be kept free between man and his maker is interrupted by the incessant calls of the multifarious pursuits of our establishment." after noting down several rules for curtailing his affairs, he continues: "property acquired at such sacrifices as i have been obliged to make the past year costs more than it's worth; and the anxiety in protecting it is the extreme of folly." * * * * * _ st of january, ._--"the principles of business laid down a year ago have been very nearly practised upon. our responsibilities and anxieties have greatly diminished, as also have the accustomed profits of business; but there is sufficient remaining for the reward of our labor to impose on us increased responsibilities and duties, as agents who must at last render an account. god grant that mine be found correct!" chapter xi. reflections.--bunker hill monument.--letters. _ st of january, ._--after an account of his affairs, he remarks: "the amount of property is great for a young man under forty-two years of age, who came to this town when he was twenty-one years old with no other possessions than a common country education, a sincere love for his own family, and habits of industry, economy, and sobriety. under god, it is these same self-denying habits, and a desire i always had to please, so far as i could without sinful compliance, that i can now look back upon and see as the true ground of my success. i have many things to reproach myself with; but among them is not idling away my time, or spending money for such things as are improper. my property imposes upon me many duties, which can only be known to my maker. may a sense of these duties be constantly impressed upon my mind; and, by a constant discharge of them, god grant me the happiness at last of hearing the joyful sound, 'well done, good and faithful servant, enter thou into the joy of thy lord!' amen. amen." previous to this date, but few private letters written by mr. lawrence were preserved. from that time, however, many volumes have been collected, a greater part of them addressed to his children. out of a very large correspondence with them and with friends, such selections will be made as are thought most interesting, and most worthy to be preserved by his family and their descendants. the nature of this correspondence is such, involving many personal matters of transient interest that often scraps of letters only can be given; and, although it will be the aim of the editor to give an outline of the life of the author of these letters, it will be his object to allow him to speak for himself, and to reveal his own sentiments and character, rather than to follow out, from year to year, the details of his personal history. this correspondence commences with a series of letters extending through several years, and addressed to his eldest son, who was, during that time, at school in france and spain. "boston, november , . "i trust that you will have had favoring gales and a pleasant passage, and will be safely landed at havre within twenty days after sailing. you will see things so different from what you have been accustomed to, that you may think the french are far before or behind us in the arts of life, and formation of society. but you must remember that what is best for one people may be the worst for another; and that it is true wisdom to study the character of the people among whom you are, before adopting their manners, habits, or feelings, and carrying them to another people. i wish to see you, as long as you live, a well-bred, upright _yankee_. brother jonathan should never forget his self-respect, nor should he be impertinent in claiming more for his country or himself than is due; but on no account should he speak ungraciously of his country or its friends abroad, whatever may be said by others. lafayette in france is not what he is here; and, whatever may be said of him there, he is an ardent friend of the united states; and i will venture to say, if you introduce yourself to him as a grandson of one of his old yankee officers, he will treat you with the kindness of a father. you must visit la grange, and g. will go with you. he will not recollect your grandfather, or any of us. but tell him that your father and three uncles were introduced to him here in the state house; that they are much engaged in forwarding the bunker hill monument; and, if ever he return to this country, it will be the pride of your father to lead him to the top of it." among mr. lawrence's papers, this is the first allusion to the bunker hill monument, in the erection of which he afterwards took so prominent a part, and to which he most liberally contributed both time and money. from early associations, perhaps from the accounts received from his father, who was present during the battle, his mind became strongly interested in the project of erecting a monument, and particularly in that of reserving the whole battle-ground for the use of the public forever. he had been chosen one of the building committee of the board of directors in october, , in company with dr. john c. warren, general h. a. s. dearborn, george blake, and william sullivan. from this time until the completion of the monument, the object occupied a prominent place in his thoughts; and allusion to his efforts in its behalf during the succeeding years will, from time to time, be introduced. on december , , he thus alludes to the death of an invalid daughter six years of age: "she was taken with lung fever on the th, and died, after much suffering and distress, on the th. nothing seemed to relieve her at all; and i was thankful when the dear child ceased to suffer, and was taken to the bosom of her saviour, where sickness and suffering will no more reach her, and the imperfections of her earthly tenement will be corrected, and her mind and spirit will be allowed to expand and grow to their full stature in christ. in his hands i most joyfully leave her, hoping that i may rejoin her with the other children whom it has pleased god to give me." (to his son.) "december . "my thoughts are often led to contemplate the condition of my children in every variety of situation, more especially in sickness, since the death of dear m. although i do not allow myself to indulge in melancholy or fearful forebodings, i cannot but feel the deepest solicitude that their minds and principles should be so strengthened and stayed upon their god and saviour as to give them all needed support in a time of such trial and suffering. you are so situated as perhaps not to recall so frequently to your mind as may be necessary the principles in which you have been educated. but let me, in the absence of these objects, remind you that god is ever present, and sees the inmost thoughts; and, while he allows every one to act freely, he gives to such as earnestly and honestly desire to do right all needed strength and encouragement to do it. therefore, my dear son, do not cheat yourself by doing what you suspect _may_ be wrong. you are as much accountable to your maker for an enlightened exercise of your conscience, as you would be to me to use due diligence in taking care of a bag of money which i might send by you to mr. w. if you were to throw it upon deck, or into the bottom of the coach, you would certainly be culpable; but, if you packed it carefully in your trunk, and placed the trunk in the usual situation, it would be using common care. so in the exercise of your conscience: if you refuse to examine whether an action is right or wrong, you voluntarily defraud yourself of the guide provided by the almighty. if you do wrong, you have no better excuse than he who had done so willingly and wilfully. it is the sincere desire that will be accepted." to his second son, then at school in andover, he writes: "i received your note yesterday, and was prepared to hear your cash fell short, as a dollar-bill was found in your chamber on the morning you left home. you now see the benefit of keeping accounts, as you would not have been sure about this loss without having added up your account. get the habit firmly fixed of putting down every cent you receive and every cent you expend. in this way you will acquire some knowledge of the relative value of things, and a habit of judging and of care which will be of use to you during all your life. among the numerous people who have failed in business within my knowledge, a prominent cause has been a want of system in their affairs, by which to know when their expenses and losses exceeded their profits. this habit is as necessary for professional men as for a merchant; because, in their business, there are numerous ways to make little savings, if they find their income too small, which they would not adopt without looking at the detail of all their expenses. it is the habit of consideration i wish you to acquire; and the habit of being accurate will have an influence upon your whole character in life." (to his son in france.) "april , . "i beseech you to consider well the advantages you enjoy, and to avail yourself of your opportunities to give your manners a little more ease and polish; for, you may depend upon it, manners are highly important in your intercourse with the world. good principles, good temper, and good manners, will carry a man through the world much better than he can get along with the absence of either. the most important is good principles. without these, the best manners, although, for a time, very acceptable, cannot sustain a person in trying situations. "if you live to attain the age of thirty, the interim will appear but a span; and yet at that time you will be in the full force of manhood. to look forward to that period, it seems very long; and it is long enough to make great improvement. do not omit the opportunity to acquire a character and habits that will continue to improve during the remainder of life. at its close, the reflection that you have thus done will be a support and stay worth more than any sacrifice you may ever feel called on to make in acquiring these habits." (to the same.) "june , . "i was forcibly reminded, on entering our tomb last evening, of the inroads which death has made in our family since , at the period when i purchased it. how soon any of us who survive may mingle our dust with theirs, is only known to omniscience; but, at longest, it can be in his view but a moment, a mere point of time. how important, then, to us who can use this mere point for our everlasting good, that we should do it, and not squander it as a thing without value! think upon this, my son; and do not merely admit the thought into your mind and drive it out by vain imaginations, but give it an abiding and practical use. to set a just value upon time, and to make a just use of it, deprives no one of any rational pleasure: on the contrary, it encourages temperance in the enjoyment of all the good things which a good providence has placed within our reach, and thankfulness for all opportunities of bestowing happiness on our fellow-beings. thus you have an opportunity of making me and your other friends happy, by diligence in your studies, temperance, truth, integrity, and purity of life and conversation. i may not write to you again for a number of weeks, as i shall commence a journey to canada in a few days. you will get an account of the journey from some of the party." chapter xii. journey to canada.--letters.--diary.--charities. mr. lawrence, with a large party, left boston on the th of june, and passed through vermont, across the green mountains, to montreal and quebec. compared with these days of railroad facilities, the journey was slow. it was performed very leisurely in hired private vehicles, and seems to have been much enjoyed. he gives a glowing account of the beauty of the country through which he passed, as well as his impressions of the condition of the population. from quebec the party proceeded to niagara falls, and returned through the state of new york to boston, "greatly improved in health and spirits." this, with one other visit to canada several years before, was the only occasion on which mr. lawrence ever left the territory of the united states; for, though sometimes tempted, in after years, to visit the old world, his occupations and long-continued feeble health prevented his doing so. (to his son.) "july . "if, in an endeavor to do right, we fall short, we shall still be in the way of duty; and that is first to be looked at. we must keep in mind that we are to render an account of the use of those talents which are committed to us; and we are to be judged by unerring wisdom, which can distinguish all the motives of action, as well as weigh the actions. as our stewardship has been faithful or otherwise, will be the sentence pronounced upon us. give this your best thoughts, for it is a consideration of vast importance." "august . "bring home no foreign fancies which are inapplicable to our state of society. it is very common for our young men to come home and appear quite ridiculous in attempting to introduce their foreign fashions. it should be always kept in mind that the state of society is widely different here from that in europe; and our comfort and character require it should long remain so. those who strive to introduce many of the european habits and fashions, by displacing our own, do a serious injury to the republic, and deserve censure. an idle person, with good powers of mind, becomes torpid and inactive after a few years of indulgence, and is incapable of making any high effort; highly important it is, then, to avoid this enemy of mental and moral improvement. i have no wish that you pursue trade. i would rather see you on a farm, or studying any profession." "october . "it should always be your aim so to conduct yourself that those whom you value most in the world would approve your conduct, if all your actions were laid bare to their inspection; and thus you will be pretty sure that he who sees the motive of all our actions will accept the good designed, though it fall short in its accomplishment. you are young, and are placed in a situation of great peril, and are perhaps sometimes tempted to do things which you would not do if you knew yourself under the eye of your guardian. the blandishments of a beautiful city may lead you to forget that you are always surrounded, supported, and seen, by that best guardian." "december . "i suppose christmas is observed with great pomp in france. it is a day which our puritan forefathers, in their separation from the church of england, endeavored to blot out from the days of religious festivals; and this because it was observed with so much pomp by the romish church. in this, as well as in many other things, they were as unreasonable as though they had said they would not eat bread because the roman catholics do. i hope and trust the time is not far distant when christmas will be observed by the descendants of the puritans with all suitable respect, as the first and highest holiday of christians; combining all the feelings and views of new england thanksgiving with all the other feelings appropriate to it." "january , . "you have seen, perhaps, that the directors of the bunker hill monument association have applied to the legislature for a lottery. i am extremely sorry for it. i opposed the measure in all its stages, and feel mortified that they have done so. they cannot get it, and i desire that general lafayette may understand this; and, if he will write us a few lines during the coming year, it will help us in getting forward a subscription. when our citizens shall have had one year of successful business, they will be ready to give the means to finish the monument. my feelings are deeply interested in it, believing it highly valuable as a nucleus for the affections of the people in after time; and, if my life be spared and my success continue, i will never cease my efforts until it be completed." further details will be given in this volume to show now nobly mr. lawrence persevered in the resolution thus deliberately formed; and, though he was destined to witness many fruitless efforts, he had the satisfaction at last of seeing the completion of the monument, and from its summit of pointing out the details of the battle to the son of one of the british generals in command[ ] on that eventful day. [ ] lord prudhoe, now duke of northumberland. on the same page with the estimate of his property for the year , he writes: "with a view to know the amount of my expenditures for objects other than the support of my family, i have, for the year , kept a particular account of such other expenses as come under the denomination of charities, and appropriations for the benefit of others not of my own household, for many of whom i feel under the same obligation as for my own family." this memorandum was commenced on the st of january, , and is continued until december , , the last day of his life. it contains a complete statement of his charities during that whole period, including not only what he contributed in money, but also all other donations, in the shape of clothing materials, books, provisions, &c. his custom was to note down at cost the value of the donation, after it had been despatched; whether in the shape of a book, a turkey, or one of his immense bundles of varieties to some poor country minister's family, as large, as he says in addressing one, "as a small haycock." two rooms in his house, and sometimes three, were used principally for the reception of useful articles for distribution. there, when stormy weather or ill health prevented him from taking his usual drive, he was in the habit of passing hours in selecting and packing up articles which he considered suitable to the wants of those whom he wished to aid. on such days, his coachman's services were put in requisition to pack and tie up "the small haycocks;" and many an illness was the result of over-exertion and fatigue in supplying the wants of his poorer brethren. these packages were selected according to the wants of the recipients, and a memorandum made of the contents. in one case, he notifies professor ----, of ---- college, that he has sent by railroad "a barrel and a bundle of books, with broadcloth and pantaloon stuffs, with odds and ends for poor students when they go out to keep school in the winter." another, for the president of a college at the west, one piece of silk and worsted, for three dresses; one piece of plaid, for "m. and mamma;" a lot of pretty books; a piece of lignum-vitæ from the navy yard, as a text for the support of the navy; and various items for the children: value, twenty-five dollars. to a professor in a college in a remote region he sends a package containing "dressing-gown, vest, hat, slippers, jack-knife, scissors, pins, neck-handkerchiefs, pantaloons, cloth for coat, 'history of groton,' lot of pamphlets," &c. most of the packages forwarded contained substantial articles for domestic use, and were often accompanied by a note containing from five to fifty dollars in money. the distribution of books was another mode of usefulness to which mr. lawrence attached much importance. in his daily drives, his carriage was well stored with useful volumes, which he scattered among persons of all classes and ages as he had opportunity. these books were generally of a religious character, while others of a miscellaneous nature were purchased in large numbers, and sent to institutions, or individuals in remote parts of the country. he purchased largely the very useful as well as tasteful volumes of the american tract society and the sunday-school union. an agent of the latter society writes: "i had almost felt intimately acquainted with him, as nearly every pleasant day he visited the depository to fill the front seat of his coach with books for distribution." old and young, rich and poor, shared equally in these distributions; and he rarely allowed an occasion to pass unimproved when he thought an influence could be exerted by the gift of an appropriate volume. while waiting one day in his carriage with a friend, in one of the principal thoroughfares of the city, he beckoned to a genteelly-dressed young man who was passing, and handed him a book. upon being asked whether the young man was an acquaintance, he replied: "no, he is not; but you remember where it is written, 'cast thy bread upon the waters, for thou shalt find it after many days.'" "a barrel of books" is no uncommon item found in his record of articles almost daily forwarded to one and another of his distant beneficiaries. chapter xiii. correspondence with mr. webster.--letters. (to his son.) "february , . "be sure and visit la grange before you return; say to general lafayette that the bunker hill monument will _certainly be finished_, and that the foolish project of a lottery has been abandoned. if, in the course of providence, i should be taken away, i hope my children will feel it a duty to continue the efforts that are made in this work, which i have had so much at heart, and have labored so much for." to his son, then at school at versailles, he writes on feb. , : "after hearing from you again, i can judge better what to advise respecting your going into spain. at all events, let no hope of going, or seeing, or doing anything else, prevent your using the present time for improving yourself in whatever you find to do. my greatest fear is, that you may form a wrong judgment of what constitutes your true respectability, happiness, and usefulness. to a youth just entering on the scenes of life, the roses on the wayside appear without thorns; but, in the eagerness to snatch them, many find, to their sorrow, that all which appears so fair is not in possession what it was in prospect, and that beneath the rose there is a thorn that sometimes wounds like a serpent's bite. let not appearances deceive you; for, when once you have strayed, the second temptation is more likely to be fallen into than the first." "march , . "we are all in new england deeply interested by mr. webster's late grand speech in the senate, vindicating new england men and new england measures from reproach heaped upon them by the south; it was his most powerful effort, and you will see the american papers are full of it. you should read the whole debate between him and mr. hayne of south carolina; you will find much to instruct and interest you, and much of what you ought to know. mr. webster never stood so high in this country as, at this moment; and i doubt if there be any man, either in europe or america, his superior. the doctrines upon the constitution in this speech should be read as a text-book by all our youth." after reading the great speech of mr. webster, mr. lawrence addressed to that gentleman a letter, expressing his admiration of the manner in which new england had been vindicated, and also his own personal feelings of gratitude for the proud stand thus taken. mr. webster replied as follows: "washington, march , . "dear sir: i thank you very sincerely for your very kind and friendly letter. the sacrifices made in being here, and the mortifications sometimes experienced, are amply compensated by the consciousness that my friends at home feel that i have done some little service to our new england. i pray you to remember me with very true regard to mrs. lawrence, and believe me "very faithfully and gratefully yours, "daniel webster. "to amos lawrence, esq." extracts of letters to his son. "april , . "you may feel very sure that any study which keeps your mind engaged will be likely to strengthen it; and that, if you leave your mind inactive, it will run to waste. your arm is strengthened by wielding a broadsword, or even a foil. your legs by various gymnastic exercises, and the organs of sight and hearing by careful and systematic use, are greatly improved; even the finger is trained, by the absence of sight, to perform almost the service of the eye. all this shows how natural it is for all the powers to grow stronger by use. you needed not these examples to convince you; but my desire to have you estimate your advantages properly induces me to write upon them very often. every american youth owes his country his best talents and services, and should devote them to the country's welfare. in doing that, you will promote not only your own welfare, but your highest enjoyment. "the duty of an american citizen, at this period of the world, is that of a responsible agent; and he should endeavor to transmit to the next age the institutions of our country uninjured and improved. we hope, in your next letter, to hear something more of general lafayette. the old gentleman is most warm in his affection for americans. may he live long to encourage and bless by his example the good of all countries! in contemplating a life like his, who can say that compensation even here is not fully made for all the anguish and suffering he has formerly endured? long life does not consist in many years; but in the period being filled with good services to our fellow-beings. he whose life ends at thirty may have done much, while he who has reached the age of one hundred may have done little. with the almighty, a thousand years are a moment; and he will therefore give no credit to any talents not used to his glory; which use is the same thing as promoting, by all means in our power, the welfare and happiness of the beings among whom we are placed." "may , . "i have been pretty steady at my business, without working hard, or having anxious feelings about it. it is well to have an agreeable pursuit to employ the mind and body. i think that i can work for the next six years with as good a relish as ever i did; but i make labor a pleasure. i have just passed into my forty-fifth year, you know. at my age, i hope you will feel as vigorous and youthful as i now do. a temperate use of the good things of life, and a freedom from anxious cares, tend, as much as anything, to keep off old age." "june , . "to-day completes fifty-five years since the glorious battle of bunker hill, and five years since the nation's guest assisted at the laying of the corner-stone of the monument which is to commemorate to all future times the events which followed that battle. if it should please god to remove me before this structure is completed, i hope to remember it in my will, and that my sons will live to see it finished. but what i deem of more consequence is to retain for posterity the battle-field, now in the possession of the bunker hill monument association. the association is in debt, and a part of the land may pass out of its possession; but i hope, if it do, there will be spirit enough among individuals to purchase it and restore it again; for i would rather the whole work should not be resumed for twenty years, than resume it by parting with the land. i name this to you now, that you may have a distinct intimation of my wishes to keep the land open for our children's children to the end of time." "july , . "temptation, if successfully resisted, strengthens the character; but it should always be avoided. 'lead us not into temptation' are words of deep meaning, and should always carry with them corresponding desires of obedience. at a large meeting of merchants and others held ten days ago, it was resolved to make an effort to prevent the licensing of such numbers of soda-shops, retailers of spirits and the like, which have, in my opinion, done more than anything else to debase and ruin the youth of our city. it is a gross perversion of our privileges to waste and destroy ourselves in this way. god has given us a good land and many blessings. we misuse them, and make them minister to our vices. we shall be called to a strict account. every good citizen owes it to his god and his country to stop, as far as he can, this moral desolation. let me see you, on your return, an advocate of good order and good morals. * * * "our old neighbor the sea-serpent was more than usually accommodating the day after we left portsmouth. he exhibited himself to a great number of people who were at hampton beach last saturday. they had a full view of his snakeship from the shore. he was so civil as to raise his head about four feet, and look into a boat, where were three men, who thought it the wisest way to retreat to their cabin. his length is supposed to be about one hundred feet, his head the size of a ten-gallon cask, and his body, in the largest part, about the size of a barrel. i have never had any more doubt respecting the existence of this animal, since he was seen here eleven years ago, than i have had of the existence of bonaparte. the evidence was as strong to my mind of the one as of the other. i had never seen either; but i was as well satisfied of the existence of both, as i should have been had i seen both. and yet the idea of the sea-serpent's existence has been scouted and ridiculed." "september . "the events of the late french revolution have reached us up to the th august. the consideration of them is animating, and speaks in almost more than human language. we are poor, frail, and mortal beings; but there is something elevating in the thought of a whole people acting as with the mind and the aim of one man, a part which allies man to a higher order of beings. i confess it makes me feel a sort of veneration for them; and trust that no extravagance will occur to mar the glory and the dignity of this enterprise. our beloved old hero, too, acting as the guiding and presiding genius of this wonderful event! may god prosper them, and make it to the french people what it is capable of being, if they make a right use of it! i hope that you have been careful to see and learn everything, and that you will preserve the information you obtain in such a form as to recall the events to your mind a long time hence. we are all very well and very busy, and in fine spirits, here in the old town of boston. those who fell behind last year have some of them placed themselves in the rear rank, and are again on duty. others are laid up, unfit for duty; and the places of all are supplied with fresh troops. we now present as happy and as busy a community as you would desire to see." chapter xiv. testimonial to mr. webster.--dangerous illness.--letters. during the autumn of , in order to testify in a more marked manner his appreciation of mr. webster's distinguished services in the senate of the united states, mr. lawrence presented to that gentleman a service of silver plate, accompanied by the following note: "boston, october , . "hon. daniel webster. "dear sir: permit me to request your acceptance of the accompanying small service of plate, as a testimony of my gratitude for your services to the country in your late efforts in the senate; especially for your vindication of the character of massachusetts and of new england. "from your friend and fellow-citizen, "amos lawrence. "p. s.--if by any emblem or inscription on any piece of this service, referring to the circumstances of which this is a memorial, the whole will be made more acceptable, i shall be glad to have you designate what it shall be, and permit me the opportunity of adding it." to which mr. webster replied, on the same evening, as follows: "summer-street, october , . "my dear sir: i cannot well express my sense of your kindness, manifested in the present of plate, which i have received this evening. i know that, from you, this token of respect is sincere; and i shall ever value it, and be happy in leaving it to my children, as a most gratifying evidence of your friendship. the only thing that can add to its value is your permission that it may be made to bear an inscription expressive of the donation. "i am, dear sir, with unfeigned esteem, "your friend and obedient servant, "daniel webster. "amos lawrence, esq." (to his son.) "boston, january , . "our local affairs are very delightful in this state and city. we have no violent political animosities; and the prosperity of the people is very great. in our city, in particular, the people have not had greater prosperity for twenty years. there is a general industry and talent in our population, that is calculated to produce striking results upon their character. in your reflections upon your course, you may settle it as a principle, that no man can attain any valuable influence or character among us, who does not labor with whatever talents he has to increase the sum of human improvement and happiness. an idler, who feels that he has no responsibilities, but is contriving to get rid of time without being useful to any one, whatever be his fortune, can find no comfort in staying here. we have not enough such to make up a society. we are literally all working-men; and the attempt to get up a 'working-men's party' is a libel upon the whole population, as it implies that there are among us large numbers who are not working-men. he is a working-man whose mind is employed, whether in making researches into the meaning of hieroglyphics or in demonstrating any invention in the arts, just as much as he who cuts down the forests, or holds the plough, or swings the sledge-hammer. therefore let it be the sentiment of your heart to use all the talents and powers you may possess in the advancement of the moral and political influence of new england. new england, i say; for here is to be the stronghold of liberty, and the seat of influence to the vast multitude of millions who are to people this republic." at the period when the preceding letter was written, the manufacturing interests had become of vast importance in this community; and the house of which mr. lawrence was the senior partner had identified itself with many of the great manufacturing corporations already created, or then in progress. with such pecuniary interests at stake, and with a sense of responsibility for the success of these enterprises, which had been projected on a scale and plan hitherto unknown, it may be supposed that his mind and energies were fully taxed, and that he could be fairly ranked among the working-men alluded to. while in the full tide of active life, and, as it were, at the crowning point of a successful career, the hand of providence was laid upon him to remove him, for the rest of his days, from this sphere of honor and activity to the chamber of the invalid, and the comparatively tame and obscure walks of domestic life. ever after this, his life hung upon a thread; and its very uncertainty, far from causing him to despond and rest from future effort, seemed only to excite the desire to work while the day lasted. the discipline thus acquired, instead of consigning him to the inglorious obscurity of a sick chamber, was the means of his entering upon that career of active philanthropy which is now the great source of whatever distinction there may be attached to his memory. his business life was ended; and, though he was enabled to advise with others, and give sometimes a direction to the course of affairs, he assumed no responsibility, and had virtually retired from the field. on the st of june, , the weather being very warm, mr. lawrence, while engaged in the business of his counting-room, drank moderately of cold water, and, soon after, was seized with a violent and alarming illness. the functions of the stomach seemed to have been destroyed; and, for many days, there remained but small hope of his recovery. much sympathy was expressed by his friends and the public, and in such a manner as to afford gratification to his family, as well as surprise to himself when sufficiently recovered to be informed of it. he had not yet learned the place which he had earned, in the estimation of those around him, as a merchant and a citizen; and it was, not improbably, a stimulus to merit, by his future course, the high encomiums which were then lavished upon him. mr. lawrence announced his sickness to his son, then in spain, in the following letter, dated "boston, june , . "i desire to bless god for being again permitted to address you in this way. on the st day of this month, i was seized with a violent illness, which caused both myself and my friends almost to despair of my life. but, by the blessing of god, the remedies proved efficacious; and i am still in the land of the living, with a comfortable prospect of acquiring my usual health, although, thus far, not allowed to leave my chamber. in that dread hour when i thought that the next perhaps would be my last on earth,--my thoughts resting upon my god and saviour, then upon the past scenes of my life, then upon my dear children,--the belief that their minds are well directed, and that they will prove blessings to society, and fulfil, in some good degree, the design of providence in placing them here, was a balm to my spirits that proved more favorable to my recovery than any of the other remedies. may you never forget that every man is individually responsible for his actions, and must be held accountable for his opportunities! thus he who has ten talents will receive a proportionate reward, if he makes a right use of them; and he who receives one will be punished, if he hides it in a napkin." "june , . "my dear and ever-honored mother: through the divine goodness, i am once more enabled to address you by letter, after having passed through a sickness alarming to my friends, although to myself a comparatively quiet one. i cannot in words express my grateful sense of god's goodness in thus carrying me, as it were, in his hand, and lighting the way by the brightness of his countenance. during that period in which i considered my recovery as hardly probable, my mind was calm; and, while in review of the past i found many things to lament, and in contemplation of the future much to fear, but more to hope, i could find no other words in which to express my thoughts than the words of the publican, 'god be merciful to me a sinner!' all the small distinctions of sects and forms dwindled into air, thin air, and seemed to me even more worthless than ever. the cares and anxieties of the world did not disturb me, believing it to be of small moment whether i should be taken now or spared a few years longer. with returning health and strength, different prospects open, and different feelings take the place of those which were then so appropriate; and the social feelings and sympathies have their full share in their hold upon me. * * * * "from your ever-loving and dutiful son, a. l." (to his son.) "july . "i have been constantly gaining since my last to you, and with constant care, hope to acquire my usual health. i am, however, admonished, by the two attacks i have experienced within a month, that the continuance of my life for any considerable period will be very likely to depend upon a rigid prudence in my labor and living. the recovery from this last sickness is almost like being restored to life; and i hope the span that may be allowed me may be employed in better service than any period of my past life. we are placed here to be disciplined for another and higher state; and whatever happens to us makes a part of this discipline. in this view, we ought never to murmur, but to consider, when ills befall us, how we can make them subserve our highest good. what i am more desirous than anything else for you is, that you may feel that you are accountable for all your talents, and that you may so use them as to have an approving conscience, and the final recompense of a faithful servant at last. the period of trial is short; but the consequences are never-ending. how important to each individual, then,--to you and to me,--that we use aright the period assigned us!" chapter xv. journey to new hampshire.--letters.--resigns office of trustee at hospital.--letters. a few days after the date of the preceding letter, a change was thought desirable for the improvement of mr. lawrence's health; and he accordingly, with mrs. l., went to portsmouth, new hampshire, and remained a week with his friend and brother-in-law, the late hon. jeremiah mason. from thence he proceeded to visit friends in amherst, new hampshire, where he was attacked by a severe rheumatic fever, which confined him for several weeks; and it was with great difficulty that he succeeded in reaching home about the th of september, after an absence of nearly two months. on the th of september, he writes to his son: "it is only within a few days that i have been able to be removed to my own house. i am now able to walk my chamber, and sit up half the day; and, by the best care in the world, i have a fair hope of again enjoying so much health as to feel that i may yet be of some use in the world. my bodily sufferings have been great during this last sickness; but my mind in general has been quiet. i seem to want nothing which this world can give to make me an enviably happy man, but your presence and a return of my health; but these last are wisely withheld. we are apt, in the abundance of the gift, to lose the recollection whence it came, and feel that by our own power we can go forward. happy for us that we are thus made to feel that all we have is from god; this recurrence to the source of all our blessings makes us better men. i do not expect to be able to leave the house before the next spring; and, in the mean time, must be subject to the casualties incident to a person in my situation." on october , mr. lawrence, in a letter to the same son, expresses his gratitude for the enjoyment of life, "even in a sick chamber, as mine must be termed." "i receive my friends here, and once only have walked abroad for a few minutes. i drive in a carriage every pleasant day, and i can truly say that my days pass in the full enjoyment of more than the average of comfort. 'my mind is as easy as it ever is, and as active as is safe for the body. i employed myself yesterday in looking over your letters since you left home three years ago, and was reminded by them that the fourth year of your absence has just commenced. although a brief space since it is passed, an equal time, if we look forward, appears to be far distant. the question you will naturally ask yourself is, how has the time been spent? and from the answer you may gather much instruction for the future. if you have made the best use of this period, happy is it for you, as the habit of the useful application of your time will make its continuance more natural and easy. if you have misused and abused your opportunities, there is not a moment to be lost in retracing your steps, and making good, by future effort, what has been lost by want of it. in short, we can none of us know that a future will be allowed us to amend and to correct our previous misdoings and omissions; and it is not less the part of wisdom than of duty to be always up and doing, that whenever our master comes we may be ready. i never was made so sensible before of the power of the mind over the body. it is a matter of surprise to some of my friends, who have known my constant habits of business for a quarter of a century, that i can find so much comfort and quiet in the confinement of my house, when i feel so well, and there are so many calls for my labors abroad. i hope to pursue such a discreet course as shall allow me to come forth in the spring with my poor frame so far renovated and restored as to enable me to take my place among the active laborers of the day, and do what little i may for the advancement and well-being of my generation. if, however, i should, by any accident or exposure, be again brought to a bed of pain and suffering, may god grant me a patient and submissive temper to bear whatever may be put upon me, with a full conviction that such chastisements will tend to my good, if i make a right use of them!" the first of january, , found mr. lawrence confined to his sick room, and unable, from bodily weakness, to drive out in the open air, as he had hitherto done. he writes to his son: "i am reminded, by the new year, that another portion of time has passed, by which we are accustomed to measure in prospect the space that is allotted us here; and the reflections at the close of the old and the commencement of the new year are calculated, if we do not cheat ourselves, to make us better than we otherwise should be. i am enjoying myself highly under the close confinement of two parlor chambers, from which i have only travelled into the entry since november. i have lived pretty much as other prisoners of a different character live, as regards food; namely, on bread and water, or bread and coffee or cocoa. i have come to the conclusion that the man who lives on bread and water, if he have enough, is the genuine epicure, according to the original and true meaning. i am favored with the visits of more pretty and interesting ladies than any _layman_ in the city, i believe. my rooms are quite a resort; and, old fellow as i am, i have the vanity to suppose i render myself quite agreeable to them." on the same day, in a letter of sympathy to his sister-in-law, whose invalid son was about to leave for a long voyage, he writes: "while my family are all absent at church, i am sitting alone, my mind going back to the beginning of the year just ended and forward through that just commenced; and, in view of both periods, i can see nothing but the unbounded goodness of our heavenly father and best friend, in all that has been taken from me, as well as in all that is left to me. i can say, with sincerity, that i never have had so much to call forth my warmest and deepest gratitude for favors bestowed as at the present time. among my sources of happiness is a settled conviction that, in chastening his children, god desires their good; and if his chastisements are thus viewed, we cannot receive them in any other light than as manifestations of his fatherly care and kindness. although, at times, 'clouds and darkness are round about him,' we do certainly know, by the words of inspiration, 'that justice and judgment are the habitation of his throne,' and goodness and mercy the attributes of his character; and if it should please him further to try me with disease during the period of my probation, my prayer to him is that my mind and heart may remain stayed on him, and that i may practically illustrate those words of our blessed saviour, 'not my will, but thine be done.' it is quite possible that there may still be a few years of probation for me; but it is more probable that i may not remain here to the close of the present; but whether i remain longer or shorter is of little consequence, compared with the preparation or the dress in which i may be found when called away. it has seemed to me that the habit of mind we cultivate here will be that which will abide with us hereafter; and that heaven is as truly begun here as that the affections which make us love our friends grow stronger by use, and improve by cultivation. we are here in our infancy; the feelings cherished at this period grow with our growth, and, in the progress of time, will fit us for the highest enjoyments of the most distant future. i say, then, what sources of happiness are open to us, not only for the present, but for all future time! these hasty remarks are elicited on occasion of the separation so soon to take place from your son. i know full well the anxieties of a parent on such an occasion. "his health cannot, of course, be certainly predicted; but you will have the comfort of knowing that you have done everything that the fondest parents could do in this particular, whatever effect the absence may have upon him. "---- should feel that his obligations are increased, with his means and opportunities for improvement. if by travel he acquire a better education, and can make himself more useful on his return, he can no more divest himself of his increased duties, than he can divest himself of his duty to be honest. the account is to be rendered for the use of the talents, whether they be ten, or five, or one. if i have opportunity, i shall write a few lines to ---- before he leaves. if i should not, i desire him to feel that i have great affection for him, and deep interest in his progress, and an ardent hope that his health, improvement, and knowledge, may be commensurate with the rare advantages he will enjoy for the acquisition of all. "i know the tender feelings of your husband on all things touching his family or friends; and perhaps i may find opportunity to speak a word of comfort to him. but i know not what more to say than to reiterate the sentiment here expressed. nature will have its way for a time, but i hope reason will be sufficient to make that time very short. whatever time it may be, of this i feel confident, that, after the feelings have once subsided, ---- will have all the sunshine and joy which the event is calculated to produce. he cannot know until he has realized the pleasure of hearing the absent ones speak, as it were, in his ear, from a distance of three thousand miles. "may the best blessings of the almighty rest on you and yours! from your ever affectionate a. l." (to his son.) "sunday morning, feb. , . "i have seated myself at my writing-desk, notwithstanding it is holy time, in the hope and belief that i am in the way of duty. this consecration of one day in seven to the duties of religion,--comprising, as these do, every duty,--and if they be well performed, to self-examination, is a glorious renovation of the world. who that has witnessed the effects of this rest upon the moral and physical condition of a people, can doubt the wisdom of the appointment? wherever we turn our eyes or our thoughts, if we only will be as honest and candid, in our estimate of the value of the provision made for us, as we ordinarily are in our estimate of the character and conduct of our fellow-men, we must be struck with admiration and gratitude to that merciful father who has seen our wants, and provided for our comfort to an extent to which the care and provision of the best earthly parents for their children hardly gives the name of resemblance." in speaking of some application for aid which he had received from a charitable institution, he writes to his son: "our people are liberally disposed, and contribute to most objects which present a fair claim to their aid. i think you will find great advantage in doing this part of your duty upon a system which you can adopt; thus, for instance, divide your expenses into ten parts, nine of which may be termed for what is considered necessary, making a liberal calculation for such as your situation would render proper, and one part applied for the promotion of objects not directly or legally claiming your support, but such as every good citizen would desire to have succeed. this, i think, you will find the most agreeable part of your expense; and, if you should be favored with an abundance of means later in life, you may enlarge your appropriations of this sort, so as to be equal to one tenth of your income. neither yourself nor those who depend upon you will ever feel the poorer. i assume that you have plenty, in thus fixing the proportion. i believe the rule might be profitably adopted by many who have small means; for they would save more by method than they would be required to pay. "to-morrow completes a hundred years since the birth of washington. the day will be celebrated, from one end of the country to the other, with suitable demonstrations of respect, by processions, orations, and religious ceremonies, according to the feelings of the people who join in it. i think the spectacle will be a grand one, of a whole people brought together to commemorate the birth of one of their fellow-mortals, who by his virtues and his talents has made his memory immortal, and whose precepts and example are calculated to secure happiness to the countless millions of his fellow-beings who are to people this vast empire through all future time. it is permitted to few to have open to them such a field as washington had; but no one since the christian era has filled his sphere so gloriously. we are jogging along, in political, theological and commercial affairs, very much as usual." during the month of january, mr. lawrence, on account of ill health, resigned his seat in the board of trustees of the massachusetts general hospital, in which he had served for several years. this duty had always been one of unmingled pleasure to him; and, by means of his visits there, and at the mclean asylum for the insane, under the management of the same board, he became conversant with a class of sufferers who had excited a great interest in his mind, and whom he often visited during the remainder of his life, to cheer them in their sadness, and to convey to them such little tokens of kindness as assured them of his interest and sympathy. in a letter to his second son, at andover, he writes, april : "you will be glad to hear i have got along very well through the wet, cold weather of the week, and am looking forward with cheerful hope to the sunny days to come. if it were not for my faculty of turning present disappointments to future pleasures in prospect, i should run down in spirits. i have always indulged myself in castle-building; but have generally taken care so to build as to be in no danger of their falling on my head, so that when i have gone as far with one as is safe, if it does not promise well, i transfer my labor to another, and thus am always supplied with objects. the last one finished was commenced last may, and it is one i delight to think of. it was then i determined to get your uncle mason[ ] here. n. thought it a castle without foundation, but the result shows otherwise. "i send some of w.'s late letters, by which you perceive he is not idle; the thought of the dear fellow makes the tears start. god in mercy grant him a safe return, fully impressed with his obligations as a man and a christian! that i am now living in the enjoyment of so much health, surrounded by so many blessings, is overpowering to my feelings. what shall i render unto god for all these benefits? i feel my unworthiness, and devoutly pray him that i may never lose sight of the great end of my being; and that, whenever it shall please him to call me hence, i may be found in the company of the redeemed through the merits and mediation of the son of his love. if there is any one thing i would impress on your mind more strongly than another, it is to give good heed to the religious impressions with which you may be imbued; and, at a future day, these may prove a foundation that will support you when all other supports would fail. the youthful imagination frequently magnifies objects at a distance; experience is an able teacher, and detects, too late, perhaps, the fraud upon youth. be wise in time, and avoid this fraud." [ ] hon. jeremiah mason, of portsmouth, new hampshire, who passed the rest of his life in boston. a few days later, he writes to the same son, on the subject of systematic charity: "it is one of my privileges, not less than one of my duties, to be able thus to administer to the comfort of a circle of very dear friends. i hope you will one day have the delightful consciousness of using a portion of your means in a way to give you as much pleasure as i now experience. your wants may be brought within a very moderate compass; and i hope you will never feel yourself at liberty to waste on yourself such means, as, by system and right principles, may be beneficially applied to the good of those around you. providence has given us unerring principles to guide us in our duties of this sort. our first duty is to those of our own household, then extending to kindred, friends, neighbors (and the term 'neighbor' may, in its broadest sense, take in the whole human family), citizens of our state, then of our country, then of the other countries of the world." in another letter, written soon after the preceding, he speaks of certain principles of business which governed him in early life, and adds: "the secret of the whole matter was, that we had formed the habit of promptly acting, thus taking the _top of the tide_; while the habit of some others was to delay until about _half-tide_, thus getting on the flats; while we were all the time prepared for action, and ready to put into any port that promised well. i wish, by all these remarks, to impress upon you the necessity of qualifying yourself to support yourself. the best education that i can secure shall be yours, and such facilities for usefulness as may be in my power shall be rendered; but no food to pamper idleness or wickedness will i ever supply willingly to any connection, however near. i trust i have none who will ever misuse so basely anything that may come to them as a blessing. this letter, you may think, has an undue proportion of advice. 'line upon line, precept upon precept,' is recommended by one wiser than i am." (to his daughter.) "sunday morn. "my dear daughter: in the quiet of this morning, my mind naturally rests on those objects nearest and dearest to me; and you, my child, are among the first. "the family are all at church, but the weather is not such as to permit my going; and the season by them employed in the service of the sanctuary will by me be employed in communicating with you. "you have now arrived at an age when the mind and heart are most susceptible of impressions for weal or woe; and the direction which may be given to them is what no parent can view with indifference, or pass over without incurring the guilt of being unfaithful in his duties. my earnest desire for you is, that you may fully appreciate your opportunities and responsibilities, and so use them that you may acquire a reasonable hope that you may secure the object for which we are placed here. the probation is short, but long enough to do all that is required of us, if faithfully used; the consequences are never-ending. "these simple views are such as any child of your age can comprehend, and should be made as familiar to your mind as the every-day duties of life. if the mind, from early days, be thus accustomed to look upon life as a school of preparation for higher services, then the changes and adversities to which we are all liable can only be viewed as necessary discipline to fit us for those higher services, and as such be considered as applied for our good, however painful they may seem at first. there is no truth better settled than this: that all the discipline of our heavenly parent, if rightly used, will eventuate in our good. how, then, can we murmur and repine at his dealings with us? this conduct only shows our weakness and folly, and illustrates the better care of us than we should take of ourselves. "we are in the condition of the sick man, who sometimes craves that which, if given him by his friend, would cause his certain death; but he is not aware at the time that it is withheld for his good. the importance, then, of cultivating a right understanding of the things of which our duties and our happiness are composed, is second to no object which can employ the mind; for, with this knowledge, we must suppose that no one can be so lost to his own interest as not to feel that in the performance of these duties is to result the possession of those riches which are promised to the faithful by our father in heaven, through the son of his love. in the preparation which awaits you, do not stop at the things which are seen, but look to those which are unseen. these views, perhaps, may be profitably pondered long after i have been gathered to my fathers. "the tenure of my life seems very frail; still it may continue longer than the lives of my children; but, whenever it shall please god to call me hence, i hope to feel resigned to his will, and to leave behind me such an influence as shall help forward the timid and faint-hearted in the path of duty; and particularly on you, my child, do i urge these views. they debar you from no real or reasonable pleasure; they speak to you, in strong language, to enjoy all those blessings which a bountiful parent has scattered in your path with unsparing plenty, and admonish you that to enjoy is not to abuse them; when abused, they cease to be enjoyed." chapter xvi. daily exercise.--regimen.--improving health.--letters. during the summer and autumn of , mr. lawrence's health and strength were so much improved, that he was enabled to take exercise on horseback; and almost daily he took long rides, sometimes alone, sometimes with a friend, about the environs of the city. this habit he was enabled to continue, with some intermissions, for two or three years, through summer and winter. the effect of the exercise amidst the beautiful scenery of the environs of boston, of which he was an enthusiastic admirer, was most beneficial to his health, and, it is believed, was a great means of prolonging his life. whenever he could do so, he secured the company of a friend, and kept a horse expressly for the purpose. as the ride was taken in the morning, when his business acquaintances were occupied, his most usual companion was some one of the city clergy, whom he secured for the occasion, or one of his sons. no denominational distinctions seemed to regulate his choice on these occasions. his own beloved pastor and friend, the rev. dr. lothrop, rev. drs. stone and greenwood, and father taylor, the seamen's chaplain, were often his companions. occasionally a stray merchant or lawyer was engaged; and, as was sometimes the case where they had not been much accustomed to the exercise, a long trot of many miles in the sun, or in the face of a keen winter north-wester, would severely tax their own strength, while they wondered how so frail a figure as that of mr. lawrence could possess so much endurance. with all this apparent energy and strength, he was extremely liable to illness, which would come when least expected, and confine him for days to his house. an item of bad news, some annoying incident, a little anxiety, or a slight cold, would, as it were, paralyze his digestive functions, and reduce his strength to the lowest point. it was this extreme sensitiveness which unfitted him to engage in the general current of business, and which compelled him to keep aloof from participation in commercial affairs, and to adopt that peculiar system in diet and living which he adhered to for the remainder of his life. this system limited him to the use of certain kinds of food, which, from time to time, was slightly modified, as was thought expedient. this food was of the most simple kind, and was taken in small quantities, after being weighed in a balance, which always stood before him upon his writing-table. to secure perfect quiet during his meals, and also that he might not be tempted to overstep the bounds of prudence, a certain amount was sent to him in his chamber, from which he took what was allowed. the amount of liquid was also weighed; and so rigid was he in this system of diet, that, for the last sixteen years of his life, he sat down at no meal with his family. the amount of food taken varied, of course, with his strength and condition. in a letter to his friend, president hopkins, of williams college, he says: "if your young folks want to know the meaning of epicureanism, tell them to take some, bits of coarse bread (one ounce and a little more), soak them in three gills of coarse-meal gruel, and make their dinner of them and nothing else; beginning very hungry, and leaving off more hungry. the food is delicious, and such as no modern epicureanism can equal." for a considerable period, he kept a regular diet-table, in which he noted down the quantity of solid and liquid food taken during the twenty-four hours. one of his memorandum-books, labelled "record of diet and discipline for and ," contains accurate records of this sort. in october, , in writing to his son in the country, he alludes to this improvement in his health and strength: "we are all doing as well as usual here, myself among them doing better than usual. my little 'doctor'[ ] does wonders for me. i ride so much, and so advantageously, that i do not know but i shall be bold enough, by and by, to ride to b---- and back in a day, but shall hardly dare do so until i have practised a little more in this neighborhood. "i want you to analyze more closely the tendency of principles, associations, and conduct, and strive to adopt such as will make it easier for you to go right than go wrong. the moral taste, like the natural, is vitiated by abuse. gluttony, tobacco, and intoxicating drink, are not less dangerous to the latter, than loose principles, bad associations, and profligate conduct, are to the former. look well to all these things." [ ] the name of his horse. the year opened with bright and cheering prospects; for, with mr. lawrence's increasing strength and improved health, there seemed a strong ground of hope that he might yet recover all his powers, and once more take his place among his former business associates. he writes at this time to his son at andover: "i am as light as a feather this morning, and feel as if i could mount upon a zephyr, and ride upon its back to a----; but i am admonished to be careful when my spirits are thus buoyant, lest i come down to the torpor of the insect, which is shut up by the frost. extremes are apt to follow, unless i take great care. last sabbath, i kept my bed, most of the day, with a poor turn. brother a. said, on saturday, he knew i was going to have one, for i talked _right on_." in march, he writes: "the season is coming forward now so as to allow me the use of the roads around roxbury and dorchester. my 'doctor' looks so altered by a two hours' canter, that his own mother would hardly know him at first sight. we continue excellent friends; and i think he has never used me better than during the last few days. we both 'feel our oats' and our youth. i feel like sweet twenty-five; and he, i judge, like vigorous seven." on april , he writes to a young friend: "when you get married, do not expect a higher degree of perfection than is consistent with mortality in your wife. if you do, you will be disappointed. be careful, and do not choose upon a theory either. i dislike much of the nonsense and quackery that is dignified with the name of intellectual among people. old-fashioned common sense is a deal better. * * * * "there was a part of boston which used to be visited by young men out of curiosity when i first came here, into which i never set foot for the whole time i remained a single man. i avoided it, because i not only wished to keep clear of the temptations common in that part, but to avoid the appearance of evil. i never regretted it; and i would advise all young men to strengthen their good resolutions by reflection, and to plant deep and strong the principles of right, and to avoid temptation, as time gives them strength to stand against it." on december , he writes to his wife, who had been summoned to the bedside of a dying relative: "your absence makes a great blank in the family; and i feel that i must be very careful lest any little accident should make me feel of a _deep blue_ while you are away. confidence is a great matter, not only in curing, but in preventing disease, whether of the body or the mind; and i have somehow got the notion that i am more safe when you[ ] are looking after me than when you are not, and that any trouble is sooner cured when you are present than when you are not. this is, i suppose, the true charm which some people have faith in to keep off their ills. i have been forcibly reminded of the passage of time, by reviewing the scenes of the last three years, and am deeply sensible of the mercies that have been extended to me. what little i do is a poor return: may a better spirit prompt and guide my future services! what few i have rendered are estimated by my brethren beyond their value, and of course tend to flatter my self-love. this should not be; and i ought to see myself as i am seen by that eye that never sleeps. the situation i occupy is one that i would not exchange, if i had the power, with any man living: it is full of agreeable incidents, and free from the toils and anxieties frequently attendant on a high state of prosperity; and is, beside, free from that jealousy, or from any other cause of uneasiness, so common among the ardent and successful in this world's race." [ ] the editor, in justice to his own feelings, will here remark, that he believes the continuation of mr. lawrence's life, after he became a confirmed invalid, was, under providence, in a great measure due to the care and faithful attentions of his wife. for more than twenty years, and during his frequent seasons of languor and sickness, she submitted to many sacrifices, and bestowed a degree of care and watchfulness such as affection alone could have enabled her to render. to his daughter, who was on a visit at washington, he writes: "boston, may th, . sunday evening. "my dear child: the contrast in the weather to-day with what it has been most of the time since you left home, is as great as is usual between a bleak november day and the soft air of june. to-day it is beautiful, but on wednesday it snowed, hailed, and rained, and i am told, indeed, that a few miles beyond amherst the snow fell four inches in depth. you have reason to be thankful that you have been in a milder climate, and, at the same time, are seeing all the wonders that open upon you in the new world on which you have entered. "i shall be expecting a letter from you within a day or two; there can be no want of materials where so many new objects are constantly presenting themselves, and there is a pleasure in receiving them just as they appear to you; so you need not be afraid to place before me the first sketches, precisely as you catch them. "to-day i suppose you are in philadelphia, and, if so, i hope you have attended a friends' meeting. the manner of worship and the appearance of the people are different from anything you have seen; and the influence of this sect upon the taste and manners of the people is very striking, particularly in the matter of their dress. it is said that you can judge something of the character of a lady from her dress. without deeming it an essential, i think it of some consequence. this strikes the eye only, and may deceive; how much more important that the dress of the heart and mind and affections be right, and that no deception be found there! i do most earnestly pray god that every opportunity may be improved by you, my dear s., to adorn yourself with all those graces that shall not only charm the eye, but also with those that shall win the affections of those whose affection you would prize, and more especially that you will secure the approval of our best friend. * * * * * "_monday afternoon, may ._--i have received your charming letter, dated on thursday last. it is just the thing, a simple narrative of facts; and you will find plenty of materials of this sort, as i stated to you before. i have been in the saddle to-day nearly five hours with your uncle w. and father taylor, and am very tired, but shall get refreshed by a night's rest. "the day is beautiful, finer than any we have had since you left home. we went to mount auburn, and it appears very lovely; how much better than the dreary resting-places for the dead so common in new england, overgrown with thistles, and the graves hardly designated by a rude stone! our puritan forefathers mistook very much, i think, in making the place of deposit for our mortal remains so forbidding in appearance to the living. a better taste is growing among us. it may become a matter of ostentation (we are so apt to go to extremes), to build sepulchres and monuments to hold our bodies, that will speak to our shame when we are no longer subjects of trial; when, in short, we shall have gone to our account. if these monuments could speak to their living owners, and induce them to labor to merit, while they may, a good word from the future lookers on, then they would be valuable indeed. as it is, i have no fault to find; it is decidedly better than the old fashion of making these tenements look as dreary as anything in this world can look." to the same he writes, a few days later: "tell ---- that i saw little ---- this morning. she is the sweetest little creature that ever lived, and i find myself smiling whenever i think of the dear child in health. sympathy is a powerful agent in illustrating through the countenance the feelings within. i believe my face is as arrant a tell-tale as ever was worn; and whenever i think of those i love, under happy circumstances, i am happy, too. so you may judge how much i enjoy in the belief that you are enjoying so much, and doing so well, in this journey." on february , , he writes to a young friend: "take care that fancy does not beguile you of your understanding in making your choice: a mere picture is not all that is needful in the up and down hills of life. the arrangements of the household and the sick room have more in them to fasten upon the heart than all the beauties and honors of the mere gala days, however successfully shown off. be careful, when you pick, to get a heart, a soul, and a body; not a show of a body that has mere vitality. all this comes in _by the ears_; but it is in,--i will not blot it out." march , he writes to his sister. "i have had so much call for my sympathy, assistance, and advice, among my brethren in trade, that i have little inclination or spirit to write social or family letters since my last; but, in all this turmoil and trouble (and it really is as disastrous as a siege or a famine to the country), i have kept up a good heart, and have been able to view the work of destruction with as much composure as the nature of the case will allow. whatever effects it shall produce on my property, i shall submit to, as the inevitable destruction that comes without any fault of my own, of course without any self-reproaches; but for the authors i feel a just indignation. as regards the pecuniary distress among us, it is subsiding: there have been fewer failures than were anticipated; but there have been numbers on the brink, who have been saved by the help of friends. a few persons have done great service in helping those who could not help themselves; and the consequences will be felt here for years to come in the credit and standing of many worthy people, who must otherwise have been broken down. brother a. has had a load of care and responsibility much too severe for him, and has now agreed to throw off a part of the business as soon as the present pressure is past." april , he writes: "i am busy these days, but have no very important duties, except riding with the ministers and the young ladies." again, a few days later: "i am completely on one side, while i appear to be quite busy in putting in an oar now and then." to his daughter, on her eighteenth birth-day, he writes: "boston, may , . "my dear s.: you have been much in my mind to-day, and now that i am sitting alone this evening, i place myself at your writing-desk to communicate with you, and thus impart some portion of those feelings of interest and affection which a return of this day brings more strongly into play. eighteen years of your life are now passed, and the events of this period have been deeply interesting to me, and have made such impressions on you, and have left such marks of progress, i hope, in the divine life, as will insure your onward and upward course, until you shall join that dear one whose home has been in heaven for nearly the whole period of your life. when i look upon you, or think of your appearance, the image of your mother is before me, and then i feel that deep solicitude that your mind and heart may be imbued with those heavenly influences that gave a grace and charm to all she did. "there is no substitute for those traits, and you may feel entire confidence that a practical use of them in prosperity will prove the best security against the changes which adversity brings about. if i were to select for you the richest portion which a fond father could choose, it would be that you might have a mind and a heart to perform all those duties which your station and condition in life require, upon the true christian principle of using your one or more talents, and thus, at the day of account, receive the cheering sound of the master's voice. "what treasure will compare with this? the charms of life are captivating to the imagination, but there are none more calculated to add to our joys here than elevated christian principles, however they may be branded by the mere worldling as 'cold, unsocial,' and the like. you see how important it is to form a just estimate of the value of these different objects. when a mistake is made here, the consequences may be never-ending. our danger is in cheating ourselves, by leaving undone those things our conscience tells us we ought to do, and doing others that it tells us we ought not to do. "i have thought, for some time past, my dear child, that your mind was laboring under the influence of religious truth, and i have been made most comfortable in this belief. "cultivate those feelings, and study to make your example good to others, as well as safe for yourself. our time here is short, but it is long enough to accomplish the work we are sent to perform, and the consequences will be on our own heads if we omit or neglect to do it." (to the same.) "groton, august , . "dear s.: i have been talking with your grandmother, for the last hour, upon the events of her early days, and i feel (as i always do when i contrast our present condition with the past) that we, as a whole people, and as individuals, have more reasons for gratitude and obedience to our heavenly father than have ever before been placed before any people; and it seems to me we are more likely to disregard them than any other people i have any knowledge of. the fact is, we are so prosperous that we seem to forget the source of our prosperity, and take it as a matter of course that the character and conduct of a people cannot influence their condition. we are ready to say of an individual when he has been reckless and extravagant, that he has brought destruction on himself. why, then, may not a whole people be judged by the same standard? our great danger arises from false principles. we never act above the standard we adopt; and if our standard be so low as to authorize the gratification of the basest passions, how natural that our tastes become conformed to this standard! "these reflections arose in my mind by hearing from my mother the stories of the 'times that tried men's souls;' how she was separated from her husband immediately after her marriage, when he joined the army in rhode island; how, after a battle, his mother said to her 'she did not know but sam was killed;' how she fell instantly upon the floor, and how, within a day or two, after a separation of eight months, she was rejoiced to see her husband safe and sound (although at the time alluded to he had been in great peril, having been saved from captivity by the desperate efforts of a company of blacks, and by the fleetness and force of his fine charger); and how, by confidence in the justness of the cause and the aid of the almighty, they trusted they should get through the contest, and be permitted to enjoy the fruits of their own labor in their own way. and now, what proportion of the people do you suppose refer to the aid of the almighty, or to his justice or judgment as a motive to their actions, or how far does his fear or his love influence their conduct? these questions are more easily asked than answered; but they fill the mind with mournful forebodings of the necessary consequences to any people of forgetting god and departing from his love. you and i, and every individual, have it in our power to keep off in some degree this fatal consummation. let us, therefore, examine well ourselves, and strive to be numbered among those faithful stewards who, at their master's coming, shall be placed among the happy company who enter the joy of their lord. "this morning is one of those delightful quiet sabbaths that seem to be like the rest of the saints above. we are all soon to be on our way to public worship. * * * * (to his mother.) "aug. , . "my dear and honored mother: my mind turns back to you almost as frequently as its powers are brought into separate action, and always with an interest that animates and quickens my pulse; for, under god, it is by your good influence and teachings that i am prepared to enjoy those blessings which he has so richly scattered in my path in all my onward progress in life. how could it be otherwise than that your image should be with me, unless i should prove wholly unworthy of you? your journey is so much of it performed, that those objects which interested you greatly in its early stages have lost their charms; and well it is that they have; for they now would prove _clogs_ in the way and it is to your children, to your saviour, and your god, that your mind and heart now turn as the natural sources of pleasure. each of these, i trust, in their proper place and degree, supply all your wants. the cheering promise that has encouraged you when your powers were the highest, will not fail you when the weight of years and infirmities have made it more necessary to your comfort to get over the few remaining spans of the journey. to god i commend you; and pray him to make the path light, and your way confiding and joyful, until you shall reach that home prepared for the faithful." in a letter to his sister, dated oct. , he further alludes to his mother, as follows "my thoughts this morning have been much engaged with my early home. i conclude it best to embody them in part, and send them forward to add (if they may) a token of gratitude and thankfulness to that dear one who is left to us, for her care of our early days, and her christian instruction and example to her children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren; each generation of whom, i trust, will be made better in some of its members by her. it is more natural, when in our weakness and want, to turn our thoughts to those whom they have been accustomed to look to for assistance; and thus to me the impression of the blessing i enjoy in having such a home as mine is, and the blessing i early enjoyed of having such a home as mine was under my father's roof, say to my heart: 'all these increase thy responsibilities, and for their use thou must account.' i have had one of my slight ill turns within the last two days, that has brought back all these feelings with increased force; and i look upon these as gentle monitors, calculated to make me estimate more fully my blessings and my duties. frequently as i am admonished of the frail tenure by which i hold my life, i am negligent and careless in the performance of those high and every-day duties which i should never lose sight of for an hour. i have also such buoyancy of spirits, that life seems to me a very, very great blessing, and i do at times strive to make it useful to those around me." chapter xvii. reflections.--visit to washington.--visit to rainsford island.--views of death.--reflections. from memorandum-book of property, december , : "my expenses have been ---- thousand dollars this year; of which about one half went for persons and objects that make me feel that it has been well expended, and is better used than to remain in my possession. god grant that i may have the disposition to use these talents in such manner as to receive at last the joyful sound of 'well done!'" on march , , mr. lawrence writes: "my anxiety for a day or two about little things kept me from the enjoyment of those bright scenes that are so common to me when not oppressed by any of these _may_ be events. my nerves are in such a shattered state, that i am quite unfit to encounter the responsibilities incident to my station, and i am ashamed of myself thus to expose my weakness." during the spring, mr. lawrence's health was so feeble, and his nervous system so shattered, that a journey was recommended; and, in the month of may, in company with his friend and pastor, the rev. dr. lothrop, he paid a visit to his brother abbott, at washington, then the representative in congress for boston. during this journey, he experienced a severe illness, and was shortly joined by mrs. lawrence. the visit to washington extended through several weeks: and, although his health remained feeble and the weather unfavorable, he seems to have been alive to objects around him, and interested in what was going forward in the halls of congress as well as in the society of the capital. he speaks of visits to the houses of congress, and pleasant rides on horseback, "with hosts of agreeable companions ready to sally forth when the weather shall permit." he also takes a survey of the general state of society in washington, with an occasional allusion to some particular personage. he writes: "it used to be said that washington and the springs were the places for matrimonial speculations. i feel a natural dislike to a lady being brought out as an extraordinary affair, having all perfections, and having refused _forty-nine_ offers, and still being on the carpet. it shows that she is either very silly herself, or has very silly friends, or both. good strong common sense is worth more than forty-nine offers, with any quantity of slaves, or bank-notes, or lands, without it. * * * * * "i have passed two hours in the representatives' hall and senate chamber to-day. i heard the usual sparring, and confess myself greatly interested in it. i could learn nothing of the merits of any of the questions; but i had a preference, such as one feels in seeing two dogs fight, that one should beat. it was very agreeable to me to see and hear those various distinguished characters, and goes to demonstrate the common saying, that some objects appear smaller by our getting nearer to them." during this absence, one of his family remaining at home had experienced a light attack of varioloid; and, according to the law then in force, was obliged to be transported to the quarantine hospital, situated in boston harbor. soon after mr. lawrence's return from the south, he paid a visit to rainsford island, on the invitation of dr. j. v. c. smith, then quarantine physician, and there passed some weeks very pleasantly, riding about the island on his horse, and watching, from the shores, the sea-views, which, with the passing ships, here afford an endless variety. in august, he returned to his own house in boston; and, on the st, writes to his sister as follows: "the scenery in front, side, and rear, and all within, is unrivalled, except by the charms of the dear old home of my mother and sister; in short, it seems to me that no two spots combine so many charms as my early and present homes; and they impress me more fully now by my being so well as to enjoy not only natural scenery, but the social intercourse with loved ones, that more than compensate for anything i may have lost by sickness and suffering. i yesterday was on horseback nearly three hours, but did not ride more than ten miles; and, in that distance, i went over some scenes that i felt unwilling to leave, especially some of the old works on and near dorchester heights, for they appeared more interesting than ever before, from the circumstance of your showing me that mass of original letters from washington, hancock, samuel adams, and various other revolutionary characters, to general ward; some of them touching the occupation of these heights sixty years ago, and some of them alluding to scenes which have scarcely been noticed in the published histories of those days. all go to show, however, the whole souls of those men to have been engaged in their work; and, further, how vain it is for us of this day, who are ambitious of distinction, to found it on any other basis than uprightness of character, purity of life, and the active performance of all those duties included in 'the doing justly, loving mercy, and walking humbly.' how few of us remember this! i hardly know when i have been more forcibly impressed with a plain truth than i was yesterday, while sitting alone on horseback, on the top of the redoubt on dorchester heights, and the considerations of the past, the present, and the future, were the subject of my thoughts, connecting the men of those days with the present, and the men of these days with the future. the evidence is irresistible, that there is a downhill tendency in the character of the people, which, in sixty years more, will make us more corrupt than any other enlightened nation so young as ours, unless we are checked by adversity and suffering. but this is not what i intended to write about, so i will go to something else. the old revolutionary documents, memorials of our father, never appeared to me so interesting as now; and those i now return to you will be carefully preserved, and such others as you may find, added to them. i would give a great sum of money, if by it i could get all the documents i used to see when i was a child, and which we thought of so little value that we did not preserve them with that care which should have been used in a family which cherishes such deep feelings of respect and affection for parents." the year will be remembered as one of great pecuniary embarrassment and distress in the commercial world. mr. lawrence alludes to it as follows, on may "the violent pecuniary revulsion that has been anticipated for more than a year has at length overtaken this country, and is more severe than our worst fears. in addition to the failure of people to pay their debts, in all sections of the country, for the last two months, the banks, from baltimore to boston, and probably throughout the union, as fast as the intelligence spreads, have suspended specie payment, and will not probably resume again very soon." on december of the same year, he writes to his mother as follows "this day completes thirty years since my commencing business, with the hope of acquiring no very definite amount of property, or having in my mind any anticipation of ever enjoying a tithe of that consideration my friends and the public are disposed to award me at this time. in looking back to that period, and reviewing the events as they come along, i can see the good hand of god in all my experience; and acknowledge, with deep humiliation, my want of gratitude and proper return for all his mercies. may each day i live impress me more deeply with a sense of duty, and find me better prepared to answer his call, and account for my stewardship! the changes in our family have been perhaps no greater than usual in other families in that period, excepting in the matter of the eminent success that has attended our efforts of a worldly nature. this worldly success is the great cause of our danger in its uses, and may prove a snare, unless we strive to keep constantly in mind, that to whom much is given, of him will much be required. i feel my own deficiencies, and lament them; but am encouraged and rewarded by the enjoyment, in a high degree, of all my well-meant efforts for the good of those around me. in short, i feel as though i can still do a little to advance the cause of human happiness while i remain here. my maxim is, that i ought to 'work while the day lasts; for the night of death will soon overtake me, when i can no more work.' i continue to mend in strength, and feel at times the buoyancy of early days. it is now raining in torrents, keeping us all within doors. i have been at work with gimblet, saw, fore-plane, and hammer, thus securing a good share of exercise without leaving my chamber." * * * * * "_january , ._--bless the lord, o my soul! and forget not all his benefits; for he has restored my life twice during the past year, when i was apparently dead, and has permitted me to live, and see and enjoy much, and has surrounded me with blessings that call for thankfulness. the possession of my mind, the intercourse with beloved friends, the opportunity of performing some labor as his steward (although imperfectly done), all call upon me for thanksgiving and praise. the violent revulsion in the business of the country during the past year has been ruinous to many; but, so far as my own interests are concerned, has been less than i anticipated. my property remains much as it was a year ago. something beyond my income has been disposed of; and i have no debts against me, either as a partner in the firm or individually. everything is in a better form for settlement than at any former period, and i hope to feel ready to depart whenever called." the following is copied from an account-book, presented at the commencement of the year to his youngest son, then twelve years of age: "my dear son: i give you this little book, that you may write in it how much money you receive, and how you use it. it is of much importance, in forming your early character, to have correct habits, and a strict regard to truth in all you do. for this purpose, i advise you never to cheat yourself by making a false entry in this book. if you spend money for an object you would not willingly have known, you will be more likely to avoid doing the same thing again if you call it by its right name here, remembering always that there is _one_ who cannot be deceived, and that _he_ requires his children to render an account of all their doings at last. i pray god so to guide and direct you that, when your stewardship here is ended, he may say to you that the talents intrusted to your care have been faithfully employed. "your affectionate father, a. l." in transmitting to his sister a letter received from baltimore, from a mutual friend, he writes, on march , in a postscript: "this morning seems almost like a foretaste of heaven. the sun shines bright, the air is soft; i am comfortable, and expect a pleasant drive in the neighborhood. it is indeed brilliant, beautiful, and interesting to me, beyond any former experience of my life. i am the happiest man alive, and yet would willingly exchange worlds this day, if it be the good pleasure of our best friend and father in heaven." the extract quoted above will give an idea of that state of mind in which mr. lawrence was often found by his friends, and which he unceasingly strove to cultivate. he could not always exult in the same buoyant and almost rapturous feelings here expressed; for, with his feeble frame and extreme susceptibility to outward influences, to believe such was the case would be to suppose him more than mortal. the willingness to exchange worlds was, however, a constant frame of mind; and the daily probability of such an event he always kept in view. the work of each day was performed with the feeling that it might be his last; and there is, throughout his correspondence and diary, frequent allusion to the uncertain tenure by which he held life, and his determination to work while the day lasted. if a matter was to be attended to, of great or little importance, whether the founding a professorship, signing a will, or paying a household bill, all was done at the earliest moment, with the habitual remark, "i may not be here to-morrow to do it." in the same cheerful spirit, he writes to his son a few days after his marriage, and then on a journey to virginia: "the whole scene here on thursday last was so delightful that i hardly knew whether i was on the earth, or floating between earth and heaven. i have been exalted ever since, and the group of happy friends will be a sunny spot in your no less than in their remembrance." to his sister he writes, dec. : "it is thirty-one years this week since i commenced business on my own account, and the prospects were as gloomy at that period for its successful pursuit as at any time since; but i never had any doubt or misgiving as to my success, for i then had no more wants than my means would justify. the habits then formed, and since confirmed and strengthened by use, have been the foundation of my good name, good fortune, and present happy condition. at that time (when you know i used to visit you as often as i could, by riding in the night until i sometimes encroached upon the earliest hour of the sabbath before reaching my beloved home, to be at my business at the dawn of day on monday morning), my gains were more than my expenses; thus strengthening and encouraging me in the steady pursuit of those objects i had in view as a beginner. from that time to this, i am not aware of ever desiring or acquiring any great amount by a single operation, or of taking any part of the property of any other man and mingling it with my own, where i had the legal right to do so. i have had such uniform success as to make my fidelity a matter of deep concern to myself; and my prayer to god is, that i may be found to have acted a uniform part, and receive the joyful 'well done,' which is substantial wealth, that no man can take away. if my experience could be made available by my successors, i sometimes feel that it would be a guaranty that they would keep in the best path; but, as they are to be fitted by discipline for the journey, it is perhaps a vain thing for me to allow any doubts to rest upon my mind that _that_ discipline is not for their highest good. the pleasures of memory have never been more highly enjoyed than during the period of my last sickness. they have solaced my pains, and supported me through numerous fainting fits, growing out of the surgical treatment i have endured. i would ask you, my dear sister, if a merciful parent has not stretched forth his hand almost visibly to support me through this trying scene, by scattering in my path these flowers and fruits so freely as almost to make me forget bodily pains; and bless him for what is past, and trust that what is future will be the means of making me a better man." * * * * * "_december , ._--the business of the year now brought to a close has been unexpectedly productive, and the prospects of continued success are very flattering. at the commencement of the year, my life seemed a flickering light, with small hope of its continuance through the winter; but a merciful providence has permitted a brighter view, and my happiness through the year has been superior to that of any year of my life." after enumerating some domestic events which had contributed to this result, he adds: "my own health is so far restored as to allow me the enjoyment of everything around me in perfection. may god in mercy keep me mindful of my duties, and prepared to surrender my account at any moment he may call me hence!" chapter xviii. brother's death.--letters.--gifts.--letters.--diary.--applicants for aid.--reflections.--letter from rev. dr. stone.--diary. if, at the close of the last year, mr. lawrence could say that "his happiness had been superior to that of any year of his life," it could not be said that its successor was one of unmingled brightness. the unbroken band of brothers who had marched thus far hand in hand, united by a common bond of sympathy and affection, sustaining each other in all trials, and rejoicing together in their common prosperity, was about to be sundered. since their earliest days, they had had but one interest, and, residing near each other after leaving their early home, had been in the habit of most constant and intimate intercourse. many of their friends will well remember seeing four, and sometimes five, of them, on sunday evening, after service, walking together abreast, arm in arm; and have been tempted to exclaim, "behold how good and pleasant a thing it is for brethren to dwell together in unity." they had more than obeyed their father's injunction "not to fall out by the way, for a three-fold cord is not quickly broken." with them, it had been a five-fold cord; and, amidst all the perplexities of business, the management of important interests, and the various vicissitudes of domestic life, no strand had been broken until severed by the ruthless hand of death. the eldest brother, luther, had been educated at harvard college; had studied law with the hon. timothy bigelow, then of groton, afterwards of medford, whose sister he subsequently married; and had commenced the practice of his profession in his native town. there he met with good success, and, for many years, represented the town in the house of representatives, of which he was chosen speaker for the session of and . he was induced by his brothers, who had become largely interested in the new town of lowell, to remove thither; and he accordingly took up his residence there in , having accepted the presidency of the bank which had been lately established. in , he had been elected mayor of the city, and had given himself up to the pressing duties incident to the office in a new and growing community. while holding this office, he, on the th of april, , accompanied an old friend and connection, who was on a visit at lowell, to inspect the works of the middlesex manufacturing company, recently erected by his brothers. in passing rapidly through one of the rooms, he made a misstep, and was precipitated many feet into a wheel-pit, causing almost instant death. this sad event was deeply felt by mr. lawrence, as well as by all who knew and appreciated the character of the deceased. in a letter to his sisters, dated april , he says: "i should have addressed a word of comfort to you before this. that he should be taken, and i left, is beyond my _ken_, and is a mystery which will be cleared up hereafter. i do, however, know _now_ that all is right, and better ordered than we could have done it. we _must_ submit, and _should_ be resigned. brother l.'s death may, perhaps, be more efficient in instructing us in the path of duty than would have been his life; and the whole community around is admonished by this event in a way that i have rarely seen so marked. the homage to his character is a legacy to his children of more value than all the gold of the mint. shall we, then, repine at his separation from us? surely not. he has fulfilled his mission, and is taken home, with all his powers fresh and perfect, and with the character of having used these powers for the best and highest good of all around him. we shall all soon be called away, and should make his departure the signal to be also ready. this is the anniversary of my birth, and has been marked by many circumstances of peculiar interest." on the same date, he writes to a connection, who was about to take possession of his house on that day for the first time after his marriage: "i intended speaking a word in your ear before your leaving us for your own fireside and home, but have concluded to take this mode of doing it; and it is to say, that you possess a jewel in your wife, above price, which should be worn in such an atmosphere as will increase its purity and value the longer you possess it; and that is around the family altar. that you intend to establish it, i have no doubt; but, as to the precise time, you may not be fixed. what time so good as the present time, when the first evening of possession of this paradise on earth (a house and home of your own with such a wife), to make that offering to the father of mercies which ascends to his throne as sweet incense from his children? it is the nutriment and efficient producing power of the best principles and the best fruits of our nature. be wise in time, and strive to secure these, that you may go on from one degree to another, until you shall have reached our father's house, and shall hear the cheering 'well done!' promised to such as have used their talents without abusing them. my blessing attend you!" (to his daughter.) "monday evening. "dear s.: the admonition of the last week comes home to me in a way not to be neglected, and i hope to keep in mind that, in my best days, i am as likely to be called off, as in these days of anxious care, when pressed down with pain and weakness, and surrounded by those dear ones who look upon every emotion with deep solicitude. on comparing myself now with myself a year ago, i have much to animate and cheer in the increased strength of body and renewed powers, by which i can enjoy life; but i have also much to speak to the heart, and to tell me to be constantly ready to be called off without previous note of preparation. may i never lose sight, for a single hour, of the tenure by which i hold the privilege of seeing the dear ones settled so happily! it is more than i had reason to anticipate. "may you, dear child, never lose sight of the end for which your privileges are made so ample, nor forego the happiness of doing the best in your power at every stage of your journey, so that whenever you may be called hence, you may feel that you are ready, and that your work is done. it will not do for me to rely upon my every-day firmness to secure me against attacks of the kind last experienced. i do most fervently desire to be kept in mind of my exposure, and never for an hour forget that it may be my last." [illustration: birth place at groton.] several passages in mr. lawrence's letters will show the attachment which he felt towards the place of his birth, connected as it was with so many associations and memories of the past. the old house, with the great elm in front and its welcome shade; the green meadow, stretching for a mile along a gentle declivity to the river; the range of mountains in the west, just distant enough to afford that tinge of blue which adds an indescribable charm to every landscape; the graceful undulations of the hills on the east, with the quiet village sleeping at their base, all seemed in his mind so associated with the loved inmates of his early home, that he ever contemplated the picture with delight. on june , in a letter to his sisters, he writes: "r. leaves us this morning, on his way to the old homestead, which, to my mind's eye, has all the charms of the most lovely associations of early days, with all the real beauty of those splendid descriptions given by the prophets of the holy city. i would earnestly impress all my children with a deep sense of the beauty and benefit of cherishing and cultivating a respect and affection for this dear spot, and for those more dear objects that have served to make it what it really is to all us children." in a letter to his son, whose visit is alluded to above, he says: "the beautiful scenery from gibbet hill, in groton, and from the road from our old mansion south for a mile, towards the wachusett and the monadnock mountains, comes next, in point of beauty, to my taste, to these views around the boston common. be careful to do all things as you will wish you had done, that you may look back upon this visit with pleasure, and forward to another visit with increased relish. remember that in the best performance of all your duties lies the highest enjoyment of all your pleasures. those pleasures that flow from plans and doings that your conscience condemns are to be shunned as the net of the wicked one. when once entangled, the desire and effort to be released grow weaker, till, at length, conscience is put asleep, and the sleep of death comes over the soul. be careful, therefore, to avoid evil, and not only so, but to avoid all appearance of evil. in this way, you will grow up with principles and fixed habits that will secure you against the ills of life, and supply a foretaste of the enjoyments of a better life to come." during a visit which he made to his early home a few months subsequent to the date of the preceding extract, he writes to his daughter: "i was very tired on arriving here last evening, but a quiet sleep has brought me into my best state. "this morning has allowed me to ride for two hours, and i have enjoyed everything and everybody here to the utmost. groton is beautiful beyond any other place i have ever seen; but perhaps i am in the situation of old mr. ----, whose opinion of his wife's beauty, when questioned of its accuracy, was justified by the declaration that the person must have his eyes to look through. "the whole country is full of charms; nothing seems wanting to impress upon the heart the goodness of that parent who seeks by all means to bring us nearer to himself. "this visit has been full of interest, and it is a source of unfeigned thanksgiving that it has been permitted to me." mr. lawrence always took great delight in sending to friends and relatives, little and great, mementoes of his affection; and a great deal of time was spent in penning and reading the letters and notes which such transactions called forth. he had a rare faculty of adapting his gift to the peculiar necessities or tastes of the recipient; and, whether the matter treated of was a check for thousands or a bouquet of flowers, equal pleasure seemed to be given and received. in sending a gift of the former description, he notices the commencement of the year as follows: "january . "dear s.: w. will prize the enclosed more highly from your hand; for he will have proof that a good wife brings many blessings, that he never would know the value of but for you. may you experience many returns of the 'new year,' and each more happy than the past!" in a letter to his second son, then on a visit to europe, he writes, under date of march , : "we are all curious to know what impressions your visit to france and italy produces, and still more what impressions a careful overlooking of our fatherland makes upon you. there is much food for reflection, and abundant material for the exercise of your powers of observation, in every league of the '_fast_-anchored isle,' especially in the scenes so beautifully portrayed in many of the books we have access to. in fact, i have an extensive collection of materials to renew your travels and observations, and shall value them more highly when you point out this or that seat or castle or abbey, which has arrested your notice. but the best scenes will be those in which the living souls of the present day are engaged. the habits and tastes of the people of england have doubtless much changed since the _spectator_ days; but, in many important particulars, i should hope they had not. some thirty years ago, i had a good specimen of the feelings and principles of a great variety of people, embracing almost all classes, from the year to , in a multitude of letters that had accumulated in the post-office in this town, under tuthill hubbart. after his death, his house was pulled down; and, among the strange things found in it, were bushels of letters, of which i was permitted to take what i pleased. these letters showed a deeper religious feeling in the writers of those days, from england, ireland, and scotland, than i have seen in any miscellaneous collections of a later date. if that deep-toned piety which pervaded them has not been extinguished by the jacobinism and freethinking of later days, happy for the people and the government! but i fear it has, in some great measure, been blotted out or obscured, as there seems to be a spirit of reckless adventure in politics and religion not contemplated seventy years ago. how far our experience in self-government in this country is going to advance the cause of good government, and the ultimate happiness of man, is yet a problem. our principles are of the most elevating character; our practices under them, of the most debasing; and, if we continue in this way another generation, there will not be virtue enough in active use to save the forms of our government. we may hope that a better heart may be given us." in a letter to his son-in-law, the rev. charles mason, who was at that time in company with his own son on a visit to england, he writes on june th, : "i intended to defer writing until to-morrow morning; but the beauty of the western scenery and sunset is so striking, that i am strongly impelled to tell you that, much as you see, and highly as you enjoy the scenes of old england, there is nothing there more beautiful and sublime than this very scene from my chamber windows. it seems as though nature never was so beautifully dressed at this time of the year as at present. the season has been unusually favorable for the foliage, fruits, and flowers; and all around bears evidence of that goodness that never rests, and in my own person i feel that i am enjoying in a month what ought to content me for a year." the foregoing extract is selected from among many others of a similar nature, as an illustration of mr. lawrence's appreciation of the beauties of natural scenery. towards the close of the day, his favorite seat was at a window, from which he could witness the glories of the setting sun, and, still later, the fading beauties of the twilight. nature to him was no sealed volume; and with her, in all her phases, he loved to commune. the gorgeous hues of the western sky, the changing tints of the autumnal foliage, and the smiling features of the landscape, were in his mind typical of the more resplendent beauties of the future world. he writes: "to-day is one of those holy spring days which make us feel that, with right principles and conduct, we may enjoy a foretaste of that beautiful home we all long for. i have been over the roxbury and dorchester hills, which are a transcript of the beautiful scenery around jerusalem. mount zion seemed before me, and by stretching my arms, i could almost fly upon its sides." he loved to think that the spirits of the departed may be permitted to hover around, and minister to those whom they have once loved on earth; and sometimes, as he viewed nature in her softer moods, he would imagine himself as holding communion with former cherished objects of affection. he writes to a friend: "dear s. and r. speak in words without sounds, through every breeze and in every flower, and in the fragrance of every perfume from the field or the trees." and again: "is there anything in scripture to discourage the belief that the spirits of departed friends are still ministering spirits to such as are left here, and that a recognition and reünion will follow when we are called off? i believe fully in this happy reünion; and it is, next to the example of the beloved, the most animating feeling that prompts me through this wearisome journey." to a friend who had invited him to pay her a visit at her residence in the country, he writes: "n---- says i am like a child in the matter of the visit, and would be as much disappointed if it should not be accomplished; and i must admit that i am guilty of this weakness. there are so many loved ones on the old spot, so many lessons to be reviewed, and so many friends 'passed on,' whose spirits surround and fill the place with the peculiar halo and charm of the good angels (those ministering spirits in whose company we may ever find comfort, if we will think so). i say, with all these things, can i be blamed for being a child in this matter? you will all say no, and will love me the better for it." on the anniversary of his commencing his business, dec. , mr. lawrence, as usual, reviews his past life and mercies, and adds: "my daily aspirations are for wisdom and integrity to do what is required of me; but the excuses for omissions, and the hidden promptings of pride or selfishness in the sins of commission, take away all confidence that all is done as it should be. i am in the enjoyment of as much as belongs to our condition here. wife, children, and friends, those three little blessings that were spared to us after the fall, impart enjoyment that makes my home as near a heaven on earth as is allowed to mortals. "_dec. ._--this morning has been clear and beautiful, and i have enjoyed it highly. have been sleigh-riding with chancellor kent. went over to bunker hill monument, and around by the river-side to charlestown neck, and had a regular old-fashioned talk with him. he gave me an account of the scenes which occurred where he was studying, in connecticut, when the news came of the lexington fight. as we parted, he promised to come again in the spring, take another ride, and resume the conversation. he leaves for new york at three o'clock, and is as bright and lively as a boy, though seventy-eight years old. the old gentleman attends to all his own affairs, had walked around the city this morning some miles, been to the providence railroad dépôt for his ticket, overlooked divers bookstores, and so forth. he is very interesting, and has all the simplicity of a child." about this time, also, mr. lawrence seems to have had pleasant intercourse with the chevalier hulsemann, the austrian minister, so well known by his correspondence with mr. webster when the latter was secretary of state. the minister was on a visit to boston, and, from the correspondence which ensued, seems to have conceived a high regard for mr. lawrence, expressed in very kind and courteous terms; and this regard seems to have been fully reciprocated. "_april , ._--s. n., of t., an apprentice on board the united states ship 'columbus,' in this harbor, thirteen years old, whom i picked up intoxicated in beacon-street a month ago, and to whom i gave some books, with request to call and see me when on shore, came to-day, and appears very well. gave him a testament and some good counsel. "_june ._--g. m. called to sell a lot of sermons called the ----, which he said he caused to be published to do good; he repeated it so often that i doubted him. he seems to me a _wooden nutmeg_ fellow, although he has the rev. mr. ----'s certificate." the preceding entry is given here merely as a sample of many such which are found in mr. lawrence's diary. few who have not had the like experience can estimate the annoyance to which his reputation for benevolence and well-doing subjected him, in the shape of applications for aid in every imaginable form. his perceptions were naturally acute; and a long experience and intercourse with men enabled him to form, at a single glance, a pretty fair estimate of the merits of the applicant. he may sometimes have judged precipitately, and perhaps harshly; but, when he discovered that he had done so, no one could have been more ready to confess his fault and make reparation. a few years after this time, the annoyance became so serious, from the number and character of the applicants, that he felt obliged, on account of ill-health, to deny himself to all, unless personally known to him, or accredited by some one in whose statement he had confidence. further than this, he was confirmed in his decision by actual abuse which had occasionally been administered to him by disappointed candidates for charitable aid. he kept upon his table a small memorandum-book, in which he recorded the names of those who sought aid, with their business, and often their age, the age and number of their children, sometimes facts in their past history, and any other information which could enable him to form an opinion of their claim upon him for assistance. he sometimes indulges also in somewhat quaint remarks respecting those who apply, or the manner in which they have presented their application. to the rev. robert turnbull, a baptist clergyman then settled in boston, and who had sent to mr. lawrence a copy of his work entitled "claims of jesus," he writes under date of nov. : "rev. and dear sir: i thank you for the little volume so kindly presented, and deem it the duty of all the friends of the saviour to do what they can to stop the flood of infidelity and atheism that threatens such waste and devastation among us. however we may seem to be, i trust many may be found, in the ranks of my unitarian friends, who admit the 'claims of jesus' in their most elevated character, and who repudiate the doctrine of those who sink him to the level of a mere human teacher, as subversive of his authority and as nullifying his teachings. we take the record, and what is clearly declared; we do not go behind, even though we do not clearly comprehend it. it gives me pleasure to learn you are so well recovered from the injury you received from the overturn of your carriage near my house. "with great respect, believe me truly yours, a. l." "_january, ._--this year opens with renewed calls upon me to bless god for his mercies throughout its course. my family circle has not been broken by the death of any one of our whole number, and my own health has been better for the last half-year than for five years before. i have not had occasion to call a physician through the year. my brothers a. and w. have been dangerously sick, but are happily recovered; and both feel, i believe, that their hold on life is not as firm as they have felt it to be in former years. my dear children are growing up around me to bless and comfort me; and all i need is a right understanding of my duties, and a sincere purpose to fulfil them. i hope to have the will to continue them in as faithful a manner as heretofore, to say the least." among the traits in mr. lawrence's character was that enlarged spirit of christian feeling which enabled him to appreciate goodness in others, without reference to sect or denomination. this spirit of universal brotherhood was not in him a matter of mere theory, but was carried out in the practice of daily life, and was the means of cementing many and lasting friendships, especially among the clergy of various denominations around him. it may not be uninteresting in future years, for those now in childhood, for whom this volume has been prepared, to be reminded of the strong feeling of sympathy and affection which their grandfather entertained for the rev. john s. stone, d.d., once the rector of st. paul's church, in boston, and now the rector of st. paul's, in brookline, mass. the following is an extract from a letter written by that gentleman from brooklyn, n. y., daring the year , with a memorandum endorsed by mr. lawrence, dated october, , in which he says: "this letter was very interesting to me when received. i kept it in my pocket-book with one from judge story, which he had requested me to keep for my children. while son ---- was in europe, i did not expect to live but a short time, and sent him the two letters, as the proper person to keep them for the use of his children." the letter commences by strong expressions of affection and regard, over which mr. lawrence's modesty had induced him to paste a slip of paper, endorsed as follows: "personal matters between the writer and myself, covered up here, and not to be read by any of the friends to whom i may show this letter." the letter continues as follows: "shall i ever forget the happy moments, hours, days, i may say weeks, which i have spent in riding with you, and chatting, as we rode, of all things as we passed them, till i seemed to myself to be living in the by-gone days of boston and its neighborhood; and all its old families, houses, names, and anecdotes, became as familiar to my mind as the stories of my boyhood? can i forget it all? i trow not. these things are all blended in with the beautiful scenery through which we used to ride, and associated with those graver lessons and reflections which you used to give me; insomuch that the picture which my memory retains of nature, society, history, and feeling, truth, friendship, and religion, and in which boston and the living friends there are comprehended, has become imperishable. it never can fade out of my mind. it is a picture in which man has done much, friendship more, religion most, and god all; for religion is his, and friendship is from him, and man is his creature, and the green earth and glorious heavens are his home. there are many, very many, objects in this picture, which i contemplate with special delight; and few which give me pain, or which i would not have had there, had the whole ordering of its composition been left to me. indeed, had this whole ordering been left to me, it may well be doubted whether, as a whole, it would have contained half of the beautiful and blessed things which it now contains. taking it as it is, therefore, i am well content to receive it, hang it up in the choicest apartment of my memory, and keep it clean and in good order for use." * * * as an illustration of the pleasant intercourse alluded to above, among mr. lawrence's papers is found another most friendly letter from the rev. henry ware, jun., dated a few days afterwards, with the following endorsement: "i went on friday to mr. ware's house, and had a free, full, and deeply-interesting conversation upon the appointment of his successor; and was delighted to find him with the same views i have upon the necessity of removing the theological department from cambridge." dec. , mr. lawrence alludes to the probability of his own death taking place in the manner in which it actually occurred ten years afterwards, as follows: "yesterday i was very well, and have been so for some time past. experienced a severe ill turn this morning at five o'clock, more so than for years. this check brings me back to the reflection that, when i feel the best, i am most likely to experience one of my ill turns; some one of which will probably end my journey in this life. god grant me due preparation for the next!" chapter xix. reflections.--letters.--account of efforts to complete bunker hill monument. in the memorandum-book of property for is found the usual estimate and list of expenditures; after which mr. lawrence writes as follows: "my outlay for other objects than my own family, for the last fourteen years, has been ---- dollars, which sum i esteem better invested than if in bond and mortgage in the city; and i have reason to believe many have been comforted and assisted by it, and its influence will be good on those who follow me. god grant me grace to be faithful to my trust!" to hon. r. c. winthrop, member of congress, at washington, enclosing a letter from a young colored man: "boston, feb. , . "dear sir: this young man, as you will observe by his style, is well educated; and the circumstances he states, i have no doubt, are true. he applied to me, about two years since, for employment in writing or other business, to obtain means for further education; and i interested myself to secure to him what was required. a few months since, he started from here to go to jamaica, to commence the practice of law, and was supplied by those who had taken an interest in him with a library suited to his wants. he received his early education in indiana; and his parents were once slaves. he is a handsome colored fellow, better-mannered, better-looking, and more to be respected, than many young gentlemen who move in the higher walks of life, either in carolina or massachusetts. now, i should like to know, if he should be admitted as an attorney to practice in our courts, and should take passage for jamaica, and put into charleston, would he be imprisoned, as is now the practice in regard to our black sailors? i feel a much stronger desire to see your report upon this subject of imprisoning our colored people, after the unfair course taken by the majority of your house to smother it; and i hope still to see it in print before the adjournment. i would further remark, that n. t. is a member of grace church in this city, i believe, under the care of rev. t. m. clark; and would, doubtless, bear affliction, if it should ever be his fortune to be afflicted by being imprisoned because his skin is dark, with a spirit becoming his profession. with great respect and esteem, believe me very truly yours, amos lawrence." (to his sister.) "boston, april , . "dear sister m.: when i heard a gun this morning, i was immediately transported back in imagination to the th of april, , when our grandmother retreated from her house on the roadside in concord, with her family, to keep out of the way of the 'regulars;' and that day and its scenes, as described, came back upon me with a force which kept me awake in considering whether the gun was fired to recall the facts to the people of this day; and, if recalled, whether we can profit by the events which followed. i found, however, on receiving my newspapers, that the gun was not for commemoration of lexington and concord, but to announce the arrival of the british steamer from liverpool. the news by this steamer is of no more than common interest; and the intercourse is now so easy and rapid, that the interest felt to learn what is passing in europe is not much greater than we used to feel on call's stage-coach arriving at groton from boston once a week, fifty years ago. the changes within my own recollection are such as almost to make me distrust my own senses; and many of the changes are at the cost of much good. the downhill tendency in the standard of character is a bad sign, and threatens the prostration of our political fabric. built as it is on the virtue and intelligence of the people, every waste of these endangers the stability of the whole structure." "_april ._--i resume, though not in the same train of thought, which is slept off. my birth-day has passed since then; and i am now in my fifty-eighth year. this is the birth-day of our father, who would have been eighty-nine if living; and this week on saturday will also complete thirty-six years since i left home to spend a few months in this city, preparatory to my commencing business in groton. here i have continued; and the consequences to our family seem to have stamped upon us such marks as make us objects of influence, for good or evil, to a much greater extent than if i had returned to commence my business career in my native town. i view in this a hand pointing upward,--'seek me and ye shall find,'--and a caution to us to use without abusing the good things intrusted to us. how hard it is for those in prosperity to bring home to their feelings their dependence, their abuse of their privileges, their desires for objects wholly disproportionate to their value, their anxiety about trifles, while they are so utterly careless and indifferent about those of the highest moment! how we strive unceasingly to secure objects that can, at best, give us but a slight reward, and, in many cases, if attained to the full extent of our hopes, only serve to sharpen our appetite for more; thus demonstrating the benevolence of our heavenly father in removing these obstacles to our progress in the ways and works of godliness! how important, then, for us to see a father's hand in the disappointments, not less than in the success, of our plans! i now speak practically of those anxieties which i feel and condemn myself for, in looking forward to the condition of my family. this is all wrong; and i pray god to pardon me the want of faith this feeling implies. "i have thought much of your account of mrs. n. going out, on the sabbath after her husband's death, with her nine children. i remember her, and many others of my youthful schoolmates, with interest and regard. please say so to her. and now, dear m., as the clouds seem thinner, i may hope to secure a little run, and shall take the post-office in my way; so must bid you adieu." (to general ----.) "may , . "my dear old general: our anticipated drive to-day is not to be: the weather settles it that i must keep house; and, to indemnify myself for the disappointment, will you allow me to feel that i have not gone too far in requesting you to receive the enclosed check? i am spared here for some object, and do not feel that to hoard money is that object. while i am in the receipt of an income so ample, i find it sometimes troublesome to invest exactly to my mind. in the present case, the hope that you may, by using this, add something to your enjoyment, makes me feel that it is one of my best investments; and for the reason that your proverbial good-will cannot refuse me such a boon, i have made this request. my heart yearns strongly toward the old-fashioned john jay school in politics and morals; and, when i have an opportunity to minister in any way to one of the early members, it is a pleasure that sweetens my days as they pass." on the letter written in reply to the above, mr. lawrence has endorsed: "this letter from old general ----, now eighty-eight years old, and blind, is an acknowledgment of some little kindnesses i was enabled to render through the hand of judge story. it has afforded me more pleasure than it could have done either the judge or the general. i am sure the good old man's feelings were gratified; and i am thankful that i could comfort him." on the th of june, , took place the celebration in honor of the completion of the bunker hill monument; an event which was regarded with no ordinary emotions by mr. lawrence, after so many years of effort and expectation. his only regret was that the whole battle-field could not have been preserved, and have remained, to use his own words, "a field-preacher for posterity." eleven years before this, he had written to his son in europe: "if we be true to ourselves, our city is destined to be the athens of america, and the hallowed spots in our neighborhood to be the objects of interest throughout all future time. in this view, i would never permit a foot of the battle-field of bunker hill to be alienated; but keep it for your great-great-grandchildren, as a legacy of patriotism worth more than their portion of it, if covered with gold by measure. until you are older, i do not expect you to feel as i do on this subject." this would seem to be the proper place to mention a few facts in regard to mr. lawrence's agency in securing the completion of the monument. it has already been mentioned that he was one of the earliest friends of the project to erect a monument, and, in , had been placed upon the standing committee of directors, with full powers to manage the affairs of the association. in september, , in a letter to his friend, dr. j. c. warren, who himself had been one of the warmest and most efficient advocates of the measure, he proposed to subscribe five thousand dollars, on condition that fifty thousand dollars should be raised within one year. the following passage occurs in that letter: "i think it inexpedient to allude to the sale of the land on bunker hill, as a resource for paying the debt, except in case of extreme necessity; and, at this time, i should personally sooner vote to sell ten acres of the common, in front of my house, to pay the city debt (of boston), than vote to sell the ten acres on bunker hill, until it shall appear that our citizens will not contribute the means of saving it." the proposition thus made was not responded to by the public.[ ] as early as december, , he had made provision by his will, in case of his own death, to secure the battle-field, liquidate the debts of the corporation, and complete the monument. these provisions were superseded by another will, executed april , , after his health had failed, so as to forbid active participation in affairs. an extract from this document will show the views of the testator: "i am of opinion that the land owned by the bunker hill monument association, in charlestown, will be of great value to posterity, if left as public ground. the spot is the most interesting in the country; and it seems to me it is calculated to impress the feelings of those who come after us with gratitude to the people of this generation, if we preserve it to them. the whole field contains about fifteen acres; and, in the hope of preserving it entire, either as the property of the state, of this city, or of any other competent body, and with the further view of insuring the completion of the monument, which now stands as a reproach to us, i have set apart a larger share of my property than would be necessary, had not the subject been presented to the public in such a manner as to discourage future attempts at raising the necessary funds by voluntary contribution." [ ] for a history of the bunker hill monument, see an article in collections of "maine historical society," vol. iii., by professor packard, of bowdoin college. the amount thus devised for the monument, in case that amount should not be raised in other ways, was fifty thousand dollars. in june, , before the annual meeting of the bunker hill monument association, the same offer of five thousand dollars, as first named, was renewed, with an urgent appeal for the preservation of the land, and completion of the monument. a movement followed this appeal, but was not successful. in april, , mr. lawrence proposed to the massachusetts charitable mechanic association to attempt the raising of fifty thousand dollars, to be secured within three months, for completing the monument and preserving the field; accompanying the proposition was an offer of five thousand dollars, or ten per cent. on any less sum that might be raised, as a donation to the association. a public meeting was held in faneuil hall in response to this proposition, at which hon. edward everett made a most powerful appeal, which produced so great an effect upon his auditors that the object was considered as accomplished. the effort was again unsuccessful. early in , mr. lawrence addressed a letter to george darracott, esq., president of the mechanic association, in which, after expressing regret that his feeble and precarious health would not permit him to make personal application to the citizens of boston, he adds: "the next best thing i can do is to give money. the monument association owes a debt. to discharge the debt, finish the monument, surround it with a handsome iron fence, and otherwise ornament the ground as it deserves, will require forty thousand dollars more than it now has. if the association will collect thirty thousand dollars the present year, and pay off the debt, i will give to the charitable mechanic association ten thousand dollars to enable it to complete the work in a manner which our fathers would have done, had they been here to direct it." a further donation of ten thousand dollars was made by judah touro, esq., of new orleans; five thousand dollars were received from other sources; and this, with thirty thousand dollars received at the great fair held in quincy hall, september, , afforded the means of completing the monument according to the original design. thus was consummated a work which had been very near to mr. lawrence's heart, and which had cost him many a sleepless night, as well as days of toil and perplexity. to his associates in this work too much credit cannot be awarded, discouraged, as they often were, by indifference, and even censure. their names will be handed down for centuries, in connection with a monument, which, while it commemorates a nation's freedom, teaches also a practical lesson of the perseverance and energy of man. the following is an extract from a newspaper published about the time the monument was completed, giving an account of a festival held in commemoration of the event: "the president remarked, that, among the benefactors to whom the association had been particularly indebted for the means of completing the monument, two, whose names were written on a scroll at the other end of the hall, were amos lawrence and judah touro, each of whom had made a donation of ten thousand dollars. he thought it proper they should be remembered at the festive board, and gave the following: "amos and judah! venerated names! patriarch and prophet press their equal claims; like generous coursers, running neck and neck, each aids the work by giving it a check. christian and jew, they carry out a plan; for, though of different faith, each is in heart a man." chapter xx. interest in mount auburn.--rev. dr. sharp.--letter from bishop mcilvaine.--letter from judge story. after the establishment of the cemetery at mount auburn, mr. lawrence had taken a deep interest in its progress, as well as in every plan for its gradual improvement and embellishment. in connection with his brothers, he had purchased a large space, which had been enclosed by a permanent granite wall and iron railing. to this spot he habitually resorted, containing, as it did, the remains of some of the dearest earthly objects of his affection, and destined, as it was, to be the final resting-place of not only himself, but of the various branches of his family. when this enclosure had been finished, it became an object with him to gather around him in death those whom he had loved and honored in life. in this way, he had been instrumental in causing to be removed to a burial-lot adjoining his own the remains of the rev. j. s. buckminster, the former minister of brattle-street church; and had also presented another lot to his friend and pastor, the rev. dr. lothrop. another friend, whose grave he wished to have near his own, was the rev. daniel sharp, d.d., minister of the charles-street baptist church, in boston. there were few in boston who were not familiar with the appearance of this venerable clergyman, as he daily appeared in the streets; and fewer still who had not learned to appreciate the truly catholic and christian spirit which animated him in his intercourse with men of all sects and parties. mr. lawrence had early entertained a great esteem for his character; and this esteem had become mutual, and had ripened into the closest intimacy and friendship. on receiving a deed of a lot at mount auburn, dr. sharp writes as follows: "boston, august , . "my dear sir: i cannot find words with which to express my sense of your unexpected and considerate kindness, in providing so beautiful a resting-place in mount auburn for me and my loved ones. it is soothing to me to anticipate that my grave will be so near your own. may the almighty, in his infinite mercy, grant, that, when the trumpet shall sound, and the dead shall awake, we may both rise together, to be forever with the lord! if the proximity of my last place of repose to ministers of another denomination shall teach candor, charity, and peace, i enjoy the sweet consciousness that this will be in harmony with the object of my life. yours, gratefully, "daniel sharp. "amos lawrence, esq." the enlarged christian spirit which formed so prominent a trait in mr. lawrence's character, and which enabled him to appreciate goodness wherever it could be found, without reference to nation, sect, or color, may be further illustrated by the following note of acknowledgment, received about the same time with the preceding, from bishop mcilvaine, of the protestant episcopal church in ohio, who was then on a visit to boston to procure funds in aid of kenyon college: "wednesday evening. "my dear sir: i have just received your very kind and grateful letter, with its cheering enclosure of a hundred dollars towards an object which engrosses me much just now. thank you, dear sir, most truly, for your kindness, and the _first fruits_ of boston, for i came only to-day. i trust the ingathering will not dispossess the first ripe sheaf. coming from one not of my own church, it is the more kind and grateful. o, sir! if god shall so bless my present effort as to send me home with the sum i seek, i shall know a freedom of mind from care and anxiety such as i have not experienced for many years, during which our present crisis has been anticipated. i shall have great pleasure in riding with you, according to your note to mr. r. to-morrow will probably be a day of more leisure to me than any other while i shall be in boston. "yours, very truly and respectfully, "charles p. mcilvaine." (to one of his partners.) "december , . "dear mr. parker: i am _puffed up_ (with ague), but not in a manner to gratify my pride, as i am housed, and denied the sight of most of those who call, but not the privilege of reading their papers, and spending money. in short, i have more use for money when in the house than when able to be abroad. if you will tell brother sharp[ ] his beautiful bills find an exceedingly ready use, i shall be glad of one hundred in ones and twos, two hundred in fives, and three hundred in tens and twenties; say six hundred dollars, just to keep me along till the end of the month. the calls are frequent and striking. 'do with thy might what thy hand findeth to do; for the night cometh, when no man can work.' god grant me the blessing of being ready to answer the call, whether it be at noon or at midnight!" [ ] for more than forty years teller in massachusetts bank. twelve days after, he writes to the same gentleman for another supply; the sum already received not having been sufficient apparently to carry him through the year: "december , . "'the good there is in riches lieth altogether in their use, like the woman's box of ointment; if it be not broken and the contents poured out for the refreshment of jesus christ, in his distressed members, they lose their worth; the covetous man may therefore truly write upon his rusting heaps, "these are good for nothing." he is not rich who lays up much, but he who lays out much; for it is all one not to have, as not to use. i will therefore be the richer by charitable laying out, while the worldling will be poorer by his covetous hoarding up.' "here is the embodiment of a volume, and whoever wrote it deserves the thanks of good men. i would fain be rich, according as he defines riches; but _possession, possession, is the devil_, as the old frenchman at ---- said to george cabot. this devil i would try to cast out; you will therefore please send me twelve hundred dollars, which may do something for the comfort of those who have seen better days. your friend, a. l. "to c. h. parker, esq." the following letter from judge story was received at about the time the preceding letter was written; but no memorandum is found by which to ascertain the occasion which called it forth. it may be that he had been made the channel, as was the case a few months before, of some donation to a third person; a mode which mr. lawrence often adopted when he felt a delicacy in proffering direct aid to some one whose sensitiveness might be wounded in receiving assistance from a comparative stranger: "cambridge, saturday noon. "my dear sir: i have this moment finished reading your letter and its enclosures, which did not reach me until this noon, and i can scarcely describe to you how deeply i have been affected by them. i almost feel that you are too much oppressed by the constant calls for charitable purposes, and that your liberal and conscientious spirit is tasked to its utmost extent. 'the poor have ye always with you' is a christian truth; and i know not, in the whole circle of my friends, any one who realizes it so fully, and acts upon it so nobly, as yourself. god, my dear sir, will reward you for all your goodness; man never can. and yet the gratitude of the many whom you relieve, their prayers for your happiness, their consciousness of your expanded benevolence, is of itself a treasure of inestimable value. it is a source of consolation, which you would not exchange for any earthly boon of equal value. wealth is to you an enlightened trust, for the benefit of your race. you administer it so gracefully, as well as so justly, that i can only regret that your means are not ten times as great. gracious heavens! what a contrast is your life to that of some wealthy men, who have lived many years, and have yet to learn how to give, or, as you beautifully expressed it the other day, who have yet to learn to be their own executors! my heart is so full of you, and of the whole matter, that i would fain pour out my thoughts at large to you; for you understand _me_, and i can sympathize with _you_. but just now i am full of all sorts of business, and without a moment to spare, having many judicial opinions to prepare in the few remaining days before i go to washington; and, withal, having mrs. s. very ill, in respect to whom i feel a deep anxiety. but, wherever i am, i pray you to believe that you are always in my thoughts, with the warmest affection and dearest remembrance. and, if this hasty scrawl is not too slight for such a matter, pray preserve it among your papers, that your children may know what i thought of their father, when you and i shall be both in our graves. "i am most truly and faithfully your obliged friend, "joseph story. "amos lawrence, esq. "p. s.--i have sent the letter and its accompaniments to mr. ----. think of ----. think of those rich men in ----, who have never dreamed of the duties of charity. cast a view to their own posterity. how striking a memento is the very case of ----, presented in his own letters, of the instability of human fortune!" mr. lawrence closes the year by a review of his temporal affairs, and by fresh resolutions of fidelity to his trusts. he then gives an estimate of his income and expenditures, showing a somewhat large excess of the latter, though, as he says, from the state of the times, not to the detriment of his property. (to the mechanic apprentices' library association.) "my young friends: it cheers and comforts me to learn of your well-doing, and encourages me to offer a word of counsel, as prosperity is often more dangerous in its time than adversity. now is your seed-time. see to it that it is good; for 'whatsoever a man soweth, that shall he also reap.' the integrity, intelligence, and elevated bearing, of the boston mechanics, have been and are a property for each citizen of great value; inasmuch as the good name of our beloved city is a common property, that every citizen has an interest in, and should help to preserve. at your time of life, habits are formed that grow with your years. avoid rum and tobacco, in all forms, unless prescribed as a medicine; and i will promise you better contracts, heavier purses, happier families, and a more youthful and vigorous old age, by thus avoiding the beginning of evil. god speed you, my young friends, in all your good works! with the enclosed, i pray you to accept the felicitations of the season. "amos lawrence." chapter xxi. acquaintance with president hopkins.--letters.--affection for brattle-street church.--death of mrs. appleton.--letters.--amesbury co. at the commencement of the year , president hopkins, of williams college, delivered a course of lectures on the "evidences of christianity," before the lowell institute, in boston. mr. lawrence had previously seen him, and had thought that he detected, in some features of his face, a resemblance to the family of his first wife. in allusion to this acquaintance, he writes to his son about this period: "president h. has the family look of your mother enough to belong to them; and it was in consequence of that resemblance, when i was first introduced to him many years ago, that i inquired his origin, and found him to be of the same stock." the acquaintance was renewed, and an intimacy ensued, which was not only the cause of much happiness to mr. lawrence through the remainder of his life, but was also the means of directing his attention to the wants of williams college, of which he eventually became the greatest benefactor. an active and constant correspondence followed this acquaintance, and was so much prized by mr. lawrence that he had most of the letters copied, thereby filling several volumes, from which extracts will from time to time be made. in one of his first letters to that gentleman, dated may , he says: "if, by the consecration of my earthly possessions to some extent, i can make the christian character practically more lovely, and illustrate, in my own case, that the higher enjoyments here are promoted by the free use of the good things intrusted to me, what so good use can i make of them? i feel that my stewardship is a very imperfect one, and that the use of these good things might be extended profitably to myself; and, since i have known how much good the little donation did your college, i feel ashamed of myself it had not been larger,--at any rate, sufficient to have cleared the debt." to the same gentleman, who had informed mr. lawrence that an accident had befallen a plaster bust of himself, he writes, under date of may : "dear president: you know the phrase 'such a man's head is full of notions' has a meaning that we all understand to be not to his credit for discretion, whatever else may be said of him. as i propose throwing in a caveat against this general meaning, i proceed to state my case. and, firstly, president h. is made debtor to the western railroad corporation for the transportation of a barrel to pittsfield. the bill is receipted, so that you can have the barrel to-morrow by sending for it; which barrel contains neither biscuit nor flour, but the clay image of your friend. in the head are divers notions that my hand fell upon as i was preparing it for the jaunt; and, when the head was filled with things new and old, i was careful to secure the region under the shoulders, especially on the _left side_, and near the heart, by placing there that part of a lady's dress which designates a government that we men are unwilling openly to acknowledge, but is, withal, very conservative. within its folds i wrapped up very securely 'pilgrim's progress,' and stuffed the empty space between my shoulders, and near my heart, _brim full_, i hope my young friend will find a motive and a moral in the image and in the book, to cheer him on in his pilgrimage of life." * * * * * "_july , ._--sixty-seven years ago this day, my mother, now living, was married; and, while standing up for the ceremony, the alarm-bell rang, calling all soldiers to their posts. my father left her within the hour, and repaired to cambridge; but the colonel, in consideration of the circumstances, allowed him to return to groton to his wife, and to join his regiment within three days at rhode island. this he did, spending but a few hours with his wife; and she saw nothing more of him until the last day of the year, when he made her a visit. i have ordered a thousand dollars paid to the massachusetts general hospital, to aid in enlarging its wings, and to commemorate this event. the girls of this day know nothing of the privations and trials of their grandmothers." on the same day with the above entry in his diary occurs another, in which he alludes to assistance afforded to some young persons in brattle-street church,--"sons of brattle-street, and, as such, assisted by me." mr. lawrence's early religious associations were connected with this church, where, it is believed, he attended from the first sunday after his coming to boston. with such associations, and connected as they were with the most endeared recollections of those who had worshipped there with him in early days, all that pertained to this venerable church possessed a strong and abiding interest. in this connection is quoted the beautiful testimony of his pastor, the rev. dr. lothrop, furnished in the funeral sermon delivered by him, where he speaks of mr. lawrence's love for the church, as well as of his religious character: "the prominent feature in mr. lawrence's life and character, its inspiration and its guide, was religion,--religious faith, affection, and hope. he loved god, and therefore he loved all god's creatures. he believed in christ as the messiah and saviour of the world, and therefore found peace and strength in his soul, amid all the perils, duties, and sorrows of life. his religious opinions lay distinct and clear in his own mind. they were the result of careful reading and of serious reflection, and were marked by a profound reverence for the sacred scriptures, and the divine authority of jesus christ. a constant worshipper here during the forty-six years of his residence in this city, for more than forty years of this period a communicant, and for more than ten a deacon of this church,--resigning the office, at length, because of his invalid state of health,--he had strong attachments to this house of god. 'our venerable church,' he says in one of his notes to me, 'has in it deeply impressive, improving, instructive, and interesting associations, going back to the early days of my worshipping there; and the prayers of my friends and fellow-worshippers of three generations, in part now belonging there, come in aid of my weakness in time of need; and no other spot, but that home where i was first taught my prayers, and this my domestic fireside, where my children have been taught theirs, has the same interest as our own old brattle-square church.'" to an old business friend and acquaintance, joshua aubin, esq., the agent of the amesbury company, who had from the beginning been associated with him in this first and favorite manufacturing enterprise in which he had engaged, he writes on september , after receiving a quantity of manufactured articles for distribution among the poor: "you are brought very near to me on such a day as this (when i am shut up in the house), by your work as well as by your words. "now, as to your last consignment, i have derived, and expect to derive, as much comfort and enjoyment from it as i ordinarily should from a cash dividend on my shares. in truth, i am able to employ these _odds and ends_ to such uses and for such persons as will make me feel as though i were spared here for some use. "for instance, i had a call from a most respectable friend (president of one of the best colleges in the west) last week, who agreed to come again this week to do some shopping as soon as he got some money for preaching on sunday, and look over my stock of goods. "i intend making him up a good parcel of your work, and, depend on it, it is good seed, and will take root at the west. he says that they have no money, but plenty of corn, and beef, and pork. corn pays for growing at ten cents a bushel, and will not bring that in cash; and ten bushels will not pay for a calico gown, or a flannel petticoat. "with his large family of children, don't you think these _odds and ends_ will come as a blessing? besides, he is an old-fashioned massachusetts whig; loves the old bay state as well as ever the jews loved their state, and is, through his college exercising an influence in ---- that no body of men in that state can do; and will, in the end, bring them into regular line, as to education and elevation of character. send me some of your flannels to give to madam ---- for her family of one or two hundred children in the children's friend society. "---- will give them over to these poor little destitute, unclad creatures. they are taken and saved by this interesting society. "a rainy day like this is the very time for me to work among my household goods. many a poor minister and his family, and many a needy student at school or college, fare the better for your spinning and weaving. "i am living in my chamber, and on very close allowance. every day to me is a day of glorious anticipations, if i am free from bodily suffering, and if my mind is free." on another occasion he writes to the same gentleman: "i have your letter and package; the cold of this morning will make the articles doubly acceptable to the shivering and sick poor among us. j. c.'s case is one for sympathy and relief. engage to supply him a hundred dollars, which i will hand to you when you visit me; and tell the poor fellow to keep in good heart, for our merciful father afflicts in love, and thus i trust that this will prove a stepping-stone to the mansions of bliss. i shall never cease to remember with interest the veterans of the a. f. co. how are my friends b. and others of early days? also, how is old father f.? does he need my warm outside coat, when i get supplied with a better? "after your call upon me a few weeks since, i went back in memory to scenes of olden times, which had an interest that you can sympathize in, and which i intended to express to you before this; but i have had one of those admonitory ill turns since, that kept me under the eye of the doctor for a number of days. "in reviewing my beginnings in manufacturing, under your recommendation and care, almost a quarter of a century ago, i can see the men, the machines, the wheel-pit, and the speed-gauge, and especially i can see our old friend w. lying on the bottom of the pit, lamp in hand, with his best coat on, eying the wheels and cogs as an astronomer makes observations in an observatory. all these scenes are as fresh in my memory as though seen but yesterday. "do you remember c. b., the brother of j. and g. b.? all three of whom were business men here at the time you were, and all were unfortunate. c. tried his; hand in ----, and did not succeed there; returned to this country, and settled on a tract of land in ----, where he has been hard at work for ten years, and has maintained his family. his wife died a few months since. one after another of his family sickened, and he became somewhat straitened, and knew not what to do. he wrote to an old business friend, who was his debtor, and who had failed, had paid a part only, and was discharged thirty years ago, and who has since been prosperous. he stated his case, and asked me to say a good word for him. that person sent one half, and i sent the other half, the day before thanksgiving. it will reach him on monday next, and will make his eyes glisten with joy. "remember me to capt. ---- and j. c, and b., and any other of the veterans." sept. , mr. lawrence receives from an old debtor, once a clerk in his establishment, a check for five hundred dollars, which a sense of justice had induced him to send, though the debt of some thousands had been long since legally discharged. on receiving it, he writes, in a memorandum at the bottom of the letter received, to his brother and partner: "dear abbott: i have the money. j. d. was always a person of truth. i take the statement as true; but i had no recollection of the thing till recalled by his statement. what say you to putting this money into the life office, in trust for his sister? your affectionate brother, amos." "memorandum. _november ._--done, and policy sent to the sister." there are but few men, distinguished in public or private life, who are burdened with an undue amount of praise from their contemporaries; and yet this was the case with mr. lawrence, who was often chagrined, after some deed of charity, or some written expression of sympathy, to see it emblazoned, with superadded colors, in the public prints. some one had enclosed to him a newspaper from another city, which contained a most labored and flattering notice of the kind referred to, to which he writes the following reply: "september, . "dear ----: i received the paper last evening, and have read and re-read it with deep interest and attention. however true it may he, it is not calculated to promote the ultimate good of any of us; for we are all inclined to think full well enough of ourselves; and such puffs should be left for our obituaries. truth is not always to be pushed forward; and its advocates may sometimes retard it by injudicious urging. such is the danger in the present case. the writer appears to be a young man who has received favors, and is laboring to repay them or secure more. he has told the truth; but, as i before said, neither you nor i, nor any one of our families, are improved or benefited in any degree by it. god grant us to be humble, diligent, and faithful to the end of our journey, that we may then receive his approval, and be placed among the good of all nations and times!" on the th. of october, mrs. appleton, his sister-in-law, and widow of the rev. jesse appleton, d.d., formerly president of bowdoin college, died at his house, after a lingering illness. in a letter to his son, after describing her character and peaceful death, he says: "with such a life and such hopes, who can view the change as any other than putting away the fugitive and restless pleasures of an hour for the quiet and fixed enjoyments of eternity? let us, then, my dear children, not look upon the separation of a few short years as a calamity to be dreaded, should we not meet here again in any other way than as we now meet. while i am here, every joy and enjoyment you experience, and give us an account of, is not less so to us than if we were with you to partake, as we have done of all such heretofore; and, in this source of enjoyment, few people have such ample stores. three families of children and grandchildren within my daily walk,--is not this enough for any man? and here i would impress upon my grandsons the importance of looking carefully to their steps. the difference between going just right and a little wrong in the commencement of the journey of life, is the difference between their finding a happy home or a miserable slough at the end of the journey. teach them to avoid tobacco and intoxicating drink, and all temptations that can lead them into evil, as it is easier to prevent than to remedy a fault. 'an ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure.' i was going on to say that, according to my estimate of men and things, i would not change conditions with louis philippe if i could by a wish, rich as he is in the matter of good children. i have a great liking for him, and a sincere respect for his family, as they are reported to me; but i trust that mine will not be tried by the temptations of great worldly grandeur, but that they will be found faithful stewards of the talents intrusted to them. bring up your boys to do their work first, and enjoy their play afterwards. begin early to teach them habits of order, a proper economy, and exact accountability in their affairs. this simple rule of making a child, after he is twelve years old, keep an exact account of all that he wears, uses, or expends, in any and every way, would save more suffering to families than can fairly be estimated by those who have not observed its operation. "and now, to change the subject," he writes nov. , "we have got through the elections, and are humbled as americans. the questions affecting our local labor, produce, and pecuniary interests, are of small moment, compared with that of annexing texas to this union. i wrote a brief note yesterday to our friend chapman, late mayor of the city, and a member of the whig committee, which speaks the language of my heart. it was as follows: "'my dear sir: the result of the election in massachusetts is matter of devout and grateful feelings to every good citizen, and, so far as pride is allowable, is a subject of pride to every citizen, whatever his politics; for, wherever he goes, and carries the evidence of belonging to the old bay state, he may be sure of the respect of all parties. this glorious result has not been wrought "without works;" and for it we, the people, are greatly indebted to your committee. so far as may be needed, i trust you will find no backwardness on our part in putting matters right. i bless god for sparing my life to this time; and i humbly beseech him to crown your labors with success in future. if texas can be kept off, there will be hope for our government. all other questions are insignificant in comparison with this. the damning sin of adding it to this nation to extend slavery will be as certain to destroy us as death is to overtake us. the false step, once taken, cannot be retraced, and will be to the people who occupy what rum is to the toper. it eats up and uproots the very foundation on which christian nations are based, and will make us the scorn of all christendom. let us work, then, in a christian spirit, as we would for our individual salvation, to prevent this sad calamity befalling us.'" chapter xxii. death of his daughter.--letters.--donation to williams college.--beneficence.--letters. on the th of november, mr. lawrence addressed to his son a most joyous letter, announcing the birth of twin-grand daughters, and the comfortable health of his daughter, the wife of the rev. charles mason, rector of st. peter's church, at salem, massachusetts. the letter is filled with the most devout expressions of gratitude at the event, and cheering anticipations for the future, and yet with some feelings of uneasiness lest the strength of his daughter should not be sufficient to sustain her in these trying circumstances. he adds: "why, then, should i worry myself, about what i cannot help, and practically distrust that goodness that sustains and cheers and enlivens my days?" the fears expressed were too soon and sadly realized; the powers of her constitution had been too severely taxed, nature gave way, and, four days afterwards, she ceased to live. mr. lawrence announced the death of this cherished and only daughter in the following letter: "boston, december , . "my dear son: the joyous event i mentioned of s.'s twins has in it sad memorials of the uncertainty of all joys, excepting those arising from the happiness of friends whose journey is ended, and whose joys are commencing. long life does not consist in many years, but in the use of the years allowed us; so that many a man who has seen his four-score has, for all the purposes of life, not lived at all. and, again, others, who have impressed distinct marks, and have been called away before twenty-eight years have passed over them, may have lived long lives, and have been objects of grateful interest to multitudes who hardly spoke to them while living. such has been the case with our hearts' love and desire, susan mason. the giving birth to those two babes, either of whom would have been her pride and delight, was more than she could recruit from. the exhaustion and faintness at the time were great, but not alarming; and the joy of our hearts for a season seemed unmixed. after three days, the alarm for her safety had taken stronger hold of her other friends than of myself; and, at the time i wrote you last, i felt strong confidence in her recovery. on sunday evening, at seven o'clock, a great change came over her, that precluded all hope, and she was told by c. how it was. she seemed prepared for it, was clear in her mind, and, with what little strength she had, sent messages of love. 'give love to my father, and tell him i hope we shall meet in heaven,' was her graphic and characteristic message; and then she desired c. to lead and guide her thoughts in prayer, which he continued to do for as many as six times, until within the last half-hour of her life. at three o'clock on monday morning, the d instant, her pure spirit passed out of its earthly tenement to its heavenly home, where our father has called her to be secured from the trials and pains and exposures to which she was here liable. it is a merciful father, who knows better than we do what is for our good. what is now mysterious will be made plain at the right time; for 'he doeth all things well.' shall we, then, my dear children, doubt him in this? surely not. s. was ripe for heaven, and, as a good scholar, has passed on in advance of her beloved ones; but beckons us on, to be reünited, and become joint heirs with her of those treasures provided for those who are found worthy. we are now to think of her as on the other side of jordan, before the same altar that we worship at, without any of the alloy that mixes in ours; she praising, and we praying, and all hoping an interest in the beloved that shall make all things seem less than nothing in comparison with this. we have had the sympathy of friends; and the circumstances have brought to light new friends, that make us feel our work here is not done. i feel called two ways at once: s. beckoning me to come up; the little ones appealing to the inmost recesses of my heart to stay, and lead them, with an old grandfather's fondest, strongest, tenderest emotions, as the embodiment of my child. her remains are placed at the head of her mother's; and those two young mothers, thus placed, will speak to their kindred with an eloquence that words cannot. i try to say, in these renewed tokens of a father's discipline, 'thy will be done,' and to look more carefully after my tendency to have some idol growing upon me that is inconsistent with that first place _he_ requires; and i further try to keep in mind, that, if i loved s. much, _he_ loved her more, and has provided against the changes she was exposed to under the best care i could render. let us praise god for her long life in a few years, and profit by the example she has left. the people of her own church are deeply afflicted, and not until her death were any of us aware of the strong hold she had upon them. some touching incidents have occurred, which are a better monument to her memory than any marble that can be reared. * * * * "this morning opens most splendidly, and beautifully illustrates, in the appearance of the sky, that glorious eternity so much cherished in the mind of the believer. "with sincerest affection, your father, a. l." "tremont-street, tuesday morning. "dear partners: the weather is such as to keep me housed to-day, and it is important to me to have something to think of beside myself. the sense of loss will press upon me more than i desire it, without the other side of the account. all is ordered in wisdom and in mercy; and we pay a poor tribute to our father and best friend in distrusting him. i do most sincerely hope that i may say, from the heart, 'thy will be done.' please send me a thousand dollars by g., in small bills, thus enabling me to fill up the time to some practical purpose. it is a painful thought to me that i shall see my beloved daughter no more on earth; but it is a happy one to think of joining her in heaven. yours, ever, a. l. "a. & a. lawrence & co." on the last day of , a date now to be remembered by his friends as that on which his own departure took place, eight years later, he writes to his children in france: "this last day of the year seems to have in it such tokens and emblems as are calculated to comfort and encourage the youthful pilgrim, just in his vigor, not less than the old one, near the end of his journey; for the sun in the heavens, the hills in the west, and the ocean on the east, all speak, in tones not to be mistaken, 'be of good courage,' 'work while it is day,' and receive, without murmuring, the discipline a father applies; for he knows what is best for his children. whether he plants thorns in the path, or afflicts them in any way, he does all for their good. thus, my dear children, are we to view the removal of our beloved s. this year had been one of unusual prosperity and enjoyment, from the first day to the present month; and all seemed so lovely here that there was danger of our feeling too much reliance on these temporals. the gem in the centre has been removed, to show us the tenure by which we held the others." at the opening of the year , mr. lawrence, after noting in his property-book the usual annual details, makes the following reflections: "the business of the past year has been eminently successful, and the increased value of many of the investments large. in view of these trusts, how shall we appear when the master calls? i would earnestly strive to keep constantly in mind the fact that he _will_ call, and that speedily, upon each and all of us; and that, when he calls, the question will be, how have you used these? not how much have you hoarded?" with the new year, he set himself at work with renewed zeal to carry into effect his good resolutions. one of the first results was a donation of ten thousand dollars to williams college, which he enters upon his book with the following memorandum: "i am so well satisfied with the appropriations heretofore made for the advancement and improvement of williams college that i desire to make further investment in the same, to the amount of ten thousand dollars. in case any new professorship is established in the college, i should be gratified to have it called the hopkins professorship, entertaining, as i do, the most entire confidence and respect for its distinguished president." nearly every day, at this period, bears some record of his charities; and among others was a considerable donation to a baptist college, in another state, enclosed to a baptist clergyman in boston, with a check of fifty dollars for himself, to enable him to take a journey for recruiting his health and strength, of which he was much in need. soon after mr. lawrence's death, an article appeared in an influential religious publication giving an estimate of the amount of his charities, and also stating that his pocket-book had written upon it a text of scripture, calculated to remind him of his duties in the distribution of his wealth. the text was said to be, "what shall it profit a man if he gain the whole world, and lose his own soul?" after making diligent search, the editor of this volume, rather to correct the statement in regard to the amount of his charities than for any other object, contradicted the assertion, and also expressed the opinion that mr. lawrence needed no such memorial as this to remind him of his duties; for the law of charity was too deeply graven on his heart to require the insertion of the text in the manner described. some time afterward, an old pocket-book was found, which had not probably been in use for many years, but which contained the text alluded to, inscribed in ink, though faded from the lapse of time and constant use. it may have been useful to him in early years, before he engaged systematically in the work of charity; but, during the latter years of his life, if we can judge from his writings, as well as from his daily actions, his sense of accountability was extreme, if there can be an extreme in the zealous performance of one's duty in this respect. if the class of politicians alluded to in the following extract could have foreseen the course of events with the same sagacity, it might have saved them from much uncertainty, and have been of service in their career: "we are in a poor way, politically, in this country. this practice of taking up demagogues for high office is no way to perpetuate liberty. the new party of native americans is likely to go forward, and will break up the whig party, and where it will stop is to be learned." "_march ._--spring opens upon us this morning with a frowning face; the whole heaven is veiled, and the horizon dark and lowering." "_may ._--my venerated mother finished her earthly course last friday, with the setting sun, which was emblematic of her end. she was such a woman as i am thankful to have descended from. many interesting circumstances connected with her life, before and after her marriage (in july, ), are worth recording. she was in her ninetieth year." (to his son.) "april "i began a record yesterday morning, referring to my position and duties thirty-eight years ago, when i left my father's house (one week after i was free), with less than twenty dollars in my possession. i came an unknown and unfriended young man, but feeling richer the morning after i came than i have ever felt since; so that i gave the man who came with me, in my father's chaise, a couple of dollars to save him from any expense, and insure him against loss, by his spending two days on the journey, for which he was glad of an excuse. had he been as industrious and temperate and frugal, he would have left his wife and children independent, instead of leaving them poor and dependent. these contrasts, and the duties they impose, have pressed heavily upon my strength for a few days past; and, in endeavoring to place in a clear view my hopes and wishes, i became pressed down, and, since yesterday, have been upon my abstinence remedy. my wish has been to do a good work for our athenæum and our institution for savings, by making it the interest of the savings institution to sell their building to the athenæum, so that a handsome and convenient building may be erected while we are about it. to this end, i have offered to supply the beautiful temple built for the washington bank, rent free, for one year, or a longer period to the end of time, while used as a savings bank; intending, by this, to express to those who deposit their money there that i feel deeply interested in their welfare, and would earnestly impress upon them the importance of saving, and, when they become rich, of spending for the good of their fellow-mortals the surplus which a bountiful father in heaven allows them to acquire. this surplus with me, at the present time, will be sufficient to allow me to speak with earnestness, sincerity, and power, to the tens of thousands of industrious _thomases_ and _marthas_,[ ] as well as to the young mechanics, or the youngsters who have had little sums deposited for their education. all these characters appreciate a kind act as fully as those who move in a different sphere in the world. " p. m.--i have just learned that there is some difficulty not easily overcome in this removal of the bank; and, after all, nothing may come out of my offer. if not, i shall have more spare means for something else." [ ] names of two faithful domestics. the value of the building thus offered was about twenty thousand dollars. owing to the difficulties alluded to in the preceding letter, the offer was declined, though the motive for the act was fully appreciated. (to a friend.) "my dear friend: i have this moment learned the death of your dear boy j. l., and am with you in spirit in this trying scene. our father adapts his discipline to our needs; and in this (although to our weak perception it may seem harsh discipline) he has a father's love and care of and for you; and the time will come when all will be made clear to you. in this trust and confidence, i hope both your dear wife and self will be able to say from the heart, 'thy will be done.' our business in this world is to prepare for another; and, if we act wisely, we shall view aright the calls upon us to make this world our great object, by attaining its honors, its houses, its lands, its praises for generosity, disinterestedness, and divers other things that pass well among men. where we hope to be welcomed, temptations are not needed. we pray, therefore, to be accepted, through the beloved, and so make all things work together to help us safely through our course. yours ever, a. l." to the agent of a manufactory in which he was largely interested he writes: "we must make a good thing out of this establishment, unless you ruin us by working on sundays. nothing but works of necessity should be done in holy time; and i am a firm believer in the doctrine that a blessing will more surely follow those exertions which are made with reference to our religious obligations, than upon those made without such reference. the more you can impress your people with a sense of religious obligation, the better they will serve you." chapter xxiii. letter from dr. sharp.--illness and death of son.--letters.--afflictions. the rev. dr. sharp, of the baptist denomination, who has been previously alluded to as a valued friend of mr. lawrence, had made a visit to england, the land of his birth, after an absence of forty years, and thus addresses him from leeds, july : "i esteem it one of the happy events of my life that i have been made personally acquainted with you. not certainly because of your kind benefactions to me and mine, but because i have enjoyed your conversation, and have been delighted with those manifestations of principle and conduct, which, let them grow under what christian culture they may, i know how to honor, to knowledge, and to love." the same gentleman writes, shortly afterwards: "i thank you for the kind manner in which you express yourself in regard to my occasional sermons. i never had any taste for controversy, nor for theological speculation; although, as a christian watchman, i have kept myself informed of the religious opinions that have been, and that are. i thank you, as does my dear wife, for your thoughtful concern of the sacred spot so dear both to my recollections and hopes. there, when life's journey is ended, i hope to rest by the side of those whose company and unfailing affection have gladdened so many of my years; and it has given me a subdued pleasure, when i have thought that my own bed of death would be so near that of the kind and gentle-hearted friend who provided me with mine. may all who shall repose near that interesting spot be imbued with a pure and loving christian spirit, that, when the trumpet shall sound, and the dead shall arise, we may all rise together in glorious forms, to be forever with the lord!" (to one of his partners.) "tremont-street, september , . "dear mr. parker: i am buoyant and afloat again, and able to enjoy the good things you are so liberal in providing. the widow's box of ointment was broken before its value was learned. the sermon is significant and practical. i would be thankful to improve under its teaching. will you send me two thousand dollars this morning in mr. sharp's clean money? thus allowing me the opportunity of expressing my gratitude to a merciful father above, that he still permits me to administer the good things he has intrusted to me. dear r. had a quiet night, although he did not sleep much during the first part. this experience is, indeed, the most trying; but i hope to be able to say truly, 'thy will be done.' your friend, "a. l. "c. h. parker, esq." the trying experience alluded to was the serious illness of his youngest son, robert, then a member of harvard college. he had for some time been troubled by a cough, which had now become alarming, and excited the worst apprehensions of his friends. in relation to this sickness, he writes several letters to his son, from which the following extracts are made: "october "we are in great anguish of spirit on account of dear r. we are getting reconciled to parting with the dear child, and to feel that he has done for us what any parents might feel thankful for, by living a good life, and in nineteen years giving us no cause to wish any one of them blotted out. if now called away, he will have lived a long life in a few years, and will be spared the trials and sufferings that flesh is heir to, and will be gathered like early fruit, before the blight or frost or mildew has marked it." "october . "r. remains gradually failing with consumption, but without much suffering, and perfectly aware of his situation. he never appeared so lovely as he has on his sick bed; so that his happy spirit and resignation, without a complaint or a wish that anything had been done differently, keep us as happy as we can be under such a weight of apprehension that we may so soon part with him. he asked me yesterday what i should write to you about him. i told him i should say that he was very sick, and might never be any better; but that he might also be better if the great physician saw best, as it is only for him to speak, and the disease would be cured. if he were taken before me, i told him, it would be, i hoped, to welcome me to the company of the loved ones of our kindred and friends who have gone before, and to the society of angels and just men made perfect, who compose the great congregation that are gathered there from all the world, that god's love, through christ, has redeemed. god so loved the world that he gave his only-begotten son to redeem it from sin; and his teachings should not be lost on us, while we have power to profit by them. in this spirit, we talked of the good men whose writings have an influence in helping on this good work; and especially we talked of dr. doddridge, and his 'rise and progress.' "p. m.--i have been with m. to brookline since writing the above. the falling leaves teach a beautiful lesson. the green leaf, the rose, the cypress, now enclosed to you, and all from your grounds, are instructive. these were cut within the last two hours." "november . "dear r. had a trying day yesterday, and we thought might not continue through the night. he is still alive, and may continue some time; was conscious and clear in his mind after he revived yesterday; feels ready and willing and hoping to be with his saviour." "november . "we toil for treasure through our years of active labor, and, when acquired, are anxious to have it well secured against the time when we or our children may have need of it; and we feel entire confidence in this security. we allow the common flurries of the world to pass by without disturbing our quiet or comfort essentially. what treasure of a temporal character is comparable with a child who is everything a christian parent could desire, and who is just coming into mature life universally respected and beloved, and who is taken before any cloud or spot has touched him, and who has left bright and clear marks upon those who have come within his sphere of influence? such was r. the green earth of mount auburn covers his mortal remains; the heavens above have his immortal; he was a ripe child of god, and i therefore feel that blessed assurance of entire security which adds another charm to that blessed company to which i hope, through mercy, to be admitted in our father's own good time. this early death of our beloved youngest comes upon us as an additional lesson, necessary, without doubt, to prepare us for our last summons; and the reasons which now seem mysterious will be fully understood, and will show us that our good required this safe keeping of this treasure, so liable to be made our idol. r. had passed the dangerous period of his college life without blemish, and was only absent from prayers three times (which were for good cause), and had a settled purpose, from the beginning of his college life, so to conduct in all respects as to give his parents no cause for anxiety; and, for the last year, i have felt perfectly easy in regard to him. we have visited his grave to-day. the teachings there are such as speak to the heart with an eloquence that language cannot. dear s. and r.! she the only daughter, he the only son of his mother! and both placed there since you left!" "november . "president h., in a letter a few days before i wrote to you, had this sentiment: 'the old oak, shorn of its green branches, is more liable to decay.' applying this to the old oak fronting the graves of those loved ones who have passed on, the outspread branches of which make the spot more lovely, i was more deeply impressed than mere words could have impressed me. a few months after the death of s., a violent storm tore off a main limb of the old oak about midway between the ground and the top, in such way as to mar its beauty, and endanger its life. the limb fell upon the graves, but avoided the injury to the monuments which might have been expected. since then, i noticed that some of the lower limbs cast a sort of blight or mildew upon the pure white of your mother's monument, and they required dressing. i desired the 'master' to do this, and also to come and heal the wound occasioned by the loss of this main limb on that side of the tree. the trimming out was done at once; the other was left undone until the request was renewed. on my visit there last week, i discovered, for the first time, that the wound had been healed, and the body of the tree appeared smooth, and of its natural color, and its health such as to give good hope that its other branches will spread out their shade more copiously than before. what a lesson was here! the appeal was to the heart; and, in my whole life, i remember none more eloquent. to-day i have been to mount auburn again; and the spot seems to be none other than the gate of heaven.'" "december . "twenty-five years ago this morning, i came home from plymouth, where i had spent the night previous, and heard webster's great address. he has never done anything to surpass it; and it now is a model and a text for the youth of our country. the people who then were present are principally taken hence; and the consideration of how the time allowed has been spent, and how it now fares with us, is of deep interest. god in mercy grant us to act our part so as to meet his approval, when called to answer for the trust in our hands! i have thought of the emblem of the 'old oak,' till it has assumed a beauty almost beyond anything in nature; and, if i live to see the fresh leaves of spring spreading their covering over the head of the stranger or the friend who may stop under its shade, i will have a sketch of the spot painted, if the right person can be found. there is in the spot and scene a touching eloquence that language can scarcely communicate. the dear child's expressive look, and motion of his finger, when he said 'i am going up,' will abide with me while i live. the dealings of a father with me have been marked, but ofttimes mysterious for a season. now many things are clear; and all others will be, i trust, when i am fitted to know them." (to his grandson.) "boston, december , . "my dear f.: your charming letter of th november reached me by last steamer, and showed, in a practical way, how important the lessons of childhood are to the proper performance of the duties of manhood. it carried me back to the time when my own mother taught me, and, from that period, forward through the early lessons inculcated upon your father, and especially to the time when he began to write me letters, which i always encouraged him in, and thus formed a habit which has been the best security for our home affections that can be devised when separated from those most dear to us. if the prayers and labors of your ancestors are answered by your good progress and good conduct in the use of the privileges you enjoy, you will come forth a better and more useful man than any of the generations preceding; for you enjoy advantages that none of us have enjoyed. my heart beats quicker and stronger whenever i think of you; and my prayers ascend for you at all hours, and through every scene connecting us. last saturday, i had the first sleigh-ride of the season. the day was beautiful; and there was just snow enough to make the sleigh run smoothly. i visited mount auburn; and the day and place, the 'old oak' standing in front of our graves leafless and apparently almost lifeless, spoke to me a language as intelligible as if utterance had been given in sounds. i thought of you, dear f., as my eldest grandson, and in a manner the representative of the family to future times, and asked myself whether i was doing all i ought to make you feel the force of your trusts. there lie the mortal parts of your dear aunt and uncle, both placed there since you left home; and the spirits of both, i trust, are now rejoicing with the multitude of the beloved ones, whose work here is well done, and whom the saviour has bid to 'come unto him,' and through whom they hoped to be accepted. dear r. seems to call to us to 'come up;' and, whether i ever see you again or not, i pray you never to forget that he was such an uncle as you might well feel anxious to copy in your conduct to your parents; for he had a settled principle to do nothing to cause his parents anxiety. so, if you see your young companions indulging in any evil practices which may lead to bad habits, avoid them; for prevention is better than remedy. when you stand near the 'old oak,' whether its branches are green with shady leaves, or dry from natural decay, let it speak to your conscience, 'come up,' and receive the reward promised to the faithful. "ever your affectionate grandfather, a. l." the year closed with many sad recollections; and nearly every letter written at this period dwells upon the mournful events which had marked its course. in one letter, he says, "death has cut right and left in my family." in a little more than twelve months, ten of his own immediate family and near connections were removed, and most of them when least expected. although bowed down, and penetrated with grief at each successive blow, there was a deep-seated principle in mr. lawrence's heart, which made him rise above them all, and receive each call in that spirit of submission which the christian faith alone can give. his own sorrows seemed only to augment his sympathy for the woes of others, and to excite him to renewed efforts in the great cause of charity and truth, to which he had consecrated every talent he possessed. in this spirit he makes an entry in his memorandum-book on the first day of the opening year. chapter xxiv. expenditures.--letters.--donation for library at williams college.--views on study of anatomy. "_january , ._--the business of the past year has been very prosperous in our country; and my own duties seem more clearly pointed out than ever before. what am i left here for, and the young branches taken home? is it not to teach me the danger of being unfaithful to my trusts? dear r. taken! the delight of my eyes, a treasure secured! which explains better than in any other way what my father sees me in need of. i hope to be faithful in applying some of my trusts to the uses god manifestly explains to me by his dealings. i repeat, 'thy will be done.'" that his trusts, so far as the use of his property was concerned, were faithfully performed, may be inferred from the fact that, in july, or at the termination of the half-year, in making up his estimate of income and expenditures, he remarks that the latter are nearly twenty thousand dollars in advance of the former. mr. lawrence was often much disturbed by the publicity which attended his benevolent operations. there are, perhaps, thousands of the recipients of his favors now living, who alone are cognizant of his bounty towards themselves; but when a public institution became the subject of his liberality, the name of the donor could not so easily be concealed. the following letter will illustrate the mode which he sometimes was obliged to adopt to avoid that publicity; and it was his custom not unfrequently to contribute liberally to objects of charity through some person on whom he wished the credit of the donation to fall. (to president hopkins.) "boston, jan. , . "my dear friend: since saturday, i have thought much of the best mode of helping your college to a library building without getting into the newspapers, and have concluded that you had better assume the responsibility of building it; and, if anybody objects that you can't afford it, you may say you have friends whom you hope to have aid from; and i will be responsible to you for the cost to an amount not exceeding five thousand dollars; so that you may feel at liberty to prepare such a building as you will be satisfied with, and which will do credit to your taste and judgment fifty years hence. if i am taken before this is finished, which must be this year, my estate will be answerable, as i have made an entry in my book, stating the case. i had written a longer story, after you left me, on saturday evening, but have laid it aside to hand you this, with best wishes, and that all may be done 'decently and in order.' i will pay a thousand or two dollars whenever it is wanted for the work. "your friend, a. l." mr. lawrence had read in the newspapers the memorial to congress of mrs. martha gray, widow of captain robert gray, the well-known navigator, who discovered, first entered, and gave its present name to the columbia river. captain gray had been in the naval service of his country; and his widow, who had survived him for forty years, amidst many difficulties and struggles for support, petitioned for a pension, in consideration of the important discovery, and for the services rendered by her husband. mr. lawrence sent to mrs. gray a memorial of his regard, with the following note: "as a token of respect to the widow of one whose name and fame make a part of the property of every american who has a true heart, will mrs. gray accept the accompanying trifle from one, who, though personally unknown, felt her memorial to congress through every nerve, and will hope to be allowed the pleasure of paying his respects in person when his health permits." about the same date, he says to president hopkins: "i am happily employed, these days, in administering upon my own earnings, and have hope of hearing soon from you and your good work. i am still on my good behavior, but have been able to chat a little with mr. d., and administer to his excellency governor briggs, who has had a severe trial of fever and ague. on saturday he rode an hour with me, and returned with his face shortened considerably. i can only say to you that i believe i am left here to do something more to improve and help on the brethren and sons who have more mind and less money than i have; but the precise way to do it is not so clear to me as it may be by and by." after receiving the proposed plan of the library which he had authorized to be built at williams college, mr. lawrence writes to the same, on may : "i left off, after a brief note to you, three hours since, furnishing you a text on epicureanism to preach from, which i trust will find favor and use. "what think you? why, that i am interfering in your business. when i awoke this morning, thinks i to myself, my friend won't have elbow-room in the centre of his octagon; and, as there is plenty of land to build upon, he may as well make his outside to outside fifty feet as forty-four feet, and thus give himself more space in the centre. the alcoves appear to me to be very nice; and, in the matter of expense, my young friend a. l. h. will see to that, to the tune of one or two thousand dollars. so you may feel yourself his representative in acting in this matter." * * * * * "_april ._--my birth-day! three-score years old! my life, hanging by a thread for years, and apparently, at times, within a few hours of its close, still continued, while so many around in the prime of life and vigor have been called away!" (to a friend.) "tremont-street, april, . "my friend ----: i have arisen after my siesta, and, as the quakers say, am moved by the spirit to speak. so you will give what i have to say the value you consider it worth. and, in the first place, i will say, that this period of the year is so full of deeply-interesting memories of the past, that i hardly know where to begin. from my earliest days, the story of the intelligence reaching groton at ten o'clock on the th april, , that the british were coming, was a most interesting one. my father mounted gen. prescott's horse, and rode, at a speed which young men even of the present day would think rapid, to the south end of the town, by sandy pond, and notified the minute-men to assemble at the centre of the town forthwith. he made a range of seven miles, calling on all the men, and was back at his father's house in forty minutes. at one o'clock, p. m., the company was in readiness to march, and under way to concord to meet the british. they kept on until they reached cambridge; but, before that, they had seen and heard all that had been done by the troops sent out to concord. the plough was left in the field; and my grandfather, with his horse and wagon, brought provisions to his neighbors and his son shortly after. my grandmother on my mother's side, then living in concord, has described to me over and over again the appearance of the british, as she first saw them coming over the bill from lincoln, about two miles from the centre of concord; the sun just rising; and the red coats, glittering muskets, and fearful array, so captivating to us in peace-times, appearing to her as the angel of destruction, to be loathed and hated. she therefore left her house with her children (the house was standing within the last thirty years, and may be now, near the turn to go through bedford, half a mile or more this side of concord meeting-house), and went through the fields, and over the hills, to a safe place of retreat. the british, you are aware, on their retreat, had a hard time of it. they were shot down like wild game, and left by the wayside to die or be taken up as it might happen. three thus left within gun-shot of my grandmother's house were taken up, and died in the course of a very few hours. but what i am coming to is this: lord percy, you know, was sent out from boston with a strong body of troops to protect those first sent out; and, but for this, the whole would have been destroyed or made prisoners. about three years ago, lord prudhoe, second son of lord percy, was here; and i had considerable delightful intercourse with him. he, as you may well suppose, was deeply interested in all that related to his father; and i met him in the library at cambridge, where he was very observant of the order and arrangement, and especially of the curious old documents and books, so nicely arranged, touching the early history of the province. after leaving cambridge, he went to mr. cushing's and mr. pratt's, at watertown, and was much interested in all that we in this city are proud of. i had not strength to be devoted to him more than an hour or two at a time, having then some other strangers under my care, belonging to gov. colebrooke's family, lady colebrooke being a niece of major andré; so that i had only some half-dozen interviews with him, all of which were instructive and interesting." the dissection of human bodies by medical students has always been a subject of deep-rooted prejudice in new england; and, even to this day, it exists in so great a degree that the facilities for this important and absolutely essential branch of instruction are not nearly as great as they should be, nor such as are afforded in the schools of other countries. when these difficulties shall be removed, and the prejudice allayed against the acquisition of a kind of knowledge which it is of the utmost interest to every one that the surgeon and physician shall receive, many young men will remain at home, and acquire that education which, with few exceptions, might be attained here as well as by a resort to foreign schools. in this prejudice mr. lawrence could not sympathize, as will be seen in the following extract of a letter to a friend * * * * * "many years ago, there was a great stir, on account of graves being robbed for subjects for dissection, and some laws were passed: the want became so pressing, that subjects were brought from a long distance, and in a very bad state. dr. warren was attending me, and said he had invited the legislature, then in session, to attend a lecture in the medical college. he told me he intended to explain the necessity of having fit subjects, he having been poisoned in his lecture to his students a few days before, and was then suffering from it. he invited me also to attend, which i did, and took with me my precious boy r. while lecturing, the doctor had a man's hand, which he had just taken off at the hospital, brought in, nicely wrapped up in a wet cloth, by his son j. m. w., then a youngster. there were present about two hundred representatives; and, as soon as they saw the real hand, two or three fainted nearly away, and a half-dozen or more made their escape from the room. the scene was so striking, that i told dr. warren it was a pity that such a prejudice should exist; and, as i was desirous to be of use as far as in my power, and probably should be a good subject for him, i would gladly have him use me in the way to instruct the young men; but to take care of my remains, and have them consumed or buried, unless my bones were kept. i also told him that i desired very much to have this false feeling corrected, and perhaps my example might do something toward it. some time afterwards, i spoke to ---- upon the subject; but i found it gave pain, and the plan was given up. * * * a. l." "outward gains are ordinarily attended with inward losses. he indeed is rich in grace whose graces are not hindered by his riches." in a letter, dated june , mr. lawrence bears testimony to the character and services of the late louis dwight, so long and favorably known as the zealous secretary of the massachusetts prison discipline society: "i have this moment had an interview with louis dwight, who leaves for europe in two days. my labors and experience with him for nearly a quarter of a century enable me to testify to his ability, and unceasing efforts in the cause." "_may , ._--the following commentary[ ] on the lectures of the rev. dr. ---- accompanied their return to me from one to whom i had loaned the volume. i have now no recollection who the person is; but the words are full, and to the point: "'this sucking the marrow all out of our bible, and leaving it as dry as a husk, pray what good to man, or honor to god, does that do? if we are going to fling away the old book from which ten thousand thousand men have drawn and are still drawing the life of their souls, then let us stand boldly up, and fling it away, cover and all; unless, indeed, a better way would be to save the boards and gilding, and make a family checker-board of it.'" [ ] supposed to be by hon. jeremiah mason. chapter xxv. donation to lawrence academy.--correspondence with r. g. parker.--sleigh-rides.--letters.--aversion to notoriety.--children's hospital. mr. lawrence had always taken a deep interest in the academy at groton, of which he, with all his brothers and sisters, had been members. the residence of his former master, james brazer, esq., with whom he lived when an apprentice, bordered on the academy grounds. it was a large, square, old-fashioned house, and easily convertible to some useful purpose, whenever the growing prosperity of the institution should require it. he accordingly purchased the estate; and, in july, , presented it to the board of trustees by a deed, with the following preamble: "to all persons to whom these presents shall come, i, amos lawrence, of the city of boston, in the county of suffolk, and commonwealth of massachusetts, esquire, send greeting: "born and educated in groton, in the county of middlesex, in said commonwealth, and deeply interested in the welfare of that town, and especially of the lawrence academy, established in it by my honored father, samuel lawrence, and his worthy associates, and grateful for the benefits which his and their descendants have derived from that institution, i am desirous to promote its future prosperity; trusting that those charged with the care and superintendence of it will ever strive zealously and faithfully to maintain it as a nursery of piety and sound learning." this had been preceded by a donation of two thousand dollars, with smaller gifts, at various dates, of valuable books, a telescope, etc., besides the foundation of several free scholarships. the present prosperity of the academy is, however, mainly due to his brother, william lawrence, who has been by far its greatest benefactor; having, in , made a donation of ten thousand dollars, followed by another, in , of five thousand, and, finally, by will, bequeathed to it the sum of twenty thousand. the following memoranda are copied from mr. lawrence's donation-book: "_august , ._--i have felt a deep interest in groton academy for a long time; and while brother l. was living, and its president, he had it in charge to do what should be best to secure its greatest usefulness, and, while perfecting these plans, he was suddenly taken from this world. since then, i have kept on doing for it; which makes my outlay for the school about twenty thousand dollars. i had prepared ten thousand dollars more, which brother william has assumed, and has taken the school upon himself, to give it such facilities as will make it a very desirable place for young men to enter to get a good preparation for business or college life." in an address[ ] delivered at the jubilee celebration of the lawrence academy, held in groton, july , , the rev. james means, a former preceptor of the institution, thus speaks of the benefactions of the two brothers: "it was my good fortune, after becoming the preceptor, in , to have frequent intercourse with them in this particular regard,--the interests of the school. i shall never forget the impression made upon my mind by the depth of their feeling, and the strength of their attachment. they were both of them men of business; had been trained to business habits, and would not foolishly throw away the funds which god had intrusted to them as stewards. but it seemed to me then, as the event has proved, that they were willing to go as far as they could see their way clear before them to establish this school on a foundation that never should be shaken. "there was a singular difference in the character of these two brothers, and there is a similar difference in the results of their benefactions. i have reason personally to know that they conferred frequently and earnestly respecting the parts which they should severally perform in upbuilding this school. there was an emulation; but there was no selfishness, there was no difference of opinion. both loved the academy, both wished to bless it and make it a blessing; each desired to accommodate the feelings of the other, each was unwilling to interfere with the other, each was ready to do what the other declined. out of more than forty-five thousand dollars provided for the academy by mr. william lawrence, forty thousand still remain in the hands of the trustees for purposes of instruction. of the library mr. amos lawrence says, in one of his letters: 'i trust it will be second to no other in the country except that of cambridge, and that the place will become a favorite resort of students of all ages before another fifty years have passed away. when he presented a cabinet of medals, he writes, 'i present them to the institution in the name of my grandsons, f. w. and a. l., in the hope and expectation of implanting among their early objects of regard this school, so dear to us brothers of the old race, and which was more dear to our honored father, who labored with his hands, and gave from his scanty means, in the beginning, much more in proportion than we are required to do, if we place it at the head of this class of institutions, by furnishing all it can want.'" [ ] see account of jubilee of lawrence academy. at the same celebration, the hon. john p. bigelow, president of the day, in his opening address, said: "charles sprague, so loved and so honored as a man and a poet, was an intimate friend of the lamented william and amos lawrence. i invited him hither to-day. he cannot come, but sends a minstrel's tribute to their memory, from a harp, which, till now, has been silent for many years. 'these, these no marble columns need: their monument is in the deed; a moral pyramid, to stand as long as wisdom lights the land. the granite pillar shall decay, the chisel's beauty pass away; but this shall last, in strength sublime, unshaken through the storms of time.'" on july , mr. lawrence made a considerable donation of books to the johnson school for girls, accompanied by a note to r. g. parker, esq., the principal, from which the following extract is taken: "the sleigh-ride comes to me as though daguerreotyped, and i can hardly realize that i am here to enjoy still further the comfort that i then enjoyed. if the pupils of your school at that time were gratified, i was more than satisfied, and feel myself a debtor to your school of this day; and, in asking you to accept, for the use of the five hundred dear girls who attend upon your instruction, such of the books accompanying as you think proper for them, i only pay a debt which i feel to be justly due. the johnson school is in my own district; and many a time, as i have passed it in my rides, have i enjoyed the appropriate animation and glee they have manifested in their gambols and sports during their intermission, and have felt as though i would gladly be among them to encourage them. say to them, although personally unknown, i have looked on, and felt as though i wanted to put my hand upon their heads, and give them a word of counsel, encouragement, and my blessing. this is what i am left here for; and, when the master calls, if i am only well enough prepared to pass examination, and receive the 'well done' promised to such as are faithful, then i may feel that all things here are less than nothing in comparison to the riches of the future." the allusion to the sleigh-ride was called forth by a note received from mr. parker a day or two before, in which that gentleman writes: "as you have not the credit of a very good memory, so far as your own good actions are concerned, it will be proper that i should remind you that the occasion to which i refer was the time that the pupils of the franklin school were about enjoying a sleigh-ride, from which pleasure a large number were excluded. on that occasion, as you were riding by, you were induced to inquire the reason of the exclusion of so many sad little faces; and, on learning that their inability to contribute to the expense of the excursion would cause them to be left behind, you very generously directed that all should be furnished with seats, and a draft made upon you for the additional expense." to a fondness for children, there seemed to be united in mr. lawrence a constant desire to exert an influence upon the youthful mind; and rarely was the opportunity passed over, when, by a word of advice or encouragement, or the gift of an appropriate book, he thought he could effect his object. his person was well known to the boys and girls who passed him in the streets; and, in the winter season, his large, open sleigh might often be seen filled with his youthful friends, whom he had allowed to crowd in to the utmost capacity of his vehicle. the acquaintances thus made would often, by his invitation, call to see him at his residence, and there would receive a kind notice, joined with such words of encouragement and advice as could not sometimes fail to have a lasting and beneficial influence. "_august ._--'give an account of thy stewardship, for thou mayest be no longer steward.'--luke : . "how ought this to be sounded in our ears! and how ought we to be influenced by the words! surely there can be no double meaning here. the words are emphatic, clear, and of vast concern to every man. let us profit by them while it is day, lest the night overtake us, when we can no longer do the work of the day." on the d of august, mr. lawrence sent a cane to governor briggs, at pittsfield, with the following inscription graven upon it: from the "old oak" of mount auburn: +a memento of loved ones gone before+. amos lawrence to george n. briggs. . the cane was accompanied by the following note: "my dear friend: your letter of monday last came, as all your letters do, just right as a comforter through a feeble week; for i have been confined to the house, and unable to speak above a whisper, most of the time, and am still not allowed to talk or work much. the corresponding week of the last year, when our precious r. was your guest, comes over my mind and heart, at all hours of the night and the day, in a manner i need not attempt to describe to _you_; and it is only distressing when i see the suffering of his dear mother. but we feel that he is now the guest of the supreme governor, whose care and kindness takes from him all that can interrupt his perfect happiness through all time; and this surely ought to satisfy us. the good opinion of good men you know how to value, and can therefore judge how much i prize yours. acting upon the public mind for good as you do, the memorial from the old oak will not be without its use in your instruction and advice to the young, whose special improvement and safety you have so much at heart. the cane is a part of the same branch as that sent to president h., and came to me since noon to-day. accept it with assurances of continued and increased affection and respect. most sincerely yours, "a. l." "_august ._--called at ---- shop, washington-street, and there saw a nice-looking boy seventeen or eighteen years old, named t. s., to whom i gave a word of good counsel and encouragement. shall look after him a little, as i like his manners." "_august ._--a woman writes a figuring letter, calling herself s. m.; says she is sixty years old; has lost her sons, and wants help; came from new hampshire. also, n. t. wants aid to study, or something else. also, a mr. f., with a great share of hair on his face, gold ring, and chains, wants to travel for his health; has a wife and child. those three cases within twenty-four hours are very forbidding." in a letter of advice to a young gentleman who was a stranger to him, but who through a mutual friend had asked his opinion on a matter of business, he writes, on sept. th: "your letter of the th is a flattering token of confidence and respect, that i wish were better merited. such as i am, i am at your service; _but there is nothing of me_. i have been stricken down within a few days, and am hardly able to stand up. a kind father keeps me vigilant by striking without notice, and when least expected; and on some one of these occasions i am to close the account of my stewardship, and no matter when, if the accounts are right. i cannot advise you except in one particular: do with your might what your hands find to do; spend no man's money but your own, and look carefully after little items that tempt you." the notoriety attendant upon acts of beneficence which mr. lawrence instinctively shrunk from, and which so often deters the sensitive from the good acts which, without this penalty, they would gladly perform, was, as has before been stated, a subject of serious annoyance. this is illustrated by the following note, written to mr. parker, the principal of the johnson school for girls: "october , . "i hope to send a few volumes to help forward the young guides of the mind and heart of the sons of new england, wherever they may be; for it is the mothers who act upon their sons more than all others. i hope to be felt as long as i am able, to work, and am quite as vain as i ought to be of my name and fame, but am really afraid i shall wear out my welcome if my little paragraphs are printed so frequently in the newspapers. i gave some books last monday, and saw them acknowledged yesterday in the newspaper, and since have received the letter from the children. now, my dear sir, i merely want to say, that i hope you will not put me in the newspaper at present; and, when my work is done here, if you have anything to say about me that will not hurt my children and grandchildren, _say on_." a few days afterwards, mr. lawrence received a letter from the parties to whom the books above alluded to had been sent, inquiring if he could suggest the name of some benevolent individual, to whom application might be made for aid in furthering the objects of the association. he writes: "in reply to yours of to-day, i know of no one, but must request that my name be not thrust forward, as though i was to be a byword for my vanity. i want to do good, but am sorry to be published, as in the recent case." during the autumn of this year, mr. lawrence purchased the large building in mason-street, which had, for many years, been used as the medical school of harvard college, with the intention of founding a charitable hospital for children. he had heard of the manner in which such institutions were conducted in france, and believed that a great benefit would be conferred on the poorer classes by caring for their sick children when their own poverty or occupations prevented their giving them that attention which could be secured in an institution of this kind. the great object was to secure the confidence of that class, and to overcome their repugnance to giving up their children to the care of others. the plan had not been tried in this country; though in france, where there exists a much larger and more needy population, the system was completely successful. although but an experiment, mr. lawrence considered the results which might be obtained of sufficient magnitude to warrant the large outlays required. he viewed it not only as a mode of relieving sickness and suffering, but as a means of exercising a humanizing effect upon those who should come directly under its influence, as well as upon that class of persons generally for whose benefit it was designed. his heart was ever open to the cry of suffering; and he was equally ready to relieve it, whether it came from native or foreigner, bond or free. the building which had been purchased for the object, from its internal arrangement, and from its too confined position, was found less suitable than another, in the southerly part of the city, where an open view and ample grounds were more appropriate for the purpose; while there was no cause for that prejudice which, it was found, existed toward the project in the situation first thought of. with characteristic liberality, mr. lawrence offered the medical college, now not required, to the boston society of natural history at the cost, with a subscription from himself of five thousand dollars. the offer was accepted. an effort was made by the society to raise by subscription the necessary funds; and the result was their possession of the beautiful building since occupied by their various collections in the different departments of natural history. the large house on washington-street was soon put in complete repair, suitably furnished, provided with physicians and nurses, and opened as the children's infirmary, with accommodations for thirty patients. the following spring was marked by a great degree of mortality and suffering among the emigrant passengers, and consequently the beds were soon occupied by whole families of children, who arrived in the greatest state of destitution and misery. many cases of ship-fever were admitted; so that several of the attendants were attacked by it, and the service became one of considerable danger. many now living in comfort attribute the preservation of their life to the timely succor then furnished; and, had no other benefits followed, the good bestowed during the few weeks of spring would have compensated for the labor and cost. this institution continued in operation for about eighteen months, during which time some hundreds of patients were provided for. the prejudices of parents, which had been foreseen, were found to exist, but disappeared with the benefits received; and the whole experiment proved conclusively that such an institution may be sustained in this community with vast benefit to a large class of the suffering; and it is hoped that it may one day lead to an establishment of the kind on a larger scale, and with a more extensive organization and means of usefulness. in this experiment, it was found, from the limited number of beds, that the cost of each patient was much greater than if four times the number had been provided for, and so large that mr. lawrence decided that the same amount of money could be made to afford relief to much larger numbers of the same class of sufferers applied in some other way. he was a constant visitor at the infirmary, and took a deep interest in many of the patients, whose varied history had been recited to him; and in after years, as he passed through the streets, many an eye would brighten as it caught a glimpse of the kind friend who had whispered words of consolation and hope in the lonely hours of sickness. chapter xxvi. captain a. s. mckenzie.--diary.--aid to ireland.--madam prescott.--sir william colebrooke. (to capt. alexander slidell mckenzie, u. s. n.) "november , . "my dear sir: i was exceedingly gratified by your kind remembrance of me, a few days since, in sending me a copy of your 'life of decatur,' which to its merits as a biography adds the charm of bringing before me my old friend bainbridge, and the writer, whom i have felt a strong interest in ever since reading his 'year in spain;' for my son resided in the same family soon after you left, and made me acquainted with you before i had seen you. i am a 'minute-man' in life, but, while i remain here, shall always be glad to take you by the hand when you visit us. whether we meet here is of less importance than that our work be done, and be said by the master to be well done, when called off. respectfully and faithfully yours, "a. l." "_december ._--thirty-nine years have passed since my first entry in this book; and, in reviewing this period, i have abundant reason to bless god for his great mercies, and especially for continuing us four brothers, engaged as we have been in business, an unbroken band to this day, and for the success attending our labors. we have been blessed more than most men, and have the power, by our right use of these blessings, of benefiting our fellow-men. god grant that the spirits of our parents may be cheered in their heavenly home by our doing the work here that we ought to do! to my descendants i commend this memorial, with the prayer that they may each of them be better than i am." * * * "fifteen years hence, and the chief interest in us will be found in our mount auburn enclosure; and we ought to look well to the comment." as an expression of the feeling here referred to, he purchased a gold box of beautiful workmanship, and forwarded it to his youngest brother, then a resident of lowell, with the following inscription engraven upon it: "behold, how good and how pleasant it is for brethren to dwell together in unity!" to samuel lawrence, from his brother amos. "_december ._--rode to-day to the asylum for the blind with major arthur lawrence, of the rifle brigade, british army, and had a very interesting visit. dr. howe very attentive; and laura bridgman and oliver caswell both appeared well." "_december ._--rev. mr. rogers said to-day, 'gold is not the coin of heaven: if it had been, christ would have been rich; but he was a poor man.'" "_january , ._--in july last, i had spent the advance of my income, but am thankful now to be able to state the case differently, being in the receipt of ample means to be a comfort to the needy." from the various entries quoted in his diary, it will be inferred that mr. lawrence's means for charitable distribution varied considerably in amount from year to year. to explain this difference, it may not be amiss to state here, that he had, from the first efforts to establish home manufactures in new england, taken a deep interest in their success, and had consequently invested a large proportion of his property in the various manufacturing corporations which had been built up in lowell and other towns in massachusetts and new hampshire. the great fluctuations in this department of industry are known to every one; for, while the returns of one year would be ample, those of the next year would, from embarrassments in the commercial world, or from some other cause, be little or nothing. "_january ._--t. r. and s. j., two englishmen in the employ of j. c., mended our pump to-day. i gave them some books and a word of counsel, and hope to observe their progress." "_february ._--t. j. called, and is to embark to-morrow, on his way to the war in mexico. he asked me to give him money to buy a pistol, which i declined, as i could not wish them success in mexico; but gave him some books, a bible, and good counsel." during the month of february, an appeal was made to the citizens of boston in behalf of the famished population of ireland, and resulted in the sending to that country a large quantity of food and clothing. mr. lawrence contributed himself towards the object, and, as was often the case, endeavored to interest others equally with himself. on the th of that month, he addressed a note to j. a. stearns, esq., principal of the mather school, at south boston, for the pupils of his school composing the lawrence association. this association, comprising a large number of boys and girls, had been formed for moral and intellectual improvement, and had been named in honor of mr. lawrence, who had, from its commencement, taken a deep interest in its success, and had often contributed books and money when needed. "wednesday, march . "my friends: the value of the offering to suffering ireland from our city will be enhanced by the numbers contributing, as the offering will do more good as an expression of sympathy than as a matter of relief. the spirit of dear r. seems to speak through your 'oak leaf,'[ ] and to say, 'let all who will of the association subscribe a half-dollar each, and all others a quarter each, for their suffering brethren, and children of a common father.' a. l. "p. s.--the purses were presents to me, and must be returned. one of them from the lady of sir john strachan, herself a descendant of one of our boston girls; the two open-work ones from ladies in this city. take from them what is required, and return the balance, if any be left. if more is required, let me know, as i do not know the amount in the purses. "a. l." [ ] a little newspaper published by the association. one hundred and two members of the association, and four hundred and thirty-eight other members of the school, in all five hundred and forty, availed themselves of the privilege thus offered them, and contributed the sum of one hundred and sixty dollars towards the object. at the church in brattle-street, a collection was taken in aid of the same object; and, among other contributions, was a twenty-dollar bank-note, with the following attached to it, probably by mr. lawrence: "a ship of war to carry bread to the hungry and suffering, instead of powder and ball to inflict more suffering on our brethren,--children of the same father,--is as it should be; and this is in aid of the plan." among the most respected and valued friends of mr. lawrence was the venerable madam prescott, widow of the late judge william prescott, and mother of the distinguished historian of "ferdinand and isabella." years seemed rather to quicken her naturally warm sympathies for the distresses of others; and, at the age of more than four-score, she was to be daily seen on foot in the streets, actively engaged upon her errands of mercy. mr. lawrence had, the year before, found a small volume, entitled the "comforts of old age," by sir thomas bernard; and had sent it to several of his friends, principally those in advanced age, asking for some record of their experience. his note to madam prescott on this subject was as follows. "march , . "dear madam prescott: i have been a long time anxious to receive a favor from you, and have felt diffident in asking it; but am now at the required state of resolution. the book i send you is so much in character with your own life, that my grandchildren, who love you, will read to their grandchildren your words, written by your own hand in this book, if you will but place them there. i must beg you, my excellent friend, to believe that i am desirous of securing for my descendants some of your precious encouragements in the discipline of life. "your friend, "amos lawrence." the volume was returned with the following record: "boston, march , . "my dear sir: you ask me what are the comforts of old age. i answer, the retrospection of a well-spent life. the man who devotes himself to the cause of humanity, who clothes the naked, feeds the hungry, soothes the sorrows of the afflicted, and comforts the mourner,--whom each rising sun finds in the contemplation of some good deed, and each night closes with the assurance that it has been performed,--surely such a life must be the comfort of an old age. but where shall we find such a man? may i not be permitted to apply the character to my highly valued and respected friend, whose charities are boundless, and who daily dispenses blessings to all around him? may the enduring oak be emblematical of the continuance of your life! i depend much upon accompanying you to mount auburn, and to visit the spot which contains the precious relics of him whose life it is sweet to contemplate, and whose death has taught us how a christian should die. the perusal of this little volume has increased my veneration and friendship for its owner. "respectfully and affectionately, "c. g. prescott." "mem. _by a. l., may , ._--madam p., now much passed four-score years of age (born august , ), is as bright and active in body and mind as most ladies of fifty." * * * * * "_april ._--mrs. t. called to ask aid for a poor widow, which i declined, by telling her i did not hear or read people's stories from necessity, and i could not inquire this evening. she claims to be acquainted with rev. mr. ---- and rev. mr. ----. she gave me a severe lecture, and berated me soundly." "_april ._--mrs. c., of lowell, asks me to loan her three hundred dollars to furnish a boarding-house for twelve young ladies at s., which i declined by mail this morning." in reply to sir william colebrooke, governor of new brunswick, who requested mr. lawrence to notify certain poor people in the neighborhood of boston that their deposits in the frederickstown savings' bank, which had been previously withheld, would be paid by means of an appropriation for the purpose recently made by the provincial assembly, he writes: "boston, april , . "my dear sir william: your kind letter of the th instant reached me on the th, and is most welcome and grateful, in making me the medium of so much solid comfort to the numerous people whose earnings are thus restored to them through your unceasing and faithful labors. may god reward you, and enable you to enjoy through life the elevated satisfaction that follows such good works to those who can give you nothing but their prayers! it is alike creditable to your provincial government and those true principles which are the best riches of all free governments; and i hope may exercise some good influence upon our state governments, which have done injustice to many poor persons who have given credit to their promises. i have caused your notice to be scattered broadcast, and trust that all who have any interest in the frederickstown savings' bank will know that their money and interest are ready for them. pray present me most affectionately to lady colebrooke and your daughters; and assure her we shall take more comfort than ever in showing her over our beautiful hills, that have health and joy in every breeze. my own health continues as good as when you were last here; and my family (who have not been taken hence) seem devoted to my comfort. what reason have we for devout thanksgiving, that our two countries are not at swords' points, and that the true feeling of our common ancestry is now sweeping over our land! we are in deep disgrace on account of this wicked mexican business. what the end is to be can only be known to infinite wisdom; but one thing is certain,--no good can come to us from it. "again i pray you to be assured of my highest respect and regard, and am very faithfully yours, "amos lawrence." chapter xxvii. mr. lawrence as an applicant.--letters.--diary.--prayer and meditations.--liberality to a creditor.--letters. it was not uncommon for mr. lawrence, when a good work was in progress, to give not only his own means, but to lend a helping hand by soliciting contributions from others. the following note, addressed to a wealthy bachelor, is a specimen: "boston, june , . "my dear sir: you will be surprised at this letter, coming as it does as a first; but i know, from my experience of your skill and talents as a business man, how pleasant it is to you to make good bargains and safe investments; and, although you are a bachelor, the early business habits you acquired are marked, and are to be carried forward till the footing up of the account, and the trial-balance presented to the master at his coming. as i said before, you like safe investments, that shall be returned four-fold, if such can be made. now, i am free to say to you, i know of such an one; and the promisor is a more secure one than a. & a. l. & co., uncle sam, the old bay state, or bonds and mortgages in your own neighborhood. you ask, then why not take it yourself? i answer, because i have invested in advance in the same sort of stock in other quarters, but am willing to give my guaranty that you shall be satisfied that it is all i represent when you make your final settlement. it is this: amherst college you know all about; and that is now in especial need of new instructors, and increased funds for their support. twenty thousand dollars from you will place it on high ground, give a name to a professorship, make you feel happier and richer than you ever did in your life. what say you?--will you do it? the respect of good men will be of more value to you through your remaining days than any amount of increase, even if as vast as girard's or astor's. as i am a mere looker-on, you will take this, as i design it, as an expression of good-will to the college, no less than to you." "mem. by a. l.--received an answer on the th, very good and kind, from mr. ----." in addition to the "very good answer," mr. lawrence had soon after the gratification of knowing that the application had been successful, and that the necessary sum had been contributed by his correspondent. about the same date, he writes to his friend, professor packard, of bowdoin college, as follows: "your visit to us the last week has opened new views and visions, that are better described in the last chapter of revelations than in any account i can give. bowdoin college is connected with all that is near and dear to president appleton,--not only those on the stage of action with him, but all who came after, embracing in this latter class your own loved ones, who may continue to exercise an important agency in making the college what the good man, in his lifetime, strove to make it. the love, veneration, and respect, my dear wife had for him, makes her feel a peculiar pleasure in doing what would have cheered and comforted him so much had he lived till this time. the thousand dollars handed to you is a first payment of six thousand that she will give to the college in aid of the fund now in progress of collection; and she directs that the lawrence academy, at groton, may be allowed to send one scholar each year to bowdoin college, to be carried through the four years without charge for instruction; and that, whenever the trustees of the academy do not supply a pupil, the college may fill the place. i will hold myself responsible to make good mrs. l.'s intentions, should she be deprived in any way of this privilege before the work is done." early in the summer of this year, the hon. abbott lawrence made his munificent donation of fifty thousand dollars to harvard college, for the purpose of founding what was afterwards called, in honor of the donor, the lawrence scientific school. after reading the letter accompanying this donation, mr. lawrence addressed to his brother the following: "wednesday morning, june , . "dear brother abbott: i hardly dare trust myself to speak what i feel, and therefore write a word to say that i thank god i am spared to this day to see accomplished by one so near and dear to me this last best work ever done by one of our name, which will prove a better title to true nobility than any from the potentates of the world. it is more honorable, and more to be coveted, than the highest political station in our country, purchased as these stations often are by time-serving. it is to impress on unborn millions the great truth that our talents are trusts committed to us for use, and to be accounted for when the master calls. this magnificent plan is the great thing that you will see carried out, if your life is spared; and you may well cherish it as the thing nearest your heart. it enriches your descendants in a way that mere money never can do, and is a better investment than any one you have ever made. "your affectionate brother, amos. "to abbott lawrence." to a friend he writes, soon after: "this noble plan is worthy of him; and i can say truly to you, that i feel enlarged by his doing it. instead of our sons going to france and other foreign lands for instruction, here will be a place, second to no other on earth, for such teaching as our country stands now in absolute need of. here, at this moment, it is not in the power of the great railroad companies to secure a competent engineer to carry forward their work, so much are the services of such men in demand." * * * * * "boston, june , . "dear partners: please pass to the credit of my friend, the rev. mark hopkins, two thousand dollars, to pay for four scholarships at williams college, to be used through all time by the trustees of lawrence academy, in groton. the said trustees, or their representatives, may send and keep in college four pupils from the academy, without any charge for tuition; and, whenever they omit or decline keeping up their full number, the government or the proper authorities of the college are authorized to fill the vacancy or vacancies from their own college pupils. charge the same to my account. a. l." "to a. & a. l. & co." during the last twenty years of his life, mr. lawrence was unable to attend more than the morning services of the church on sunday, on account of the state of his health. he was a most devout and constant worshipper, and many of those who have conducted the religious services of the church which he attended will well remember the upturned countenance, the earnest attention, and the significant motions of his head, as he listened with an expression of approval to the faithful declarations of the speaker. he loved to listen to those who "did not shun to declare all the counsel of god," and would sometimes express disappointment when the preacher failed to declare what he considered the important truths of the gospel. in writing to a friend, after listening to a discourse of the latter description from a stranger, he compares it, in its adaptation to the spiritual wants of the hearers, to the nourishment which a wood-chopper would receive by placing him in the top of a flowering tree, and allowing him to feed only on the odor of its blossoms. his feelings on this subject are expressed in a letter to an esteemed clergyman, who had solicited his aid in behalf of a church in a distant city. "boston, june , . "my friend: i have your letter of yesterday; and, in reply, i offer it as my opinion that the unitarianism growing up among us the few years past has so much philosophy as to endanger the christian character of our denomination, and to make us mere rationalists of the german school, which i dread more than anything in the way of religious progress. the church at ---- may be of use in spreading christianity; but it may also be a reproval to it. i do not feel sufficient confidence in it to give money to keep life in it until i see evidence of some of the conservative influences that my own beloved and honored pastor is calling back among us. your well-wisher and friend, "a. l. "p. s.--i fully agree in the opinion that ---- is an important point for the dissemination of truth; and, before giving aid, i must know the man before i help support the minister, having small confidence in the teachings of many who enjoy considerable reputation as teachers of righteousness. i may have expressed doubts and fears that may not seem well founded; but i feel them." the following entry in his diary will give some idea of mr. lawrence's exactness in his daily business: "_saturday, july , ._--enclosed in a note to the rev. ---- ----, of ----, a fifty-dollar bank-note, of the atlantic bank, no. , dated jan. , , payable to george william dodd; letter a at each end of the bill, and a. p. p. in blue ink, in my writing, at the top. sent the letter to the post-office by coachman, and paid the postage; he keeping a memorandum of his having delivered it, and paid for it. a. l." "_sept. ._--professor ----, of the baptist college in ----, has called, to whom i shall give a parcel of books for the use of the college, and also a good word, which i hope will make him remember in whose service he is engaged." "_sept. ._--delivered him about two hundred and fifty volumes, various; all of value to him and his college, he said. he is a young man (under thirty years) and a minister." "_september , , sabbath-day._[ ]--'o most blessed lord and saviour; thou who didst, by thy precious death and burial, take away the sting of death and the darkness of the grave! grant unto me the precious fruit of this holy triumph of thine, and be my guide both in life and in death. in thy name will i lay me down in peace and rest; for thou, o lord, makest me to dwell in safety! enlighten, o lord, the eyes of my understanding, that i may not sleep the sleep of death! into thy hands i commend my spirit; for thou hast redeemed me, o thou covenant-keeping god! bless and preserve me, therefore, both now and forever! amen!' "these are suitable thoughts and aspirations, such as every christian may profitably indulge on retiring each night. his bed should remind him of his grave; and, as the day past brings him so much nearer to it, the appearance, when summoned hence, should be the point most distinctly before him. if he pass on with the 'well done,' no time can be amiss when called up. o god! grant me to be ever ready; and, by thy blessing and thy mercy, grant me to be allowed to join company with those loved and precious ones whom i feel entirely assured are at thy right hand, then to be no more separated! amos lawrence." [ ] the opposite page is a fac-simile of the original manuscript found in mr. lawrence's pocket-book after his death. it may serve as a fair specimen of his chirography during his latter years. [illustration: fac-simile of mr lawrence's hand-writing in .] the following note and memorandum by mr. lawrence will show how he dealt with an old debtor: (to mr. g.) "my dear sir: if you have any mode by which i can have the pleasure of receiving your note and interest, amounting to twenty-three hundred dollars, to be vested by me for the benefit of your wife, i shall be pleased to do it, having long since determined to appropriate this money, whenever received, in this way "yours, truly, a. l. "for himself and brother a." "mem.--mr. ---- was an invalid, and confined to his house at that period, and sent for me to call and see him. i did so, and he seemed much affected at my offer; but told me he was in better circumstances than i had supposed him, and declined the proffered aid. the information thus given me in this last interview was most welcome: from that time, i never mentioned his debt. after his decease, it was paid by his sons; and the family has been prosperous since. i spent the money for others in need, and am rejoiced that all his are so comfortable." many of our readers who can look back a few years will recall to memory the manly form, and fine, open countenance, of william l. green, who was so suddenly cut off at the very threshold of what promised to be an honorable and useful career. he had come to boston from his native town of groton; and, after serving an apprenticeship, had entered upon a successful business. he had endeared himself to a large circle of friends, and possessed such qualities of mind and heart as had made him the stay and hope of his parents in their declining years. upon hearing of the death of this nephew, mr. lawrence addressed to his parents the following letter of sympathy: "boston, october , . "dear brother and sister: god speaks to us through the rustling of the leaves no less distinctly than in the voice of the whirlwind and the storm; and it is now our business and our privilege to look at him and to him for the lesson of yesterday. dear w., as he parted from me the sabbath noon before the last, looked the embodiment of health, long life, and happiness. now, that noble figure, face, expression, and loved spirit, which lightened his path, is no longer among us, to be in danger of injury from our yielding him that which belongs to god only. were we not liable, dear brother and sister, to interrupt those communings which god calls us to with himself? he is our merciful father, and does for us what he sees is best; and, if we receive his teachings, however dark they may appear to us at present, all will be made clear at the right time. your precious treasure is secured, i trust, and will prove an increased attraction to you to follow; and it seems to me that our children are uniting in their joyful meeting in heaven. may we see in this event, more clearly than ever, where we are to look for direction, instruction, and support! may we be ready when called! so prays your affectionate and afflicted brother, a. l." to a friend he writes, dec. : "in our domestic relations, we are all as we could desire, save the individual case of my brother william, who is barely remaining this side jordan, and in a happy state, i trust, to pass over. for a number of days, we have supposed each might be the last but he may continue for some days, or possibly weeks. death strikes right and left, and takes from our midst the long-honored and beloved, in their maturity. dr. codman and judge hubbard are both to be buried to-day; two men whose places will not soon be filled, i fear. only last tuesday, in my ride with good dr. sharp, we agreed to call and pay our respects to dr. c. on thursday; but, on that morning, learned that he was dead. on thursday, judge hubbard rode out, and transacted legal business as a magistrate; in the evening went to bed as usual; in the night-time was turned over in bed, as he requested to be, and ceased to breathe. how could a good man pass over jordan more triumphantly and gloriously?" the reader will not fail to note the coïncidence, that, almost exactly five years later, mr. lawrence was summoned to "pass over" in the same manner, which, from the expression used, seems to have been to him so desirable; though his own departure was still more sudden and striking. (to a physician.) "sabbath evening, seven o'clock. "dear w.: i have been reading to ---- the last hour, beginning at the second chapter of matthew, and so on in course. please look at the fourth chapter, and the latter part of the twenty-third verse, and i think you will need no apology for doing what you do, with such instruction. christ's example, no less than his precepts, is designed to be practically useful to the whole family of man; and i feel humbled and grieved that i have not followed him better, and preached better by all the motives he has thus spread out. i say, then, to you and yours, god bless you in your good work, and make you a worthy follower of the beloved! a. l." chapter xxviii. reflections.--views on holding office.--letters.--captain a. slidell mckenzie.--death of brother, and of hon. j. mason. "_jan. , ._--in reviewing the scenes and the business of the past year, i have continued evidence of that mercy which a father bestows on his children, and a louder call to yield more fully than i ever yet have done to the teachings he designs. many things that seem dark, of which the reasons are not understood, will be made clear at the right time. it is manifest that my stewardship is not so far well done as to permit me to fold my arms and feel easy. no: my life is spared for more work. may its every day be marked by some token that shall meet thine approval, when the final call shall come!" (to president hopkins.) "boston, march . "this religious awakening among your college students is among the blessings that our father vouchsafes to his servants who labor faithfully in their work; and i can see his hand as plainly in it as though it were thrust before my face as i write this sentence. let us, then, bless his holy name, and thank him, as disciples and followers of christ the beloved; and urge upon these young men to come forward, as doves to their windows. if my life and my trusteeship have been in any manner instrumental in this good work in your college, it will be matter of grateful thanksgiving while i live. mrs. l. and myself both felt our hearts drawn out to you as we read your letter; and we commend you, and the good work of guiding these interesting young christians in the ways and the works that lead to that blessed home to which our loved ones have been called, and to which we hope to be welcomed. to his grace and guidance we commend all things touching this onward and upward movement. i have been under the smarting-rod a few days within the past fortnight. severe pain took all my courage and light-heartedness out of me, and made me a sorry companion; and my friends, seeing me in my every-day dress, would hardly know me in this sombre garb. again, dear friend, i bid you god-speed in the good work; and, at last, may you receive the 'well done' promised to the faithful!" in the presidential campaign of , the hon. abbott lawrence was made a prominent candidate of the whig party for the vice-presidency; and, in the convention which assembled at philadelphia in june, was voted for, and received but one vote short of that which would have secured the nomination. mr. fillmore, it will be recollected, was the successful candidate. during the canvass, a gentleman, editing a newspaper which strongly advocated the nomination of taylor and lawrence, addressed a very courteous letter to mr. amos lawrence, asking for aid in supporting this movement, which he supposed he would of course be deeply interested in. the reply is given here, as an illustration of his views in regard to holding high political office: "dear sir: in reply to yours, this moment handed me, i state that my income is so reduced, thus far, this year, that i am compelled to use prudence in the expenditure of money, and must therefore decline making the loan. if my vote would make my brother vice-president, i would not give it, as i think it lowering his good name to accept office of any sort, by employing such means as are now needful to get votes. i hope 'old zack' will be president. "respectfully yours, a. l." to president hopkins he writes, april : "what should we do, if the bible[ ] were not the foundation of our system of self-government? and what will become of us, when we wilfully and wickedly cast it behind us? we have all more than common reason to pray, in the depths of our sins, god be merciful to us sinners. the efforts made to lessen respect for it, and confidence in it, will bring to its rescue multitudes who otherwise would not have learned how much they owe it. the 'age of reason,' fifty years ago, told, on the whole, in advancing truth, by bringing to its support the best minds of christendom. i hope it may be so now. this is a theme for your head and heart and pen. no man in new england can make a deeper mark. what say ye? the bible is our great charter, and does more than all others, written or unwritten." "w. c. writes from n., asking me to loan him three thousand dollars to buy a farm, and to improve his health and mind; stating that he is a cripple, but wants to do something for the world." "that man may last, but never lives, who much receives, but nothing gives, whom none can love, whom none can thank, creation's blot, creation's blank." [ ] in looking over the list of life directors of the american bible society, made such by the payment of one hundred and fifty dollars each, there are found at least ten who are known to have been constituted by mr. lawrence. (to president hopkins.) "boston, june , "my dear friend: only think what changes a few weeks have produced in europe, and the probable effects upon this country. it seems now certain that vast numbers will emigrate here, rich and poor, from the continent and from england. the question for us is, how shall we treat them? it is certain that foreigners will come here. we have land enough for them, but have not the needful discipline to make them safe associates in maintaining our system of government. virtue and intelligence are our platform; but the base passions of our country have been ministered to so abundantly by unscrupulous politicians, that our moral sense has been blunted; and these poor, ignorant foreigners are brought into use for selfish purposes, and the prospects for the future are appalling. yet a ray of light has just broken in upon us by the nomination of general taylor for president; and my belief is, he is the best man for the place who can be named, with any prospect of success. he is not a politician, but a plain, straight-forward, honest man, anxious to do his duty in all his relations. as to my brother's nomination for vice-president, i am thankful they did not make it in convention: he is in a higher position before the country than he would be if chosen vice-president. his course has been elevated and magnanimous in this matter; for he might, by his personal influence and efforts, have received the nomination. "additional.--it is now almost two, p. m., and i have but just returned from mount auburn. the visit has been deeply interesting, on many accounts, and has almost unfitted me to finish this letter. however, there is nothing in the visit but what ought to make me thankful that my treasures, though removed, are secured; and, if my poor efforts can bring me again into their society through the blessed saviour, i ought not allow this gush of feeling to unman me." a few days later, he writes to the same friend: "i have not as yet heard of the examination of yesterday at the lawrence academy, which son. a. a. attended, but hope for a good report. in truth, i feel as if that school and your college are to go hand in hand in making whole men for generations to come. there is a pleasant vision which opens to me when i look forward to the characters that the academy and the college are to send forth for the next hundred years. i bless god for my old home, and the great elm in front, which has a teaching and a significance that i shall endeavor to make use of in training my grandchildren and dear ones of my family connection. how important, then, that our places of education be sustained, as supplying the pure and living streams that shall irrigate every hill and valley of this vast empire, and train men to know and do their duty! i will not quarrel with a man's presbyterian, episcopal, or baptist creed, so be he will act the part of a good soldier of christ; for i verily believe great multitudes, of all creeds, desire to serve him faithfully." "_aug. ._--t. g. sent me a paper this morning, having many names on it, with a polite note. the paper i returned without reading; telling him i did not read such, or hear stories, and must be excused. he took the answer in high dudgeon, and sent another note, saying he had mistaken me, and desired that his first note should be returned. i wrote upon it that i lived by the day and hour, an invalid, and, for two years, had adopted this course, and had treated bishops, clergymen, and laymen, with the fewest words; that i intended no disrespect, and begged his pardon if i had done anything wrong. i also told him this course was urged upon me by my medical adviser; but, with all my care, there is now an average of six applications a day through the year." mr. lawrence had, many years previous to this date, formed an acquaintance with captain slidell mckenzie, of the united states navy, which had been continued, and was a source of mutual pleasure. among other relics in the possession of the writer, is a cane of palm-wood, presented by capt. mckenzie, on his return from mexico as commander of the united states steamship "mississippi," to mr. lawrence, who had caused to be engraven upon it, on a silver plate, the following inscription: alexander slidell mckenzie to amos lawrence. . palm-wood from the banks of the tobasco river. from the united states naval commander who was not afraid to do his duty when life was required at the yard-arm. the latter part of the inscription is in allusion to the course which capt. mckenzie felt obliged to adopt in the mutiny on board the united states brig "somers," in --. on sept. , he thus notices the death of that officer in his diary: "this, morning's newspapers give the intelligence that the excellent and accomplished capt. mckenzie died at sing sing, n. y., two days ago. he fell from his horse by an affection of the heart; and died almost instantly. thus has departed a man whom i esteemed as among the best and purest i am acquainted with, and whose character should be a treasure for his family and the nation. i think him a model officer and a good christian." * * * * * "_oct. ._-- canadian boat-song. 'faintly as tolls the evening chime, our voices keep tune, and our oars keep time; soon as the woods on shore look dim, we'll sing at st. ann's our parting hymn. row, brothers, row: the stream runs fast, the rapids are near, and daylight's past.' i first heard this song sung and played on the piano by ----, afterwards mrs. ----, at her house in ---- street, in . the song rang in my ears sweetly for weeks, as i was taken down with fever the next morning. i never think of it but with delight." "_oct. ._--my brother william died on saturday, oct. , at three, p. m., in the sixty-sixth year of his age; and my brother mason died only five hours afterwards, in his eighty-first year,--within three doors of each other. both were very dear to me in life, and both are very dear to me in death; and, in god's good time, i trust that i shall meet them again, not subject to the ills and changes of my present abode." in a letter of the same date to a friend, he says: "my letter of last tuesday will have prepared you for the sad intelligence in this. brother william continued without much suffering or consciousness till two o'clock yesterday, and then ceased breathing, without a groan. yesterday morning, the hand of death was manifestly upon brother mason, who was conscious to objects around, and requested c. to pray with him; and, when asked if he understood what was said, answered, 'yes,' and expressed by words and signs his wants and feelings. he continued in a quiet, humble, and hopeful frame, we judge, until just eight o'clock, when, with a single gasp and a slight noise, his mighty spirit passed out of its immense citadel of clay, to join the throng of the loved ones gone before. brother w. was in his sixty-sixth year, brother m. in his eighty-first; and both were such men as we need, true as steel in all good works and words. mr. m. was never sick a day to disable him from attending to his professional and public duties in fifty years, and, until within a short time, never confined a day to his house by illness. on the last sunday evening, i passed a most refreshing half-hour with him. he appeared as well as he had done for a year; inquired very particularly into brother w.'s state; expressed the opinion that his own time was near at hand, and a hope that he might be taken without losing his mental and bodily powers. he remarked that protracted old age, after the loss of power to give and receive comfort, was not to be desired. he has often expressed to me the hope that he should be taken just as he has been. have we not reason to praise and bless god in taking, no less than in sparing, these honored and loved ones?" chapter xxix. system in accounts.--letter from prof. stuart.--letters.--diary.--dr. hamilton.--father matthew. "_january , ._--the habit of keeping an account of my expenditures for objects other than for my family, and for strictly legal calls, i have found exceedingly convenient and satisfactory; as i have been sometimes encouraged, by looking back to some entry of aid to a needy institution or individual, to do twice as much for some other needy institution or individual. i can truly say, that i deem these outlays my best, and would not, if i could by a wish, have any of them back again. i adopted the practice, ten years ago, of spending my income. the more i give, the more i have; and do most devoutly and heartily pray god that i may be faithful in the use of the good things intrusted to me." "_january ._--yesterday, peter c. brooks died, aged eighty-two; a man who has minded his own business through life, and from a poor boy became the richest man in the city. i honor him as an honest man." (from prof. stuart, of andover.) "andover, january , . "my dear sir: soon after my daughter's return from boston, i received a garment exceedingly appropriate to the severe cold to which i am daily exposed in my rides. many, many hearty thanks for your kindness! to me the article in question is of peculiar value. the cold can hardly penetrate beneath such a garment. god has blessed you with wealth; but he has given you a richer blessing still; that is, a heart overflowing with kindness to your fellow-beings, and a willingness to do good to all as you have opportunity. i accept, with warm emotions of gratitude and thankfulness, the kindness you have done to me. i would not exchange your gift for a large lump of the california gold. be assured you have my fervent prayer and wishes, that you may at last receive a thousand-fold for all the kindness that you have shown to your fellow-men. you and i are near our final account. may i not hope that this will also be entering on our final reward? i do hope this; i must hope it. what else is there in life that can make us patiently and submissively and calmly endure its ills? god almighty bless and sustain and guide and comfort you until death; and then may you pass through the dark valley without a fear, cheerfully looking to what lies beyond it! "i am, my dear sir, with sincere gratitude, your friend and obedient servant, moses stuart." to president hopkins he writes, jan. : "your letters always bring light to our path, and joy to our hearts, in one way or another. the two last seemed to come at the very time to do both, in a way to impress our senses and feelings, as the clear heavens, and brilliant sky, and exhilarating atmosphere, of this charming cold day, do mine, in contrast with a beautiful bouquet of flowers on my table as a love-token from some of my young sleigh-riding friends, and which makes me feel a boy with these boys, and an old man with such wise ones as you. "in the scenes of the past year, much that will mark its character stands out in bold relief; and, if we of this country are true to our principles, the great brotherhood of man will be elevated; for there have been overturns and overturns which will act until he whose right it is shall reign. if we live up to our political professions, our protestant religion will elevate the millions who will be brought under our levelling process. 'level up,' but not down, was judge story's maxim of democratic levelling, as he began his political career. in the business of levelling up, the lawrence academy, i trust, may do something. the late notices of it have been somewhat various by the newspaper editors to whom the preceptor sent catalogues." * * * * * "_february ._--attended brattle-street church this morning, and heard a consolatory sermon; and, at the closing prayer, the giving of thanks to our father in heaven, through jesus christ, who lived to serve us, and died to save us." on the th, he writes to his brother abbott, who had had tendered to him, by general taylor, the office of secretary of the navy: "dear brother: i have heard since noon that you have the invitation of general taylor to take a seat in his cabinet, and that you will proceed to washington forthwith to answer for yourself. i am not less gratified by the offer than you can be; but i should feel deep anguish, if i thought you could be induced to accept it, even for a brief period. your name and fame as a private citizen is a better inheritance for your children than any distinction you may attain from official station; and the influence you can exercise for your country and friends, as you are, is higher and better than any you can exercise as an official of the government." on march , he writes to his brother at washington: "i awoke this morning very early, and, after a while, fixed my mind in prayer to god, that your duty may be clearly seen, and that you may perform it in the spirit of a true disciple." and again on march , after hearing that his brother had declined the proffered seat in the cabinet, he writes to him: "the morning papers confirm my convictions of what you would do; and i do most heartily rejoice, and say that i never felt as proud before." * * * * * "_april ._--a subscription paper, with an introductory letter from ----, was handed me, on which were seven or eight names for a hundred dollars each, to aid the family of ----, lately deceased. not having any acquaintance with him or family, i did not subscribe. applications come in from all quarters, for all objects. the reputation of giving freely is a very bad reputation, so far as my personal comfort is concerned." april , he writes to a friend: "the matters of deepest interest in my last were ----, the religious movement, ----'s ill-health, and ----'s accident. all these matters are presenting a sunny show now. our dead unitarianism of ten or fifteen years ago is stirred up, and the deep feelings of sin, and salvation through the beloved, are awakened, where there seemed to be nothing but indifference and coldness; my hope and belief are that great good will follow. in the matter of the enjoyment of life, you judge me rightly; few men have so many and rich blessings to be thankful for; and, while i am spared with sufficient understanding to comprehend these, i pray that i may have the honesty to use them in the way that the master will approve. of what use will it be to have my thoughts directed to the increase of my property, at the cost of my hopes of heaven? there, a lazarus is better off than a score of dives. pray without ceasing, that i may be faithful." the following extract of a letter is taken from a work entitled "a romance of the sea-serpent, or the ichthyosaurus," and will show mr. lawrence's views respecting the much contested subject of which it treats: "boston, april , . "i have never had any doubt of the existence of the _sea-serpent_ since the morning he was seen off nahant by martial prince, through his famous mast-head spy-glass. for, within the next two hours, i conversed with mr. samuel cabot, and mr. daniel p. parker, i think, and one or more persons beside, who had spent a part of that morning in witnessing his movements. in addition, colonel harris, the commander at fort independence, told me that the creature had been seen by a number of his soldiers while standing sentry in the early dawn, some time before this show at nahant; and colonel harris believed it as firmly as though the creature were drawn up before us in state-street, where we then were. "i again say, i have never, from that day to this, had a doubt of the _sea-serpent's existence_. the revival of the stories will bring out many facts that will place the matter before our people in such a light as will make them _as much ashamed_ to doubt, as _they formerly_ were to believe in its existence. "yours truly, amos lawrence." to a friend he writes, july : "brother a. has received the place of minister to the court of st. james; the most flattering testimony of his worth and character that is within the gift of the present administration, and the only office that i would not advise against his accepting." about this time, mr. lawrence read a small work, entitled "life in earnest," by the rev. james hamilton, d.d., minister of the scotch church, regent's square, london. the sentiments of this little volume were so much akin to his own, and were withal so forcibly exemplified, that he commenced a correspondence with the author, which became a most interesting one, and continued until the close of his life. "boston, july , . "to rev. j. hamilton, d.d. "sir: the few lines on the other side of this sheet are addressed to me by our excellent governor, whose good word may be grateful to you, coming as it does from a christian brother across the atlantic. if it should ever happen to you to visit this country, i need not say how great would be my pleasure to see you. i am a minute-man, living by the day and by the ounce; but am compensated for all privations, by reading such tracts as 'life in earnest,' in such a way that few are allowed. i have cleared out the sunday-school depository three times in the last four weeks, and have scattered the work broadcast, and intend to continue to do so if my health allows. among those to whom i have given one is my younger brother, who is soon to be with you in england, as minister to your court. i recommend him to your prayers and your confidence. "with great respect for your character, i am yours, "amos lawrence." "_july ._--we are to have father matthew here to-morrow: he is a lion, but i probably shall only see him at a distance. the influence he is said to have upon his irish people may result in making many of them industrious citizens, who would, without him, be criminals, and a pest to honest people. the evil of such masses being thrown upon us we must bear, and study how to relieve ourselves in any practicable way. i see none but to educate the children, and circulate the bible and good books among them, which shall encourage them to do the best they can for themselves. "the christian banner may have many local influences and teachings; but its broad folds, i trust, will cover many true followers, however exact its worldly interpreters may be of what constitutes a true follower. i saw, in the _new york observer_ (i think it was), a statement of a district in the south-west, where were forty-one christian denominations, and no two of whose ministers could exchange pulpit labors. do not these people need a christian teacher?" "_august _.--father matthew is doing a good work here; and the result of his power is in his benevolent and sincere expression, and charming head and face. he has called to see me twice, and i intend to call and see him to-morrow. his ease and eloquence could not do for him what his heavenly expression does." chapter xxx. codicil to will.--illness.--gen. whiting.--letters.--diary. in august, , mr. lawrence reviewed his will and added to it the following codicil: "through the mercy of god, my life has been prolonged to this time, and my mental and bodily powers continued to me to an extent that has enabled me to see to the application of those trusts that have been confided to me; and, should my stewardship end now or next year, and the 'well done' of the master be pronounced upon my labors, all things here will seem nothing, and less than nothing, in comparison. "in short, my life, cheerful and happy as it is made by the three blessings conferred upon man after his fall (wife, children, and friends), is in the keeping of a merciful father, who, by thus continuing it, allows me a foretaste of that future home i hope for whenever he calls. "in reviewing my will, above written, executed on the st day of february, a. d. , i see nothing to alter, and everything to confirm. and i do hereby declare it still my will, and this codicil is to be taken as a confirmation of it; and i do earnestly hope all in interest will see clearly the meaning of every clause, and carry out my meaning without any quibbling, question, or controversy. i have been my own executor, for many years, of the surplus property i have received, and intend to be while my powers of mind will allow it. many near and dear friends to whom i looked for counsel and direction, at the time my will was executed, have been taken hence, which makes me more desirous of giving a renewed expression at this time." in this connection was the following note to his sons, found in his pocket-book after his decease: "dear w. and a.: in my will, i have made no bequests as tokens of remembrance, and have endeavored to do for all (whom i am interested in out of my own family connections) what is needful and proper and best; yet i wish some expression of kindness to m. and f., if in the family when i am taken." * * * * here follow donations to domestics who had been for many years in his family. about the th of september, mr. lawrence experienced a severe attack of cholera morbus, which was then a sort of epidemic in the community. of this attack, he writes to president hopkins as follows: "i hardly know how to address you, since i find myself once more spared to lay open my heart to you; for i do indeed feel all the force of the words, what shall i render unto god for all his unspeakable goodness? i have been upon the brink of jordan, and, with my outstretched hand, seized hold of our merciful father's hand, that was held out towards me, and was supported by his grasp as plainly as i could have been by your own hand. i was waiting, and praying to him to conduct me to the other side and permit me to join the company of loved ones _passed on_, and felt almost sure i should never see the sunlight of this world again, when, to my amazement, i found my pains subsiding, and that i had not finished the work he had assigned. when you were here, i gave you some little outline of my plan of work for ----. on the th of september, i completed that work, and felt stronger on that day than on any day for a month. under the excitement of the scene and a sudden change of weather, i took cold, and had a terrible attack of cholera, which, by the immediate administration of remedies, was in a degree quieted. thus my poor old worn-out machine was still kept from parting, as the sole of the shoe is sometimes kept on by freezing snow and water upon it." in the beginning of this volume, mention is made of the first clerk whom mr. lawrence employed after entering business in the year . to that gentleman, now brigadier-general whiting, was addressed the following letter, which was the recommencement of a correspondence which had ceased for many years: "boston, november, . "my dear general: i have been deeply interested in overlooking your volume of revolutionary orders of washington, selected from your father's manuscripts, as it brought back scenes and memories of forty years and more ago, when i used to visit at your house in lancaster, and to read those papers with a relish that might well be coveted by the youth of the present day. i thank you for this token of auld lang syne, and shall feel the more thankful if you will come and see me. i would certainly go to you, if i had the strength, and could do it safely; but shall never go so far from home, being at any moment liable to be called off. my earnest desire is to be 'in line,' and to be able to answer, promptly, 'here.' i hope to hear from you and your wife and wee things: all have a hold upon me, and you will give them an old man's love. i have taken the opportunity to send you some little reminiscences of old times. butler's 'history of groton' (which connects lancaster in early days) is a model for its exact truthfulness: he was the preceptor of the academy until long after you entered the army. then i have sent a catalogue of the school, from its beginning for fifty years or more; 'history of lowell as it was, and lowell as it is,' well written and true; 'boston notions,' put together by old mr. dearborn, the printer, whom you knew; and some other little matters, which will serve to freshen old things, as your 'evolutionary orders of washington' have done with me. i have just looked into my first sales-book, and there see the entries made by you more than forty years ago. ever since, you have been going up, from the cornet of dragoons to the present station. "farewell. your old friend, amos lawrence. "gen. henry whiting, fort hamilton, n. y." (to robert barnwell rhett, esq., of south carolina.) "boston, dec. , . "my dear sir: your letter of november reached me in due course, and gave me unfeigned pleasure in seeing my hopes confirmed, that the practical common sense of south carolina was returning, and that the use of their head and hands was getting to be felt among the citizens, as necessary to their salvation as common brethren in the great family of states. without the use of those trusts placed in their hands by our common father, the state will not be worth the parchment on which to draw the deeds fifty years hence; and i most earnestly pray god to guide, guard, and save the state from their childishness in their fears that our northern agitators can harm them. i spent the winter of in washington, and heard the whole of the debate upon admitting alabama and missouri into the union. alabama was admitted, missouri rejected; and i made up my mind then that i would never interfere until requested by my brethren of the slave-holding states; which resolution i have carried out from that day to this; and i still hold to it. but i would not have admitted alabama then or missouri on the terms they were admitted. we of the north have windy, frothy politicians, who hope to make capital out of their ultraism; but, in the aggregate, they soon find their level. now, of the point to which i desire to come, i do earnestly desire your state to carry out your prophecy, that, in ten years, you will spin all your own crop of cotton; for we of massachusetts will gladly surrender to you the manufacture of coarse fabrics, and turn our industry to making fine articles. in short, we could now, if you are ready, give up to you the coarse fabrics, and turn one half of our machinery into spinning and weaving cotton hose; and nothing will help us all so much as specific duties. the whole kingdom of saxony is employed at this moment in making cotton hose for the united states from yarns purchased in england, and made of your cotton. how much better would it be for you and for us to save these treble profits and transport, by making up the cotton at home! think of these matters, and look at them without the prejudice that prevails so extensively in your state. a few years ago, i asked our kinsman, gen. ----, of your state, how the forty-bale theory was esteemed at that time. his answer was, 'we all thought it true when it was started, and it had its effect; but nobody is of that mind now.' still, i believe, when an error gets strong hold of the popular mind, it is much more difficult to eradicate it than it is to supply the truth in its place. if i know myself, i would not mete to you any different measure from what i would ask of you; and i must say to you, that your state and people have placed themselves in a false position, which will be as apparent to them in a few years as the sun is at noonday. my own family and friends are in usual health; and no man this side heaven enjoys earth better than i do. i do pray you to come and see us. i hope to see your son at cambridge this week. most respectfully yours, "amos lawrence." * * * * * "boston, december , . "to gen. henry whiting, u. s. a., fort hamilton, n. y. "my early friend: forty years and more ago, we used to talk over together the dismemberment of poland and the scenes that followed, and to pour out together our feelings for those martyrs of liberty. at the present moment, my feelings are deeply moved by taking by the hand colonel p. and major f., just landed here, and driven from their country, martyrs to the same cause. i need only say to you that they are strangers among us, and any attentions from you will be grateful to them, and duly felt by your old friend, a. l." * * * * * "_december , ._--i have been daily employed, of late, in accompanying visitors to our public institutions; among these, mr. charles carroll, of maryland, to the mather school and the perkins asylum for the blind. the effect of kindness upon the character of children is more strikingly illustrated in the mather school than in any other i know of. three fifths of the pupils are children of foreigners,--english, irish, scotch, german, swiss, and the like,--mostly very poor. two fifths are american; and these foreign children, after a few months, are ambitious to look as well and do as well as the best. the little irish creatures are as anxious to have their faces clean, their hair smooth, their clothes mended, and to learn to read, write, and explain their lessons, as the upper children. these upper children, to the number of about one hundred, belong to the lawrence association." "_december , christmas afternoon._--the following beautiful little note, accompanied by a silver cup, almost unmanned me. forty-three girls signed the note; two others engaged in it are sick; and one died, and was buried at mount auburn by her particular request,--making forty-six of these children, who, of their own motion, got up this token. their note is dated to-day, and runs thus: "'respected sir: the misses of the lawrence association, anxious to testify their gratitude for the kind interest which you have ever manifested towards them, would most respectfully request your acceptance of this small token of their gratitude.'" (signed by forty-three girls.) "_ ._--we had great times with the children last evening at sister m.'s. it really seemed to me that the entertainment gave me as much pleasure as any child among them; beside which, i went to the house of my old friend dr. bowditch (where i used to visit twenty-five years ago on like occasions), for a few minutes, and there found seventeen of his grandchildren enjoying the fruits of the christmas-tree in the best manner possible." chapter xxxi. diary.--reflections.--sickness.--letter prom rev. dr. sharp.--correspondence. on the first of january, , mr. lawrence, as usual, reviews, in his property-book, the state of his affairs during the preceding year, with an estimate of his expenditures. the entry for the present year is as follows: "the amount of my expenditures for all objects (taxes included) is about one hundred and twenty thousand dollars. i consider the money well spent, and pray god constantly that i may be watchful in the use of the blessings he bestows, so that at last he may admit me among the faithful that surround his throne." the above entry will give some idea of the fidelity with which his trusts had been fulfilled, so far as regarded his worldly possessions. each year, as it rolled by, as well as each successive attack of illness, seemed only to stimulate him in his efforts to accomplish what he could while the day lasted. no anxious fears disturbed him as he looked forward to the near approach of "that night when no man can work." that night to him was but a prelude of rest from bodily weakness and suffering, and the forerunner of a brighter day, of which, even in this world, he was sometimes permitted to obtain a glimpse. he says: "my own health and strength seem renewed. that cholera attack has changed the whole man; and it is only now and then i am brought to a pause that quickens me in my work when again started. a week since, i ventured on two ounces of solid food for my dinner, differing from what i have taken for many years. nine hours after, in my sleep, i fainted, and was brought to life by dear n. standing over me, giving ammonia, rubbing, and the like. fasting the day following brought me back to the usual vigor and enjoyments. do you not see in this the sentence, 'do with thy might what thy hand findeth to do,' stereotyped in large letters before me. this it is that brings me to the work at this hour in the morning." * * * * * "_march ._--received a letter from rev. mr. hallock, secretary of the american tract society, saying that the society will publish dr. hamilton's lecture on the literary attractions of the bible, which i had sent them a few weeks since; and will supply me with two thousand copies, as i requested. "received also, this morning, another tract of dr. h. from sister k., in london; called the 'happy home,' which finished that series to the working people. after reading this number, i feel a strong desire to see the preceding nine numbers." (to the rev. james hamilton, d.d.) "boston, march , . "rev. and dear sir: i need not repeat to you how deeply interesting all your writings which i have seen have been to me; but you may not feel indifferent to the fact that the lecture you delivered four months ago, on the literary attractions of the bible (which i received from my sister, mrs. abbott lawrence, a few weeks since), is now in process of republication by the american tract society, agreeably to my request. i hope to assist in scattering it broadcast over our broad land; and thus you will be speaking from your own desk, with the speed of light, to an audience from passamaquoddy to oregon. will you do me the favor to give me a copy of 'happy home,' from which i may teach my children and grandchildren. "respectfully your friend, and brother in christ, "amos lawrence." (to a country clergyman (orthodox congregational).) "boston, may , . "rev. and dear sir: i make no apology in asking your acceptance of the above, as i am quite sure it cannot come amiss to a poor clergyman, situated as you are. i pray that you will feel, in using it, you cheer my labors, and make me more happy while i am able to enjoy life, in thus sending an occasional remembrancer to one for whom i have always felt the highest respect and esteem. your friend, "amos lawrence." the above letter contained a draft for one hundred dollars, of which mr. lawrence makes the following memorandum, dated on the th: "mr. ---- acknowledges the above letter in very grateful terms, being what his pressing wants require." in a letter to president hopkins, dated june , mr. lawrence says: "if i cannot visit you bodily, as i had vainly hoped to do, i can convince you that the life and hope of younger days are still in me. your parting word touched me to the quick, and i cannot repeat or read it without a sympathetic tear filling my own eye. i am not able to stand up; but am cheered by the hope that, before many weeks, i may be able to stand alone. our good friend governor briggs called to see me this week, and was quite horrified to see me trundled about on a hospital chair; however, after a good talk, he concluded that what was cut off from the lower works was added to the upper, and the account in my favor. it has always been so with me; the dark places have been made clear at the right time; so i am no object of pity." the lameness here mentioned was caused by a slight sprain of the ankle, but was followed by great prostration of the bodily strength, and a feeble state of all the functions, resulting in that vitiated state of the blood called by physicians "purpura." violent hemorrhages from the nose succeeded; and these, with the intense heat of the weather, so reduced his strength, that the only hope of recovery seemed to be in removing him from the city to the bracing air of the sea-shore. towards the end of july, he was accordingly removed upon a mattress to the house of his son, at nahant; and, from the moment he came within the influence of the fresh sea-breeze, he began to recover his spirits and his strength. a day or two after reaching nahant, he received from his friend, the rev. dr. sharp, the following letter, which is so characteristic, and reminds one so forcibly of the calm and staid manner of that venerable man, that it is given entire: "boston, july , . "my very dear friend: it was with deep regret i learned, on friday last, that you were quite unwell, and at nahant. it was in my mind yesterday morning to visit you; nothing prevented me but an apprehension that it might be deemed inexpedient to admit any one to your sick room, except your own family. but, although i have not seen you in person since your last sickness, yet i have been with you in spirit. i have felt exceedingly sad at the probability of your earthly departure. seldom as we have seen each other, your friendship has been precious to me; and, to say nothing of your dear family, your continuance in life is of great importance to that large family of humanity, the poor, who have so often participated in your bounty. indeed, as we cannot well spare you, i rather cherish the hope that, in his good providence, god will continue you to us a little longer. but, whatever may be the issue of your present illness, i trust that you, with all your friends, will be enabled to say, 'the will of the lord be done.' if he 'lives the longest who answers life's great end,' your life, compared with most, has not been short. not that any of us have done more than our duty. nay, we have all come short, and may say, with all modesty and truthfulness, we are unprofitable servants; although, in some respects, and to our fellow-beings, we may have been profitable. i trust, my dear friend, you are looking for the mercy of god, through our lord jesus christ, unto eternal life. death is not an eternal sleep; no, it is the gate to life. it opens up a blessed immortality to all who, in this world, have feared god and wrought righteousness. this world is a probationary state; if we have been faithful, in some humble degree, to our convictions of duty; if we have regretted our follies and sins; if we have sought to do the will of our heavenly father, and sought forgiveness through the mediation of his son,--god will receive us to his heavenly glory. i believe, in his own good time, he will receive you, my very dear friend; although my prayer is, with submission, that he will restore you to comfortable health, and allow you to remain with us a little longer. may god be with you, and bless you, in life, in death, and forevermore! with most respectful regard to mrs. l., and sympathy with you in your afflictions, in which my dear wife joins, i am truly yours, daniel sharp." from little nahant, mr. lawrence writes to a friend, under date of aug. : "i have just arisen from bed, and am full of the matter to tell you how much good your letter has done. i came here as the last remedy for a sinking man; and, blessed be god, it promises me renewed life and enjoyment. what is it for, that i am thus saved in life, as by a miracle? surely it must be in mercy, to finish out my work begun (in your college and other places), yet unfinished. pray, give us what time you can when you visit andover. if i continue to improve as i have done for ten days, i hope to return home next week; but may have some drawback that will alter the whole aspect of affairs. this beautiful little nahant seems to have been purchased, built up, and provided, by the good influence of our merciful father in heaven upon the heart of ----, that he might save me from death, when it was made certain i could not hold out many days longer. surely i am called on by angel voices to render praise to god." the five weeks' residence upon the sea-shore was greatly enjoyed by mr. lawrence. as the weather was generally fine, much of his time was passed in the open air, in watching the ever-varying sea-views, in reading, or in receiving the visits of his friends. near the end of august, his health and strength had become so far restored as to warrant his return to the city, and, as his memoranda show, to increased efforts in the field of charity. chapter xxxii. amin bey.--amount of donations to williams college. in november, , amin bey, envoy from the sultan of turkey to the united states, visited boston. among other attentions, mr. lawrence accompanied him on a visit to the female orphan asylum, then containing about one hundred inmates; and the pleasant intercourse was continued by a visit of the minister at mr. lawrence's house. the following note accompanied a number of volumes relating to boston and its vicinity: (to his excellency amin bey.) "my brother: the manifest pleasure you felt in visiting our female orphan asylum yesterday has left a sunbeam on my path, that will illumine my journey to our father's house. when we meet there, may the joy of that reünion you hope for with the loved ones in your own country be yours and mine, and all the good of all the world be our companions for all time! with the highest respect, believe me your friend, a. l." (to president hopkins.) "boston, november , . "my dear friend: my brief letter of introduction by my young friend s., and your answer to it, which i mislaid or lost soon after it came, has made me feel a wish to write every day since the first week after i received yours. s. made me out better than i was when he saw me. i could walk across the rooms, get down and up stairs without much aid, and bear my weight on each foot; having strength in my ankle-bones that enabled me to enter the temple walking, not leaping, but praising god. if ever i am able to walk so far as around the common, what gratitude to god should i feel to take your arm as my support! i am frequently admonished by faint turns that i am merely a 'minute-man,' liable to be called for at any moment. only a few days since, i had a charming call from amin bey and suite, whom i received in my parlors below, where were some friends to meet him. all seemed interested, and amin as much so as a turk ever does. when he left us, i went with him to the door, saw him out and in his carriage, turned to open the inner entry-door, became faint just as m. was leaving the party, and leaned on her to get into the parlor. i was laid on the sofa, insensible for a short time, but, by labor, abstinence, and great care, for two or three days, have got upon my high horse again, and rode with n. to make calls upon the good people of cambridge. after dinner, when i awoke, i tried to go about my work, but was called off again, and, from that time to this, have been up a little, and then down a little; thus asking me, with angels' voices, why are you left here? the answer is plain: you have more work to do. pray, my dear friend, for me to be faithful while my powers are left with me. the reports of and from your college make me feel that my labors in helping it to get on its legs have been repaid four-fold. i am its debtor, and will allow the money out of the next year's income to be used for a telescope, if you deem it best. i have made no further inquiry for the one in progress here, but will ask w. to look and see what progress is making. when i leave off writing, i shall ride to the office in court-square, and deposit my whig vote for governor briggs and the others. we are so mixed up here as hardly to know who are supporters of the regular ticket, and who not. this fugitive-slave business will keep our people excited till the law is blotted out. in some of our best circles the law is pronounced unconstitutional; and my belief is that franklin dexter's argument on that point will settle the question by starting it, our great men to the contrary notwithstanding." in the above letter mr. lawrence speaks of the gratification which he had derived from the results of his efforts in behalf of williams college; and, as there may be no more fitting place to give an account of these efforts, the following record is here introduced, from the pen of president hopkins. it is found in his sermon commemorative of the donor, delivered at the request of the students, on february , . "in october, , the building known as the east college was burned. needy as the institution was before, this rendered necessary an application to the legislature for funds; and, when this failed, to the public at large. owing to a panic in the money market, this application was but slightly responded to, except in this town. in boston the sum raised was less than two thousand dollars; and the largest sum given by any individual was one hundred dollars. this sum was given by mr. lawrence, who was applied to by a friend of the college; and this, it is believed, was the only application ever made to him on our behalf. this directed his attention to the wants of the college; but nothing more was heard from him till january, . at that time, i was delivering a course of the lowell lectures, in boston, when his son, mr. amos a. lawrence, called and informed me that his father had five thousand dollars which he wished to place at the disposal of the college. as i was previously but slightly acquainted with mr. lawrence, and had had no conversation with him on the subject, this was to me an entire surprise; and, embarrassed as the institution then was by its debt for the new buildings, the relief and encouragement which it brought to my own mind, and to the minds of others, friends of the college, can hardly be expressed. still, this did not wholly remove the debt. on hearing this casually mentioned, he said, if he had known how we were situated, he thought he should have given us more; and the following july, without another word on the subject, he sent me a check for five thousand dollars. this put the college out of debt, and added two or three thousand dollars to its available funds. in january, , he wrote, saying he wished to see me; and, on meeting him, he said his object was to consult me about the disposition of ten thousand dollars, which he proposed to give the college. he wished to know how i thought it would do the most good. i replied, at once, by being placed at the disposal of the trustees, to be used at their discretion. he said, 'very well;' and that was all that passed on that point. so i thought; and, knowing his simplicity of character, and singleness of purpose, i felt no embarrassment in making that reply. here was a beautiful exemplification of the precept of the apostle, 'he that giveth, let him do it with simplicity.' such a man had a right to have, for one of his mottoes, 'deeds, not words.' this was just what was needed; but it gave us some breadth and enlargement, and was a beginning in what it had long been felt must, sooner or later, be undertaken,--the securing of an available fund suitable as a basis for such an institution. his next large gift was the library. this came from his asking me, as i was riding with him the following winter, if we wanted anything. nothing occurred to me at the time, and i replied in the negative; but, the next day, i remembered that the trustees had voted to build a library, provided the treasurer should find it could be done for twenty-five hundred dollars. this i mentioned to him. he inquired what i supposed it would cost. i replied, 'five thousand dollars.' he said, at once, 'i will give it.' with his approbation, the plan of a building was subsequently adopted that would cost seven thousand dollars; and he paid that sum. a year or two subsequently, he inquired of me the price of tuition here, saying he should like to connect groton academy with williams college; and he paid two thousand dollars to establish four scholarships for any one who might come from that institution. his next gift was the telescope, which cost about fifteen hundred dollars. the history of this would involve some details which i have not now time to give. in , accompanied by mrs. lawrence, he made a visit here. this was the first time either of them had seen the place. in walking over the grounds, he said they had great capabilities, but that we needed more land; and authorized the purchase of an adjoining piece of four acres. this purchase was made for one thousand dollars; and, if the college can have the means of laying it out, and adorning it suitably, it will, besides furnishing scope for exercise, be a fit addition of the charms of culture to great beauty of natural scenery. in addition to these gifts, he has, at different times, enriched the library with costly books, of the expense of which i know nothing. almost everything we have in the form of art was given by him. in december, , i received a letter from him, dated the d, or 'forefathers' day,' which enclosed one hundred dollars, to be used for the aid of needy students in those emergencies which often arise. this was entirely at his own suggestion; and nothing could have been more timely or appropriate in an institution like this, where so many young men are struggling to make their own way. since that time, he has furnished me with at least one hundred dollars annually for that purpose; and he regarded the expenditure with much interest. thus, in different ways, mr. lawrence had given to the college between thirty and forty thousand dollars; and he had expressed the purpose, if he should live, of aiding it still further. understanding as he did the position and wants of this college, he sympathized fully with the trustees in their purpose to raise the sum of fifty thousand dollars, and, at the time of his death, was exerting a most warm-hearted and powerful influence for its accomplishment. in reference to this great effort, we feel that a strong helper is taken away. the aid which mr. lawrence thus gave to the college was great and indispensable; and probably no memorial of him will be more enduring than what he has done here. by this, being dead, he yet speaks, and will continue to speak in all coming time. from him will flow down enjoyment and instruction to those who shall walk these grounds, and look at the heavens through this telescope, and read the books gathered in this library, and hear instruction from teachers sustained, wholly or in part, by his bounty. probably he could not have spent this money more usefully; and there is reason to believe that he could have spent it in no way to bring to himself more enjoyment. the prosperity of the college was a source of great gratification to him; and he said, more than once, that he had been many times repaid for what he had done here. that he should have thus done what he did unsolicited, and that he--and, i may add, his family--should have continued to find in it so much of satisfaction, is most grateful to my own feelings, and must be so to every friend of the college. in doing it, he seemed to place himself in the relation, not so much of a patron of the college, as of a sympathizer and helper in a great and good work." chapter xxxiii. letters.--diary. at the beginning of the year , mr. lawrence writes to president hopkins: "the closing of the old year was like our western horizon after sunset, bright and beautiful; the opening of the new, radiant with life, light, and hope, and crowned with such a costume of love as few old fathers, grandfathers, and uncles, can muster; in short, my old sleigh is the pet of the season, and rarely appears without being well filled, outside and inside. it is a teacher to the school-children, no less than to my grandchildren; for they all understand that, if they are well-behaved, they can ride with me when i make the signal; and i have a strong persuasion that this attention to them, with a present of a book and a kind word now and then, makes the little fellows think more of their conduct and behavior. at any rate, it does me good to hear them call out, 'how do you do, mr. lawrence?' as i am driving along the streets and by-ways of the city." * * * to an aged clergyman in the country, who was blind and in indigent circumstances, he writes: "jan. . "your letter of last week reached me on saturday, and was indeed a sunbeam, which quickened me to do what i had intended for a 'happy new-year,' before receiving yours. i trust you will have received a parcel sent by railroad, on monday, directed to you, and containing such things as i deemed to be useful in your family; and i shall be more than paid, if they add one tint to the 'purple light' you speak of, that opens upon your further hopes of visiting us the coming season. for many months i was unable to walk; but my feet and ankle-bones have now received strength. i feel that the prayers of friends have been answered by my renewed power to do more work. how, then, can i enjoy life better than by distributing the good things intrusted to me among those who are comforted by receiving them? so you need not feel, my friend, that you are any more obliged than i am. the enclosed bank-bills may serve to fit up the materials for use; at any rate, will not be out of place in your pocket. i trust to see you again in this world, which has to me so many interesting connecting links between the first and only time i have ever seen you (thirty-five or more years ago, in dr. huntington's pulpit, old south church) and the present." (from rev. james hamilton, d.d.) " gower-street, london, feb. , . "my dear sir: no letter which authorship has brought to me ever gave me such pleasure as i received from yours of july, , enclosing one which governor briggs had written to you. that strangers so distinguished should take such interest in my writings, and should express yourselves so kindly towards myself, overwhelmed me with a pleasing surprise, and with thankfulness to god who had given me such favor. i confess, too, it helped to make me love more the country which has always been to me the dearest next to my own. in conjunction with some much-prized friendships which i have formed among your ministers, it would almost tempt me to cross the atlantic. but i am so bad a sailor that i fear i must postpone personal intercourse with those american friends who do not come to england, until we reach the land where there is no more sea. however feebly expressed, please accept my heartfelt thanks for all the cost and trouble you have incurred in circulating my publications. it is pleasant to me to think that your motive in distributing them, in the first instance, could not be friendship for the author; and to both of us it will be the most welcome result, if they promote the cause of practical christianity. owing to weakness in the throat and chest, i cannot preach so much as many of my neighbors, and therefore i feel the more anxious that my tracts should do something for the honor of the saviour and the welfare of mankind. you were kind enough to reprint my last lecture to young men. i could scarcely wish the same distinction bestowed on its successor, because it is a fragment. i have some thoughts of extending it into a short exposition of ecclesiastes, which is a book well suited to the times, and but little understood. * * * "yours, most truly, james hamilton." [illustration: abbott lawrence print. by r. andrews.] in reply to the above letter, mr. lawrence writes, april : "i will not attempt to express to you in words my pleasure in receiving your letter of feb. , with its accompaniments. the lecture delivered to the young men on the th of february, although designated by you as a fragment, i sent to my friend, with a copy of your letter, asking him whether he would advise its publication, and whether he would scatter it with its predecessor; and, if so, i would pay the expense. his answer you have here, and i have the pleasure of saying that the 'fragment' will be ready to circulate by thousands the present week; and, when you shall have added your further comments upon solomon and his works, our american tract society will be ready to publish the whole by hundreds of thousands, i trust, thus enabling you to preach through our whole country. the memoir of lady colquhon is a precious jewel, which i shall keep among my treasures to leave my descendants. i had previously purchased a number of copies of the american edition, and scattered them among my friends, so that there is great interest to see your copy sent me. the part of your letter which touched my heart most was that in which you speak of my brother abbott, and say of him that 'no foreign minister is such a favorite with the british public.' it brought him before me like a daguerreotype likeness, through every period of his life for fifty years. first, as the guiding spirit of the boys of our neighborhood, in breaking through the deep snow-drifts which often blocked up the roads in winter; then as my apprentice in the city; and, in a few years, as the young military champion, to watch night and day, under arms, on the point of bunker hill nearest the ocean, the movements of a british fleet lying within four or five miles of him, and threatening the storming of boston; then, soon after, as embarking in the very first ship for england, after the close of the war, to purchase goods, which were received here in eighty-three days after he sailed. since that time, our firm has never been changed, except by adding '& co.,' when other partners were admitted. he has been making his way to the people's respect and affection from that time to this, and now fills the only public station i would not have protested against his accepting, feeling that _place_ cannot impart _grace_. my prayers ascend continually for him, that he may do his work under the full impression that he must give an account to him whose eye is constantly upon him, and whose 'well done' will be infinitely better than all things else. i believe he is awakening an interest to learn more about this country; and the people will be amazed to see what opportunities are here enjoyed for happiness for the great mass. what we most fear is _that_ ignorance which will bring everything down to its own level, instead of that true knowledge, which shall level up the lowest places, now inundated with foreign emigrants. our duty is plain; and, if we do not educate and elevate this class of our people they will change our system of government within fifty years. virtue and intelligence are the basis of this government; and the duty of all good men is to keep it pure. * * * "and now, my friend, what can i say that will influence you to come here, and enjoy with me the beautiful scenes upon and around our mount zion? "with the highest respect and affection, i am most truly yours, "amos lawrence. "p. s.--mrs. l. desires me to present to you and your lady her most respectful regard, with the assurance that your writings are very precious to her. she is a granddaughter to a clergyman of your 'kirk,' and enjoys much its best writings." to the same gentleman he writes soon after: "and now let me speak about the 'royal preacher.'[ ] i expected much, but not so much as i found in it. we, on this side the atlantic, thank you; and the pictures of some of our own great men are drawn to the life, although their history and character could not have been in your eye. truth is the same now as in solomon's time; and it is surprising that the mass of men do not see and acknowledge that 'the saint is greater than the sage, and discipleship to jesus the pinnacle of human dignity.' i have had, this morning, two calls, from different sections of our union, for your 'life in earnest,' 'literary attractions of the bible,' 'solomon,' 'redeemed in glory,' &c., which i responded to with hearty good-will. some of the books will go out of the country many thousand miles, and will do good. i must shake hands with you across the atlantic, if you can't 'screw up' your courage to come here, and bid you god-speed in all your broad plans for the good of your fellow-men. "i have a great respect for deep religious feelings, even when i cannot see as my friends do; and therefore pray god to clear away, in his good time, all that is now dark and veiled. "it is time for me to say farewell." [ ] a tract by dr. hamilton. chapter xxxiv. sir t. f. buxton.--letter from lady buxton.--elliott cresson.--letters. after the death of sir thomas fowell buxton, mr. lawrence had read what had been published respecting his life and character, and had formed an exalted opinion of his labors in behalf of the african race. a small volume had been issued, entitled "a study for young men, or a sketch of sir t. f. buxton," by rev. t. binney, of london. mr. lawrence had purchased and circulated large numbers of this work, which recorded the deeds of one upon whom he considered the mantle of wilberforce to have fallen; and, through a mutual friend, he had been made known to lady buxton, who writes to him as follows: "very, very grateful am i for your love for him, and, through him, to me and my children. i desire that you may be enriched by all spiritual blessings; and that, through languor and illness and infirmity, the lord may bless and prosper you and the work of your hands. i beg your acceptance of the third edition, in the large octavo, of the memoir of sir fowell." those who have read the memoir referred to will remember the writer, before her marriage, as miss hannah gurney, a member of that distinguished family of friends of which mrs. fry was the elder sister. during the remaining short period of mr. lawrence's life, a pleasant correspondence was kept up, from which a few extracts will hereafter be given. to elliott cresson, of philadelphia, the enthusiastic and veteran champion of the colonization cause, mr. lawrence writes, june , : "my dear old friend cresson: i have just re-read your kind letter of june , and have been feasting upon the treasure you sent me in the interesting volume entitled 'africa redeemed.' i will set your heart at rest at once by assuring you that i feel just as you do towards that land. do you remember visiting me, a dozen or more years ago, to get me to lead off with a thousand-dollar subscription for colonization, and my refusing by assuring you that i would not interfere with the burden of slavery, then pressing on our own slave states, until requested by them? * * * * liberia, in the mean time, has gone on, and now promises to be to the black man what new england has been to the pilgrims, and pennsylvania to the friends. i say, with all my heart, to gov. roberts and his associates, god speed you, and carry onward and upward the glorious work of redeeming africa! i had a charming message from a young missionary in africa a few days since,--the rev. mr. hoffman, of the episcopal mission; and you will be glad to hear that the good work of education for liberia progresses surely and steadily here. my son a. is one of the trustees and directors (prof. greenleaf is president), and has given a thousand dollars from 'a young merchant;' and i bid him give another thousand from 'an old merchant,' which he will do as soon as he returns from our old home with his family. now i say to you, my friend, i can sympathize and work with you while i am spared. god be praised! we are greatly favored in many things. no period of my life has been more joyous. "with constant affection, i am yours, "amos lawrence." among other memoranda of the present month is found a cancelled note of five hundred dollars, which had been given by a clergyman in another state to a corporation, which, by reason of various misfortunes, he had not been able to pay. mr. lawrence had heard of the circumstance, and, without the knowledge of the clergyman, had sent the required sum to the treasurer of the corporation, with directions to cancel the obligation. (to lady buxton.) "boston, july , . "dear lady buxton: your letter, and the beautiful copy of the memoir of your revered and world-wide honored husband, reached me on the th of june. i have read and re-read your heart-touching note with an interest you can understand better than i can describe. i can say that i thank you, and leave you to imagine the rest. sir fowell was born the same year, and in the same month, that i was; and his character and his labors i have been well acquainted with since he came into public life; and no man of his time stood higher in my confidence and respect. although i have never been in public life, i have been much interested in public men; and have sometimes had my confidence abused, but have generally given it to men who said what they meant, and did what they said. i feel no respect for the demagogue, however successful he may be; but am able to say, with the dear and honored friend whose mantle fell upon sir fowell, 'what shadows we are, and what shadows we pursue!' i feel pity for the man who sacrifices his hopes of heaven for such vain objects as end in the mere gaze of this world. the 'study for young men,' republished here a short time since, is doing such work among us as must cheer the spirit of your husband in his heavenly home. "i enclose you a note from laura bridgman, a deaf, dumb, and blind girl, who has been educated at our asylum for the last twelve years or more (now about twenty-two years old), which may interest you from the fact of her extraordinary situation. "with great respect, i remain most truly yours, "amos lawrence." (to a lady in philadelphia.) "dear l.: your call on me to 'pay up' makes me feel that i had forgotten, and therefore neglected, my promise. i begin without preface. when a child, and all the way up to fifty years of age, the incidents of revolutionary history were so often talked over by the old soldiers who made our house their rendezvous whenever they came near it, that i feel as if i had been an actor in the scenes described. among these, the battle of bunker hill was more strongly impressed upon my mind than any other event. my father, then twenty-one years old, was in captain farwell's company, a subaltern, full of the right spirit, as you may know, having some sparks left when you used to ride on his sled and in his wagon, and eat his 'rattle apples,' which were coveted by all the children. he was in the breastwork; and his captain was shot through the body just before or just after pitcairn was shot. my father did not know major pitcairn personally, but understood it was he who mounted the breastwork, calling to his soldiers to follow, when he pitched into the slight trench outside, riddled and dead, as my father always thought as long as he lived. but it turned out otherwise. he was brought from the field, and lodged in a house in prince-street, now standing (the third from charlestown bridge); and the intelligence was immediately communicated to the governor, then in the royal house, now called the province house. he sent dr. kast and an officer, accompanied by young bowdoin as an amateur, to see to the major, and report. on entering the chamber, the doctor wished to examine the wound; but pitcairn declined allowing him, saying it was of no use, as he should soon die. when pressed by the argument that his excellency desired it, he allowed dr. kast to open his vest, and the blood, which had been stanched, spirted out upon the floor; so that the room carried the mark, and was called 'pitcairn's chamber' until long after the peace. the doctor returned immediately to the governor to report; and, before he could get back, life had fled. he was laid out in his regimentals, and was deposited in the vault of st. george's church, now the stone chapel, and there remained until , when dr. winship, of roxbury, then on a visit to london, had occasion to call on dr. c. letsom, and informed him that he had in his possession the key of the vault; that he had examined the body, which was in so good a state of preservation, that he recognized the features; and that he had counted at least thirty marks of musket-balls in various parts of the body. an arrangement was made, through dr. winship, for the removal of the body to england. dr. william pitcairn built a vault in the burying-ground of st. bartholomew, near the hospital, for its reception. capt. james scott, the commander of a trading vessel between boston and london at that period, undertook the service of removal, although he foresaw difficulty in undertaking the business, on account of the strong prejudice of sailors to having a corpse on board. with a view to concealment, the coffin was enclosed in a square deal case, containing the church-organ, which was to be sent to england for repairs. this case, with 'organ' inscribed upon it, was placed, as it was said, for better security, in a part of the ship near the sailors' berths, and in that situation was used occasionally during the passage for their seat or table. on arrival of the ship in the river, an order was obtained for the landing of the case; and, as it was necessary to describe its contents, the order expressed permission to land a corpse. this revealed the stratagem of capt. scott, and raised such a feeling among the sailors as to show that they would not have been quiet had they known the truth respecting their fellow-lodger. major pitcairn was the only british officer particularly regarded by our citizens, as ready to listen to their complaints, and, as far as in his power, to relieve them, when not impeded by his military duties. our excellent old friend b. will be interested in the 'stone chapel' part of this story, and probably can add particulars that i may have omitted. "your affectionate amos lawrence." chapter xxxv. letters--rev. dr. scoresby.--wabash college. after receiving a note from a relative of lady colebrooke, announcing her death, at dunscombe, in the island of barbadoes, mr. lawrence wrote the following note of sympathy to her husband, sir william colebrooke, then governor of that island. she will be remembered as the lady who had formerly visited boston, and who was alluded to in one of his letters, as a niece of major andré: "dear sir william: i lose no time in expressing to you the feelings of my heart, on reading the brief notice of the last hours of dear lady colebrooke. all my recollections and associations of her are of the most interesting character; and for yourself i feel more than a common regard. we may never meet again in this world; but it matters little, if, when we are called off, we are found 'in line,' and ready to receive the cheering 'well done' when we reach that better world we hope for. i trust that you, and all your dear ones, have been in the hollow of our father's hand, through the shadings of his face from you; and that, in his own good time, all will be cleared away. "faithfully and respectfully yours, amos lawrence. "boston, aug. , ." (to the hon. charles b. haddock, minister of the united states to portugal.) "boston, aug. , . "dear and kind-hearted friend: your letters to me before leaving the country, and after reaching england, awakened many tender remembrances of times past, and agreeable hopes of times to come. in that, i felt as though i had you by the hand, with that encouraging 'go forward' in the fear of god, and confidence in his fatherly care and guidance. i know your views have always put this trust at the head of practical duties, and that you will go forward in your present duties, and do better service to the country than any man who could be sent. portugal is a sealed book, in a great degree, to us. who so able to unlock and lay open its history as yourself? now, then, what leisure you have may be most profitably applied to the spreading out the treasures before us; and, my word for it, your reputation as a writer and a thinker will make whatever you may publish of this sort desirable to be read by the great mass of our reading population. * * * * * "i hold that god has given us our highest enjoyments, in every period, from childhood to old age, in the exercise of our talents and our feelings with reference to his presence and oversight; and that, at any moment, he may call us off, and that we may thus be left to be among the children of light or of darkness, according to his word and our preparation. these enjoyments of childhood, of middle age, of mature life, and of old age, are all greatly increased by a constant reference to the source from whence they come; and the danger of great success in life is more to be feared, in our closing account, than anything else. a brief space will find us in the earth, and of no further consequence than as we shall have marked for good the generation of men growing up to take our places. the title of an honest man, who feared god, is worth more than all the honors and distinction of the world. pray, let me hear from you, and the dear lady, whom i hope to escort once more over the sides of our mount zion, and introduce to some of my children and grandchildren settled upon the borders; and, if any stranger coming this way from you will accept such facilities as i can give to our institutions, i shall gladly render them. it is now many years since i have sat at table with my family, and i am now better than i have been at any time during that period; in short, i am light-hearted as a child, and enjoy the children's society with all the zest of early days. i must say, 'god speed you, my friend,' and have you constantly in the hollow of his hand! in all kind remembrances, mrs. l. joins me, to your lady and yourself. "faithfully and respectfully your friend, "amos lawrence." on the same day that the preceding letter was penned, mr. lawrence, in acknowledgment of some work sent to him by the rev. dr. scoresby, of bradford, england, wrote the following letter. that gentleman had visited this country twice, and had made many friends in boston. once an arctic traveller, and a man of great scientific acquirement, he has now become an eminent and active clergyman in the church of england, and has devoted all his energies to the task of elevating the lower orders of the population where his field of labor has been cast. "boston, aug. , . "my dear friend: your letter from torquay, of ninth july, reached me on the sixth of this month. it brought to memory our agreeable intercourse of former years, and cheered me with the hope that i might again see you in this world, and again shake your hand in that cordial, social way that goes direct to the heart. i had been much interested in the account brought by ----, and in your kind messages by him. your memorials of your father interest me exceedingly, and i thank you most sincerely for the volume and the sermon you sent. this sermon i sent to a friend of mine, and also a friend of yours, who became such after hearing you preach in liverpool. professor ----, of ---- college, is a most talented, efficient, and popular teacher; and his present position he has attained by his industry and his merit. he was a poor youth, in liverpool, who followed you in your preaching; came here, and went as an apprentice to a mechanical business; was noticed as a bright fellow; was educated by persons assisting him, and graduated at ---- college. he became a tutor, and is now a professor, and is an honor to the college and his nation. we are all at work in new england, and now feel a twinge from too fast driving in some branches of business; but, in the aggregate, our country is rapidly advancing in wealth, power, and strength, notwithstanding the discontent of our southern brethren. we have allowed the 'black spot' to be too far spread over our land; it should have been restrained more than thirty years ago, and then our old slave states would have had no just cause of complaint. i am called off, and must bid you farewell, with kind regards of mrs. l., and my own most faithful and affectionate remembrance. amos lawrence. "rev. william scoresby, d.d., torquay, devonshire, eng." (to president hopkins.) "boston, nov. , . "my dear friend: this is a rainy day, which keeps me housed; and, to improve it in 'pursuit,' i have a bundle made up, of the size of a small 'haycock,' and directed to you by railroad, with a few lines enclosed for the amusement of the children. i have told a. and l. that they couldn't jump over it; but h. could, by having a clear course of two rods. louis dwight has spent a half-hour with me this morning, exhibiting and explaining his plan for the new lunatic asylum of the state, which i think is the best model i have ever seen, and is a decided improvement on all our old ones. the committee, of which governor briggs is chairman, will give it a careful consideration and comparison with dr. bell's, and perhaps dr. butler's and others; and, with such an amount of talent and experience, the new asylum will be the best, i trust, that there is on this side of the atlantic. louis dwight is in fine spirits, and in full employ in his peculiar line. the new institution in new york for vagrant children will very likely be built on his plan. he is really doing his work most successfully, in classing and separating these young sinners, so that they may be reclaimed, and trained to become useful citizens; in that light, he is a public benefactor. * * * "faithfully and affectionately yours, "amos lawrence." in a letter to a friend, written on sunday, and within a few days of the preceding, mr. lawrence says, after describing one of his severe attacks: "i am not doing wrong, i think, in consecrating a part of the day to you, being kept within doors by one of those kindly admonitions which speaks through the body, and tells me that my home here is no shelter from the storm. i had been unusually well for some weeks past, and it seemed to me that my days passed with a rapidity and joyousness that nothing short of the intercourse with the loved ones around me could have caused. what can be more emphatic, until my final summons? if my work is done, and well done, i should not dread the summons; pray that it may be, and that we may meet again after a brief separation. i am hoping to be safely housed by and by where cold and heat, splendid furniture, luxurious living, and handsome houses, and attendants, will all be thought of as they really merit." mr. lawrence had, for a considerable time, been interested in the wabash college, at crawfordsville, indiana; and, on the th of november, announced to the trustees a donation from mrs. l. of twelve hundred dollars, to found four free scholarships for the use of the academy at groton. he adds: "i would recommend that candidates for the scholarships who abstain from the use of intoxicating drinks and tobacco always have a preference. this is not to be taken as a prohibition, but only as a condition to give a preference." mr. lawrence speaks of his interest in wabash college, growing out of his affection and respect for its president, the rev. charles white, d.d., who went from new england, and with whom he had become acquainted during a visit which that gentleman had made to his native state. eight days after this donation to wabash college, mr. lawrence enclosed to rev. dr. pond, of the theological school at bangor, maine, the sum of five hundred dollars; which he says, with other sums already subscribed by others for new professorships, would "prove a great blessing to all who resort to the institution through all time." chapter xxxvi. diary.--amount of charities.--letters.--thomas tarbell.--uncle toby.--rev. dr. lowell. "_january , ._--the value of my property is somewhat more than it was a year ago, and i pray god that i may be faithful in its use. my life seems now more likely to be spared for a longer season than for many years past; and i never enjoyed myself more highly. praise the lord, o my soul! "p. s.--the outgoes for all objects since january , (ten years), have been six hundred and four thousand dollars more than five sixths of which have been applied in making other people happy; and it is no trouble to find objects for all i have to spare." this sum, in addition to the subscriptions and donations for the year , makes the amount of his expenditures for charitable purposes, during the last eleven years of his life, to be about five hundred and twenty-five thousand dollars. from to , the sum expended for like appropriations was, according to his memoranda, one hundred and fourteen thousand dollars; making, for the last twenty-three years of his life the sum of six hundred and thirty-nine thousand dollars expended in charity. taking the amount of his property at various times, as noted by himself, from the year to , a period of twenty-two years, with his known liberality and habits of systematic charity, it would be safe to assert that during his life he expended seven hundred thousand dollars for the benefit of his fellow-men. many persons have done more; but few perhaps have done as much in proportion to the means which they had to bestow. in a letter to president hopkins, dated march , mr. lawrence writes: "i am interested in everything you write about in your last letter; but among the items of deepest interest is the fact of the religious feeling manifested by the young men; and i pray god it may take deep root, and grow, and become the controlling power in forming their character for immortality. i trust they will count the cost, and act consistently. may god speed them in this holy work!" a few days later, he writes on the same subject: "and now let us turn to matters of more importance; the awakening of the young men of your college to their highest interest,--the salvation of their souls. i have been moved to tears in reading the simple statement of the case, and i pray god to perfect the good work thus begun. i have much to think of to-day, this being my sixty-sixth birth-day. the question comes home to me, what i am rendering to the lord for all his benefits; and the answer of conscience is, imperfect service. if accepted, it will be through mercy; and, with this feeling of hope, i keep about, endeavoring to scatter good seed as i go forth in my daily ministrations." the following correspondence was not received in time to be placed in the order of its date, but is now given as an illustration of mr. lawrence's views on some important points, and also as an instance of his self-control. in the autumn of , he became acquainted with the rev. dr. ----, a scotch presbyterian clergyman, then on a visit to some friends in boston. during a drive in the environs, with this gentleman and the rev. dr. blagden, mr. lawrence made a remark of a practical nature upon some religious topic, which did not coincide with the views of his scotch friend; and a debate ensued, which was characterized by somewhat more of warmth than was warranted by the nature of the subject. mutual explanations and apologies followed, and the correspondence, which was continued after the return of dr. ---- to scotland, shows that the discussion on the occasion referred to had caused no diminution of their mutual regard or good-will. the rev. dr. blagden, in a note to the editor, dated boston, april , , writes as follows: "as the result of our incidental conversation on monday last, let me say, that the facts of which we spoke occurred during a drive which the rev. dr. ----, of scotland, and i were enjoying with your father, in his carriage, at his kind invitation, in october, . "without being able to recall the precise connection in which the remarks were made, i only now remember that mr. lawrence was led to speak with some degree of warmth, but with entire kindness, on the great error of relying on any idea of justification before god by faith, without corresponding works; so that, to one not familiar with the religious events in the history of this community, which, by operating on mr. lawrence's habits of thought, might well lead him to be jealous of any view of faith which did not directly express the necessity of good works, his remarks might very readily have seemed like a direct attack on that great truth of justification by faith, which luther affirmed to be, as it was held or rejected, the test of a falling or rising church. "immediately, that which the late edward irving, in one of his sermons, under the name of 'orations,' calls the 'ingenium perfervidum scotorum,' burst from the rev. dr. ----, with something of that zeal for the doctrines of knox and calvin for which i understand he has been somewhat remarkable in his own country. he vehemently declared his abhorrence of any such denial of the first and fundamental truth of the gospel, evidently taking it somewhat in the light of an insult to us as the preachers of that truth. he ended by saying, with much force and warmth, that the apostle paul sometimes condensed the whole of the gospel into a single phrase; and one of these phrases, as expressed in the epistle to the philippians, he commended to the notice of mr. lawrence, namely, 'we are the circumcision which worship god in the spirit; and rejoice in christ jesus, and have no confidence in the flesh.' "mr. lawrence met this strong, and apparently indignant and truly honest expression of feeling, with entire courtesy and self-command, but with evident and deep emotion; and, repressing all expression of displeasure, he gradually led the conversation to less unwelcome subjects, so that our ride ended pleasantly, though the embarrassment created by this event continued, in a lessening degree, to its close. "it will probably add to the interest of the whole transaction, in your own mind, if i state, not only what you seemed aware of on monday, that your father sent me, a day or two after, 'barr's help' (i believe is the name of the volume), with a very kind and polite note, alluding to what had passed, and a paper containing some development of his own religious belief; but rev. dr. ----, also, soon after, in alluding to the circumstances in a note to me, on another subject, and which is now before me, wrote: "'i regret the warmth with which i did so. alas! it is my infirmity; but it was only a momentary flash, for i was enabled, through a silent act of prayer, to get my mind purged of all heat, before i ventured to resume the conversation on the vital topic which our good and kind friend himself was led to introduce.' "i suspect this will reach you at an hour too late entirely for the use which you thought might possibly be made of it. it may, however, have some little interest, as a further development of the excellent character of your father; and it refers to a scene of which i have never been in the habit of speaking to others, but which i shall always remember with great interest, as one among many pleasing and profitable recollections of him." the following extracts are taken from the paper referred to in the preceding communication: "boston, november , . "to rev. g. w. blagden, d.d. "rev. and dear sir: our interesting ride last thursday has peculiar claims upon me as a teacher and a preacher for a better world. to one who knows me well, my unceremonious manner to our friend would not seem so strange; but it was none the less unkind in me to treat him thus. "my first impressions are generally the right ones, and govern the actions of daily and hourly experience here; and these impressions were entirely favorable to our friend; and my treatment, up to the moment that you 'poured your oil upon the waters,' had been such as i am now well pleased with. but the conversation then commenced; and the lecture, illustrations, arguments, and consequences, were all stereotyped in my mind, having been placed there twenty-seven years ago by a learned and pious scotchman, whose character came back to my memory like a flash of light. it is enough to say that a multitude of matters wholly adverse to my first impressions left me no command of my courtesies; and i stopped the conversation. * * * "i believe that our saviour came among men to do them good, and, having performed his mission, has returned to his father and to our father, to his god and our god; and if, by any means, he will receive me as a poor and needy sinner with the 'well done' into the society of those whom he shall have accepted, i care not what sort of _ism_ i am ranked under here. "there is much, i think, that may be safely laid aside among christians who are honest, earnest, and self-denying. again i say, i have no hope in _isms_, but have strong hope in the cross of christ. "the little book[ ] i send is a fuller exposition of the kirk's doctrine than our friend's. i have reviewed it, and see no reason to alter a prayer or an expression. return it at your leisure, with the two notes of our friend to me since our drive. soon after i left you, i came home, sat down at my table to write a note as an apology to him for my rudeness in stopping his discourse, fainted, went to bed; next day, ate three ounces of crusts, rode out, and went to bed sick with a cold in my face. for the following forty-eight hours, i did not take an ounce of food; the slightest amount of liquid sustained me; and yesterday was the first day of my being a man. to-day, i called to see and apologize to you." * * * * * [ ] "help to professing christians. by rev. john barr. published by perkins and marvin. boston, ." (to a friend in south carolina.) "boston, june , . "my dear friend: the announcement of the death of your beloved wife, and the queries and suggestions you made, touched me in a tender place. you and your dear wife are separated, it is true; but she is in the upper room, you in the lower. she is with jesus, where, with his disciples, he keeps the feast; and, not long hence, he will say to you, 'come up hither.' your spirit and hers meet daily at the same throne,--hers to praise, yours to pray; and, when you next join her in person, it will be to part no more. is not the prospect such as to gild the way with all those charms, which, in our childhood, used to make our hours pass too slowly? * * * * * "my connection with the people of your state, growing out of my marriage, has brought me into personal intercourse, for more than thirty years past, with a great family connection, embracing in its circle many of your distinguished characters. all the m. family, of whom your present governor is one, came from the same stock; and the various ramifications of that family at the south include, i suppose, a great many thousand souls. i, therefore take a lively interest in everything interesting to your people. we have hot heads, and so have you; but i think your people misjudge, when they think of setting up an independent government. the peculiar institution which is so dear to them will never be interfered with by sober, honest men; but will never be allowed to be carried where it is not now, under the federal government. politicians, like horse-jockeys, strive to cover up wind-broken constitutions, as though in full health; but hard driving reveals the defect, and, within thirty years, the old slave states will feel compelled to send their chattels away to save themselves from bankruptcy and starvation. i have never countenanced these abolition movements at the north; and have lately lent a hand to the cause of colonization, which is destined to make a greater change in the condition of the blacks than any event since the christian era. * * * "you need no new assurance of my interest in, and respect for, yourself, and the loved ones around you. i enjoy life as few old men do, i believe; for my family seem to live around and for me. my nephew by marriage, franklin pierce, seems to be a prominent candidate for the 'white house' for the next four years. he is the soul of honor, and an old-fashioned democrat, born and bred, and to be depended on as such; but, as i am an old-fashioned george washington, john jay federalist, from my earliest days, and hope to continue to be, i shall prefer one of this stamp to him. * * * "with a heart overflowing, i hardly know where to stop. we shall meet in the presence of the saviour, if we hold fast to the hem of his garment; and i hope may be of the number of those whose sins are forgiven. "ever yours, amos lawrence." during the summer, a small volume appeared, entitled "uncle toby's stories on tobacco." mr. lawrence read it; and the views there inculcated so nearly coincided with his own, so often expressed during his whole life, that he caused two editions, of some thousands of copies, to be published and circulated, principally by the boys of the mather school. on this subject, he writes to president hopkins, under date of aug. : "my two last scraps told their own stories to the children, and to-day you will receive a package by express that may require explanation. uncle toby has hit the nail on the head in telling his tobacco stories to american lads; and i think your students will do good service in carrying them among their friends wherever they are, to show them how much better it is to prevent an evil than to remedy it; and, taking school-boys as they are, these stories will do more good than any that have been published. i met the author yesterday accidentally at the american sabbath school union depository, where i had just paid for the fifty copies sent to you, and he was very earnest to have me write a few lines for him to publish in his book; but i referred him to the three hundred boys of the mather school, who are full of the matter to help other school-boys to do as they are doing. however, i may say to him, that, as a school-boy, i was anxious to be _manly_, like the larger boys; and, by the advice of one, i took a quid, and kept it till i was very sick, but did not tell my parents what the matter was; and, from that time to this, have never chewed, smoked, or snuffed. to this abstinence from its use (and from spirit) i owe, under god, my present position in society. further, i have always given the preference to such persons as i have employed, for more than forty years past, who have avoided rum and tobacco; and my experience has been such as to confirm me that it is true wisdom to have done so. the evil is growing in a fearfully rapid ratio among us; and requires the steady course of respected and honored men to prevent its spread, by influencing the school-children of our land against becoming its slaves. you will please use the fifty copies in the way you think best. if my life is spared, the mather school boys will be allowed to tell their own experience to the boys of all the other public schools in this city and neighborhood. in short, i look to these boys influencing three millions of boys within the next thirty or forty years. is not this work worth looking after?" the following well-merited tribute to the character of a respected citizen, who devoted his life to the promotion of every good object, is extracted from a note written by mr. lawrence to the hon. benjamin seaver, then mayor of the city, and dated aug. : "my friend seaver: i have desired, for some weeks past, to inquire of you some further particulars of the disposition our friend tarbell[ ] made of his property. you mentioned that something would be paid over to a. & a. lawrence, and something to the old ladies' home, which institution he helped forward by his labors and his influence, in an important stage of its existence; and he was called off just as he was beginning to enjoy the fruits of his labor, in making a multitude of old ladies happy in thus supplying them a home for the remainder of their days on earth. our friend has passed on; but i doubt not that his labors have prepared him to enter that world where there is no weariness or want, and all sufferings are at an end. i have journeyed side by side, for more than three-score years, with our friend; and can say, with truth, that i never knew him guilty of a dishonest or dishonorable act, and that his life was a practical exponent of his christian principles. i pray to our father to make me more faithful in doing the work our friend had so much at heart, while i can do it. my share of the money,[ ] coming from his estate, i shall wish paid over to the old ladies' home, and i doubt not brother a. will wish the same done with his share. this appropriation will increase our friend's happiness, even in his heavenly home; for the voice from heaven proclaims, 'blessed are the dead which die in the lord from henceforth; that they may rest from their labors, and their works do follow them.'" [ ] the late thomas tarbell, originally from groton, mass. [ ] this was a debt contracted by mr. t., in , amounting, at that time, to about fifteen hundred dollars, when he failed in business. the amount of the debt was soon after transferred to the "old ladies' home." the editor feels some delicacy in inserting the following, from a gentleman still living, and in our own vicinity; but the tribute to mr. lawrence, coming, as it does, from a divine so distinguished in all those qualities which adorn his own profession, as well as for every christian virtue, is too flattering to be omitted: "elmwood, sept. . "my dear friend: i take such paper as happens to be near me, in my sick chamber, to thank you for the books and pamphlets, which i have read as much as my dim sight and weak nerves will allow me at present to read. i wish, when you write to your friend dr. hamilton, you would thank him for me for his eloquent and evangelical appeals for christian truth and duty. tell him i am a congregational minister of boston, but no sectarian; that i was matriculated at the university of edinburgh, fifty years ago, and studied divinity there under drs. hunter, micklejohn, moodie, &c., and moral philosophy, under dugald stewart;--that my particular friends were david dickson, since minister of st. cuthbert's, edinburgh; david wilkie, since minister of old gray friar's church, edinburgh; patrick mcfarlane, since minister in glasgow and greenock; thomas brown, since professor of moral philosophy at edinburgh; david brewster, since sir david, &c.: most of whom he probably knows. tell him i should be glad of his correspondence, as i have that of his friend, principal lee, of the university of edinburgh; and that we should be glad to see him in boston. i was happy to see your name appended to a petition on the subject of the liquor law, though i always expect to find it among the advocates of every benevolent enterprise within your reach. your visit did me much good. i have much valued your friendship, and your manifestations of respect and regard for me. heaven bless you and yours, and make you more and more a blessing! come and see me when you can, my dear friend. with much affection and respect, "your old friend, charles lowell. "p. s.--i write with a feeble hand, dim sight, and nervous temperament." in enclosing the preceding note to the rev. dr. hamilton, mr. lawrence writes, sept. : "the writer of the foregoing is the rev. dr. lowell, of this city, who is broken down in health, but not at all in his confidence and hope and joy in the beloved jesus. of all men i have ever known, dr. lowell is one of the brightest exemplars of the character and teachings of the master; for all denominations respect him, and confide in him. for more than forty years i have known him; and, in all the relations of a good pastor to his people, i have never known a better. i have met him in the sick chamber, with the dying, and in the house of prayer. in the character of a teacher, and a leader of the people heavenward, no one among us has been more valued. although i have not been a member of his church, he has, in times of great urgency, supplied our pulpit, and has always been ready to attend my family and friends when asked. i sent him such of your writings as i had in store for circulation, 'the royal preacher' among them; and i must say to you that i think no living man is preaching to greater multitudes than you are at this day. i have circulated tens of thousands of your tracts and volumes, and, if i am spared, hope to continue the good work. millions of souls will be influenced by your labors." chapter xxxvii. correspondence.--diary. (from lady buxton.) "northrupp's hill, sept. , . "my dear friend: again i have to thank you for your kind remembrance of me in your note and little book on the abuse of tobacco, and your sympathy with me in my late deep anxiety, ending in the removal of my most tenderly beloved and valued daughter priscilla. it pleased god to take her to himself on june , to the inexpressible loss and grief of myself, and her husband and children. we surely sorrow with hope; for she had loved and followed the lord jesus from her childhood, and had known and obeyed the holy scriptures, which did make her, under the influence of the blessed spirit, wise unto salvation. to her, to live was christ, and therefore to die, gain; and we are thankful, and rejoice for her. her spirit is with the lord, beholding and sharing his glory, and reünited to her dearest father, brothers, and sisters, and many beloved on earth, in joy unspeakable. still, we do and are permitted to mourn. * * "priscilla traced the foundation of her illness to the great exertion she used in revising and altering her father's work on the remedy for the slave-trade. the stress upon her feelings and mind was too great for her susceptible nature. i believe it might be traced further back to her very great efforts to assist her father in his public business; so that i may say, i have had to part with the two most beloved, and gifted nearly, i have ever known, for the cause of god. but the comfort is intense that they cannot lose the abundant recompense of reward given through mercy and favor, not for any merits of their own, to those who love and serve the lord. i must thank you most warmly again for the valuable gift of 'uncle tom's cabin.' when it arrived, it was unknown in this country; now it is universally read, but sold at such a cheap rate, in such poor print, that this very beautiful copy is quite sought after. how wonderfully successful a work it has proved! i hope your little book upon tobacco may be of use here. i shall send it to my grandsons at rugby. i fear you have been suffering much from bodily illness and infirmity, my dear friend. i trust your interesting circle about you are all well and prospering, and enjoying the blessing and presence of the saviour. with kindest regards and affection, i am yours very sincerely, h. buxton." "_september , ._--by a singular coincidence, at the same time i received lady buxton's letter, i received one from 'mrs. sunny side,'[ ] from her sick chamber, asking the loan of some of miss edgeworth's works; also a note from mrs. stowe, giving me some information respecting the publication of 'uncle tom's cabin' in england and germany; also a letter from our minister in portugal; and, three or four hours later, 'uncle toby' called, having spent the day in the mather school, lecturing on tobacco." [ ] mrs. phelps, wife of professor phelps, of andover, and daughter of professor stuart, the authoress of "sunny side," "peep at number five," and other popular works. from a letter written about this time, an extract is made, which is interesting as showing his system of diet. "my own wants are next to nothing, as i live on the most simple food,--crusts and coffee for breakfast; crusts and champagne for dinner, with never more than three ounces of chicken, or two ounces of tender beef, without any vegetable, together eight ounces; coarse wheat-meal crusts, and two or three ounces of meat, in the twenty-four hours,--beginning hungry, and leaving off more hungry. i have not sat at table with my family for fifteen years, nor eaten a full meal during that time, and am now more hale and hearty than during that whole period." (to a lady in florida.) "boston, oct. , . "dear mrs. ----: your deeply interesting note reached me within the last half-hour; and i feel that no time should be lost in my reply. my life has been protracted beyond all my friends' expectations, and almost beyond my own hopes; yet i enjoy the days with all the zest of early youth, and feel myself a spare hand to do such work as the master lays out before me. this of aiding you is one of the things for which i am spared; and i therefore forward one hundred dollars, which, if you are not willing to accept, you may use for the benefit of some other person or persons, at your discretion. your precious brother has passed on; and, in god's good time, i hope to see him face to face, and to receive, through the beloved, the 'well done' promised to such as have used their lord's trusts as he approves. i enclose you lieut. ----'s letter on his return from sea. * * * * "i had a charming ride yesterday with my nephew frank pierce, and told him i thought he must occupy the white house the next term, but that i should go for scott. pierce is a fine, spirited fellow, and will do his duty wherever placed; but scott will be my choice for president of the united states. god bless you, my child, and have you in the hollow of his hand, in these days of trial. your friend, a. l." (to the hon. jonathan phillips.) "boston, oct. , . "to my respected and honored friend: the changing scenes of life sometimes recall with peculiar freshness the events and feelings of years long past; and such is the case with me, growing out of the death of our great new england statesman, who has, for a long period of years, been looked up to as preaching and teaching the highest duties of american citizens with a power rarely equalled, never surpassed. he is now suddenly called to the bar of that judge who sees not as man sees, and where mercy, not merit, will render the cheering 'well done' to all who have used their trusts as faithful stewards of their lord,--the richest prize to be thought of. our great man had great virtues, and, doubtless, some defects; and i pray god that the former may be written in the hearts of his countrymen, the latter in the sea. here i begin the story that comes over my thoughts. "about forty years ago, walking past your father's house, with my wife and some of our family friends, on a bright, moonlight night, we were led to discuss the character of the owner (your honored father); some of the party wishing they might possess a small part of the property which would make them happy, others something else, when my own wish was expressed. it was, that i might use whatever providence might allow me to possess as faithfully as your father used his possessions, and that i should esteem such a reputation as his a better inheritance for my children than the highest political honors the country could bestow. a few years later, i was visiting stafford springs with my wife, and there met you and mrs. p., and first made your acquaintance. still a few years later, i became personally acquainted with your father by being chosen a director of the massachusetts bank, he being president. still later, i became more intimate with yourself by being a member of the legislature with you, when the seceders from williams college petitioned to be chartered as amherst college, which you opposed by the best speech that was made; and we voted against the separation, and, i believe, acted together on all the subjects brought up during that session. since then, which is about thirty years, i have been a successful business man, although, for the last twenty years, i have been a broken machine, that, by all common experience, should have been cast aside. but i am still moving; and no period of my life has had more to charm, or has had more flowers by the wayside, than my every-day life, with all my privations. the great secret of the enjoyment is, that i am able to do some further work, as your father's example taught me, when the question was discussed near forty years ago. can you wonder, then, my friend, that i wish our names associated in one of the best literary institutions in this country; viz., williams college? my interest in it seemed to be accidental, but must have been providential; for we cannot tell, till we reach a better world, what influence your speech had in directing my especial attention to the noble head of the college, when i first met him in a private circle in this city; and, since then, my respect for his character, my love for him as a man and a brother, has caused me to feel an interest in his college that i never should have felt without this personal intercourse. the two hundred young men there need more teachers; and the college, in view of its wants has appealed to the public for fifty thousand dollars, to place it upon an independent footing. * * * * * "there is money enough for all these good objects; and, if our worthy citizens can only be made to see that it will be returned to them four-fold, in the enjoyment of life in the way that never clogs, it will not be thought presumptuous in me to advise to such investments. from long observation, i am satisfied that we do better by being our own executors, than by hoarding large sums for our descendants. pardon me for thus writing to you; but knowing, as i do, that the college has commenced its appeal for aid, i am sure you will excuse me, whether you contribute to its aid or not. with great respect, i am, as i have always been, "your friend, amos lawrence. "p. s.--if you wish to talk with me, i shall be rejoiced to say what i know about the college." in his diary of the same date, mr. lawrence writes: " p. m.--my good old friend has called to see and talk with me, and a most agreeable conversation we have had. he expressed good wishes for the college, and will subscribe a thousand dollars at once, which is a cheering beginning in this city. the interest in the college will grow here, when people know more about it." "boston, _saturday morning, nov. , _.--the circumstances which have brought me the following letter from my valued friend, 'honest john davis,' are these: many years ago, i learned, from undoubted sources, that his pecuniary losses, through the agency of others, had so straitened him as to decide him to take his two sons from williams college, which seemed to me a pity; and i therefore enclosed to him five hundred dollars, with a request that he would keep his boys in college, and, when his affairs became right again, that he might pay the same to the college for some future needy pupils. two or three years afterwards, he said he was intending to hand over to the college the five hundred dollars, which i advised not to do until it was perfectly convenient for him. the circumstances which now call him out are very interesting; and, to me, the money seems worth ten times the amount received in the common business of life. within ten minutes after mr. davis's letter was read to me, dr. peters, the agent of the college to collect funds for its necessities, called in to report progress in his work. i immediately handed over the five hundred dollars from john davis, with a request that he would acknowledge its reception to my friend at once." "worcester, nov. , . "my dear sir: i have been in boston but once since my return from washington, and then failed to see you. nevertheless, you are seldom absent from our thoughts; you do so much which reminds us of the duties of life, and fixes in our minds sentiments of cherished regard and unalterable affection. no one can desire a more enviable distinction, a more emphatic name, than he whom all tongues proclaim to be the good man; the man who comprehends his mission, and, with unvarying steadiness of purpose, fulfils it. there is such a thing as mental superiority, as elevated station, as commanding influence, as glory, as honor; and these are sometimes all centered in the same individual; but, if that individual has no heart; if humanity is not mixed in his nature; if he has no ear for the infirmities, the weaknesses, and sufferings of his fellow-beings,--he is like the massive, coarse walls of a lofty fortress, having strength, greatness, and power; but, as a man, he is unfinished. he may have much to excite surprise or to overawe, but nothing to awaken the finer sensibilities of our nature, or to win our love. the divine efflatus has never softened the soul of such a man. the heavenly attributes of mercy, brotherly love, and charity, have never touched his heart with sympathy for his race. he forgets that a fellow-being, however humble, is the work of the same god who made him, and that the work of the almighty has a purpose. he forgets the great command to love our neighbor. he forgets that all who are stricken down with disease, poverty, affliction, or suffering, are our neighbors; and that he who ministers to such, be he jew or samaritan, is, in the lofty, scriptural sense, a neighbor. neither the hereditary descent of the levite, nor the purple of the priest, makes a neighbor; but it is he who binds up the bleeding wound. this is the act upon which heaven places its seal of approval, as pleasing in the sight of him that is perfect. where there is an absence of purity of heart or generous sympathy, the man lacks the most ornate embellishment of character, that lustrous brightness which is the type of heaven. to minister to the necessities of the humble and lowly is the work of god's angels; and the man who follows their example cannot be far from his maker. you have the means of doing good; but have what is greater, and a more marked distinction, the disposition to do it when and where it is needed. your heart is always alive, and your hand untiring. * * * * * "some years ago, you did that for me and mine which will command my gratitude while i live. i needed aid to educate my children; and you, in a spirit of marked generosity, came unasked to my relief. i need not say how deeply, how sincerely thankful i was, that one, upon whom i had no claim, should manifest so generous a spirit. after a while, times changed somewhat for the better; and, feeling that i was able to do it, i asked permission to restore the sum advanced, that you, to whom it belonged, might have the disposition of it, since it had performed with me the good that was intended. you kindly gave me leave to hand it over to the college, but advised me to take my own time, and suit my convenience. that time has now come; and, as you are again extending to the college your sustaining arm, and may wish to take this matter into the account, i herewith enclose a check for five hundred dollars, with the renewed thanks of myself and my wife for the great and generous service which you have done us. we shall, in all respects, have profited greatly by it; and have no wish to cancel our obligations by this act, but to recognize them in their fullest extent. i am, most truly and faithfully, "your friend and obedient servant, "john davis." some inquiries having been made of mr. lawrence respecting the early history of the bunker hill monument, he writes, on the th of november, in a short note: dear son: you may be glad to copy the twelfth section of my will, executed in . this information is not before the world, but may be interesting to your children. i could have finished the monument, sick as i was, at any time before edmund dwight's death, by enlisting with him, who made me the offer, to join a small number of friends (three appletons, robert g. shaw, and us three lawrences), without saying, 'by your leave,' to the public." * * * * * "surety-ship is a dangerous craft to embark in. avoid it as you would a sail-boat with no other fastenings than mere wooden pegs and cobweb sails." chapter xxxviii. mr. lawrence serves as presidential elector.--gen. franklin pierce.--sudden death.--funeral. in november, robert g. shaw, esq., and mr. lawrence, were chosen presidential electors for the district in which they resided. both, at that time, were in the enjoyment of their usual health, and yet both were removed within a few months by death. the electoral college was convened in the state house at boston, in december; and mr. lawrence has noticed the event by a memorandum, endorsed upon his commission of elector, as follows: "_december ._--i have attended to the duty, and have given my vote to winfield scott for president, and william a. graham for vice-president." he did not add, that, before leaving the state house, he gave the customary fee paid in such cases towards freeing the family of a negro from slavery. but little is found in the handwriting of mr. lawrence for the month of december, except his usual record of donations to charitable objects. he seems to have written but few letters, which may in part be accounted for by having had his time much occupied by a most agreeable intercourse with gen. franklin pierce, who, with his family, were his guests during a part of the month. that gentleman had for many years been on terms of intimate friendship with mr. lawrence, and had kept up a familiar correspondence from washington and elsewhere, which no political differences had abated. he had always been a favorite; and now, having been elected to the presidential chair, and engaged in plans for his future administration, it may be imagined what interest this intercourse excited in mr. lawrence, deeply concerned as he was in every movement that tended to promote the political and moral welfare of the country. many excursions were made to the interesting spots and charitable institutions of boston and its vicinity, during this visit, which has a melancholy interest from the events which immediately followed it. on the twenty-sixth, general and mrs. pierce left boston for their home at concord, n. h., with the intention of spending a few days with their friends at andover. they were accompanied by their only child benjamin, a bright and promising boy, twelve years of age, whose melancholy death, but a few days afterwards, will give an interest to the following note, which he wrote to mr. lawrence in acknowledgment of a little token of remembrance: "andover, dec. , . "dear uncle lawrence: i admire the beautiful pencil you sent me, and i think i shall find it very useful. i shall keep it very carefully for your sake, and i hope that i may learn to write all the better with it. it was kind in you to write such a good little note, too; and i see that being industrious while you were young enables you to be kind and benevolent now that you are old. i think that you have given me very good advice, and i hope i shall profit by it. so, dear uncle, with much love to aunt, i am "your affectionate nephew, "b. pierce." the brief history of this promising boy, who exhibited a maturity and thoughtfulness far beyond his years, is soon told. nine days afterwards, in company with his father and mother, he left andover on his return home. a few minutes after starting, the cars were precipitated down a steep bank, among the rocks, causing the instant death of benjamin, and bruising the father and many other passengers severely. the accident sent a thrill of sympathy throughout the union, and cast a withering blight upon the prospects of the bereaved parents, which, amidst all earthly distinctions, can never be forgotten, and which has perhaps rendered more irksome the great and unceasing responsibilities of high official station. "_dec. ._--i sent a large bundle of clothing materials, books, and other items, with sixty dollars, by steamer for bangor, to professor pond, of bangor theological seminary, for the students. also gave a parcel, costing twenty-five dollars, to mrs. ----, who is a groton girl, and now having twins, making twenty children: is very poor. "_dec. ._--to professor ----, by dear s., one hundred dollars. books and items to-day, five dollars." these were his last entries. on the afternoon of the above date, the writer, in his usual walk, passed mr. lawrence's door with the intention of calling on his return, but, after proceeding a few steps, decided, from some unaccountable motive, to give up the accustomed exercise, and pass the time with his father. mr. lawrence appeared in excellent health and spirits; and nearly an hour was agreeably spent in discussing the topics of the day. he seemed more than usually communicative; and, although always kind and affectionate, there was, on this occasion, an unusual softness of manner, and tenderness of expression, which cannot be forgotten. the last topic touched upon was the character of a prominent statesman, just deceased, and the evidence which he had given of preparation for an exchange of worlds. he spoke somewhat fully upon the nature of such preparation, and expressed a strong hope, that, in the present instance, the exchange had been a happy one. in the latter part of the evening, mr. lawrence addressed to his friend, prof. packard, of bowdoin college, the following note, in reply to some questions asked by that gentleman in regard to the bunker hill monument, of which he was preparing a history for publication among the records of the maine historical society: "boston, december , , evening. "my dear friend: your letter of tuesday reached me just before my morning excursion to longwood to see our loved one there. in reply to your first query, i answer, that mr. e. everett presented a design of bunker hill monument, which was very classic, and was supported by col. perkins and gen. dearborn, i believe, and perhaps one or two more. young greenough (horatio), then a student of harvard college, sent in a plan with an essay, that manifested extraordinary talents, and was substantially adopted, although the column was amended by the talents, taste, and influence of loammi baldwin, one of our directors. the discussion of the model was very interesting; and, among the whole mass of plans, this of mr. everett and mr. baldwin, or, as i before said, a modification of greenough's, were the only ones that were thought of. mr. everett, and those who favored his classic plan, were very cordial in their support of the plan of the monument as it is, very soon after its adoption. mr. ticknor was very active in support of the plan as adopted; and i have a strong impression that young greenough's arguments were wholly just, and, abating some assertions which seemed a little strong for a mere college-lad, were true and unexceptionable. i write from memory, and not from overlooking the plans carefully since the time they were considered. young greenough i felt a deep interest in, and advanced money to his father to allow him to go abroad to study, which has been repaid since his father's death. here i have an interesting story to tell you of this debt, which i wished to cancel, that the widow might receive the amount. mr. greenough was near his end, and deeply affected, but fully persuaded that, by the provisions of his will, his widow would soon have an ample income, and declined the offer. it has turned out better than he ever anticipated. the books shall go forward, as you requested. all our family, 'kith and kin,' are pretty well. the president elect has, i think, the hardest time, being over-worked; and, as we are now without any one, we shall be rejoiced to see you here. pray, come. i shall write again when i send the 'red book' you request. "with love to all, n. and i join; and i bid you adieu. "from your friend, "amos lawrence. "to prof. packard, brunswick, me." the above letter was folded, directed, and left upon his table, and doubtless contained the last words he ever wrote. after the usual family devotions, he retired at about ten o'clock, and, before his attendant left the room, asked a few questions relating to the situation of a poor family which he had relieved a day or two before. mrs. lawrence had been in an adjoining room, and, on returning, found him lying quietly, and apparently engaged in silent prayer. she did not, therefore, disturb him, but retired for the night without speaking. in less than two hours, she was awakened by one of his usual attacks. remedies were applied; but, no rallying symptoms appearing, the physician and family were summoned. all that medical skill could do was in vain; and, at a quarter past twelve, on the last day of the year, he quietly breathed his last, without having awakened to consciousness after his first sleep. all his temporal affairs seemed to have been arranged in view of this event. the partnership with his brother, which had existed for nearly forty years, was dissolved in that way which he had resolved in former years should alone terminate it. from various prudential reasons, however, he had changed his opinion, and had decided to withdraw from all business relations, and accordingly furnished the advertisement, which was to appear on the next day in the public prints, announcing his withdrawal. four days previous, he had executed a codicil to his will; and thus seemed to have settled his concerns with the closing year. the summons did not find him unprepared; for it was such as he had long expected, and had alluded to many times in his conversation, as well as in his letters to friends. the plans of each day were made with reference to such a call. nor can we doubt that he was, in the highest sense, prepared to exchange what he sometimes was permitted to call "the heaven on earth" for that higher heaven where so many of his most cherished objects of earthly affection had preceded him. on the morning of his death, the editor found upon his table the following lines, which had been copied by him a few days previous, and which are the more interesting from being a part of the same hymn containing the lines repeated by his wife upon her death-bed, thirty-three years before: "vital spark of heavenly flame, quit, o, quit this mortal frame! trembling, hoping, lingering, flying,-- o, the pain, the bliss, of dying! cease, fond nature,--cease the strife, and let me languish into life. hark!--------" it would almost seem that a vision of the angel-messenger had been afforded, and that the sound of his distant footsteps had fallen upon his ear; for, with the unfinished line, the pen thus abruptly stops. the funeral ceremonies were performed on tuesday, the th of january. a prayer was first offered before the body was taken from the house, in the presence of the family and friends of the deceased, by the rev. a. h. vinton, d.d., rector of st. paul's church. public exercises in brattle-street church were then performed, in the presence of a crowded congregation, composed of the numerous friends and former associates of the deceased, clergymen of all denominations, and large numbers representing the various professions and trades of the community. the religious services were conducted by three of mr. lawrence's most intimate and valued friends, representing three different denominations. these were the rev. dr. lothrop, pastor of brattle-street church; the rev. dr. hopkins, president of williams college; and the rev. dr. sharp, pastor of the baptist society in charles-street. a beautiful and appropriate hymn was sung by the members of the lawrence association, from the mather school, who surrounded the coffin, and, at the conclusion of the hymn, covered it with flowers. the body, followed by a large procession of mourning friends, was then conveyed to mount auburn, and deposited by the side of the loved ones who had preceded him, and under the shade of the "old oak," where may it rest until summoned to the presence of that saviour whose example and precepts he so much loved on earth, and through whom alone he looked for happiness in heaven! chapter xxxix. sketch of character by rev. drs. lothrop and hopkins. the correspondence in the preceding pages will, perhaps, give a clearer view of the character of mr. lawrence than anything which can be adduced by others. it may not be amiss, however, to quote what has been written by two of his most intimate friends, who had the most ample means of forming a just estimate of the man, and of the motives by which he was actuated. dr. lothrop, in his sermon preached on the sunday after the funeral, says: "i have intimated that mr. lawrence was intellectually great. i think he was so. by this, i do not mean he was a scholar or learned man, with a mind developed and disciplined by severe training, and enlarged and enriched by varied culture in the various departments of human thought and study. this, we know, he was not; although he was a man of considerable reading, who loved and appreciated the best books in english literature. but i mean that he was a man of great native vigor of intellect, whose mind was clear, strong, comprehensive in its grasp, penetrating, far-reaching in its observation, discerning and discriminating in its judgments, sagacious in its conclusions; a mind, which, if enriched by the requisite culture, and directed to such objects, would have made him eminent in any of the walks of literary or professional life, as, without that culture, it did make him eminent in those walks of practical, commercial life to which he did direct it. i mention this, not to dwell upon it, but simply because some who have known him little, and that only since disease had somewhat sapped his strength, may not do him justice in this respect. those who remember his early manhood; who saw the strong, bold, and vigorous tread with which he walked forward to his rightful place among the merchants of the city; those who remember the sagacity of his enterprises, his quick and accurate discernment of character, and the commanding influence he exercised over others; the ease and rapidity with which he managed the concerns of a large commercial establishment, and decided and despatched the most important commercial negotiation,--these will be ready to admit that he was intellectually a strong man. to the last this vigor of intellect showed itself; if not always in his conversation, yet always in his letters, many of which will be found to have a force of thought, a fulness of wisdom and sound judgment, a terse, epigrammatic comprehensiveness of expression, of which no man, however distinguished by his learning and scholarship, would have need to be ashamed. the merchants of this city have ever been distinguished, i believe, for their integrity and benevolence. nowhere is wealth acquired by a more honest and healthy activity; nowhere is a larger portion of it devoted to all the objects which a wise philanthropy, an extended patriotism, and a tender christian sympathy, would foster and promote. mr. lawrence was conspicuous for these qualities. his integrity, i may venture to say, stands absolutely unimpeached, without spot or blemish. his history, as a merchant, from first to last, will bear the strictest scrutiny. its minutest incidents, which have faded from the memory of those concerned; its most secret acts, those of which no human eye could take knowledge,--might all be brought into the light before us; and like those, i trust, of many of his fraternity, they would seem only to illustrate the purity and integrity of his principles, the conscientious regard to truth and right and justice with which he conducted all the negotiations of business, and all the affairs of his life. he seemed ever to me to have a reverence for right, unalloyed, unfaltering, supreme; a moral perception and a moral sensibility, which kept him from deviating a hair's breadth from what he saw and felt to be his duty. it was this that constituted the strength of his character, and was one of the great secrets of his success. it was this that secured him, when a young man, the entire confidence, and an almost unlimited use of capital, of some of the wealthiest and best men of that day. * * * * * "the prominent feature in mr. lawrence's life and character, its inspiration and its guide, was religion; religious faith, affection, and hope. he loved god, and therefore he loved all god's creatures. he believed in christ, as the promised messiah and saviour of the world; and therefore found peace and strength to his soul, amid all the perils, duties, and sorrows of life. * * * * * "there was nothing narrow or sectarian about mr. lawrence's religious opinions or feelings. he had a large, catholic spirit, which embraced within the arms of its love, and of its pecuniary bounty also when needed, all denominations of christians; and it is to be hoped that the influence of his example and character has done something, and will continue to do more, to rebuke that bigotry which 'makes its own light the measure of another's illumination.' he took no pleasure in religious disputes or discussions. the practical in christianity was what interested him. his great aim was to illustrate his faith by his daily walk, and authenticate his creed by a life of practical usefulness, constant benevolence, and cheerful piety. this aim he successfully accomplished, to the conviction of persons of all creeds and of every name. these will all give him a name in the church universal; will all admit that he was a noble specimen of a true christian,--a loving and believing disciple, who had the very spirit of his master. that spirit pervaded his daily life, and formed the moral atmosphere in which he lived and breathed. it quickened in him all holy, devout, and pious affections; gave him a profound reverence, a cheerful submission, a bright and glorious hope,--a hope that crowned every hour with gladness, robbed death of all terrors, and, in _his_ soul, brought heaven down to earth." the following extracts are taken from the sermon, by president hopkins, before the students of williams college,--a sermon from which extracts have been already made: "having thus spoken of the use of his property by mr. lawrence, i observe that it was distinguished by the three characteristics which seem to me essential to the most perfect accomplishment of the ends of benevolence, and that in two of these he was preëminent. "the first of these is, that he gave the money in his life-time. no man, i presume, has lived on this continent who has approximated him in the amount thus given; and in this course there are principles involved which deserve the careful attention of those who would act conscientiously, and with the highest wisdom. there may doubtless be good reasons why property destined for benevolent uses should be retained till death, and he is justly honored who then gives it a wise direction; but giving thus cannot furnish either the same test or discipline of character, or the same enjoyment, nor can it always accomplish the same ends. by his course, mr. lawrence put his money to its true work long before it could have done anything on the principle of accumulation; and to a work, too, to which it never could have been put in any other way. he made it sure, also, that that work should be done; and had the pleasure of seeing its results, and of knowing that through it he became the object of gratitude and affection. so doing, he showed that he stood completely above that tendency to accumulate which seems to form the chief end of most successful business men; and which, unless strongly counteracted, narrows itself into avarice, as old age comes on, almost with the certainty of a natural law. he did stand completely above this. no one could know him, without perceiving, that, in his giving, there was no remnant of grudging or reluctance; that he gave, not only freely, but with gladness, as if it were the appropriate action of a vital energy. and in so doing, and in witnessing the results, and in the atmosphere of sympathy and love thus created, there was a test and a discipline and an enjoyment, as well as a benefit to others, that could have been reached in no other way. "the second peculiarity in the bounty of mr. lawrence, and in which he was preëminent, was the personal attention and sympathy which he bestowed with it. he had in his house a room where he kept stores of useful articles for distribution. _he_ made up the bundle; _he_ directed the package. no detail was overlooked. he remembered the children, and designated for each the toy, the book, the elegant gift. he thought of every want, and was ingenious and happy in devising appropriate gifts. in this attention to the minutest token of regard, while, at the same time, he could give away thousands like a prince, i have known no one like him. and, if the gift was appropriate, the manner of giving was not less so. there was in this the nicest appreciation of the feelings of others, and an intuitive perception of delicacy and propriety. these were the characteristics that gave him a hold upon the hearts of many, and made his death really felt as that of few other men in boston could have been. in this, we find not a little of the utility, and much of the beauty, of charity. even in his human life, man does not live by bread alone, but by sympathy and the play of reciprocal affection, and is often more touched by the kindness than by the relief. only this sympathy it is that can establish the right relation between the rich and the poor; and the necessity for this can be superseded by no legal provision. this only can neutralize the repellent and aggressive tendencies of individuals and of classes, and make society a brotherhood, where the various inequalities shall work out moral good, and where acts of mutual kindness and helpfulness may pass and repass, as upon a golden chain, during a brief pilgrimage and scene of probation. it is a great and a good thing for a rich man to set the stream of charity in motion, to employ an agent, to send a check, to found an asylum, to endow a professorship, to open a fountain that shall flow for ages; but it is as different from sympathy with present suffering, and the relief of immediate want, as the building of a dam to turn a factory by one great sluiceway is from the irrigation of the fields. by mr. lawrence both were done. "the third characteristic referred to of the bounty of mr. lawrence was, that he gave as a christian man,--from a sense of religious obligation. not that all his gifts had a religious aspect: he gave gifts of friendship and of affection. there was a large enclosure, where the affections walked foremost, and where, though they asked leave of duty, they yet received no prompting from her. whether he always drew this line rightly; whether, in the measure and direction of his charities, he was always right; whether so much of diffusion and individuality was wise,--it is not for me to say. certain it is, that this form of charity holds a place in the church now less prominent relatively than it did in the early ages; and it may be that the proportions of christian character, in portions of the church, need to be remodelled and recast in this respect. these are questions for each individual. it is sufficient to know that mr. lawrence looked the great doctrine of stewardship full in the face, and prayed earnestly over it, and responded to it practically, as few have done. * * * * "undoubtedly, he was a man of great original powers. on this point, i have had but one opinion since knowing him. his mind was not speculative, discursive, metaphysical: but, in the high moral qualities; in decision and energy; in intuitive perception, and sound, practical judgment; in the sensibility and affections, and in the imagination,--he was great. like all remarkable men who are not one-sided, he had large faculties, which found their harmony in their conflict, or rather in their balance. he was quick and tender in his feelings, yet firm; ardent in his affections, yet judicious; large in his gifts, yet discriminating; he was a keen observer, yet kind in his feelings; he had a fertile and shaping imagination: he built air-castles, and they vanished, and then he built others; but, when he decided to build anything on the ground, it was well-planned and promptly finished. his tastes were natural and simple, his habits plain, and his feelings always fresh, genuine, and youthful. not even the smell of the fire of prosperity had passed on him. he shunned notoriety. he had a strong repugnance to all affectation and pretence and misplaced finery. a young man with rings on his fingers had small chance of favor or employment from him. he was impatient of talk when action was called for, and of all attempts to substitute talk for action. his command over the english language, especially in writing, indicated his power. style is no mechanical product, that can be formed by rules, but is the outgrowth and image of the mind; and his had often great felicity and strength. when he wrote under the impulse of his feelings, he seemed to impregnate the very paper, and make it redolent of them. he loved nature; and, instead of becoming insensible to it as years came on, it seemed rather to open upon him like a new revelation. it was full of life and of teaching, and the charms of natural beauty were heightened by those associations which his quick imagination connected with its objects and scenes. after the death of two of his children, he says: 'dear s. and r. speak in words without sound through every breeze, and in every flower, and in the fragrance of every perfume from the fields or the trees.' years ago, after a long confinement, with little hope of recovery, he visited, when first able to get out, the panorama of jerusalem, then on exhibition in boston, and remained there till the scene took full possession of his mind. shortly after, on a fine day, he rode out to brookline; and, as returning health threw over those hills a mantle of beauty that he had never seen before, they were immediately associated in his mind with the panorama of jerusalem, and then with the glories of the jerusalem above. this association was indissoluble, and he would take his friends out to see his 'mount zion.' in , he says, 'it really seems to me like the sides of mount zion, and that i can cling to them as i view them.' * * * * * "he was a deeply religious man. his trust in god, and his hope of salvation through christ, were the basis of his character. he believed in the providence of god as concerned in all events, and as discriminating and retributive in this world. he felt that he could trust god in his providence, where he could not see. 'the events of my life,' he writes, 'have been so far ordered in a way to make me feel that i know nothing at the time, except that a father rules; and his discipline, however severe, is never more so than is required.' he believed in the bible, and saw rightly its relation to all our blessings. 'what,' he writes again, 'should we do, if the bible were not the foundation of our self-government? and what will become of us, when we wilfully and wickedly past it behind us?' he read the bible morning and evening in his family, and prayed with them; and it may aid those who are acquainted with the prayers of thornton, in forming a conception of his religious character, to know that he used them. family religion he esteemed as above all price; and, when he first learned that a beloved relative had established family worship, he wept for joy. he distributed religious books very extensively, chiefly those of the american tract society, and of the american sunday school union. * * * * of creeds held in the understanding, but not influencing the life, he thought little; and the tendency of his mind was to practical rather than doctrinal views. he believed in our lord jesus christ as a saviour, and trusted in him for salvation. he was a man of habitual prayer. the last time i visited him, he said to me, that he had been restless during the night, and that the only way in which he could 'get quieted was by getting near to god,' and that he went to sleep repeating a prayer. during the same visit, he spoke strongly of his readiness, and even of his desire, to depart. he viewed death with tranquillity and hope and preparation, for it was habitual with him. what need i say more? at midnight the summons came, and his work was done." chapter xl. conclusion. mr. lawrence was of about the medium height, and, until reduced by sickness, was erect in person, and active and vigorous in his movements. the expression of his countenance was mild and cheerful, partaking of that benevolent cast which one would have been led to expect from the tenor of his daily life. his affections were warm, and his feelings quick and ardent. his temperament was of a nervous character, thereby inclining him to impatience. with this defect he had to struggle much in early life. it is related of him, that he once, by some hasty reply, wounded the sensitive feelings of a cherished sister, who afterwards died; and so much did he regret his impatience, that he made a resolution to persevere in his efforts until he had conquered the fault. a great change was soon remarked in him in this respect; so much so, that a relative, who passed several months under his roof during his early married life, was surprised at not seeing the least evidence of this tendency. during his latter years, when weakened by disease, and when his nervous system had been shattered by his violent and peculiar attacks of illness, he had more difficulty in controlling his feelings and expressions. on the second, sober thought, however, no one could have been more ready to confess the fault, and to make such reparation as the case demanded. his daily actions were guided by the most exalted sense of right and wrong; and in his strict sense of justice, aristides himself could not surpass him. he was a living example of a successful merchant, who had, from the earliest period of his business career, risen above all artifice, and had never been willing to turn to his own advantage the ignorance or misfortune of others. he demonstrated in his own case the possibility of success, while practising the highest standard of moral obligation. he had ever commanded the confidence of those around him. when an apprentice in his native town, many of his customers relied upon his judgment rather than their own. he never deceived them, and early adopted as his rule of life, to do to others as he would have them do to him. thus he stood high in the confidence, as well as in the estimation, of his neighbors. what "amos" said was right, and no one could gainsay. if any one thing was, more than another, the means of promoting his success in life, we should say it was this faculty of commanding the confidence of others. to this can be traced the prosperity of his earliest business years; and, as his sphere enlarged, and his financial operations were extended, the same feeling of confidence gave him the unlimited command of the means of some of the wealthiest capitalists in new england, who, through the most critical seasons in the mercantile world, placed implicit confidence in the house of which he was the senior partner. mr. lawrence had no fluency in conversation. his mind was ever active; but the volume of thought found no corresponding channel of utterance. the very number of ideas seemed to impede the power of expression. had his talents been devoted to literary or scientific pursuits, he would have earned distinction by his pen. his mind was not of that logical cast, which, from patient reasoning, can deduce effects from a succession of causes; but arrived at its conclusions by a kind of intuition, somewhat like those rare instances of mathematicians who solve a difficult problem, and yet can give no account of the mental process by which the solution has been reached. as a husband and father, he was ever kind and affectionate. he was domestic in his tastes, and found his greatest enjoyment in his home. here he was eminently favored, and ever found the warmest sympathy, and that considerate care and kindness so necessary in latter years to his feeble health. no one who has read the preceding correspondence can have failed to see the interest which he ever took in all that concerned the welfare of those whom providence had committed to his keeping. his letters to his children would fill many volumes, and are in themselves an enduring testimony to his fidelity and watchful care during a long series of years. his motto was, "line upon line, precept upon precept;" and thus his constant aim was to impress upon their minds the great principles of religion and morality. no parent could be more indulgent when such indulgence was consistent with the true welfare of his children, or more resolute in denying what was hurtful. their present happiness was a great object; but his desire for their ultimate good was still greater. as a friend, he was most faithful and sympathizing; and many now living can testify to the value of his friendship. few, perhaps, have had more friends. their affection for him was not founded so much upon gratitude for his constantly recurring favors, as upon the warm sympathy and affection with which his heart, was filled toward them and theirs. as a citizen, his views were comprehensive, and were bounded by no lines of sectional or party feeling. he was most deeply interested in all that concerned the honor and prosperity of his country, and keenly sensitive to the injury inflicted by such measures as tended to depreciate her standing in the estimation of other nations, or of good men among her own citizens. he was a true patriot, and had adopted the views and aims of the best men of the republic in former days, while he viewed with distrust many of the popular movements of more modern times. from his father he had inherited the most profound veneration for gen. washington, and faith in his public policy; while the political principles of alexander hamilton and john jay were those alone by which he thought the permanent happiness and prosperity of the country could be secured. as a christian, he endeavored to walk in the footsteps of his master. he had no taste for the discussion of those minor points of doctrine upon which good men so often differ, but embraced with all his heart the revealed truths of the gospel, which the great body of christians can unite in upholding. he sought those fields of labor where all can meet, rather than those which are hedged in by the dividing lines of sect and party. he reverenced the bible, and, from the first chapter of the old testament to the last chapter of the new, received it as the inspired word of god. this was his sheet-anchor; and to doubt was, in his view, to leave a safe and peaceful haven, to embark upon an unknown ocean of danger and uncertainty. religion was for him a practical thing for every-day use, consisting not so much in frames and emotions as in the steady and persevering performance of the daily duties of life. his view of duty did not limit him to the common obligations of morality, but included the highest sense of duty towards god; or, as he has expressed it in one of his early letters, "to be a moral man merely, is not to be a christian." he was an active helper in all that tended to promote the cause of christianity among nations, as well as to promote spiritual progress among individuals. the christian banner, in his view, covered many denominations; and, with this belief, his charities were directed to the building up of institutions under the influence of the various sects differing from that under which he himself was classed. what has been said of john thornton might be applied to him: "he was a merchant renowned in his generation for a munificence more than princely. he was one of those rare men in whom the desire to relieve distress assumes the form of a master-passion. conscious of no aims but such as may invite the scrutiny of god and man, he pursued them after his own fearless fashion, yielding to every honest impulse, choosing his associates in scorn of mere worldly precepts, and worshipping with any fellow-christian whose heart beat in unison with his own, however inharmonious might be some of the articles of their respective creeds. his benevolence was as unsectarian as his general habits; and he stood ready to assist a beneficent design in every party, but would be the creature of none. he not only gave largely, but he gave wisely. he kept a regular account (not for ostentation, or the gratification of vanity, but for method) of every pound he gave. with him, his givings were made a matter of business, as cowper says, in an 'elegy' he wrote upon him,-- 'thou hadst an industry in doing good, restless as his who toils and sweats for food'" those who were not acquainted with mr. lawrence might suppose that his long continued ill-health, extending through a period of twenty-one years, permitted the formation of a character which few could attain who should not be called upon to pass through a similar discipline. that the isolation from the business-world, and freedom from the cares and struggles of active life, to which most men are subjected, tended to give him a more just and dispassionate view of his relations to god, as well as to his fellow-men, cannot be doubted. the peculiar elevation and spirituality of mind which he acquired must not, however, be looked upon as the hot-bed growth of the invalid's chamber; but rather as the gradual development of a character whose germ was planted far back in the years of childhood. the principles of religion and truth which were inculcated by a faithful and sensible mother upon the heart of the child, shone forth in all the events which marked the life of the future man. of mr. lawrence's religious opinions respecting those doctrinal points upon which christians are divided, the writer will not speak; though, from repeated conversations with his father on the subject, in the hours of health as well as of sickness, he might consistently do so. rather than make assertions which might lead to discussion, it is more grateful to his feelings to leave the subject to the unbiassed judgment of those who shall read the preceding correspondence. let it rather be the aim of those who loved and honored him in life to imitate his example, now that he is dead. they may rejoice that they were permitted to claim as a relative, and to have daily intercourse with, one who has exhibited, in such an abundant degree, those fruits which are the truest and best evidence of a genuine faith. in completing this volume, the editor feels that he has fulfilled a sacred trust; and his great regret is, that the work could not have been undertaken by some one more fitted, by his qualifications and past experience, to do justice to the subject. for reasons given in the preface, this could not be; and it is, therefore, with great diffidence that these pages are submitted as a memorial of one whose life and character deserve more than a passing record. if, however, what has been done shall be the means of directing the attention of those for whom the volume has been prepared to the consideration of the precepts here recorded; and, above all, if those precepts shall be the means of influencing them for good in their future course in life,--the effort will not have been in vain. index. abstinence; total, from tobacco and intoxicating drinks, by mr. lawrence, accounts, benefit of keeping, illustrated, adams, amos, adams, samuel, advice, letters of, to abbott lawrence, - amherst college, effort of mr. lawrence in behalf of, amin bey, letter to, from mr. lawrence, anatomy, views of mr. lawrence respecting the dissection of human bodies, andré, major, appleton, jesse, appleton, mrs., death of, athenæum, in boston, mr. lawrence's plans for benefit of, baldwin, loammi, baltimore, derangement of business in, bangor theological seminary, donation by mr. lawrence to, donation for students in, banks, suspension of in , bible, mr. lawrence's estimate of the, birth-place, attachment to expressed by mr. lawrence, of mr. lawrence, engraving of, blagden, george w., note from, respecting rev. dr. ----, of scotland, letter from mr. lawrence to, blake, george, bondsmen, advice respecting fathers becoming, book-keeping by double entry, adopted by mr. lawrence, boston, religious controversy in, mr. lawrence elected representative of, wooden buildings in, post-office, dead letters from, bowdoin college, donation by mrs. lawrence to, brattle-street church, mr. lawrence's connection with, brazer, james, , his store described, bridgman, laura, briggs, george n., , presentation of a cane to, by mr. lawrence, brooks, peter c., death and character of, buckminster, j. s., remains of removed to mount auburn by mr. lawrence, bunker hill, desire of mr. lawrence to retain for posterity the battlefield, bunker hill monument, mr. lawrence's interest in, objection to a lottery for, completion of, mr. lawrence's agency in securing the completion of, - note from mr. lawrence respecting early history of, history of the plan of, burial-places, mr. lawrence's views respecting, business, secret of mr. lawrence's success in, buxton, lady, letter from, to mr. lawrence, letter from, to mr. lawrence, buxton, sir thomas fowell, cabot, samuel, cambridge theological school, views respecting, canada, journey of mr. lawrence to, canadian boat-song, canfield, mr., carroll, charles, caswell, oliver, chaplin, daniel, chapman, jonathan, charities, memorandum of, - proportion of, in , money for, "odds and ends" for, - correction of a public statement respecting mr. lawrence's, amount expended during ten years in, total amount expended in, charity, systematic, inculcated by mr. lawrence, children, fondness of mr. lawrence for, - hospital for, founded by mr. lawrence, - christ, object of his death, christmas, mr. lawrence's view of, cobb, gershom, introduces book-keeping by double entry, codman, dr., colebrooke, lady, death of, colebrooke, sir william, letter to, from mr. lawrence, letter from mr. lawrence to, colonization of africa, aided by mr. lawrence, , concord, mr. lawrence's account of the fight in at, - controversy, religious, in boston, copartnership, offer of amos lawrence to dissolve,--declined by abbott lawrence, copartnership of a. & a. lawrence dissolved by death, cornhill-street, store of mr. lawrence in, credit system, mr. lawrence's view of, cresson, elliott, letter to, from mr. lawrence, darley, mrs., darracott, george, davis, john, loan of $ by mr. lawrence to, letter from, to mr. lawrence, dearborn, h. a. s., , debts, mr. lawrence's promptness in paying, dexter, franklin, estimate of his argument on the fugitive slave law, dexter, madam, diet of mr. lawrence, , table of, kept by mr. lawrence, dorchester heights, reflections on, drinking habits in mr. lawrence's early days, dwight, edmund, dwight, louis, testimony of mr. lawrence respecting, ellis, judge, ellis, mrs. nancy, marriage of mr. lawrence to, epicureanism, mr. lawrence's notion of, european fashions, introduction of discountenanced, everett, edward, , expenditures, by mr. lawrence, in , from to , fac-simile of mr. lawrence's hand-writing, family worship, mr. lawrence's remarks on, farwell, captain, , fillmore, millard, foreign gold, exchange of negotiated, fraternal affection, example of, french revolution of , mr. lawrence's sympathy with, fugitive slave law, mr. lawrence's opinion of the, funeral ceremonies at the death of amos lawrence, , gannett, ezra s., letter to, gannett, caleb, gannett, mrs., hymn for her little boy by, goddard, n., granger's coffee house, gray, mrs. martha, present from mr. lawrence to, gray, robert, green, wm. l., death of, greenough, horatio, greenwood, rev. dr., groton, scenery in, , groton academy, donations of mr. lawrence to, preamble of the deed, amount of donations to, by mr. lawrence, donations of $ , by william lawrence to, extract from address at jubilee of, gurney, hannah (see buxton, lady), haddock, charles b., letter from mr. lawrence to, hallock, rev. mr., hamilton, james, letters from mr. lawrence to, , , letter from, to mr. lawrence, hancock, john, harris, colonel, harvard college, donation of $ , by abbott lawrence to, heaven, reunion of friends in, hillsborough bank, mr. lawrence's draft on for specie, , hone, isaac, hone, philip, hopkins, mark, president of williams college, letters to, from mr. lawrence, , , , , , , , , , , , , lectures in boston, hopkins, mark, extract from his sermon on death of mr. lawrence, peculiarities of mr. lawrence's bounty sketched by, - howe, dr., hubbard, judge, hubbart, tuthill, hulsemann, chevalier, interview of mr. lawrence with, immigration from europe, mr. lawrence's view of, , income, net, of mr. lawrence in the first two years, practice of spending it, adopted by mr. lawrence, intoxicating liquors, total abstinence from, by mr. lawrence, ireland, mr. lawrence's contributions to the famished in, , johnson school, donation to, by mr. lawrence, kast, dr., kent, chancellor, ride with--character of, kenyon college, aid to by mr. lawrence, lafayette, general, mr. lawrence's opinion of, message to, lothrop, samuel k., , , , extract from his sermon on the death of mr. lawrence, sketch of character of mr. lawrence by, - lawrence, abbott, , , letters to, , , , , , , , , , , , becomes partner with amos, character as an apprentice, declines offer to dissolve copartnership, sails for europe, his dispatch of business, his military service in the last war with great britain, , donation of $ , to harvard college, candidate for the vice-presidency, tendered the office of secretary of the navy, appointed minister to the court of st. james, his popularity in great britain, likeness of, lawrence, mrs. abbott, lawrence, amos, when and where born, ancestry of, early instruction of, his mechanical skill in boyhood, anecdote of his school-days, enters groton academy, becomes a merchant's clerk, adopts the principle and practice of total abstinence, wounded by a gun-shot, apprenticeship terminated, accepts a clerkship in boston, commences business in boston, his boarding-house rule, his promptness in paying bills, motive for daily study, his remarks on letter-writing, his distinction between morality and religion, his mercantile principles, view of the credit system, net income of first two years, advice against parents becoming bondsmen for their sons, his opinion of the theatre, assists to establish his brother william in business, flying visits to groton, alarming illness, engagement of marriage, marriage, offer to dissolve copartnership declined, letter on the death of his sister, letter on the birth of his daughter, recommends marriage, domestic attachments, adoption of book-keeping by double entry, leniency to unfortunate debtors, second alarming illness, resignation in prospect of his wife's death, tour through the middle states, appreciation of the right of suffrage, delegate to assist in settlement of jared sparks, becomes an inmate of his brother's family, negotiates an exchange of foreign gold, narrow escape from shipwreck, second marriage of, resumes housekeeping, representative in the legislature, letter to mr. wolcott respecting his son, becomes a manufacturer, curtailment of his business, extent of his correspondence, opinion of lafayette, interest in bunker hill monument, journey to canada, objection to european fashions, objection to a lottery for bunker hill monument, presentation of plate to daniel webster, , dangerous illness of, feelings in sickness, , , visit to new hampshire, his life in a sick chamber, his submission under divine chastisements, - inculcates systematic charity, secret of his success, exercise on horseback, his diet, improvement of health, avoids the appearance of evil, his views of burial-places, advice about selecting a wife, advice to his daughter, , gratitude towards his mother, visit to washington, aversion to matrimonial speculations, estimate of congressional debates, visit to rainsford island, reflections on completing thirty years of business, pecuniary condition, january st, , habits of promptness, prospects on december st, , reflections on the death of his brother, advocates family worship, engraving of his birth-place, character in the bestowal of gifts, enjoyment of natural scenery, , belief in reunion of friends hereafter, annoyances arising from his reputation for benevolence, his religious belief, interest in a young colored lawyer, - reflections on his fifty-eighth birth-day, his agency in securing completion of bunker hill monument, - poetical toast to, renders aid to kenyon college, acquaintance with pres. hopkins, presents sent to president hopkins, - his aversion to public commendation of himself, , advice respecting his grandchildren, opposes annexation of texas, joy at birth of twin granddaughters, letter on death of his daughter, - sentiments in view of his prosperity, his view of keeping the sabbath, offer of his remains for the dissecting-room, his interest in the johnson school, fondness for children, provides a hospital for sick children, his gratitude for prosperity, contributes to the famished in ireland, his application in behalf of amherst college, congratulates abbott lawrence on his donation to harvard college, his attendance at church, his exactness in business, kindness to an old debtor, fac-simile of his hand-writing, sentiments respecting a religious awakening in college, , objects to his brother's taking political office, - , , estimate of the bible, prefers gen. taylor for president, treatment of an applicant for aid, joy at a revival of religion among unitarians, interview with father mathew, adds a codicil to his will, illness, desire for death, keeps christmas with children, circulates dr. hamilton's works, , , , lameness, attentions to children, circulates buxton's life, cancels a note for $ against a clergyman, interest in wabash college, controversy with a scotch clergyman, - his ground of religious hope, circulates uncle toby's stories on tobacco, his diet, prefers scott for president, solicits aid for williams college, from jonathan phillips, relieves the straitened circumstances of gov. davis, chosen presidential elector, votes for scott and graham, intercourse with franklin pierce, his last writing, death of, funeral ceremonies, , sketches of his character, personal appearance, character of john thornton applied to, general character, - lawrence, amos a., lawrence, arthur, lawrence, john, lawrence, luther, value of his property, speaker of house of representatives, mayor of lowell, death of, , lawrence, robert, illness of, letters of mr. lawrence respecting, - lawrence, samuel, sen., account of, sketch of his military career, , lawrence, samuel, presentation of a gold box to, by mr. lawrence, lawrence, mrs. sarah, illness of, letter to her husband, her condition described by mr. lawrence, death of, her death-bed scene described, - lawrence, mrs. susanna, character of, death of, lawrence, william, , commences business in boston, donations of $ , to groton academy by, death and character of, , lawrence association, in the mather school, note to, contributions for ireland by, presentation of a silver cup to mr. lawrence by, hymn sung at funeral of mr. lawrence by, letsom, dr. c., letters from amos lawrence, to a friend, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , to his son, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , to a college student, , to gen. henry whiting, , , to a sister, , , , , , , , , to dr. gannett, to abbott lawrence, , , , , , , , , , , , to his wife, , , to a brother, , to his mother-in-law, to his sister-in-law, , to frederic wolcott, to his eldest son, abroad, , , , , , , , to his second son, at andover, , , , to daniel webster, , to his mother, , , , , , to his daughter, , , , , , , to his youngest son, to his sisters, , to a connection, to his second son, in europe, to rev. charles mason, to rev. robert turnbull, d.d., to hon. robert c. winthrop, to general ----, to mr. parker (a partner), , to the mechanic apprentices' library association, to president hopkins, , , , , , , , , , , , to his partners, , to his children in france, to his grandson, to r. g. parker, , to gov. briggs, to alexander s. mckenzie, to j. a. stearns, for lawrence association, to madam prescott, to sir wm. colebrooke, , to a wealthy bachelor, to prof. packard, , to mr. g----, to mr. and mrs. green, to a physician, to a newspaper editor, to rev. james hamilton, d.d., , , , , to his sons, to robert barnwell rhett, to a country clergyman, to an aged clergyman, to elliott cresson, to lady buxton, to a lady in philadelphia, to charles b. haddock, to rev. dr. scoresby, to. rev. geo. w. blagden, d.d., to a friend in south carolina, to benjamin seaver, to a lady in florida, to jonathan phillips, levelling, judge story's maxim of, loan of money to mr. lawrence by his father, lowell, charles, letter to mr. lawrence from, lowell, john, lunatic asylum, plan for the new, manufactures, engagement of mr. lawrence in, largeness of his interest in, fluctuations in, views of mr. lawrence respecting coarse and fine, marriage of amos lawrence, mason, charles, letter from mr. lawrence to, mason, jeremiah, , remarks of, on rev, dr. ----'s lectures, , death and character of, , mason, mrs. susan, mr. lawrence's letter on the death of, - massachusetts general hospital, place of trustee resigned by mr. lawrence, mather school, character of, mathew, father, matrimonial speculations, aversion of mr. lawrence to, maxims of business--speculation condemned, mcilvaine, charles p., letter from, to mr. lawrence, mckenzie, alexander s., letter to, from mr. lawrence, present of a cane to mr. lawrence from, death of, means, james, extract from address at jubilee of groton academy, by, means, robert, mercantile principles adopted by mr. lawrence, "milo," arrival of ship, money, advice about spending, morality and religion, mr. lawrence's distinction between, mortgage of his father's farm, mount auburn, interest taken in, by mr. lawrence, national character, reflections upon, , native americans, mr. lawrence's view of, natural history society, donation to, by mr. lawrence, old ladies' home, donation to, by mr. lawrence, "old oak," in mount auburn, , paine, robert treat, parker, c. h., letter to, parker, daniel p., parker, r. g., letter from to mr. lawrence, parker, susanna, parkman, messrs., percy, lord, perkins, thomas h., pestilence, dr. shattuck's account of the, - phelps, mrs., phillips, jonathan, letter from mr. lawrence to, respecting aid to williams college, donation from, to williams college, pierce, benjamin, son of president pierce, note from, to mr. lawrence, sudden death of, pierce, franklin, character of, , his intercourse with mr. lawrence, pitcairn, major, account of his death, removal of his remains to england, pitcairn, william, pond, rev. dr., prayer adopted by mr. lawrence, prescott, general, madam, note from mr. lawrence to, her views on the comforts of old age, presidential elector, mr. lawrence chosen in , prince, martial, property, memorandum-book of mr. lawrence respecting his, prudhoe, lord, rainsford island, visit to, and description of scenery, religion. (see morality.) its cultivation urged upon his daughter, - representative, mr. lawrence elected, richards, giles, his card manufactory, richards, sarah, mr. lawrence's engagement of marriage with, richardson, captain, sabbath, mr. lawrence's view of keeping the, savings institution. (see athenæum.) scenery, mr. lawrence's enjoyment of, , scoresby, wm., letter from mr. lawrence to, sea-serpent seen at hampton beach in , mr. lawrence's belief in the, mr. lawrence's belief in the existence of the, sectarianism, mr. lawrence's freedom from, sharp, daniel, , letters from, to mr. lawrence, , , shattuck, george c, his account of the new england pestilence, - shaw, robert g., , shipwreck, narrow escape of mr. lawrence from, slavery, views of mr. lawrence on questions of, view of its tendencies, contribution for freeing a negro from, south carolina, manufactures in, encouraged by mr. lawrence, sparks, jared, mr. lawrence a delegate to assist in the settlement of, story, joseph, letter from, to mr. lawrence, , his maxim of "levelling," stone, john s., letter from to mr. lawrence, stowe, harriet beecher, strachan, lady, stuart, moses, letter of thanks from, sullivan, william, tarbell, thomas, tribute to the memory of, taylor, father, zachary, preferred for president by mr. lawrence, tennett, mr., texas, letter of mr. lawrence to mayor chapman, on the annexation of, ticknor, george, tobacco, total abstinence from, by mr. lawrence, book against, circulated by mr. lawrence, letter respecting use of, touro, judah, his donation for bunker hill monument, turnbull, robert, letter from mr. lawrence to, uncle tom's cabin, lady buxton's testimony respecting, unitarianism, mr. lawrence's opinion of, , van schaick, m., vinton, alexander h., wabash college, donation from mrs. lawrence to, ward, general, ware, henry, jr., warren, john c., , , washington, general, celebration of his birth-day, webster, daniel, letter from mr. lawrence respecting, , mr. lawrence's view of his speech in reply to hayne, letter to mr. lawrence from, letter to, from mr. lawrence, accompanying a presentation of plate, letter from to mr. lawrence, remarks on his address at plymouth, view of his character by mr. lawrence, of his preparation for death, white, charles, account of his play, the "clergyman's daughter," , white, charles, president of wabash college, whiting, henry, clerk to mr. lawrence, will of amos lawrence, codicil to, williams college, mr. lawrence's interest in, donation of $ , to, by mr. lawrence, donation of $ , by mr. lawrence, for a library building at, enlargement of library building proposed, scholarships established in, by mr. lawrence, account of mr. lawrence's benefactions to, - donation to, by jonathan phillips, winship, dr., wolcott, frederic, letter to, from mr. lawrence, * * * * * important literary and scientific works, published by gould and lincoln, washington street, boston. annual of scientific discovery; or, year book of facts in science and art. by david a. wells, a. m. mo, cloth, $ . . this work, commenced in the year , and issued in the month of january, annually, embraces an enumeration and description of every important invention, discovery, or scientific theory, reported during the year. each volume is distinct in itself, and contains entirely new matter, with a fine portrait of some person distinguished for his attainments in science and art. lake superior; its physical character, vegetation, and animals. by l. agassiz, and others. one volume, octavo, elegantly illustrated. cloth, $ . . the plurality of worlds. new edition. with a supplementary dialogue, in which the author's reviewers are reviewed. mo, cloth, $ . . this masterly production, which has excited so much interest in this country and in europe, will now have increased attraction in the supplement, in which the author's reviewers are triumphantly reviewed. comparative anatomy of the animal kingdom. by prof. c. th. von siebold and h. stannius. translated, with notes, additions, &c., by waldo j. burnett, m. d. one vol., octavo, cloth, $ . . this is unquestionably the best and most complete work of its class ever yet published. works by hugh miller. the footprints of the creator; 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[pointing finger symbol] the map is elegantly colored, and done up with linen cloth back, and folded in octavo form, with thick cloth covers. knowledge is power. a view of the productive forces of modern society, and the results of labor, capital and skill. by charles knight. with numerous illustrations. american edition. revised, with additions, by david a. wells, editor of the "annual of scientific discovery." mo, cloth, $ . . cyclop�dia of anecdotes of literature and the fine arts. a choice selection of anecdotes of the various forms of literature, of the arts, of architecture, engravings, music, poetry, painting and sculpture, and of the most celebrated literary characters and artists of different countries and ages, &c. by kazlitt arvine, a. m. with numerous illustrations. pages, octavo, cloth, $ . . this is unquestionably the choicest collection of anecdotes ever published. it contains three thousand and forty anecdotes, and more than one hundred and fifty illustrations. it is admirably adapted to literary and scientific men, to artists, mechanics, and others, as a dictionary for reference, in relation to facts on the numberless subjects and characters introduced. kitto's popular cyclop�dia of biblical literature. condensed from the larger work, by the author, john kitto, d. d. assisted by james taylor, d. d. with _over illustrations_. octavo, pp., cloth, $ . . this work answers the purpose of a commentary, while at the same time it furnishes a complete dictionary of the bible, embodying the products of the best and most recent researches in biblical literature, in which the scholars of europe and america have been engaged. it is not only intended for ministers and theological students, but is also particularly adapted to parents, sabbath-school teachers, and the great body of the religious public. history of palestine. with the geography and natural history of the country, the customs and institutions of the hebrews, etc. by john kitto, d. d. with upwards of illustrations. mo, cloth; 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"it was my uniform custom, after every such interview, to take copious memoranda of the conversation, including an account of the individual's appearance and manners; in short, defining, as well as i could, the whole impression which his physical, intellectual, and moral man had made upon me." from the memoranda thus made, the material for the present instructive and exceedingly interesting volume is derived. besides these "pen and ink" sketches, the work contains the novel attraction of a fac simile of the signature of each of the persons introduced. pilgrimage to egypt; explorations of the nile. with observations, illustrative of the manners, customs, etc. by hon. j. v. c. smith, m. d. with numerous elegant engravings. mo, cloth, $ . . the story of the campaign. a complete narrative of the war in southern russia. written in a tent in the crimea. by major e. bruce hamley, author of "lady lee's widowhood." with a new and complete map of the seat of war. mo, paper covers, - / cts. poetical works. milton's poetical works. with life and elegant illustrations. mo, cloth, $ . ; fine cloth, gilt, $ . . poetical works of sir walter scott. with life, and illustrations on steel. mo, cl., $l; fine cl., gilt, $ . . complete poetical works of william cowper. with a life, and critical notices of his writings. with new and elegant illustrations on steel. mo, cloth, $ . ; fine cloth, gilt, $ . . ++- the above poetical works, by standard authors, are all of uniform size and style, printed on fine paper, from clear, distinct type, with new and elegant illustrations, richly bound in full gilt, and plain; thus rendering them, in connection with the exceedingly low price at which they are offered, the cheapest and most desirable of any of the numerous editions of these author's works now in the market. life and correspondence of john foster. edited by j. e. ryland, with notices of mr. foster as a preacher and a companion. by john sheppard. two volumes in one, pages. mo, cloth, $ . . in simplicity of language, in majesty of conception, in the eloquence of that conciseness which conveys in a short sentence more meaning than the mind dares at once admit,--his writings are unmatched.--[north british review. guido and julius. the doctrine of sin and the propitiator; or, the true consecration of the doubter. exhibited in the correspondence of two friends. by frederick augustus o. tholuch, d. d. translated by jonathan edwards ryland. with an introduction by john pye smith, d. d. mo, cloth, cents. new and complete condensed concordance to the holy scriptures. by alexander cruden. revised and re-edited by rev. david king, l.l. d. octavo, cloth backs, $ . ; sheep, $ . . * * * * * transcriber's note: on the fronstispiece: "truly yours amos lawrence" is hand written. in the table of contents the page number for chapter xxix has been changed from to . text enclosed by underscores is in italics (_italics_). text enclosed by +so+ is in blackletter font. small capital text has been replaced with all capitals. ++- refers to a right pointing finger symbol. on the frontispiece: handwritten note is unclear, but may read "truly yours amos lawrence". page : abbott lawrence's signature is handwritten below his picture. variations in spelling, punctuation and hyphenation have been retained except in obvious cases of typographical error. the cover for the ebook version of this book was created by the transcriber and is placed in the public domain.