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ALONG THE BOSPHORUS. 
 
The Light of the Harejn. 
 
 Frontispiece. 
 
Along the Bosphorus 
 
 AND OTHER SKETCHES 
 
 BY 
 
 SUSAN E. WALLACE 
 
 {MRS. LEW t^ ALL ACE), 
 
 AUTHOR OF "GiNERVA, OR THE OLD OAK CHEST," "THE STORIED 
 
 Sea" "The Land of the Pueblos," "The 
 Repose in Egypt." 
 
 CHICAGO AND NEW YORK: 
 
 RAND, McNALLY & GO., PU^ISHERS, 
 1898. 
 
^1< 
 
 
 Copyright, 1898, by Rand, McNally & Co. 
 
 / ;;:^ 
 
 i'^0 COPIES f?£C£IVtO, 
 2nd copy, 
 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 CHAPTER. PAGE 
 
 I— ALONG THE BOSPHORUS 5 
 
 The Mohammedan Sunday. 
 Feast of Bairam. 
 Buying a Dog, 
 Under the Cypresses. 
 Seraglio Point. 
 Throne Room. 
 Imperial Treasury, 
 II— LEPERS AND LEPROUSY IN THE EAST, 69 
 
 III— A TRIP TO HEBRON 79 
 
 IV— GYPSIES I HAVE SEEN 103 
 
 V— HOUSEKEEPING IN TURKEY . . . .113 
 VI— AT BETHLEHEM 123 
 
 VII— IN THE TOWER OF MANY STORIES . . 129 
 The Little Princes. 
 Sir Walter Raleigh. 
 Lady Arabella Stuart. 
 The Earl of Essex and His Ring. 
 Henry the Eighth. 
 The Virgin Queen Imprisoned. 
 
 VIII— A FAIR CLIENT'S STORY 195 
 
 IX— WILLIAM WETMORE STORY 239 
 
 X— AMONG THE PALACE GALLERIES OF 
 
 FLORENCE 259 
 
 XI— LETTER FROM DRESDEN 281 
 
 XII— A REMINISCENCE 285 
 
 XIII— ABOUT BOOKS 291 
 
 XIV— FLORENCE NIGHTINGALE 299 
 
 XV— TWO DAYS IN WESTi^^INSTER ABBEY . 305 
 Introductory. 
 Historic. 
 Andre. 
 
 Mary Queen of Scotts. 
 Queen Elizabeth. 
 Catharine de Valois. 
 Anne Boleyn. 
 The Chair of State. 
 Poets' Corner. 
 XVI— THE CHAIN OF THE LAST SLAVE OP 
 
 MARYLAND 377 
 
INTRODUCTORY. 
 
 Steamer Provence, July 24, 1881. 
 On the Mediterranean, 
 
 Bound for Constantinople. 
 
 It is like adding a story to the Tower of Babel 
 to attempt anything new in these old regions 
 where there were settlements before the first of 
 Moguls was enthroned at Delhi, when Rome was 
 the name given to a few straw-built sheds on the 
 Palatine. Happily there are always young read- 
 ers tb whom the world is fresh as when the fairest 
 of women first opened her eyes and the evening 
 and the morning were the seventh day. So I 
 take heart for my journal notes. 
 
 At last we behold with our own eyes the sight 
 that has been a longing and a despair to us for 
 more than thirty years. The sacred sea — next 
 to Galilee — ^where men strove with gods in the 
 ancient times when the heavens were nearer to us. 
 The moon is at its full and the mild air, the pleas- 
 ant boat, the slow, soft motion are enchanting. 
 Last night — the purple night of Homer — ^we 
 heard the sirens singing among their beds of 
 scarlet poppies and fadeless asphodel, and in the 
 
2 INTRODUCTORY. 
 
 farness of the distance airy shapes and beckoning 
 hands saluted us. The volcanoes, Etna and 
 Stromboli, reddening the sky, are the only re- 
 minders that the earth is not all peace. Against 
 a horizon free of every taint of mist or fog float 
 soft white clouds that they tell us are islands. The 
 sweetest breeze that ever blew is blowing now, 
 dimpling the turquoise blue water. Our heads 
 are full of Byron and the other poets who have 
 told what we feel but cannot tell. 
 
 These are the waters in which Ben-Hur pulled 
 the oars of the Astrea when he was a galley slave, 
 one of a hundred and twenty chained to the 
 benches. I ask the hero's father, who walks the 
 deck or leans over the rails like one in a trance, 
 if it is as he imagined. 
 
 ''Yes, only by day, the Islands are too bare and 
 sterile; exactly like the rocky mountains in the 
 Territories." The sea has beauty enough for sea 
 and land and if we had ordered the weather we 
 would not have known how to describe such days 
 and nights to the Maker of both. 
 
 We are nearing the track of the galley that 
 ended in the sea-fight and rescue of Arrius the 
 Tribune. The water is so clear I shall presently 
 look for the seal ring of the noble Roman that 
 the foolish boy tossed overboard when it was the 
 only witness of a will in which life and death were 
 
INTRODUCTORY. 3 
 
 involved. I mean to look, too, for the bridal 
 rings of the Adriatic dropt from the Bucentauro 
 ages ago; they may have drifted down here and 
 be visible among the sea fans and corals if the 
 mermaids have not picked them up. No wonder 
 the Prince of Poets was blind; doomed to wan- 
 der among arid hills without grass or cooling 
 shadow except from crags of burnt out lava. A 
 few terraced vineyards tell how the poor make a 
 scant living, and baskets of snails brought to the 
 piers are offered for sale. The men have murder- 
 ous faces, they wear red girths round their 
 waists, swarm the piers and act as though they 
 would tear us to pieces if we do not let them 
 paddle us ashore. We say no, no; they stand 
 and stare awhile and then roar like wild beasts. 
 The Greek blood, thinned by many an alien 
 strain, beats warm in the hearts of the Levan- 
 tines. The women are bareheaded except for 
 their rich braids of jet-black hair, held by a long 
 stiletto hairpin of antique pattern; which orna- 
 ment on occasion may serve as a dagger. Here 
 and there among them is a face beautiful enough 
 for Helen or Sappho. 
 
 We passed Scylla and Charydbis with hardly a 
 ripple. It is said that under contrary winds a 
 strong whirl makes navigation dangerous in the 
 Strait (Messina), but I lean to the belief that the 
 
4 INTRODUCTORY. 
 
 ancient poets lived on their imaginations, per- 
 haps because, Hke some modern bards, they had 
 not much else to live on. The winds and the 
 waves have calling voices and answer each other 
 yet in songs that may well beguile heroes from 
 their duty to idle drifting away, away, where? 
 Who knows; who cares? So it is not to the dull 
 shore. A little boat goes by reminding me of the 
 bark in which Romola floated out to sleep and 
 forgetfulness of the broken dreams of her girl- 
 hood. Whatever befalls, nothing can rob us of 
 this precious possession, the sweet, sweet voyage 
 on this tideless sea. It deserves every song sung 
 about it; a dream come true whose witchery no 
 waking words can tell; nothing seen in the 
 valley of vision is equal to the reality. 
 
My thanks are with the Messrs. Harper, through whose 
 courtesy I am allowed to reprint The Tower of Many 
 Stories. Also, I acknowledge my debt to The Independent 
 and to the respective editors of the Sunday School Times,, 
 Frank Leslie^s Magazine, Youth's Companion, Bacheller 
 Syndicate, McClure Syndicate, Bok Syndicate, and The 
 Arena, for permission to gather together these scattered 
 Autumn leaves. 
 
I. 
 
 ALONG THE BOSPHORUS. 
 
 The Mohammedan Sunday. 
 
 The stranger entering Constantinople at noon 
 might think the rushing stream of life on Galata 
 bridge represents a people of industrious habits 
 and tireless energy. In reality it is one of the 
 idlest of cities, and repose of mind and body, tak- 
 ing kief (i. e., lazing) is the Turk's supreme hap- 
 piness. 
 
 Time has no value to the Moslem. Immov- 
 able fatalism makes the future, whatever it be, ac- 
 ceptable, and the ambitions and industries of 
 restless Christian nations are unknown to the de- 
 scendants of men who ravaged the earth under 
 Genghis Khan and Tamerlane. 
 
 Friday, the Mohammedan Sunday, is the most 
 delightful of all the week. It is an interruption 
 to labor, if there be any, because then the Sultan 
 makes his only outing; the whole population 
 rouses and goes to see the one sovereign of 
 Europe who can trace his lineage through four 
 
6 ALONG THE BOSPHORUS. 
 
 centuries, an unbroken succession, without the 
 scepter once decHning to the distaff, and without 
 the accession of a collateral branch. 
 
 He is the thirty-first ruler of the house of 
 Othman, reaching back to Shiek Ertogrul of 
 glorious memory, founder of the Ottoman dy- 
 nasty, who was buried at Eske Scheher, 1238. 
 
 About 2 o'clock in the afternoon the com- 
 mander of the faithful leaves Yildiz — Palace of 
 the Star — mounted usually on a milk-white 
 Arabian, which he manages with delicate and 
 skillful hand. He wears the uniform of an army 
 officer, without ornament except a slight dress 
 sword. His bearing is kingly, his face thin and 
 colorless, eyes black and keen as a falcon's; in 
 his lofty ease there is a mingling of fierceness and 
 gentleness, as becomes the descendant of the 
 most illustrious warrior of Islam, the successful 
 wooer of the fair Malkhatoon. 
 
 If the old Tartar blood is dominant in Abdul 
 Hamid Second, one would not suspect it while 
 he bows right and left, as though by life-long 
 contact with different races he had caught and 
 united in himself the graces of them all. Seeing 
 him thus we readily believe that the wearer of the 
 sword of Othman, uncontrolled master of 60,- 
 000,000, has so kindly a nature he has never 
 signed a death warrant. His manner is always 
 
The Sultan s Arabs. 
 
 Page 6. 
 
THE MOHAMMEDAN SUNDAY. 7 
 
 winsome and gracious, in the throne-room the 
 perfection of that subtle attraction conveyed to 
 our minds by the word courtly — a charm far be- 
 yond the reach of mere personal appearance. 
 
 Some of the royal family have had great 
 beauty inherited from Circassian mothers. An 
 English artist who painted Abdul Medjid, father 
 to the present Sultan, declared he had never seen 
 so fine a mouth; it was a perfect cupid's bow. 
 Physically, the house has declined since Turkish 
 corsairs scoured the Mediterranean countries for 
 women worthy the name of Sultana, and stole 
 high-born Venetian ladies to adorn the Imperial 
 harem. 
 
 There must be no umbrellas opened in pres- 
 ence of the shadow of God upon earth. Time was 
 when raising a parasol in front of majesty would 
 be the signal and mark for a musket-shot from 
 a sentinel. This peaceful furling of parasols is a 
 far-away reminder of the tyranny of Amurath 
 Fourth (1623), who opened batteries on boats 
 impeding the view and sent all on board to the 
 bottom. 
 
 Those were the days of the sword and the bow- 
 string, when sunrise over the Bosphorus revealed 
 on its shores corpses of victims nightly strangled; 
 and so familiar with executions were the abject 
 councilors of the Divan that, when summoned to 
 
8 ALONG THE BOSPHORUS. 
 
 appear at the Sublime Porte, they usually made 
 the death ablution before entering the presence 
 of the despot. He it was who, among small 
 murders, beheaded his chief musician for singing 
 a Persian air, and decreed : "Those of my illus- 
 trious offspring who ascend the throne may put 
 their brothers to death in order to secure the 
 peace of the world." 
 
 Shrill and clear the bugle calls; the band dis- 
 courses wild, barbaric music attuned to fighting 
 and victory, which must have been inspired when 
 the Padisha himself led the armies and made it 
 his custom to pitch his tent and sleep on the field 
 of battle. 
 
 The whole ceremony of marching to the 
 mosque is much changed since the Oriental dress 
 has vanished. The flowing robes crusted with 
 precious stones, the jeweled turbans and cimeters 
 dazzling the sight are now to be seen only in 
 museums and treasure houses. Anciently the 
 war horse of the king of a hundred kings pranced 
 on carpets soft as plush spread along the way 
 from Seraglio Point to St. Sophia, to be taken up 
 and then distributed among the crowd. 
 
 Still the troops are of martial and imposing 
 carriage — picked men of the empire from the 
 Soudan to Albania. Well do they guard the 
 banners of green — ^the colors of the Prophet (he 
 
I 
 
The Sultan Gomg to Prayer. 
 
 Page y. 
 
THE MOHAMMEDAN SUNDAY. 9 
 
 rests in glory !) — and every man is ready at every 
 breath to do gallant service or, if need be, to die 
 for the true faith. The Islamite who deserts his 
 post or flies before his foe is held by the military 
 code deserving of death in this world and of hell- 
 fire in the next. 
 
 Turkish cavalry has long been admitted the 
 finest in Europe; and first among them are the 
 Circassians, body-guard of the Sultan, whom 
 Russell of the London Times called the most pic- 
 turesque scoundrels in the world. They are 
 bloodthirsty and treacherous, renowned for reck- 
 less bravery and matchless beauty of the pure 
 Caucasian type. Even among the meanest of 
 them you see noble, well-set heads of finest mold, 
 testifying to unmixed blood of the most perfect 
 of living races. 
 
 They wear curious arms and silver cartridge- 
 pockets at their breasts in memory of a twenty- 
 five years' struggle against Russia under their 
 prophet-chief, Schamyl, when their power was 
 first shattered and broken. 
 
 The Sultan enters the mosque with one Iman 
 to offer the prayer none other is entitled to utter. 
 The ranking officers of the army and navy in 
 full uniform, with jeweled orders and decora- 
 tions, wait at the entrance. The stay within is 
 short; the half hour soon passes, the royal sup- 
 
 2 
 
10 ALONG THE BOSPHORUS. 
 
 pliant reappears, remounts the fretting desert- 
 born steed, the guards close round him, the mul- 
 titude cheer, "Long Live the Padisha," and then 
 the immense crowd breaks away for the pleasant 
 afternoon on the banks of the Bosphorus. 
 
 Let us quit this overcrowded Babylon and 
 seek the Valley of Sweet Waters of Asia, and, 
 that we may be Oriental as possible, let us not 
 take a steamer, but step into a caique, a vessel 
 peculiar to the Bosphorus as the gondola is to 
 Venice, and the dahaibeah is to the Nile. 
 
 The Bosphorus is but a passage way for the 
 waters of the Black Sea setting in slow and un- 
 certain currents for the Mediterranean. It has 
 no tide, only the currents, which, for cleansing 
 and purification, are better than a tide. Com- 
 mercial intercourse has converted it into a canal, 
 but such a canal as Nature alone can dig, putting 
 to mock ditches like that Nero attempted across 
 the Corinthian isthmus. It is faintly counter- 
 parted on the Hudson, and, if accounts be true, 
 IS in some respects rivaled by channels in the 
 Straits of Magellan. The chain of mountains 
 through which the Bosphorean rift was worked 
 is high; the rift itself is deep, in places deep as 
 the sea; and so bold is the step-ofif from the 
 shores that the greatest ships pass within a 
 fathom of the quays with which they are for 
 
THE MOHAMMEDAN SUNDAY. H 
 
 the most part lined. The sight of a boat in mo- 
 tion is always a pleasure, and the larger the boat 
 the greater the pleasure. Fancy what it must be 
 to watch the passage at full speed of an ocean 
 going steamer so close that you see the eyes of 
 the passengers, and hear the officers on the 
 bridge speaking in ordinary tones. 
 
 The stream is of irregular width, generally 
 from one-half of a mile to a mile, and it goes its 
 way in a serpentine fashion, leaving immense 
 bends in the banks opposite corresponding prom- 
 ontories, from which springs the ceaseless change 
 of landscape that constitutes the main charm of 
 the locality. Traversing it is like witnessing the 
 unfolding of a panorama. Overhead is the softest 
 blue sky, humid with the vapors of two seas. 
 Breathing them, you afterwhile come to taste 
 their salty flavor. Nowhere is there such variety 
 in boats. You never weary of watching them go- 
 ing and coming here and there, in and out, their 
 sails whitening in the sun and darkening in the 
 shade, and at all times, whether in sun or shade, 
 things of living grace. You cannot hang a ban- 
 ner on a stafif but it will drop when left to itself 
 into folds and figures of beauty; sails take on the 
 same charm. You should see what, in the way 
 of vessels, a clear day can bring forth. Yonder 
 go the woodmen, a dozen of them, racing to 
 
12 ALONG THE BOSPHORUS. 
 
 make the market first; here, hugging the shore 
 to escape the force of the current, the rowers, 
 brawny fellows, picturesque in their very rags, 
 rising to take reach with the oars and falling in 
 the pull together, come fishermen in their black 
 boats, modeled like ancient Scandinavian gal- 
 leys. Observe how carefully the rude fellows 
 give right of way to the slender caique of the 
 Pacha, whose ten rowers are in livery, and 
 trained to perfect form. When their oars drop 
 the frail vessel rises as if to leap from the water. 
 They go noiselessly and swift, almost like swal- 
 lows, yet before they are out of sight another 
 caique even more beautiful passes you, carpeted, 
 carven, gilt and painted, and driven by three 
 oarsmen. The black Aga sitting cross-legged 
 behind a nest of parasols dyed in the most bril- 
 liant unmixed colors is sufficient warning that 
 the passengers are ladies of rank. You can take 
 one look to satisfy yourselves on the point — 
 only one, for the Aga carries pistols, and it is 
 lawful for him to use them. At such times it is 
 wonderful how much one can take in with the 
 briefest glance. He can at least always tell if it 
 be worth while to venture a second look. 
 
 From the water, turn now to the shore — it 
 makes no difference which shore. Your eyes 
 cannot be cast to a point where there is not a 
 
THE MOHAMMEDAN SUNDAY. 13 
 
 picture to fascinate them. Observe first that 
 town of long extent- — a city in fact though of but 
 one row of houses. The owners prefer the one 
 row, for it brings their town down to the water's 
 edge; still, if their taste were otherwise, they 
 could not help themselves, for the space they oc- 
 cupy with their buildings had to be blasted out 
 of the solid mountain. Look again, I say, and 
 study the effect of the arrangement. You are 
 reminded at once of Venice. The waves wash 
 the marble of the doors from which the owners 
 can step into their boats; and then fishing was 
 never made so easy; the children drop their lines 
 out of the windows, and catch red mullets for 
 breakfast. The painted fronts in air are painted 
 fronts in the water; their reflections reach to an 
 infinite depth; and back of the red-tiled roofs rise 
 the stony faces of the mountain left perpendicu- 
 lar by the workmen who did the blasting; in one 
 place, they present the appearance of a wall of 
 dark ivy which grows there with wonderful 
 vigor, and keeps verdurous all the year round; in 
 another place, they are broken with terraces that 
 go up zig-zag clear to the summit, bordered on 
 the outer edges with accacias, and oranges and 
 lemon trees, and flowering shrubs; while on the 
 extreme summit, to get the benefit of the back- 
 ground of sky, the great rock pines stand hold- 
 
14 ALONG THE BOSPHORUS. 
 
 ing their umbrella tops outspread like tireless 
 servants appointed especially to shade the roses 
 in the gardens below them. On the terraces you 
 see the people in gay garments, mostly women 
 and children, seated upon their rugs, getting the 
 sweetness of the breeze, and idly watching the 
 going and coming of the boats and boatmen. 
 Sitting there, they smoke and take sherbet, and 
 eat cakes and conserves, and loll or gossip, offer- 
 ing such a picture of dolce far niente as may be 
 seen nowhere else. Of still evenings their voices 
 drop to you, and on looking up to find the speak- 
 ers, you think to yourself how it would be to do 
 nothing as they do, except it may be of mornings 
 to watch the sun lift the vapors of night from the 
 green sea-river beneath them so far, revealing 
 one by one the caiques at their swallow-like 
 play between Europe and Asia, and the preten- 
 tious ships, which were belated there at sundown 
 last evening, their sails now hanging in idle wait- 
 ing for the wind which is to blow them it may be 
 to Sebastapol or Odessa or the other way to the 
 city of the Sultans. And when, as is not seldom, 
 the rising curtain gives to sight a fleet of majestic 
 steamers flying the flags of all the commercial na- 
 tions, ah, you will admit that the Bosphorus is 
 the perfectest summering place this side of Para- 
 
THE MOHAMMEDAN SUNDAY. 15 
 
 dise. Is it wonderful that the OsmanHe is always 
 ready to fight for it? 
 
 Formerly the Sultan spent his holidays on the 
 water, but the present dispenser of crowns to 
 monarchs leaves Yildiz only to seek the nearest 
 mosque, so the imperial caique is rarely seen, 
 which is a pity, for it is the prettiest thing afloat 
 — a long, slender boat, sharply tapered at both 
 ends, painted pure white, touched with pink and 
 gold, and graceful as a lily on the waters. Its 
 twenty-four rowers keep perfect time together. 
 They are clad in silk, scarlet and embroideries. 
 Draperies of foreign fabric and glowing color 
 touch the ripples. At the stern is a gilded pea- 
 cock, and the airy craft skims the waves like 
 some swift bird in swimmmg flight. 
 
 A generation ago there were 80,000 caiques 
 plying up and down, darting in every direction 
 lightly as butterflies. Now there are less than 
 half that number. The natives call them swal- 
 low boats, and the motion is so restful to the two 
 passengers (the dear reader and writer), we 
 hardly realize the hard work required among the 
 varying currents till we see sweat pour down 
 the faces of our oarsmen and the muscles of their 
 bare arms knot like cords. 
 
 Thin planks of tulip and beechwood appear 
 too frail to oppose any force, and we shiver when 
 
l6 ALONG THE BOSPHORUS. 
 
 heavy steamers pass. The aerial fabric rides the 
 tiny waves, and its sharp points offer small re- 
 sistance to the sweep of the ever-moving waters. 
 The fragile things have no ballast but the occu- 
 pants, and we must sit perfectly still or upset 
 while we head toward the Asian shore. 
 
 Now the stream is two miles wide. Look back 
 at Seragho Point, the scene of imperial wars and 
 loves, the residence of masters of Byzantium a 
 thousand years before the Turks crossed into 
 Europe. In the tideless land-locked harbor we 
 call the Golden Horn, ironclads bought in Eng- 
 land are idly lying. Beyond them westward, vast 
 and dark, is the leaden roof of St. Sophia, the 
 temple where forty generations had worshiped 
 before Michael Angelo beheld against the sky of 
 Italy the peerless dome of St. Peter's. 
 
 Every sort of boat that goes by oar, and every- 
 thing that can sail, and everything that goes by 
 steam, passes us. Many vessels carrying mer- 
 chandise are built like the galley af Jason, which 
 sailed this way, bound for Colchis, in the pre- 
 historic, mythic period, and some touch for lading 
 at a wharf that yet bears his name. The water 
 is blue as though colored with indigo, clear as 
 cr3^stal, and sparkles fall off the oars like pearly 
 beads. Some caiques are gilt, richly carved and 
 inlaid with precious woods. Perhaps the rowers 
 
Palais de Dolmabagtche. 
 
 Page 28. 
 
THE MOHAMMEDAN SUNDAY. 17 
 
 are named Aristides and Themistocles, showing 
 they have not forgotten the glory that was 
 Greece, or may be there is an armed attendant in 
 gorgeous vestments, a native of Montenegro — 
 the m.ountain eyrie which has defied the Sultan 
 and all his hosts four hundred years. 
 
 Here comes the splendid caique of an Eastern 
 Ambassador, curtained with shawls of finest 
 fabric and warm and changeful hues. Madame 
 TAmbassadrice, robed with soft raiment in- 
 wrought with gold, reclines in quietude among 
 her silky pillows, placid and content as the 
 cushat in her nest; beside her a little daughter. 
 The child has wonderful dark eyes, and looks 
 about in eager delight. At the age of fourteen she 
 will be veiled and guarded. On her tiny hand is 
 a flaming jewel so precious we may well believe 
 the legend that, when wrested from a wandering 
 tribe, only one man knew in which of twelve 
 boxes it was kept, or on which of one hundred 
 camels it was carried in the march. 
 
 The mother wears a veil of flowered gauze 
 through which we cannot see her features, but 
 elsewhere I have been allowed to behold the full 
 moon of full moons in her unveiled loveliness.* 
 They say she is of an unconquered people in 
 some remote corner of a sterile mountain region. 
 I do not know; but I do know that from the be- 
 
l8 ALONG THE BOSPHORUS. 
 
 ginning, though beauty abide in a wilderness, 
 the king's son will make a path to her hiding 
 place and fit the magic slipper to her foot. 
 
 The Sultana Valide (Sultan mother) is abroad 
 to-day, and no one can guess how many oda- 
 lisques from the Seraglio. It is said the Padisha 
 has more wives than David, but not so many as 
 Solomon. Who knows may tell. 
 
 It is early spring; the judas trees (our redbud) 
 are in bloom, tinting the atmosphere pink like 
 peach bloom, and the sheltered slopes on both 
 sides of the Bosphorus are redolent of Damascus 
 roses. Thousands of pigeons flutter in the mel- 
 ancholy cypress groves which mark the home of 
 the absent. Along the terraced hills are strings 
 of palaces with steps leading to the water, cool 
 pavilions, costly as gems, gushing fountains, 
 fairy villas of cedar and stone, with terraces light 
 as lace, summer houses, picture-like shapes float- 
 ing up out of the depths and resting on air. Oh, 
 how its beauty comes back to me now ! 
 
 The Cheregan is largest of the many palaces 
 of the Sultan; a memorial towering above the 
 tomb of a canonized dervish. It is built nobly 
 of marble, snowy white, with balustrades and 
 columns graceful and elegant. A row of cor- 
 morants sits on the roof, moveless, like a crest- 
 ing; bright-winged birds flit through the shrub- 
 
THE MOHAMMEDAN SUNDAY. 19 
 
 bery, and doves coo and flutter tamely about the 
 windows. The gates are freshly gilded, and, 
 though delicate as filigree, are strong and well 
 locked. As we float along you may hear hints 
 (not from me, dear reader) of a high-born pris- 
 oner held in regal state within; and whispers that 
 it is the abode of a remnant of an aged harem en- 
 tailed for maintenance on the present Sultan 
 since the death of his father. Having once be- 
 longed to royalty, the wives must live in per- 
 petual widowhood, monuments sacred to the 
 memory of the dead-and-gone father of the King 
 of Kings of the world. Let us not inquire too 
 closely; questioning is impertinent. 
 
 Fishermen cast their nets froma kind of cage 
 upheld on beams of wood buoyed on gourds or 
 corks. In wailing cadence and swell they an- 
 swer each other across wide spaces, sometimes 
 with broken time and long intervals; weird 
 notes, making strange effects on ear and fancy — 
 a vague reminder of the ancient Greek chorus; 
 a strain well calculated to raise the ghosts of 
 heroes who sailed the Propontis in the dateless 
 years before the Odyssey was written. 
 
 Look at the White Castle, founded no one 
 knows when or by whom — a grim fortress fa- 
 mous in war, whose tragedies many a minstrel 
 has harped and many a troubadour sung to the 
 
20 ALONG THE BOSPHORUS. 
 
 thrumming of his two-stringed guitar. In its 
 horrid dungeons Christian prisoners have lan- 
 guished, and through its narrow windows the 
 captive has stretched his skinny hands, praying 
 for help, and has worn away slow years, till his 
 poor heart broke, waiting for the ransom that 
 might never be paid. 
 
 On a ruinous tower the silent stork lays her 
 eggs and broods her young — a sacred bird, 
 which makes every winter the pilgrimage to 
 Mecca; and her nest, though left empty on a 
 chimney, secures the owner of the house against 
 fire and pestilence. 
 
 Spectral forms hover about these hoary tur- 
 rets, and mysterious voices blend with the sound- 
 ing sea as deep calleth unto deep. Here Per- 
 sian armies in barbaric pomp marched over their 
 pontoon bridge to invade Europe; here Crusad- 
 ers crossed into Asia, and here, type of our 
 higher civilization, the underlying cable joins the 
 two continents, making the shortest route to 
 India. 
 
 One poetic tradition softens the rugged front 
 of the battlemented walls of the White Castle. 
 It is of the son of Amurath, who first planted 
 the Crescent on St. Sophia, and over the city of 
 the Holy Trinity proclaimed the oneness of God. 
 At the White Castle he met by accident and 
 
THE MOHAMMEDAN SUNDAY. 21 
 
 loved at once, and with his whole heart, a Grecian 
 princess of transcendent lovehness, a near kins- 
 woman of the Emperor Constantine. When the 
 city of Constantinople fell she was taken prisoner 
 and kept in honor and safety till order was re- 
 stored; then the Conqueror, Mohammed Sec- 
 ond, sent for the fascinating Giaour, and thus 
 runs the ancient chronicle : "He took in her Per- 
 fections such delight and contentment, as that in 
 short time he had changed state with her, she 
 being become the Mistress and Commander of 
 him so great a Conqueror; and he in nothing 
 more delighted than in doing her the greatest 
 Honor and Service he could. All the day he 
 spent with her in discourse; all time spent in her 
 company seemed to him short, and without her 
 nothing pleased; his fierce Nature was now by 
 her well tamed, and his wonted care of Arms 
 quite neglected. Mars slept in Venus' lap, and 
 now the Soldiers might go play." 
 
 A reedy little stream called Sweet Waters of 
 Asia empties into the Bosphorus; its margin is 
 bordered with sycamores, chestnut, and oak 
 trees, and overlooked by the exquisite kiosk of 
 the mother of Sultan Abdul Medjid — a gentle, 
 smiling landscape in a sunny atmosphere of 
 peace. Yet it is never safe to go without shawls, 
 for the land of citron and vine has its cold 
 
22 . ALONG THE BOSPHORUS. 
 
 shoulden and, like a spoiled favorite, sometimes 
 suddenly turns it on her lovers. 
 
 The sexes do not mingle in picnic. Carpets 
 are spread on the grass, aiid women and chil- 
 dren, in dresses gaudy as tulip beds, eat sweets 
 and loll on cushions of down, in simple enjoy- 
 ment of earth, sea, and sky. The ladies have 
 their black guardsman, called bolt of the door, 
 keeper of the lilies, watchman of the hyacinths, 
 etc. The whip of hippopotamus hide in his hand 
 is the sign of his ofhce, and its lash is ready for 
 him who gazes too curiously at the Paradise 
 eyes, or tries to peer under the misty white veils. 
 
 Sellers of melons, fruit, cakes, move about 
 crying their wares, and slaves are in waiting who 
 are such only in name They are part of the 
 household, free at the end of seven years and 
 eligible to any position. More than half the 
 marriages in Turkey are with slaves. 
 
 The men, who are comparatively few, smoke, 
 drowse, and take their pleasure solemnly. A 
 tiny cup of coffee, sipped drop by drop, will 
 last through hours. Here and there a solitary 
 under the sad cypresses ponders the deep mys- 
 teries, murmurs the ninety-nine beautiful names 
 of Allah, and dreams of the rose-door of Para- 
 dise that shuts in the golden pleasure fields kept 
 for the Faithful. 
 
THE MOHAMMEDAN SUNDAY. 23 
 
 In some out-of-the-way place, under a plane- 
 tree, may be seen a group, reverend as patriarchs, 
 enjoying the story-teller. One tale consumes 
 the whole day, the listeners sitting motionless in 
 rapt attention. Orientals revel in accounts of 
 buried treasure, and the poorer the reciter the 
 richer the mine, the deeper the enchanted cavern 
 where jars of inestimable jewels and bags of gold 
 are locked under the spell of wizard or evil genii. 
 Sindbad, Aladdin, the never-ending Arabian 
 Night stories are familiar and charming to them. 
 
 One of the central figures in their legends is 
 Solomon, wisest of prophets, who was learned 
 in the language of beasts and birds, and heard 
 secrets whenever he walked in his gardens of 
 spices. He had three talismans: first, a sig- 
 net-ring, at whose touch thrones crumbled and 
 mighty spirits rose from the dead; on this stone 
 was engraven the Nameless Name. The second, 
 less potent, was a magic glass that revealed the 
 movements of his enemies, and showed the laws 
 of all things; and the third was the east-wind, 
 which was the great king's horse. 
 
 An unskilled musician, with a reed, pipes a 
 desert strain to the lean, swart Bedouin; and if 
 you have the gift of tongues you may hear of 
 many sorts of treasures — of a radiant glance 
 which throws the sun and moon into shade — 
 
24 ALONG THE BOSPHORUS. 
 
 when Leila lifts her white eyelids the stars grow 
 pale; of flower-soft lips and voices sweeter than 
 the bulbul's; and of a gallant steed; the wind 
 lagged after him, and between his hoofs his mas- 
 ter slept as in a safe tent. 
 
 The literature of the Turk is scant, and his 
 poetry is borrowed mainly from the Arabic. 
 Come near and you hear something like this 
 little story from the Persian. I have seen it ren- 
 dered into verse, but the literal translation gives 
 best the fine essence of the original : 
 
 "One knocked at the Beloved's door, and a 
 voice asked from within, 'Who is there?' and he 
 answered, 'It is L' Then the voice said, This 
 house will not hold thee and me;' and the door 
 was not opened. Then went the lover out into 
 the Desert, where there is nothing but Allah, and 
 fasted and prayed in solitude, and after a year he 
 returned and knocked again at the door; and 
 again the voice asked, 'Who is there?' and he 
 said, 'It is thyself,' and the door was opened to 
 him." 
 
 Here is a favorite chant given with droning 
 accompaniment on the tambours : 
 
 "Clear as amber, fine as musk, 
 
 Is life to those who, pilgrimwise, 
 Move hand in hand from dawn to dusk, 
 Each morning nearer Paradise. 
 
THE MOHAMMEDAN SUNDAY. 25 
 
 "Oh, not for them need angels pray! 
 They stand in everlasting light; 
 They walk in Allah's smile by day, 
 And nestle in his heart at night." 
 
 And this is a part of the 
 
 Message from under the Cypress Tree in the 
 Garden Green. 
 
 "I had gold robes, and greatness, and sweetness, 
 I was queen of the land. 
 
 In my Palace shone pride of completeness; 
 On my lips sate command. 
 
 But the heart of my Lord was my glory, 
 Not the crown on my brows. 
 
 And my garden is green with Love's story. 
 And my Tomb is Love's house." 
 
 The tranquil enjoyment lasts till twilight. All 
 are sober, none noisy; laughing children now 
 and then clap hands and make a little stir, but if 
 there is anything like vivacity, be sure it is in a 
 Greek or Armenian. There is no color line, 
 and an Ethiop girl in tinseled slippers may sing 
 to an enraptured audience the "Frantic Lay of 
 the Night-black Lover," and with mad gesture 
 shout, rather than hymn, the praises of love and 
 wine. 
 3 
 
26 ALONG THE BOSPHORUS. 
 
 Through the sunset sky we have a vanishing 
 glimpse of the invisible and heavenly. Ten thou- 
 sand voices thrill the air calling to prayer from 
 ten thousand minarets. Then is the witching 
 hour. As darkness deepens the flood calms; the 
 unresting birds — a species of halcyon — hush 
 their screams, and, in wing-worn flocks, seek 
 their nests at the entrance of the Black Sea; a 
 quickening breeze fans the cheek; voices of 
 serenaders, not Moslem, are wafted through the 
 perfumed dusk; innumerable wavelets, faint 
 pulsations of the sea, unite in lulling monotone. 
 Beneath yon latticed balcony a flower drops on a 
 dark upturned face. Romeo is breathing the 
 eternal tale of which the world never tires, be- 
 gun in Eden, new every morning and fresh every 
 evening. 
 
 The words, in Greek or Italian, run on the 
 same tender theme — the bliss of meeting, the 
 pain of parting. The lovelorn watcher under the 
 sentinel stars calls the bright powers of Heaven 
 to hear his lament and witness his woe : 'T weep 
 not for the ship, I weep not for the sails, but I 
 weep for the fair one, the lily-bud who is sailing 
 far away." 
 
 In sweetness and grace our festal day is dying. 
 Of the balmy eve softly following, I hardly trust 
 myself to speak. Nine months in the year the 
 
FEAST OF BAIRAM. 27 
 
 pleasure-lover may find it such as I have tried to 
 describe — the indescribable. With a feeling of 
 unreality we float between blue and blue, past 
 gardens blossoming with jasmine, heliotrope, 
 lavender, groves of pine with tall dark crowns, 
 and hearken to the secrets in the nightingale's 
 song. Of the myriad melodies of Nature it is the 
 saddest, and, listening to the wondrous plaint, 
 we cannot doubt that she is telling to her beloved 
 rose how her breast is pierced with cruel thorns. 
 Like an uplifted mirage looming on high rise 
 the towers and domes of old Stamboul; beyond 
 them in a glad radiance, changeful as fire-opal, 
 drift the Happy Isles of the Marmora. Night 
 and day, truth and fable, are blent in absolute 
 harmony, a perfect chord. It is all a witchery, 
 a spell fleeting as some seolian strain enchanting 
 us in sleep; it haunts our waking, but is doomed 
 to remain forever unsung, and now is so dim 
 and distant I sometimes wonder which was 
 dream and which reality. 
 
 Feast of Bairam. 
 
 This is the holiest of Mohammedan festivals 
 because it is the day the pilgrims perform the rite 
 of sacrifice at Mecca. It begins when the priests 
 
28 ALONG THE BOSPHORUS. 
 
 on Mount Olympus (near Broussa, the ancient 
 capital of Turkey) first see the new moon in the 
 month of Shewal (August). Messengers are 
 dispatched, signals given, and the slaying of 
 sheep and other ceremonials remind one of the 
 Feast of the Passover. Doubtless a large part of 
 it has come down from the Jews. Mohammed 
 commands only one fast day, but his reckoning 
 was lost, and to make sure of the right one, de- 
 vout Moslems keep the whole month of 
 Ramazah. 
 
 Thirty days from sunrise to sunset nearly one- 
 fourth of the human race neither eat bread nor 
 touch water, and pray with face toward Mecca, 
 the holy city of the Prophet, five times a day. 
 There is something heroic and terrible in this 
 devotion to a religion for which believers are, at 
 all times, ready to do and die. After the thirty 
 days of self-denial come three days of feasting 
 and revel. 
 
 Then the Sultan receives the homage of his 
 high officials. Dohna Batche is finest of the Im- 
 perial palaces standing on the water's edge of the 
 Bosphorus, and in the throne room, that easily 
 holds fLYt thousand persons, the august cere- 
 mony is held, beginning at eight o'clock in the 
 morning. August 3d, 1891, marks the twelve 
 hundred and eleventh vear of Islamism. The 
 
Porte dii Palais de Dolmabagtche. 
 
 Page 29. 
 
FEAST OF BAIRAM. 2g 
 
 guns of the forts thunder, the royal bands play, 
 and in the state carriage, gilded and lined with 
 crimson velvet, the Sultan rides from Yildiz 
 kiosk to the palace. The way is lined with sol- 
 diers, crowds are on the walks, all eager, ex- 
 pectant, well-bred. Where are the poor, the un- 
 happy, the dissatisfied? Not here — not in sight 
 to-day. It is the one morning of the year when 
 the ladies of the Seraglio may appear in proces- 
 sion; they are closely veiled, and their beautiful 
 children crowd the carriage windows. One more 
 is added to the harem, in this high day; the an- 
 nual new wife presented to the Sultan by his 
 mother, who selects the girl fair enough to adorn 
 palace rooms. 
 
 The Caliph enters the lofty portal of the pal- 
 ace and takes his seat on the throne, a small gold 
 and crimson sofa without canopy, a like carpet 
 is spread in front. The two princes, handsome 
 boys of ten and twelve years, stand a little way 
 ofif, each on his own rug. 
 
 Fastened to the arms of the throne is a long 
 scarf of cloth of gold, with fringed ends; this 
 represents the hem of the Padisha's garment. 
 It is upheld by Osman Pasha, head of the army, 
 hero of Plevna, and to kiss it, and touch it to the 
 forehead, is the sign of loyalty. Anciently the 
 ceremony was prettier, but one cannot, with any 
 
30 ALONG THE BOSPHORUS. 
 
 grace, kiss the skirt of a modern French coat; 
 only flowing robes can endure that obeisance. 
 
 The generals of the army and officers of the 
 household in glittering uniforms, with flashing 
 decorations and orders, come in. Following 
 them are the holy men in various colored uni- 
 forms. There is a short prayer, then they march 
 up in perfect order, one by one, salute the king 
 of a hundred kings, kiss the sa,cre.d symbol and 
 back down the room, exquisite precision in 
 every movement. As a line files up another at 
 the same instant moves away, taking position 
 against the sides of the room where five regi- 
 ments could be manoeuvered. 
 
 The Sultan is both Pope and Emperor; below 
 him all men are slaves, which accounts for the 
 jet-black officials on an equal rank (the equality 
 of slavery) with white men. A Nubian has no 
 trouble. He may be Grand Vizier, chief counsel- 
 lor, anything; his imperial master in turn styles 
 himself the slave of God. All wear the red fez, 
 the Sultan's like the rest, and among the uni- 
 forms of embroidery, gold, badges, medals, he 
 was plainest, wearing only one superb diamond 
 star and a modest sword. I suppose it was the 
 sacred one of Othman, the Bone Breaker, with 
 which he used to split a man at one blow. The 
 proud Arabian boast, *'*'our turbans are our 
 
FEAST OF BAIRAM. 31 
 
 crowns, swords are our scepters," still holds 
 good — at least in appearance. I regret that the 
 Dispenser of Crowns, whose throne is the refuge 
 of the world, whom the sun salutes before he 
 rises, does not appear in the radiant costumes of 
 earlier times, wearing one of the tremendous 
 aigrettes hung up in the treasury. I could think 
 only of Solomon in all his glory on his lion- 
 guarded throne, every man before him bringing 
 his present in token of allegiance. 
 
 Twice during the pageant there is silent 
 prayer, all hands uplifted, and at intervals the 
 shout like a war cry, "Long live the Padisha." 
 When the priesthood appeared the Sultan stood; 
 they marched past in wonderful robes, gray, 
 purple, white, and turbans green, showing they 
 had m.ade the pilgrimage to Mecca. Here the 
 obeisances were equal, and reverence is what 
 softens, elevates, refines the heart. There is so 
 little left on our side of the Atlantic that it 
 seemed good and very good to have this strong 
 faith and earnest expression. 
 
 Two hours — wearisome they must have been 
 — the coming and going lasted, and all the while 
 the band played. There is a wild exultant ring- 
 in Turkish music, suggestive of battle and con- 
 quest, and it is better out doors than in. A short 
 recess is given to tea, cake and syrup in an ad- 
 
32 ALONG THE BOSPHORUS. 
 
 joining room. No wine nor any strong drink is 
 offered. I saw but two drunken men in the 
 East, both so-called Christians. At the state 
 dinners wines are provided, but the Sultan's 
 glass is always upside down. 
 
 A great deal has been written about the effete 
 creatures of the tottering Empire. Nowhere 
 have I seen such large men and such strength as 
 among the Turks. The English officers com- 
 manding them say there are no other such sol- 
 diers for obedience and endurance. French regi- 
 ments look like boys, cadets, compared with 
 these giants. Arm them with the best guns, add 
 the unchanging belief, deep as their heart's 
 blood, that death in battle is the passport to 
 Paradise, and you have an army heroic and un- 
 daunted. 
 
 To return to the most splendid spectacle I ever 
 beheld. Much fine gold was there, but it is said 
 there is a lamentable falling off these latter days. 
 The brilliant equipment of the Janizareis has dis- 
 appeared, and since last year the Circassian guard 
 has been dismissed. Their pale blue and gold 
 vestments were well suited to the wearers come 
 of a race famed from the beginning for beauty; 
 handsome and fearless as leopards, they are as 
 tameless, too. The Albanians, in the most pic- 
 
FEAST OF BAIRAM. 33 
 
 turesque of costumes, have vanished, yet much 
 remains that is dazzHng to Western eyes. 
 
 Formerly the galleries were filled with spec- 
 tators, but the Porte grows more and more dis- 
 trustful and jealous, and that day I am trying to 
 describe, there were present only the four Am- 
 bassadors and their wives, our two selves, three 
 Jews and Jewesses, wives of those who fill the 
 imperial coffers. Well does the representation 
 illustrate the ancient proverb, learning for the 
 Frank, money for the Jew, pomp for the Os- 
 manli. After the parade we were presented to 
 the Sultan in a small ante-room. He spake 
 courtly words to each one, in the grave, smooth, 
 patient manner of the true Oriental. Very tired 
 Abdul Hamid must have been that day, the more 
 wearied because of distracting questions and be- 
 cause Egypt is written on his heart. 
 
 At night the mosques were illumined, and the 
 tall slender minarets had rings of lamps en- 
 circling them, showing in the darkness like glit- 
 tering crowns let down from Heaven, suspended 
 in midair. The Bosphorus reflected trembling 
 ribbons of flame froni the palaces on its shores, 
 guns fired, amid the feasting and rejoicing; but 
 all was in decorous fashion. You may drive 
 through old Stamboul, where beats the heart 
 and plots the brain of Islam, in the midst of the 
 
34 ALONG THE BOSPHORUS. 
 
 gala, and see not one unseemly sight, nor hear 
 a loud word. The better the Moslem the better 
 the man, say those who know them. It is death 
 to embrace the faith of the gentle Nazarene, and 
 the teachings of our missionaries have no more 
 effect on Mohammed's followers than the winds 
 of the desert have on Mount Sinai. 
 
 If, as wise sophomores insist, these be the last 
 days of the crumbling Ottoman Empire, I must 
 call the expiring flicker a brilliant upspringing 
 flash. The sick man has outlived his physicians; 
 and his strong neighbors, ready to see him die, 
 are still waiting for the funeral and the division 
 of his estate. 
 
 Buying a Dog. 
 
 "Constantinople, Turkey, Feb. 14, 1885. 
 
 "My Dear Henry: — The Sultan is driven by 
 business every hour of the day and a great part of 
 the night * * * Harassed as he is it is a 
 question in my mind if the sword of Othman, 
 hanging on the walls of the mosque at Eyoub^ 
 would be worth the wearing. It brings the sov- 
 ereign no peace, no rest; but that is not what 
 I want to tell about. 
 
 "It is curious that I forgot to say anything of 
 the dog which His Majesty asked me to get for 
 him. Now to the report : 
 
BUYING A DOG. 35 
 
 "I spent four days in London doing nothing 
 but looking at dogs. As you know, it is the 
 greatest dog market in the world, just as Eng- 
 land is the greatest horse, sheep and cattle mar- 
 ket — I mean, of course, for specialties in the way 
 of blooded stock. I'd like to know what kind of 
 a dog I did not see in those four days. The deal- 
 ers brought to the Langham every species I had 
 ever heard of, and many more too. The speci- 
 mens ranged from a King Charles spaniel, so 
 small you could easily put him in your overcoat 
 pocket, up to a boar-hound, big as a year-old 
 burro. 
 
 "The prices asked were simply amazing — and 
 in most instances they were the actual market 
 prices, running as high as five hundred guineas, 
 or three thousand dollars. The dog I sought was 
 for no ordinary purpose; it was to take care of 
 my royal friend, and to be his intimate, his guard- 
 ian, his sentinel, his bodyguard. Consequently 
 it must have the qualities of strength, faithful- 
 ness, good nature and courage. My first idea 
 was St. Bernard. I found this species will not do 
 for the climate of Constantinople; their long hair 
 is against them; and when I came to see a pure 
 blood, he was not so fine looking as I had im- 
 agined. 
 
 "I then thought to buy a boar-hound, such as 
 
36 ALONG THE BOSPHORUS. 
 
 Prince Bismarck keeps to accompany him in his 
 constitutionals, and is always photographed with 
 him. It is an immense brute, in fact. 
 
 ''When I examined one I shrank away; his 
 face was treacherous and full of malice. He did 
 not seem so much a dog as a dangerous beast of 
 prey. I knew by my own feeling that the Sultan 
 would be afraid of him. Then I examined the 
 stag hounds, being started in that direction by 
 recollection of Sir Walter Scott's friend and boon 
 companion, Maida. They did not suit at all. 
 They are merely hunting dogs, and not by any 
 means handsome. They would not do for the 
 beauty-lover of the East; so I gave them the 
 go-by. 
 
 "Finally, at the suggestion of a friend who 
 has attended the bench shows of the city for 
 a couple of years past, I sent for English mas- 
 tiffs. The first one brought me was about two 
 years old, and he had the recommendation of 
 having taken the first prize for the United King- 
 dom; and I must say he was the most magnifi- 
 cent creature of his kind I have ever seen. I 
 wanted him at sight; but, how much? I asked. 
 Only five hundred guineas ! I shut my eyes and 
 ordered him off. 
 
 "The dealer then said he had one of his sons, 
 perhaps eight months old, which he would sell 
 
General Wallace. 
 
 Page 37. 
 
BUYING A DOG. 37 
 
 for a much less sum. I had the pup brought, 
 and closed the bargain at once. A finer dog I 
 never saw. He has a head like a lion's, a body 
 to correspond, is quite thirty-six inches high 
 already, and measures, from point of tail to muz- 
 zle, over six feet. His color is exactly that of a 
 lioness. His face below the eyes is black as ink, 
 so is his mouth. A crowd gathered in the 
 portico of the hotel to see him. One man 
 climbed to a window on the outside, and looked 
 in, suggesting a burglar or thief. The dog saw 
 his head; his eyes reddened; all the hair on his 
 back stood up straight, and I never heard a 
 growl so basso profunda. It was a fine exhibi- 
 tion of nature. I took to him at once, paid the 
 money, and had him sent express, by sea, to 
 Constantinople. 
 
 "He came safely a few days after I landed and 
 was taken immediately to the Sultan, who had 
 already dispatched several messengers to ask 
 about him. He is now in clover and his master 
 is delighted with 'Victorio.' When Mehemet, 
 the Kavass, took the dog to the palace, every one 
 in the reception-room gave a glance and then 
 ran. 'It is a lion,' they said. At last accounts 
 he was playing with the little princes, and, it is 
 said, the Sultan is getting acquainted with him. 
 
 "You think the price a large one to give for a 
 
38 ALONG THE BOSPHORUS. 
 
 dog; and so it is. It would buy an excellent 
 horse at home. But it was to be a present. I re- 
 membered the beautiful Order offered to me, the 
 Arab horses — which the law forbids my accept- 
 ance — the jewels I may not receive. Better to 
 forget His Imperial Majesty had asked for a 
 dog than to bring him a second-rate animal. 
 
 "So much for the gift, which was a pleasant 
 thing on both sides. With love to all, 
 
 ''Your father, most affectionately, 
 
 *'Lew Wallace." 
 
 Under the Cypresses. 
 
 Flowers fade, leaves wither, 
 
 But the constant cypress is green forever. 
 
 Greek Song. 
 
 When we are told that the largest cemeteries 
 in the world are in Turkey the words give no 
 suggestion of the immense spaces crowded by 
 the bodies of those who have died in and about 
 Constantinople. Four miles of continuous 
 graves skirt the ancient walls; four miles of 
 cypress forests point the resting place of unnum- 
 bered thousands. The trees are shaped like our 
 Lombardy poplar — tall, slender, taper as a 
 plume. In spring the foliage is almost black, 
 contrasting with flowery terraces and gardens 
 
UNDER THE CYPRESSES. 39 
 
 glowing with color like a dreary fringe bordering 
 some splendid garment. Thus they darkly 
 shadow the Asian shore on the heights beyond 
 the hospital where Florence Nightingale taught 
 us how divine a spirit may wear mortal form 
 and minister to men. 
 
 The piny smell of the evergreen and its res- 
 inous sap destroy the miasmas of graveyards, 
 and the far reaching roots absorb poisons from 
 decayed and decaying human bodies. Not only 
 without the walls appear the graves; in nooks 
 and corners of the venerable capital are dense 
 clumps within fenced spaces protecting antique 
 sepulchers. Among the gay villages, kiosks and 
 palaces that sparkle on the banks of the Bos- 
 phorus, the mourning tree waves its funereal 
 banner, teaching the old, old lesson: "In the 
 midst of life we are in death." There ringdoves 
 coo and murmur ever of love, and pigeons nest 
 undisturbed by the Moslem, who never fails in 
 pity for the "dumb peoples of the wing and 
 hoof." 
 
 Turkish tombstones are narrowest at the base, 
 and soon lean and topple. Many lie prostrate, 
 making seats for the living who are free and 
 fearless neighbors of the dead. Some of the 
 cemeteries are used as pleasure grounds for the 
 soldiery; the crumbling stones mend highways, 
 
40 ALONG THE BOSPHORUS. 
 
 repair walls, and repeatedly I have seen a hand- 
 some slab stop a hole to keep the wind away 
 or serve as doorstep to a tumble-down hut. 
 Children play in the somber alleys, washwomen 
 hang clothes and stretch lines on the headstones, 
 and ladies with veils of snowdrift and mist, drawn 
 close by henna-stained fingers, picnic and 
 sprinkle sweet basil, for remembrance, above the 
 beloved who have passed from sight. There is 
 a soft air of resignation in their manner — the vir- 
 tue which Mahomet taught is the key tO' all hap- 
 piness — and they wear no mourning. Sinful it 
 is to show sorrow for the loss of friends. It is 
 believed that children of over-mourning parents 
 are driven out of Paradise and doomed to wan- 
 der through space in darkness and misery, weep- 
 ing as their relatives do on earth. 
 
 Christians are mistaken in supposing Paradise 
 denied to Oriental women. Their tombstones are 
 carved with flowers, blazoned with texts from 
 the Koran in blue and gold, and with such epi- 
 taphs as the one we copy from the grave of a 
 young girl in Pera: 
 
 The chilling blast of Fate caused this nightingale to 
 wing its course to heaven. It has there found merited 
 felicity. Zababa wrote this inscription and offered up 
 a humble prayer for Zeinab. But weep not for her; she 
 has become a dweller in the fadeless gardens of Paradise. 
 1223. 
 
UNDER THE CYPRESSES. 41 
 
 Epitaphs commence with an invocation to 
 Allah. 
 
 "He, the Immortal," or "Alone, the Eternal." 
 
 Upon a tomb near the Medina we find: 
 
 God, the Imperishable. 
 
 Pardon me, O Lord, by virtue of thy resplendent firm- 
 ament and the Koran's light. Approach my happy bed of 
 rest, write the date with a jewelled pen and breathe a 
 prayer for my soul. Rivers of tears cannot efface the 
 dear heart's image from the sight of a sorrowing husband. 
 1 1 40. 
 
 A peculiar and unique inscription is to be read 
 upon a plain stone by the Rose market. It may 
 be translated : 
 
 He, the Immortal. 
 
 The hands of a cruel woman caused the death of the 
 blessed and pardoned Hadje Mohammed, the engraver. 
 Pray for him. 1120. 
 
 The Story goes that the devout and sancti- 
 fied sufferer did not come to his end by sickness 
 or battle, famine or accident. He had a vixen 
 wife who persecuted him day and night till she 
 literally worried him to death. Feeling sure his 
 hour was come, the engraver engraved his 
 modest epitaph and resignedly gave up the 
 ghost, doubtless consoled by thoughts of the 
 4 
 
4^ ALONG THE BOSPHORUS. 
 
 long revenge he had on the virago. The sweet 
 mother, the fair daughter, the young wife, Gul 
 Bahar, Rose of Spring, rest near. Their mem- 
 ories are forever dear to those who loved them. 
 The gentle dust of White Violet, Tulip Cheek, 
 Forget-Me-Not Eyes, was precious to their sur- 
 vivors. As we stroll among the moldering 
 stones, written over with moss-grown records, 
 we feel the human heart is the same in all ages, 
 wistfully yearning for its kindred. And again 
 we ask, where be the bad people buried? For 
 none but the lovely lies here. Nearly all graves 
 have a stone at the head and feet and upon them 
 the dread angels, Nakir and Munkir, will fold 
 their livid wings and stand when they descend 
 to judge the world at the last day. 
 
 Beyond the Golden Horn is a vast Jewish 
 cemetery, which is desolation itself. Bare of 
 verdure, leaf or tree, the stones lie flat, as though 
 pressing down the restless feet of the scattered, 
 wandering and persecuted race that is even in 
 the sepulcher denied the right of an upright 
 memorial. 
 
 The grim nakedness of this necropolis is so 
 forbidding we turn from its oppressive gloom 
 to the cheerful burial grounds, where roses scat- 
 ter bloom and perfume and the acacia red- 
 dens the footpath of the pious Osmanli, tell- 
 
UNDER THE CYPRESSES. 43 
 
 ing his rosary beads of amber and murmuring 
 the ninety-nine names of Allah. When ten thou- 
 sand voices call to prayer from ten thousand 
 minarets and the green stillness echoes the thrill- 
 ing chant he will slowly wend homeward. 
 
 What thinks he? Of cool pavilions under the 
 palms in the golden pleasure fields kept for the 
 faithful. Of soft arms and white hands beckon- 
 ing to bowers of bliss, where he shall recline on 
 green pillows and drink of the happy river, in the 
 light of the great white throne. His faith knows 
 no variableness, and among the sleepers he seems 
 a dreamer of dreams, a seer of visions. Should 
 he enter Stamboul late and the watchman chal- 
 lenge he will rouse from quietude, give his name 
 in answer, and reverently add, *'There is no God 
 but God." A creed which may be written on the 
 finger nail; a dread battle cry and the confession 
 of faith to nine thousand millions of worshipers 
 since Kadijah knelt with the prophet in prayer 
 and said : "I will be thy first believer." 
 
 On the gravestone of the laborer is traced 
 some symbol of his craft. In the long lines of 
 ruin and neglect we have signs of the work left 
 unfinished. Here is the lancet, there the adze, 
 an oar, an inkstand, a lance, and on each stone 
 is a little hollowed space to hold water for the 
 doves, whose brooding notes of peace are more 
 
44 ALONG THE BOSPHORUS. 
 
 stilling than silence. Even the unresting birds of 
 the Bosphorus, les ames damne, seek shelter in 
 the cypresses. When storms sweep from the 
 Black Sea, they shrilly scream and flap their 
 white wings, fleeing like frightened ghosts. Only 
 on such tempestuous airs are shades of the lost 
 allowed to revisit their buried bodies. 
 
 In summer eves sparks of fire rise and vanish 
 among the boughs of the trees — phosphorus 
 from decaying bones, popularly supposed to be 
 spirits of the departed hovering about the scene 
 of their earthly prison house, reluctant to leave it 
 till the judgment day. Common tombstones are 
 kept in mason's sheds. Better monuments are 
 made to order and books of epitaphs are ready 
 for the bereaved to choose the tender verse or 
 holy text which expresses his feeling. In the 
 death fields of the forgotten an imposing column 
 is a reminder of the many who die to win a vic- 
 tory for one. A small plot inclosed by a railing, 
 a pillar in the center surmounted by a large tur- 
 ban, around it lesser columns, represent a pasha, 
 bey or high magnate lying in the midst of his 
 family. Stately mausoleums guard the ashes of 
 sultans, and members of the royal house repose 
 in kingly magnificence. Chief among them is 
 the temple of Mahmoud 11. , close to his mosque. 
 The conqueror is alone in his palace of peace— 
 
UNDER THE CYPRESSES. 45 
 
 a Splendid composite of Greek and Italian archi- 
 tecture, exquisite in proportion and detail, rich 
 as a jewel case. The interior is brilliant with tiles 
 of vivid color, blue and white arabesques, and the 
 lettering of the Koran in gold. Priceless mo- 
 saics inlay the floor beneath rugs like brocaded 
 silk. There is no earthly smell — no ghastly sug- 
 gestion in the light and lovely chapel. The 
 raised bier points towards Mecca, and instead of 
 a sable pall is draped with Persian shawls bright 
 as feather work. Candles in great silver stan- 
 dards cheer the pleasant place, lusters depend 
 from the ceiling and ostrich eggs swing from 
 gilt ropes, emblems of death and life undy- 
 ing. In the long sleep Mahmoud is not stretched 
 on the warrior's "steel couch," but lies as we 
 fancy a princess might slumber, softly pillowed 
 in her luxurious chamber, awaiting the call of the 
 angel of the resurrection. 
 
 Across the Golden Horn, beyond Eyoub, rises 
 a high plain, once a military camp, where the 
 legions raised the new emperors on their shields. 
 There many Turkish soldiers have memorials; 
 they died for the faith and are martyrs whose 
 cimeters have opened the rose-door of Paradise. 
 Their prowess is celebrated in aerial traditions 
 and ancient war songs, and in the moonlight 
 their cenotaphs stand like sheeted specters. A 
 
46 ALONG THE BOSPHORUS. 
 
 large proportion of the stones are broken at the 
 top, the turbans carried away — a dishonor im- 
 posed on the Janissaries by Mahmoud, the re- 
 former, after the massacre of 25,000 in revolt. 
 
 The view from this city of the silent is un- 
 speakably beautiful; to attempt portrayal would 
 be folly. Glittering white as snow on the sixth 
 hill of Stamboul, is the airy minaret of the 
 mosque of the Sun and Moon Sultana, built by 
 her from the sale of the jewels set in one slipper. 
 This was done in the long gone era when heroes 
 with bodies of iron and nerves of steel wore the 
 sword of Othman, the Bone-Breaker, and the 
 winds of the Marmora and Euxine wafted wealth 
 from two continents into the tideless harbor of 
 Constantinople. At Eyoub is a mosque resplen- 
 dent, mysterious, to which only the Moslem is 
 admitted. Hallowed is the soil, envied the re- 
 pose of him who goes to dust near the relics of 
 the prophet, whose tomb at Medina is covered 
 with the splendor of unceasing light. 
 
 In this holy of holies are the mantle of Ma- 
 homet and his green standard, woven when the 
 man, who, beyond all men, has had the greatest 
 influence on the human race, was a handsome 
 boy in Arabia. Sleepless sentinels are on duty 
 day and night, and once a year the flag is un- 
 locked from its rosewood cofifer, incrusted 
 
SERAGLIO POINT. 47 
 
 with pearls and precious gems, and is removed 
 from its forty silken coverings and exposed to 
 the adoring gaze of the faithful. Under a lofty 
 palm tree is the mausoleum of the standard- 
 bearer himself, who fell with the first army before 
 Byzantium. His body, found eight centuries 
 later by the Conqueror, was placed in this august 
 sanctuary dedicated to him. Five times a day 
 did he prostrate himself in prayer, and the arch- 
 angels stretched forth their arms to anoint him 
 as he knelt. Coveted be the life he lived and the 
 death he died. As the long shadows slant at 
 evening a great silence possesses the illustrious 
 shrine, whose sanctity is never profaned by the 
 tread of Giaour or unbelieving Jjew. 
 
 To the musing traveler the dim ^olian sound- 
 ings overhead are sweet as organ peal or funeral 
 march, and when night winds blow across the 
 fields of mortality the swaying cypresses vibrate 
 to low, melancholy music the saddest requiem 
 ear ever heard. 
 
 Seraglio Point. 
 
 October 25th. 
 
 Yesterday was made memorable by a visit to 
 Seraglio Point. It was the Greek Acropolis be- 
 
48 ALONG THE BOSPHORUS. 
 
 fore the Turkish conquest, and the beauty loving 
 race chose their site for palaces and citadel with 
 unerring judgment. I have v/ritten elsewhere 
 that there is no beauty like the beauty of Italy; 
 but the all beholding sun looks on no one scene 
 of such supreme loveliness as this meeting of 
 two continents and two seas. The court, the 
 camp, the sanctuary of twenty-two Sultans. 
 There are days when the voyageur nearing the 
 Point sees an enchanted city float up out of the 
 great deep. A silvery mist veils and wraps in 
 mid air temples, cupolas, minarets, domes, tow- 
 ers, over-hanging terraced hills of green gardens 
 and cypress groves. O, that my words were 
 colors to paint a fadeless picture fresh to me, 
 to-day, as when first it rose on my enraptured 
 sight. 
 
 To the Western mind, the term Seraglio sug- 
 gests merely the portion of the Imperial resi- 
 dence set apart for women. This is a sweep of 
 walled territory four miles long and two miles 
 wide, enclosing strange, irregular buildings 
 mixed with fantastic pagodas, towers, kiosks, 
 groups of antique palaces that might have been 
 prisons or pleasure houses. One may wander 
 there weeks, months, and yet not know it. The 
 rose gardens are overgrown with weeds, the 
 fountains silent, the nightingale has fled and the 
 
Palais de Yildiz. 
 
 Page 49. 
 
SERAGLIO POINT. 49 
 
 sepulchral gloom of cypresses is unrelieved by 
 the singing of birds. Where once was chatter 
 and laughter of children there now is deathlike 
 solitude. Guards, soldiers, dwarfs, jesters, eu- 
 nuchs, dancers and singers with lute and cymbal, 
 have vanished with the court; removed to 
 Yildiz about four miles away. Where the waters 
 of the Marmora softly pulse in the unbroken 
 stillness, there was formerly a ceaseless stir 
 of humanity under the rule of one man to 
 whom all other men were earthworms. There 
 is still the half circular palace capable of accom- 
 modating five hundred women, with alcoves and 
 attendants, baths, gardens, a gorgeous strong- 
 hold from which death was the only escape. But 
 did the musky odalisques wish to leave this 
 walled Eden? Who knows may tell. Oriental 
 women are the only ones I have known who ap- 
 pear contented. There is a serenity in their faces, 
 a repose in their manner pleasant to the pilgrim 
 from the far country we love to call our own, 
 the land of feverish unrest. 
 
 The true Oriental is secret as the grave; home 
 life is not open even to the stranger within the 
 gates, but there is a significant Moslem proverb, 
 "a house with four wives is like a ship in a tem- 
 pest." Our missionaries (on whom be peace!) 
 hold that Christianity has tempered the faith 
 
50 ALONG THE BOSPHORUS. 
 
 and practice of Islam, although converts are 
 never made. Certainly women are more kindly 
 treated now than they were two hundred years 
 ago. When a Sultan of the seventeenth century 
 died, the ladies of his harem were drowned, then 
 brought to the serai, laid on shawls and sent to 
 their mausoleum with the pomp of an Imperial 
 funeral. Now they are merely held like state 
 prisoners, never to be seen by mortal man 
 though their widowhood lasts for years. So far 
 as we know, the silken cord of the bowstring has 
 circled no fair throat in the last fifty years. I 
 once saw in a German history an engraving of 
 this act of execution. The victim sat in a chair 
 and two men at the back were drawing the 
 crossed cord round the neck. A cruel thing but 
 less barbarous than hanging is. 
 
 Throne Room. 
 
 Among detached and scattered edifices is the 
 deserted Throne Room — a low pavilion sur- 
 rounded by a light colonnade. It is directly op- 
 posite the Gate of Felicity that admits to the 
 Seraglio proper, and there the King of a hundred 
 Kings used to sit cross-legged with the dumb 
 fixedness of an idol to receive the homage of his 
 
THRONE ROOM. 5^ 
 
 officials and foreign envoys. Whoever was gra- 
 ciously allowed to enter must kiss the threshold. 
 In the vestibule are drums and the kettles of the 
 Janissaries which, turned upside down, made 
 Padishas tremble and turn pale, and terrified the 
 deepest recesses of the harem. 
 
 The throne is shaped like an immense bed- 
 stead, the four posts of gilded copper inlaid with 
 pearl and rough turquoises and rubies; placed 
 before the Turk understood the art of cutting 
 stones. They uphold a wonderful canopy, 
 fringed and jeweled, and two turbans, symbols 
 of power. On the Divan, eight coverings of gold 
 and precious stones were spread, and through 
 four centuries the guarded doors were closed 
 against eveiy Christian not a representative of 
 a King or a nation. From this august height, 
 Solyman the Magnificent wrote to the Shah of 
 Persia, "The entire universe flows by before 
 me. 
 
 And well might he style himself Lord of the 
 Mighty whose voice could be heard in Paradise. 
 Twenty different races inhabited the wide re- 
 gions shadowed by his horsetail standards. The 
 venerated cities of Bible and classic history, ex- 
 cept Rome, Syracuse and Persepolis, were his 
 tributaries. 
 
 The Mediterranean was his. "The sea of all 
 
52 ALONG THE BOSPHORUS. 
 
 civilization, and almost all history, girdled by 
 the fairest countries in the world." The muez- 
 zin's clear call to prayer floated across Mars 
 Hill and the Carthaginian Bay, and from the 
 Golden Horn to the Pyrenees shone the baleful 
 light of the crescent on his incarnadine banners. 
 And all this was subdued to the descendants of 
 Ertogral within three centuries of the time that 
 chief was a lawless adventurer with a following 
 of not five hundred fighting men. 
 
 In the Chamber of Supplication, the Ambas- 
 sador of Queen Elizabeth petitioned Murad 
 Third for help against the gathering Armada of 
 Philip Second, but the Giaour might not look 
 in the face of the Brother of the Sun. Curtains 
 veiled the splendor of the Destroyer of the ene- 
 mies of the true faith, and one finger was thrust 
 through the railing of mother-of-pearl for the 
 envoy to kiss. A high contrast to the demeanor 
 of the Prophet (he rests in glory!) who humbly 
 declared he was but as other men, except as re- 
 garded his mission from on High. 
 
 Diplomacy is not what it was then. Hardly 
 could the Ambassador see behind the network of 
 gold the fateful Being who held the keys of Des- 
 tiny; his eyeballs glittering like stars in dark 
 shadow. An awesome sight for the despised 
 Christian who ranked with dogs and Jews. In 
 
THRONE ROOM. 53 
 
 those golden years the Sultan of Constantinople 
 was rich enough to build fleets with silver an- 
 chors and silken cordage, and nine hundred 
 horses of the serai were led to silver mangers, 
 each by his Bulgarian groom. Moveless on his 
 velvet cushion, perfumed with musk-rose and 
 lavender, the Grand Seigneur received the keys 
 of walled cities sent by tributary chiefs in token 
 of submission; ponderous keys wrought like 
 swords and damascened with d'or and argent 
 laid beside jeweled turbans of dethroned rajahs. 
 There, too, were deposited the keys of every 
 shrine sacred and dear to Jew and Christian. 
 Nor have all the Powers of Earth been able, 
 though many have desired, to wrench them from 
 the hands of the Commander of the Faithful, the 
 descendant of Othman and the fair Malkatoon. 
 Anciently, when diplomatic relations were 
 strained, the representatives of foreign Govern- 
 ments were thrown into the Seven Towers — • 
 grim and threatening fortifications of the old 
 wall. The Castle is one of the bloodspots of the 
 earth. Traditions of living sepulchers, torture 
 chambers, prisoners beating out their brains in 
 forgotten dungeons fill the air, but there is not 
 time to hear them. When war was declared. 
 Ambassadors languished in the Castle till peace 
 came, and at their release they were allowed to 
 
54 ALONG THE BOSPHORUS. 
 
 carve on the outer wall some memorial of their 
 captivity. The inscriptions, crumbling and half 
 effaced, are pitiful records of miseries, written in 
 Latin, German, French, Italian; one in English 
 dated 1699. The last Ambassador of France was 
 confined in 1798, the time of Napoleon's expe- 
 dition to Egypt. 
 
 And again we say we are living in better days. 
 The old barbarities have passed away, the Seven 
 Towers are a habitation for dragons and a court 
 for owls, and the cypresses are not watered with 
 life blood. Nor does the Bosphorus throw up 
 corpses of victims executed in the preceding 
 night to be drifted into the swift whirl of waters 
 off Tophane. 
 
 (I mention, en passant, that from the begin- 
 ning this has been the feeding place of the fat 
 lobsters of the Bosphorus.) 
 
 The Kafess — translated the Cage — is a royal 
 prison of two stories, the lower without a win- 
 dow, and is said to be furnished luxuriously. 
 It contains no tenant and we are forbidden to 
 approach. 
 
 In the brave days of old, on the accession of 
 a Sultan, the other members of the reign- 
 ing dynasty* were put to death, as the only 
 way to prevent intrigue and rebellion. The 
 Koran briefly commands, "When there are two 
 
Fountain of Tophane 
 
 Page 54. 
 
THRONE ROOM. SS 
 
 Caliphs, kill one!" and the early sovereigns of 
 Islam obeyed the holy mandate. Here Prince 
 Mohammed's nineteen brothers were strangled 
 in order to secure the repose of the world, and 
 it was written, "Death by the hand of the Pa- 
 disha, if calmly accepted, is the open door to 
 eternal felicity. The Sultan is not accountable 
 while he destroys, of his subjects, under the 
 number of* one thousand persons a day." 
 
 The cannon announcing the death of Amurath 
 Third was the signal of doom to all his sons but 
 one, and the man-slayers, mutes of the Seraglio, 
 piled nineteen dead men at the feet of their 
 brother on the Imperial throne. 
 
 From Seraglio Point is the best view of Galata 
 Bridge, the famous pontoon spanning the Gold- 
 en Horn. Over it, in ceaseless current, passes a 
 multitude like the multitude John saw which no 
 man could number; of all nations, and kindreds, 
 and people and tongues. It is impossible to be 
 conspicuous on that crowded highway. If clad 
 in skins of wild beasts, or if stark naked, or creep- 
 ing on all fours, the haughty Turk (most tolerant 
 of men) would merely glance at such passer-by 
 and say it is the custom of his people. 
 
 It must have been a stirring sight to the la- 
 dies of the harem when they were more closely 
 kept; but the Celestial Abode hard by the Shrine 
 
56 ALONG THE BOSPHORUS. 
 
 of Shrines to the Turkish Conqueror is silent, 
 damp, neglected; no longer the retreat of tender 
 and delicate women dwelling in the inner cham- 
 bers hung with rose colored satin, their unsunned 
 loveliness guarded by the degraded class of men 
 to whom jealous Princes entrust their living 
 jewels. 
 
 In one of the lonesome, empty courtyards is a 
 sycamore called the tree of groaning, where dead 
 men have hung ''like the black fruit of a tree in 
 hell," whose heads were the perquisites of the 
 hangman and were ransomed with a high price 
 by kindred and friends of the criminals. 
 
 Imperial Treasury. 
 
 If my reader is not tired of seeing sights we 
 will glance at the last and most dazzling: The 
 Imperial Treasury. It is built of dingy marble, 
 and four main rooms open upon one another; 
 before the solemn ceremony of unlocking the 
 doors, we rested in an ante-room and were served 
 with conserve of roses and coffee in tiny cups set 
 with diamonds; says the Moslem, "Coffee, to- 
 bacco, opium and wine are the four cushions on 
 the sofa of pleasure." There are wild legends 
 of hidden treasure underlying what we see and 
 a story of an ancient chest in this Treasure 
 
IMPERIAL TREASURY. 5/^ 
 
 House, in which, in 1680, was found a box hold- 
 ing a lesser box of solid gold. Within it was 
 a skeleton hand, on which was written, "The 
 Hand which baptised Jesus." A relic revered by 
 the Greeks as the hand of John the Baptist that 
 was once kept in the Monastery of St. John on 
 the Golden Horn. Two hundred years after the 
 fall of the city the casket was found in the Serag- 
 lio. Souleiman 11. gave it, as something exceed- 
 ing precious, to the Knights of Malta, and the 
 golden box is now a sacred thing in one of the 
 churches at St. Petersburg. 
 
 I tell the tale as it was told to me. There is 
 more to be seen than we can ever see and it 
 would tire the gentlest of readers to attempt any- 
 thing like a full description. There is a cradle in 
 which ten Sultans have been rocked; it is inlaid 
 with pearls and precious gems, and little school 
 bags ablaze with jewels hang near by. There are 
 uncut gems in basins, emeralds large as a man's 
 hand, scimiters blazing like the magic sword of 
 King Arthur, diamonds, diamonds everywhere, 
 thick as in Sindbad's valley and Aladdin's en- 
 chanted cavern. There is such profusion of pre^ 
 cious things that after awhile one begins to feel 
 they are imitations; surely such masses of inesti- 
 mable value cannot belong to one man or even to 
 one Empire. 
 
58 ALONG THE BOSPHORUS. 
 
 Think of a prayer carpet of amber beads 
 strung on silver cord and netted together. What 
 worshiper, dead and forgotten ages ago, knelt 
 there with face toward Mecca? 
 
 "Yet still about it dumbly clings 
 A subtle sense of holy things, 
 And woven in the meshes there 
 Are strands of vows and shreds of prayer." 
 
 Lying here and there are golden balls fringed 
 with pearl and diamonds, made to be swung on 
 the tops of tents; and amulets of occult power, 
 and talismans brought by emissaries sent to far 
 countries; and there are toys for the wives of 
 despots who kissed away kingdoms and prov- 
 inces, while their armies were unpaid and sub- 
 jects starving. Imagine saddle cloths fringed 
 with gold and embroidered with Orient pearls 
 from Oman's deep water. Silver and turquoise 
 are common among piles of resplendent things 
 kept in dull, dark rooms where there is no order, 
 catalogue or arrangement suggesting dates. 
 The older the object the more costly and bar- 
 baric, especially the tribute from India, and the 
 lavish profusion is really bewildering. 
 
 The strangest weapons were there, among 
 them an ivory-handled battle axe, its white sur- 
 face wrought in curious arabesques, finely con- 
 
IMPERIAL TREASURY. 59 
 
 trasting with the blue and brilHant blade whose 
 wavy lines proclaim the matchless skill of ar- 
 morers in old Damascus; also a sword of secret 
 power and -unequaled temper, worn by some un- 
 named despot. 
 
 The Egyptian Throne kept under glass sur- 
 passes all else in the Imperial Treasury. It was 
 sent to Constantinople after the conquest of 
 Egypt, 1578, by Sultan Murad Third, contempo- 
 rary of Charles Fifth and Henry Eighth. His 
 chain mail was gilded, and helmet roped with 
 diamonds, his shield embossed with diamond 
 stars, his gold stirrups crusted with jewels which 
 captives kissed in sign of submission. I am in- 
 debted to Rev. Henry O. Dwight, our mission- 
 ary at Stamboul, for the translation from Sufti 
 Effendi of the account of Vizier. Ibraham 
 Pacha's return from Egypt after its conquest by 
 the "Lords of the Standards," and the spoils of 
 war brought home to his Imperial Master, the 
 Lord of the Universe. 
 
 There had been serious disturbances in Egypt 
 during forty or fifty years. OfBcers sent to that 
 region by Sultan Suleiman had brought to the 
 capitol sums of money so large that the Sultan 
 was afraid to accept them lest the gold had been 
 collected by oppression! 
 
 He had finally overcome his scruples by advice 
 
6o ALONG THE BOSPHORUS. 
 
 of the highest dignitaries of the reHgious hierar- 
 chy, and had taken the money as a trust to be 
 applied to benevolent purposes. In 1578, Sultan 
 Murad Third had found it necessary to send 
 another force under command of Ibraham Pacha 
 with instructions to reorganize and regulate the 
 administration of Egypt. He returned in 1581. 
 
 On the night of Kadir Gejessi in the month of 
 Ramazan, in the year 993 of the Hegira, Sultan 
 Murad went from the Seraglio, for the evening 
 service of Divine worship, to the Mosque of 
 Suleimaine. The next day he visited the private 
 apartments, the luxurious bath and the reser- 
 voirs that had just been completed at the Serag- 
 lio; and on that day, before the court rose, word 
 came that a favorable wind had brought to the 
 city the Vizier-commanding, Ibraham Pasha, 
 with the fleet of Admiral Keliz Ali : 
 
 "The fleet cast anchor off the Seven Towers 
 and the Vizier repaired immediately to the 
 Palace, and the next day Ibraham Pasha began 
 to unload the offerings which he had brought 
 to the Sovereign of the whole earth. First there 
 was a throne of 240,000 pennyweights of beaten 
 gold set with precious stones, in the most grace- 
 ful and elegant manner, by the hand of the great- 
 est masters. For instance, of common jewels 
 like topaz and amethyst none had been used of 
 
Vue Pano. Prise de la touj" de Galata. 
 
 Pagi; 6o. 
 
IMPERIAL TREASURY. 6l 
 
 a size less than a pigeon's egg. Emeralds, and 
 rubies to blind the eye, and choice stones of other 
 precious sorts were set in the midst of chasing 
 and hammered work so exquisite that the like has 
 nowhere before been seen or described. The 
 engravers and jewelers of the rulers of Egypt 
 had, in a word, made this throne in the most per- 
 fect style of their art. The present writer was 
 among those who were present on the arrival of 
 this magnificent object, and when the officer, 
 Mahmoud the Persian, undertook to estimate 
 the value of this priceless throne of gold, I re- 
 plied to him, "True genius should enable you to 
 fix a value on the throne when the Caliph of the 
 age and the Ruler of the World is seated upon 
 it." It was then said that the throne of the 
 Sultan is costly. It is not meet to set a value 
 on it. 
 
 After leaving Egypt, Ibraham Pasha had gone 
 to Syria, and there attacking the despicable race 
 of beasts called Druzes, he had brought them 
 under subjection to Islam, taking from them 
 thousands of guns, bows and arrows, and spears. 
 These, with this throne, and sixty-three loads of 
 treasure, amounting to 173,000 pieces of gold, 
 he laid at the feet of the Sultan. 
 
 After the solemn exercises of Bayram, Ibraham 
 Pasha laid before the Sultan the treasure and the 
 
62 ALONG THE BOSPHORUS. 
 
 choice jewels and the indescribable riches of all 
 sorts which he had brought from Egypt, form- 
 ing altogether a gift of beauty and splendor 
 which the pen of a writer is impotent to char- 
 acterize. The immensity of the present can be 
 judged by comparing it with others. The gifts 
 brought from Arabia to Sultan Suleiman by 
 Suleiman Pasha are celebrated, but have no com- 
 parison with the immense riches presented by 
 Ibraham Pasha, not having the one hundredth 
 part of the value of these riches. Again the gifts 
 offered by Mahmoud Pasha to the same sover- 
 eign have been much in the mouths of the people, 
 but they were not equal to the one thousandth 
 part of this great present. 
 
 The articles presented by Ibraham Pasha were 
 as follows: 
 
 Two magnificent manuscripts of the Koran; 
 one rich curtain from the holy Kaaba; three 
 jeweled scimiters; three swords jeweled with 
 diamonds and rubies; three Persian daggers 
 richly jeweled; three finely vn"ought and jeweled 
 shields; three other shields handsomely jeweled; 
 three wash basins and jars of pure beaten gold 
 handsomely jeweled; three salvers of pure gold 
 set with jewels; three cups of gold well jeweled; 
 three other salvers jeweled; seventy-nine pieces 
 of Damascus silk; thirty-nine pieces of Venetian 
 
IMPERIAL TREASURY. 63 
 
 velvets of all colors; twenty-nine pieces of choice 
 European satin; two loads of fine raw silk; one 
 hundred and nineteen pieces of figured goods of 
 many colors; seventeen head of eunuchs, ten 
 black and seven white; seven stud of Arabian 
 steeds (the first stud of nine horses had golden 
 saddles with harness and trappings of gold stud- 
 ded with jewels, and had housings of crimson 
 velvet worked with pearls and precious stones. 
 The next stud was also of fine horses with sad- 
 dles and trappings of gold set with emeralds and 
 rubies. The third, fourth and fifth studs had 
 silver saddles and trappings, silken reins and 
 housings of yellow and white brocade, and two 
 of the four stud were covered with satin horse- 
 cloths. The other two stud had jeweled head- 
 stalls and silken reins and horsecloths of red bro- 
 cade); one small elephant with a housing of 
 crimson broadcloth; one giraffe; twenty-five 
 loads of guns and other arms and munitions of 
 war taken from the Druzes. 
 
 According to the careful estimate of those 
 qualified to judge, the value of the gifts pre- 
 sented by Ibraham Pasha was twenty times one 
 hundred thousand pieces of gold without any 
 manner of doubt; and it was said the homage 
 paid by an humble and faithful servant to his 
 master could not exceed this magnitude. Any 
 
64 ALONG THE BOSPHORUS. 
 
 greater quantity is beyond the power of a fertile 
 imagination. 
 
 And in the month of Jemadi ul Evvel in the 
 same year Ibraham Pasha became the son-in-law 
 of the Sultan. Among the profusions of the 
 festivities of this marriage, Soutfi Efifendi men- 
 tions that Ibraham Pasha distributed to his 
 guests three thousand wedding garments. 
 
 This Padisha is well named the Bloody. After 
 the surrender of Cairo he ordered the butchery 
 of fifty thousand, the entire population of the 
 city. His Viziers rarely held their high office 
 more than a month and the chronicler fails to 
 record how the victorious son-in-law fared. In 
 addition to the list given by Soutfi Effendi, a 
 thousand camels laden with gold and silver came 
 to the capital by caravan. 
 
 The contents of the Treasury are sacred and 
 we see the accumulations of centuries, where 
 every Sultan has tried to outdo his predecessors. 
 During the Crimean war basins of jewels were 
 given in pledge for a loan, and kept a short time 
 in the vaults of the Ottoman Bank, soon to be 
 redeemed; so the Treasure House has aptly been 
 compared to the Caspian Sea, into which vast 
 rivers run, and from which nothing goes out. 
 As I said, Friday is the Moslem Sunday, Satur- 
 day the Jew's, the first day of the week the 
 
IMPERIAL TREASURY. 65 
 
 Christian's, and since neither regards the other's 
 holy day, there seems to be none in this city of 
 a million souls. 
 
 Returning to Therapia cold winds from the 
 Black Sea chill us to the bone, though there is 
 no frost. Leaves are dropping with ripeness and 
 figs hang purple and look delicious. 
 
 We should like a stove on the steamer but the 
 natives do not appear cold, living out of doors 
 the year round. On the sunny side of a ruined 
 wall, the little Hunchback was telling his tale as 
 we passed, old Sindbad was giving his adventures 
 to an audience of fishermen who mended their 
 nets, the barber was shaving and hair cutting in 
 his place of business, i. e., the sidewalk — the tai- 
 lor sat cross-legged on his bench under a balcony 
 and the lazy Aladdin played with other idle boys 
 in the street. Arabian Nights all over. Zobeide 
 and Fatima looked through their lattices with 
 starry eyes. It is well they are shut in, for one of 
 them if seen in the unveiled splendor of her 
 charms would make all mankind die of love. So 
 says Mustapha. 
 
 The crowning unreality of a day like the stuff 
 that dreams are made of was a visit to a Princess, 
 the Pearl of two Seas. Her palace stands in a 
 Lalla Rookh garden with walls about twenty feet 
 high, the airs delicious with the faint smell of the 
 
66 ALONG THE BOSPHORUS. 
 
 jasmine. Servants in waiting at the gates were 
 dazzling in gold lace, rainbow sashes, swords and 
 pistols. She is well guarded by night and by 
 day, by land and sea. Two eunuchs, tall, jet 
 black fellows in Paris suits, each with whip of 
 rhinoceros hide in hand, held the door of the re- 
 ception hall. We were beckoned by them to the 
 screened boudoir of the lady fair. It was hung 
 with Broussa silk, the floor of blue and white 
 mosaic was softened with velvety rugs of Bok- 
 hara and Korassan. Nested among pillows of 
 silk and lace was the lady we sought, soft in her 
 movements and dimpled as a baby of four 
 months. If you can fancy a child thirty years 
 old you have her face. In her teens she must 
 have been beautiful exceedingly — and her eyes 
 — O, those Paradise eyes! Black as death, bright 
 as stars of midnight. Her skin exquisitely fair, 
 a throat of statuary marble, hands that would de- 
 light a sculptor to model. But the artist will 
 never behold her. In that gilded cage the bulbul 
 sees no man but her husband and the black 
 slaves. She seemed glad to meet us, kissed us; 
 and I smiled with warmth and she smiled back 
 again. My friend who interpreted did her best 
 to throw some life into the visit. When told of 
 the great things the women of England and 
 America do in church and State, the Princess 
 
Along the Bosphorus. 
 
 Page 67. 
 
IMPERIAL TREASURY. 67 
 
 Badoura lifted her pretty eyebrows in a surprised 
 way and said, 'Why you are slaves!" And there 
 was one of the party who thought the Princess 
 was not greatly mistaken. How dovelike she 
 was, as she kissed us again, under an acacia tree 
 in the garden bower, and hoped we were not 
 afraid of the water! 
 
 Count C says he remembers when this 
 
 peerless Circassian was bought. Nearly three 
 thousand dollars was the first price, but the buyer 
 beat the father down to twenty-five hundred. 
 The Prince — a real Prince Charming — is very 
 fond of his Janilla (Pink Tulip) as well he may 
 be, and she changed eyes with him childishly 
 as though there was no such thing as art in the 
 world. 
 
 The slave trade is abolished by law but we are 
 told that thousands are brought yearly from 
 Georgia, Circassia, the ancient Colchis, and 
 Arabia, as this Lily of Paradise was bought and 
 planted in the Garden of Perfection — lifted from 
 poverty unspeakable to silken luxury in palace 
 rooms lined with alabaster, and cushioned with 
 eider-down and lavender. 
 
II. 
 
 LEPERS AND LEPROSY IN THE EAST. 
 
 Not many years ago, one mild afternoon of 
 November, we neared Ramleh, tlie resting-place 
 between the Mediterranean and Jerusalem, and 
 glad were we to descry the lofty white tower 
 from whose height is seen the loveliest landscape 
 in Palestine. We had left behind the orange- 
 orchards of JafTa, with golden fruitage guarded 
 by cactus hedges, had crossed the Plain of 
 Sharon, almost a solitude, capable yet of main- 
 taining a population dense as when the herds of 
 Solomon grazed the rich pastures stretching far 
 away to the North. Picture-like villages clung 
 to the hillsides. Eastward lay the purple moun- 
 tains of Samaria. Westward a line of dying color 
 marked the halcyon sea which sparkles under the 
 sea-blue sky, close beside the excellency of Car- 
 mel. Even in mourning, lamentation, and woe 
 we see the Land of Promise was once the glory 
 of all lands, the joy of the whole earth. 
 
 Every step of our way had been trodden by the 
 feet of renowned warriors, heroes, prophets, 
 
 69 
 
70 LEPROSY IN THE EAST. 
 
 kings; has rung with the clash of steel, and glit- 
 tered with the curved cimeters, in whose shadow 
 Paradise is prefigured to the faithful. Ramleh 
 (ancient Arimathea) was headquarters for the 
 armies of crusaders, — not a great way from the 
 spot where the Lion-hearted Richard caught 
 sight of Mount Moriah, and, covering his face 
 with his hands, refused to gaze on the city of 
 the crucifixion, desecrated as it was by the in- 
 fidel, crying, "Ah, Lord God, I pray that I may 
 never see the Holy City, if I may not rescue it 
 from the hands of thine enemies !" 
 
 While we recalled these delightful memories, 
 — phantoms of all time, — and debated what the 
 rose of Sharon really w^as, we heard hoarse cries 
 like the screams of enraged wild beasts. At the 
 same moment apparitions, weird, spectral, with 
 wiry matted hair, sprang from the hedges, and 
 held out hands from which joints had rotted off, 
 lifted up arms without hands, showing stumps 
 healed over. Their eyelids were thickened and 
 drawn back, exposing sightless swollen balls. 
 Each one was draped in a garment of faded blue 
 cotton; and for an instant the feeling was that 
 creatures, neither man nor woman, neither brute 
 nor human, had burst out of their graves, and, 
 with bodies decayed and decaying, besought 
 rescue from the horrors of their foul prison- 
 
LEPROSY IN THE EAST. 7^ 
 
 house. To restore the mangled shapes to health 
 and comeliness would appear a greater miracle 
 than to breathe again the breath of life into an 
 uncorrupted body from which the spirit has fled. 
 
 They were, indeed, of those whom the ancient 
 Jew numbered with the dead. "These four are 
 counted as dead," says the Talmud : "the blind 
 and the leper, the poor and the childless." The 
 carriage stopped. "Lepers!" shouted our guide; 
 they did not venture to come nearer. We flung 
 the expected coin, and hastened through the 
 gateway which those outcasts might never enter. 
 
 And thus, again, the next day, when we ap- 
 proached the Holy City. The Damascus Gate of 
 Jerusalem is the chief entrance for pomp and 
 honor, as the Joppa Gate is in the main thorough- 
 fare for trade and pilgrimage. Outside of it is 
 the leper hospital; but the patients have a pre- 
 cinct within and against the wall, huddled in sheds 
 of wretchedness and filth unspeakable. Some are 
 eyeless, having merely sunken holes in empty 
 sockets; many are without nose or ears; all are 
 maimed and distorted, hideous past telling. They 
 dare not touch the stranger, and rise ghost-like, 
 as fabled ghouls, from the ground, and, without 
 advancing, lift up their voices afar off, as the ten 
 described by Luke (Luke 17: 12, 13). They 
 live in a community under a sheik, also a leper, 
 
72 LEPROSY IN THE EAST. 
 
 and, having human fellowship, are amazingly 
 cheerful over their tin platters of copper coin. 
 
 There for ages on ages, by the old Fish Gate, 
 have they been permitted to dwell, to marry 
 within the forbidden degrees, perpetuate their 
 horrible selves, and from this center radiate the 
 awful pestilence, in the time of the Apostles con- 
 sidered a direct "stroke of God," incurable by 
 human means; a punishment for sins of special 
 magnitude. A poor bundle of dirty rags lies on 
 the paving-stones. That is a baby leper. If you 
 dare, lift the coverlet. Oh, the horror of the 
 spectacle! You see a loathsome mass of rot, 
 livid, revolting. It should be buried out of sight; 
 but it moves, and pipes a shrill cry. The sinless 
 soul has not left its horrid tenement, and may 
 have weary years of struggle before it can escape. 
 
 Often baby comes into the world fair as your 
 first-born, young mother, without spot or blem- 
 ish. The stricken father plays gently with the 
 sticks and straws which amuse the little one; and 
 the mother kisses it with cancerous kisses, as 
 they march, at morning, to the wayside beyond 
 the walls, the better to catch the passing traveler, 
 and ask an alms, — sometimes in heart-rending 
 wails or meaningless gibberish, -for their palates 
 are gone. No skill can remove the taint from 
 the fair child. It is not reached by medical 
 
LEPROSY IN THE EAST. 73 
 
 knowledge, or tempered by foresight or sanitary 
 measures, is without arrest or palliation, — a 
 doom hopeless, inevitable as death. At maturity, 
 if not earlier, the plague begins, and, strangely 
 enough, is attended by slight pain. Discolored, 
 inflamed splotches appear on the skin; lumps 
 rise under it, and change to festering sores and 
 putrid ulcers. The face swells; the muscles of 
 the mouth contract and lay bare the ghastly 
 grinning teeth; the eyeballs are shapeless and 
 broken 'like bursted grapes," — let me spare the 
 reader the sickening detail. Microbes are eating 
 through the tissues and into the very marrow of 
 the sufferer, — or do they batten on each other? 
 
 Moses writes of the whiteness of leprosy, 
 "white as snow" (Exod. 4: 6; Num. 12: 10; 
 2 Kings 5 : 2"]). He refers to a grisly mould or 
 mildew, shining like i scales, which sometimes 
 forms on the surface. The different varieties are 
 described by the Hebrew with minute exactness, 
 and it was dreaded as the most terrible calamity 
 possible to man. The victim was dead to the 
 law, to civil life, to the temple service. In caves 
 of the wilderness, in dens, and among- rocky 
 tombs he sought shelter, in a sort of death-in-life, 
 rotting piecemeal; and, so long face to face with 
 the destroyer, we can imagine he would welcome 
 the pang which at last released him. 
 c 
 
74 LEPROSY IN THE EAST. 
 
 Physiologists assert that Syria is one of the 
 most favorable regions for the perfect develop- 
 ment of the physical and mental powers of the 
 human race, and insist that under stringent regu- 
 lations leprosy would disappear, as it has from 
 Britain and France. Here it has been from earli- 
 est historic times. In the days of Elisha there 
 were many lepers in Damascus, and under a hot 
 sun, in reeking noisome huts, with poverty of 
 blood and lowered system following exposure 
 and insufficient food, the colony at the Jaffa 
 Gate has small chance of "cleansing." They are, 
 in the expressive words of Luke, full of leprosy, 
 and, like Job, clothed with worms and clods of 
 dust. ''My breath is corrupt, my skin is broken 
 and become loathsome."* 
 
 We are told the ancient type no longer exists; 
 it is now communicable only by close contact. 
 Of old it was more violent, and who entertained 
 a leper became himself polluted, and subject to 
 the same laws, one of which was forty stripes if 
 he entered a town. The walls of his house, cloth- 
 ing utensils, the very stones, were pronounced 
 accursed, and dangerous sources of contagion. 
 This makes more noticeable the last Sabbath of 
 Christ upon the earth. He, with His disciples, 
 dined at the house of Simon the leper; "an act 
 
 * It is believed in the East that Job was a leper. 
 
LEPROSY IN THE EAST. 75 
 
 sternly forbidden by the ceremonial law which 
 He had come to fulfil and supersede." In the vil- 
 lage of the poor, with the outcast, in the home 
 of extremest suffering, the alabaster box of oint- 
 ment, very precious, was broken, and our Savior 
 was anointed for the sepulcher. 
 
 The disease was probably an outgrowth of 
 many miseries in the hard bondage of Israel in 
 Egypt. At the beginning of the exodus, Moses 
 ordered all lepers without the camp, in laws 
 merciless and sweeping, isolation without appeal 
 or exception. In Egypt, the segregation reached 
 even to animals; for it was believed swine were 
 liable to leprosy, and for that cause forbidden as 
 food. To the Christian descendants of the an- 
 cient Egyptians (Copts), pork is an abomination. 
 They will not touch the unclean thing. 
 
 History records that the two hundred years 
 of the Crusades ■ scattered the seeds of leprosy 
 throughout Europe. In the medieval years it 
 swept, an epidemic, across three continents. 
 High-born delicate women, men in the bloom 
 and flower of youth, the king on his throne, the 
 starveling on the ash-heap, were alike smitten. 
 Henry of Lancaster died of leprosy at West- 
 minster in 1413; Robert the Bruce was leprous; 
 and Baldwin IV., illustrious King of Jerusalem, 
 died at the age of twenty-three, a leper. 
 
76 LEPROSY IN THE EAST. 
 
 No latitude is exempt from its influence, and 
 all climates are friendly to the growth of the evil 
 I am trying to describe. It spreads in temperate 
 zones, in Iceland and the Polar Circle, in arid 
 deserts of Africa and the wet districts of Batavia, 
 in Asia Minor, — one of the fairest portions of 
 the globe, — and penetrates frigid, ice-bound 
 Russia. It follows the track of the Chinese Cooly 
 on sea-coasts, thrives thousands of feet above the 
 level of the sea in healthful plateaus of old Mex- 
 ico, and finds congenial home in the pure salt air 
 of the islands of the South Seas. Doubtless su- 
 perstition and fear have magnified its power in 
 our times, and even after death the poor leper 
 is still outlawed and avoided. To this day, the 
 Spanish peasant believes that a leprous corpse 
 contaminates the earth, imparts its contagion, 
 and defiles bodies buried around it in the church- 
 yard. 
 
 In certain old cathedrals of France, at the 
 back of the choir, half-way up in the crypt, the 
 tourist may see an empty stone cell made for the 
 leper in the sanctuary. There he might pray, 
 lost amid shadows and reprobation, in the midst 
 of multitudes, yet lone as the corpse under the 
 cofiin-lid. From the depths of his dreary cage 
 the bloated savage face, pressed against the 
 openings of the wall, must have appeared like 
 
LEPROSY IN THE EAST. "jy 
 
 some terrible mysterious animal, confined by 
 strong bars to prevent outrage. 
 
 In his desolation, the prisoner, innocent of 
 crime, might listen to the roll of organ music, 
 the responsive singers (so sweet, so sweet, I hear 
 them yet !), might scent the incense and hearken 
 to the intoning. But he was a blot among the 
 adornings of the sacred place. He could not 
 claim kinship with any one of the crov/d that 
 carhe and went all day; he was nothing, could 
 never be anything, but an alien from humanity, 
 and, for no fault of his own, abhorred, a thing to 
 shrink from and shudder at. Not for him the 
 smile of woman, the hand of man, the prattle of 
 children. In the soft gloom over the altar he 
 could see (if sight were spared) the great still 
 Christ, wounded in hands and feet and side. 
 With what rapture the man broken in heart and 
 body must have worshiped the unseen One that 
 pathetic image represented; and how he must 
 have rejoiced in the gracious message to the 
 heavy laden, written above the bleeding fore- 
 head : "Come unto me, and I will give you rest !" 
 
c^ 
 
III. 
 A TRIP TO HEBRON. 
 
 By Mrs. Henry S. Lane. 
 
 No fairer morning ever dawned over the Holy 
 City than on November 14, 1882, when General 
 Wallace (then Minister to Turkey) met his 
 friends, in front of the Mediterranean Hotel, to 
 ride through the country to Hebron. The ac- 
 complished Governor of Jerusalem, with an es- 
 cort of troops, Consul Selah Merrill and wife, 
 Mr. Cook, of London, and others, formed the 
 party. 
 
 We passed out the old historic Jaffa Gate, 
 
 where idle Turks were smoking, and buyers and 
 
 sellers chattering in unknown tongues over their 
 
 wares. Camels moaned their sad moan, children 
 
 chickens and donkeys covered with the dust of 
 
 the road all mingled together, making a motley 
 
 assemblage daily seen in the open court under 
 
 David's Tower. The horrible sights and sounds 
 
 from the lepers' quarter are past describing. 
 
 Down through the Valley of Gihon to the Valley 
 
 of Giant, leaving the traditional tree on which 
 
 79 
 
8o A TRIP TO HEBRON. 
 
 Judas hanged himself, we cross the boundary 
 line between Judah and Benjamin, where the 
 Philistines were defeated by David, pass the well 
 of the Magi, where the wise men saw the star re- 
 flected in its depths. Eastward were the glorious 
 heights of Olivet, with its sacred associations, 
 and the sweet garden of Gethsemane, owned now 
 by Russians, under the care of a young monk — 
 where the fragrance of lavender filled the air, and 
 flowers bloomed beneath the pale-green olive 
 trees, poetically believed to have been there in 
 that night of sorrow, when Jesus wept and 
 prayed, and His pure soul suffered the bitterness 
 of betrayal. 
 
 From a high ridge, one long, lingering look 
 back gave us the view of the city, beautiful for 
 situation, the joy of the whole earth; the gilded 
 domes, graceful minarets, sparkling fountains, 
 touched with the splendor of sunlight, over em- 
 battled gates and walls — made a picture, once 
 seen, remembered forever. 
 
 An hour's ride brought us to the tomb of 
 Rachel the wife beloved of Jacob, for whom he 
 served so many years; but love Hghtened his 
 labor and it seemed to him but a few days. He 
 set a pillar over her grave. The modern monu- 
 ment marks the burial place near Ephrath (Beth- 
 lehem). Never has it been doubted or disturbed 
 
A TRIP TO HEBRON. 8l 
 
 in all these centuries, but is revered to-day by 
 both Jews and Gentiles. Once a year the Rabbi 
 comes from Jerusalem, with a procession of men 
 and women, to recite a long form of prayer, and 
 wail over the departed glories of their race. The 
 famous ''Sheik of the Jordan," was our guide, 
 philosopher and friend. He was dark but comely, 
 with great melancholy eyes, and an expression of 
 conscious strength and power indicative of the 
 man, was most fantastically dressed in loose 
 flowing drapery of bright colored stuffs, over 
 Turkish trousers, with a broad belt bristling with 
 knives, daggers and pistols of the finest quality, 
 presented to him by General Grant and other dis- 
 tinguished travelers, whom he had protected 
 from the wild Bedouins in their excursions 
 through the Wilderness. An immense ring 
 adorned his massive right hand; on his majestic 
 breast shone star-like decorations, richly jeweled, 
 of various orders, bestowed by the Sultan, and 
 gorgeous as in the days of Haroun Al-Raschid. 
 A yellow silk Kufiyeh, w^oven in threads of gold, 
 from the looms of Damascus, was wound, turban 
 fashion, around his royal head. 
 
 His handsome gray Arab, shod, not like Pi- 
 zarro's, with silver, but with rough iron nails for 
 climbing, was gaily caparisoned with beads, 
 fringes and tassels. His greatest dehght was in 
 
82 A TRIP TO HEBRON. 
 
 performing remarkable feats of horsemanship for 
 our amusement. Evidently, he held the barb 
 dearer than any or all his wives. The graceful 
 animal was worthy the affection lavished on him 
 by the master he so faithfully served. The rest 
 of us had to be contented with ''Cook's best." 
 
 The aspect of the Judean Hill country is most 
 mournful. The spell of the curse has fallen 
 heavily upon it, withering its fields, leaving it 
 sad, silent, and forlorn — treeless and barren, 
 desolate as death, gloomy as the grave. 
 
 On the coins of the Roman Empire, Judea is 
 well represented as "a widow, seated under a 
 palm tree, captive and weeping." 
 
 Such a weary, weary, heart-breaking land. 
 
 It is almost impossible to believe the many 
 millions who formerly inhabited this country 
 could have been supported without the daily 
 miracle of the loaves and fishes. But the soil, 
 once so productive, has been washed from the 
 terraced hills, into the valleys below, where men 
 wxre patiently plowing with the same crooked 
 stick used in the time of Moses. Seemingly con- 
 tented with their slow way of working, their 
 simple pastoral condition, they have no desire 
 for change, or thirst for improvement. 
 
 Restless Americans would call them conserva- 
 
Coffee and Pipe. 
 
 Page S- 
 
A TRIP TO HEBRON. 83 
 
 tives, if not benighted idiots. But a true Ori- 
 ental never hurries or worries over anything. 
 
 His ideal life is having plenty to eat, little to 
 wear, and nothing to do. Without any sense of 
 responsibility he seems to feel — 
 
 "The God who made me, 
 Knows why he made me what I am." 
 
 The fatalism of the East is found everywhere 
 — their only response to misfortune is "Kismet," 
 *Tate." 
 
 The midday luncheon was spread under a tent 
 by the servants, near the pool of Solomon — three 
 open, square cisterns of broad stones laid in solid, 
 well-preserved masonry. These were built by 
 the wise man who, in the gladness of his heart, 
 wrote his cheerful songs about watering the 
 .world that bringeth forth trees, pleasant fruits, 
 myrrh, olives, spices, a fountain of gardens, and 
 wells of living water. 
 
 Under a low stone doorway, down a flight of 
 slimy steps, into a dark arched grotto, we drank 
 from 'The Sealed Fountain," an unfailing 
 spring, which formerly supplied Jerusalem with 
 an abundance of pure water, and with new aque- 
 ducts could furnish what the city most needs to- 
 day, where water is not to be had for the ask- 
 ing, and the Arab saying holds good, ''that the 
 
84 A TRIP TO HEBRON. 
 
 water provider will be always blest," for he is 
 daily remembered by the faithful in their hour of 
 prayer. 
 
 Only by traveling through Palestine can one 
 fully understand the significance of Christ's illus- 
 trations about ''living water." Here it means 
 literally life; the well is of greater value than the 
 land; it belongs to the man who makes it, and 
 his family and tribe forever ! 
 
 The sweetest associations of Syrian life cluster 
 around the well. 
 
 Further in, we pass some ancient ruins, sup- 
 posed to be the burial place of the Prophet 
 Jonah, and several guard houses, where Arab 
 soldiers are stationed to protect solitary pilgrims 
 from thieving Bedouins, who infest these deso- 
 late roads, robbing with impunity, unless the 
 avenging sword is in sight. They are a law unto 
 themselves, and acknowledge no other ruler. 
 
 We caught a glimpse of a picturesque little vil- 
 lage, in the lovely Valley of Urtas, where a Euro- 
 pean colony made the wilderness rejoice and 
 blossom as the rose. The tender green of grow- 
 ing gardens relieved the dull uniformity of the 
 landscape. 
 
 I marveled at the taste of the Syrian girl, who, 
 while visiting in America, soon wanted to return 
 
A TRIP TO HEBRON. 85 
 
 to her own gray sands, "She was so tired of the 
 everlasting green over there." * 
 
 On the sunny slopes of distant hills we occa- 
 sionally saw a young shepherd, with his crook, 
 tending scattered flocks of black goats, climbing 
 where nothing else could, and eating what noth- 
 ing else w^ould. 
 
 A few straggling Arab traders walked beside 
 their patient, long-suffering camels, bending be- 
 neath their load of Eastern merchandise. Very 
 carefully our horses picked their way among the 
 rocks of this rough, narrow, and almost impass- 
 able road, supposed to be the oldest in the 
 world. The Roman legions tramped it, the gay 
 Knight Templars traveled it, and Abraham 
 passed on that journey of faith to sacrifice his 
 son Isaac on Mount Moriah. Here David led his 
 armies to battle and to victory. Here Jacob and 
 Solomon walked. And Joseph, with Mary bear- 
 ing the yoimg Christ in her arms, in their "Flight 
 into Egypt," may have rested and played with 
 her cherished child, as other loving mothers 
 would on the long, wearisome way. 
 
 The once beautiful Valley of Eschol, remem- 
 bered for the wonderful grapes, which the spies 
 bore on their shoulders on their return from the 
 promised land, can produce no such mammoth 
 specimens now. An oval-faced, brown-eyed 
 
86 A TRIP TO HEBRON. 
 
 daughter of Ishmael, clad in a loose blue bour- 
 'nous, fastened at the throat, stood at the roadside 
 of a neglected looking vineyard, asking back- 
 sheesh, and offering some sickly-looking white 
 grapes for sale. We bought and ate, finding 
 them sweet and refreshing. Neither figs nor 
 pomegranates could be found. 
 
 This child of nature, as graceful as uncon- 
 scious, smilingly bowed her thanks for the cen- 
 times, and with her strong, muscular arms, ac- 
 customed to burden bearing, tossed the great 
 basket of fruit to her head, lifted the pretty 
 brown baby to her shoulder, walked away with 
 the dignity of one born in the free air of the 
 desert, 
 
 "Happy that she knows no more." 
 
 The day was hot, the air still and lifeless; 
 exhausted with the long, hard ride, it was a de- 
 lightful surprise to distinguish, in the purple twi- 
 light of parting day, American flags floating 
 from the group of white tents the advance guard 
 had picturesquely arranged under the shadow of 
 the mountains round about Mohammedan Heb- 
 ron. 
 
 The Governor who honored the party with 
 his presence insisted on stopping at the ''khan'* 
 in the city, but our wise, experienced dragoman 
 
A TRIP TO HEBRON. 87 
 
 (when the decision was left to the ladies) whis- 
 pered us to take to the tents, where we would 
 escape the creeping things which live and thrive 
 in these rickety old houses; and much to the dis- 
 appointment of the Jewish keeper we turned 
 from his enclosure and alighted at our tent door. 
 After an excellent dinner, served with many- 
 courses, in good style, we closed "tired eyelids 
 upon tired eyes." 
 
 But the braying of mules, barking of dogs, 
 whistling of the night watch, and the summer 
 sounds of insect life, together with the novelty 
 of the situation, banished all but waking dreams 
 from my mind. 
 
 The dear home stars hung heavenly lights 
 above the glorious banner which crowned our 
 tent, and the God of Abraham watched with me, 
 at his tomb. 
 
 I rejoiced that morning light would give us the 
 sight so long waited for, of the venerated 
 Mosque in this quaint old stone built city. 
 After a cup of stimulating Turkish coffee (my 
 only dissipation), the horses were brought out, 
 and we rode through the narrow, filthy places, 
 miscalled streets, where the population, thought 
 to number ten or twelve thousand, are the low- 
 est, poorest, most degraded looking creatures I 
 ever beheld. 
 
S8 A TRIP TO HEBRON. 
 
 ^Terrible as an army with banners" this 
 strange procession, with thirty armed men, 
 looked to these isolated, ignorant Moslems. 
 
 The city was built seven years before Zoan, 
 in Egypt, by David, the sweet singer of Israel, 
 who made it his capital before Jerusalem, and 
 held his court here many years. It was first 
 called "Kirjath Arba," later, "El-Khalil," "The 
 Friend." It is one of the most authentic of the 
 ancient places in the Holy Land. Mecca, Me- 
 dina and Jerusalem are the only cities dearer to 
 the Moslem heart. All rich in associations, 
 though poor in everything else, no evidence of 
 industry or thrift is visible; their only manufac- 
 ture was an inferior quality of glass, made into 
 various forms. We bought 'Vopes" of beads and 
 bracelets as souvenirs for friends, wishing the 
 liras given in return might be miraculously mul- 
 tiplied to relieve the wants of the suffering 
 people. 
 
 When the struggle for bread, which underlies 
 most men's lives, becomes a controlling force, 
 then life grows bitter and hard to bear — such it 
 looked to be in Hebron. 
 
 Here Absalom was born, and in all Israel there 
 was none so much praised for his beauty, "from 
 the sole of his foot to the crown of his head, there 
 was no blemish on him." Joseph went out from 
 
A TRIP TO HEBRON. 89 
 
 here to seek his brethren in Shechem, and they 
 returned with only his bloody coat. Abner was 
 treacherously murdered by Joab, and buried 
 here. King David lifted up his voice and wept, 
 saying, "know ye not a prince and a great man 
 is fallen this day in Israel?" Joshua went up from 
 Eglem and all his armies fought against it, de- 
 stroyed it utterly, and all the souls that were 
 therein. Afterwards it was given to Caleb as an 
 inheritance because he wholly followed the Lord 
 God of Israel. 
 
 The strongest claim to distinction which the 
 historic city possesses, is its time-stained mosque, 
 built ages on ages back, over the cave of Mach- 
 pelah, meaning, "double cave." 
 
 The purchase of this field by Abraham is the 
 first legal contract recorded in history. The first 
 known interment of the dead. The first assign- 
 ment of property to the Hebrew people in the 
 Holy Land. Abraham mourned and wept over 
 his beloved Sarah, asked for a place to bury her 
 out of his sight. He refused to receive it as a gift 
 from Ephron, insisted on weighing out the four 
 hundred shekels of silver (current money with 
 the merchant), in payment. 
 
 With true Oriental courtesy and exchange of 
 compliments between the old patriarch and the 
 sons of Heth, the contract was completed. AH 
 
90 A TRIP TO HEBRON. 
 
 was made sure unto him for a burial place for- 
 ever. 
 
 Many centuries have passed since that memor- 
 able day, many wars have swept over the coun- 
 try, many rulers have lived and died, but this 
 consecrated ground has at all times, by all peo- 
 ple, been most reverently and religiously 
 guarded. 
 
 The outer haram walls existed in the fourth 
 century. The longest stone measures twenty- 
 four feet, eight inches in length, by three feet, 
 eight and one-half inches in height; the average 
 measurement of the ancient wall from base to 
 cornice is forty feet. The period is represented in 
 work similar to that in the Jerusalem haram, 
 proving it was constructed near the same period. 
 The original church occupies the southern part of 
 the inclosure. Three of its outer walls are formed 
 by the old ramparts, showing traces of the By- 
 zantine era, when the gallant crusaders, carrying 
 the banner of the Holy Cross, under the leader- 
 ship of Coeur de Lion and Godfrey de Bouillon, 
 whose heroic deeds have been sung in song and 
 told in story, pitched their tents on those hills and 
 captured and held the church nearly a hundred 
 years. In 1187, Saladin, fighting under the green 
 banner of the prophet, drove out the Christians, 
 changing it to a mosque, enlarging and beautify- 
 
Ste. Sophia. 
 
 Page qi. 
 
A TRIP TO HEBRON. 9^ 
 
 ing it with modern improvements, and Moslems 
 have since held it in undisputed possession. 
 
 Though not as handsome as the Mosque of 
 Omar in Jerusalem, or as grand as St. Sophia in 
 Constantinople, it is the only spot on earth sa- 
 cred alike to Jew, Christian and Mohammedan. 
 
 Will they worship together, when the millen- 
 nium comes in? 
 
 So jealously is it guarded now by fanatical 
 Turks that only three or four parties have ever 
 been permitted to see the interior of the Mosque, 
 "Christian dogs" are generally stoned from the 
 door. But the Sultan in Constantinople kindly 
 gave a "firman" to General Wallace, which was 
 the "open sesame" to all their shrines in Pales- 
 tine. A grave, venerable-looking Sheik, dressed 
 in flowing cloth robes, royal as "the purple," 
 wearing the green turban proving that he had 
 made the pilgrimage to Mecca, and was entitled 
 to additional respect, after kissing the black 
 stone, received us with much ceremony in the 
 vestibule, where shoes were exchanged for slip- 
 pers, as silence and cleanliness enter into the 
 worship of the Orient. 
 
 With great solemnity the historic house is en- 
 tered. It measures seventy feet in length, 
 ninety-eight in width, is divided by a nave and 
 tw^o aisles of approximately equal breadth. The 
 
92 A TRIP TO HEBRON. 
 
 arched roof, covered with lead, is supported by 
 heavy columns, and adorned with leaves and 
 small volutes of medieval character. The nave 
 is lighted by a clerestory, with three windows in 
 each side; all the six windows are "pointed with 
 low point" and heavy external buttresses occur 
 between the side windows. A casing of fine mar- 
 ble lines the walls to the height of six feet, where 
 an Arabic inscription, probably as late as the 
 twelfth century, is graven above it. 
 
 The "Mihrab" or prayer recess in the end wall 
 nearest to Mecca resembles that in the dome of 
 the rock at Jerusalem. 
 
 It is flanked with slender pillars with richly- 
 carved capitals of Gothic design, and by two 
 wax torches. 
 
 Above the Mihrab is a window of stained glass 
 of richly-colored designs, throwing "3. dim, re- 
 ligious light" over the interior. 
 
 In the left aisle, a Greek inscription is built in 
 the wall; it was painted red and contains an in- 
 vocation to Abraham to bless certain individuals 
 at whose expense it was erected. It dates about 
 the time of Justinian. 
 
 The ''Mimbar" or pulpit is exquisitely carved 
 of cedar wood from Damascus, like that in the 
 Aksah Mosque at Jerusalem, and was presented 
 by Saladin in 1187, after the capture of Askalon. 
 
A TRIP TO HEBRON. 93 
 
 The artistic taste of the cultivated crusaders is 
 seen in this curious work. 
 
 A small platform called the "Merhala," near 
 the center of the building, is intended for the 
 public reading of the Koran to the devout wor- 
 shipers here. 
 
 Above this, the walls are whitewashed and the 
 name of God, and the names of Mohammed, 
 Ali, and other heroes of Islam, are painted in 
 black on medallions attached to the walls. 
 
 The capitals on pillars are, many of them, yel- 
 low, and the remains of fine mosaic with mother- 
 of-pearl inlet, are visible on portions of the build 
 ing. 
 
 No graven image is allowed in Moslem wor- 
 ship, — the music, the incense, the chanting, 
 which lift the thoughts heavenward in other 
 churches are wanting in this. 
 
 The chief interest centers around the ceno- 
 taphs of colored marble built above the supposed 
 graves of Patriarchs, Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, 
 who, with their wives, Sarah, Rebecca and Leah, 
 are buried beneath the floor in the dark, mys- 
 terious cave of Machpelah. 
 
 Each has a separate alcove, entered through 
 an iron-grated door, plated with silver and hung 
 with the pretty brass crescents from Turkey. 
 No woman's foot ever before crossed the thres- 
 
94 A TRIP TO HEBRON. 
 
 hold to this Holy of Holies. The first on the 
 right was dedicated to Abraham, "The Friend of 
 God." The cenotaph was eight feet long, quite 
 as high, and half as broad, and was covered with 
 green and white silk from the looms of Damas- 
 cus, embroidered in gold, with Arabic texts 
 wrought in black velvet. Two green banners 
 (sacred color to the Osmanlis), lettered in gold, 
 lean against the wall. 
 
 The floor is made soft and warm with fine Per- 
 sian rugs, and the unspeakable Turk sits cross- 
 legged before the low, wooden rest, inlaid with 
 mother-of-pearl, and studies his beloved Koran. 
 
 'This is the sepulcher of our Father Abraham 
 upon whom be peace." ''God is God" was in- 
 scribed above the door. Around the shrine were 
 hung curiously carved, antique silver lamps, al- 
 ternating with ostrich eggs, which to these su- 
 perstitious people as well as the Egyptians, rep- 
 resent the principle of Hfe, or resurrection. 
 
 Their strict adherence to ancient creeds, their 
 belief in the immortality of the soul, their sincere 
 religious enthusiasm, must command the respect 
 of all worshipers of the true God. 
 
 Across the open hall was the shrine of Sarah, 
 "My Princess," the fairest of women, whose 
 loveliness won the hearts of her people, whose 
 strength of character was shown in her absolute 
 
A TRIP TO HEBRON. 95 
 
 command over her husband, who yielded im- 
 plicit obedience to her wishes, even to the cruel 
 casting out of Hagar and her boy: "Though 
 the thing was grievous in Abraham's sight." 
 
 She is the first and finest type of the ''strong- 
 minded woman" on record; peace to her ashes, 
 which rest under a cenotaph similar to Abra- 
 ham's, with crimson satin, embroidered and 
 gold inscriptions in black velvet squares let in the 
 silk. 
 
 We pass on to Isaac; the gentle herdsman 
 and child of promise, and the beautiful Rebecca, 
 whose love and sweetness comforted him after 
 his mother's death. 
 
 Each in separate alcoves, beneath the silken 
 canopies, are honored members of this august 
 society. 
 
 Josephus wrote "the fashion of these monu- 
 ments are of most excellent marble, wrought 
 after the most elegant manner." 
 
 Holding high converse with the mighty dead, 
 we stand before the tomb of that grand old Pa- 
 triarch, Jacob, who talked face to face with God, 
 and in obedience to the Divine voice command- 
 ing him to fear not went down into Egypt. 
 
 After many prosperous years spent there, 
 when his strength failed, and his eyes grew dim 
 with age, his thoughts turned to the vine-clad 
 
96 A TRIP TO HEBRON. 
 
 hills or the old home, with the intense yearning 
 of true and tender hearts in foreign lands to sleep 
 among their kindred. 
 
 He commanded Joseph to carry him back and 
 bury him in the cave of Machpelah. He was em- 
 balmed after the manner of the Egyptians, and 
 was mourned for three score and ten days. Then 
 Joseph, with the elders of his house, the servants 
 of Pharaoh, the chariots and horsemen, with 
 pomp and ceremony befitting the occasion, made 
 a magnificent funeral pageant, not excelled in 
 ancient or modern times. The stillness of the 
 valley was broken by the advancing army, and 
 the heavy notes of mournful music. 
 
 Again the portals of the cave opened to re- 
 ceive the body of the founder of a race of kings 
 who owned Canaan a thousand years. 
 
 Once more the stone was rolled away for the 
 last sleeper, and the stately and devoted wife, 
 Leah, joined the silent assemblage. Her tomb 
 in the Mosque is decorated with rich, heavy 
 tapestry, like the others. As often as these be- 
 come tarnished by time, new embroideries are 
 sent by the Sultan from Constantinople. 
 
 A generous gift to the manes of the illustrious 
 dead, worthy Christian imitation. 
 
 Tradition says the graves of the three women 
 were originally in the outer court; but in later 
 
A TRIP TO HEBRON. 97 
 
 years, with increasing admiration, they have been 
 considered deserving of a place within the sacred 
 walls. 
 
 Neither the past nor present custodians of the 
 building have ever penetrated the shadowy realm 
 below. No visitor is allowed to enter the dark, 
 dismal vault; but, with almost idolatrous rever- 
 ence, a guard stood round the small circular 
 opening (less than two feet across), in the floor 
 of the Mosque, when a burning lamp was low- 
 ered and one by one we were graciously per- 
 mitted to bend down and strain our eyes through 
 the gloom to catch a glimpse of the live rock, 
 visible only from one side — Nature's sarcopha- 
 gus ! holding in eternal silence the ashes dear to 
 the hearts of the readers and believers in the Old 
 Testament. 
 
 There is no historical account of the building 
 of the great quadrangle surrounding the cave, 
 and no reason to suppose it was ereqted before 
 the Captivity. Many medieval writers mention 
 this cave, in which Adam and Eve were supposed 
 to live. The latest recorded visit was made by 
 Rabbi Benjamin, of Tudela, in 1 163, who entered 
 the Holy of Holies, through an outer chamber, 
 down a flight of steps no longer to be found. No 
 outside entrance remains. 
 
 He read inscriptions, 'This is the tomb of 
 
98 A TRIP TO HEBRON. 
 
 Abraham, our father; upon him be peace/' and 
 similar ones upon the tombs of Isaac and Jacob. 
 At that time a lamp was burning day and night, 
 and he saw great tubs or arks, described in the 
 Talmud, filled with the bones of the Israelites, 
 brought here according to the customs of their 
 fathers, where they would remain forever undis- 
 turbed. 
 
 Like the ancient Egyptians, they desired 
 tombs which should be ''eternal dwelling places." 
 No kingly sepulcher or costly mausoleum of 
 prince or potentate will endure as the immovable 
 foundations of this everlasting rock, whose 
 builder and maker was God ! 
 
 If any wandering Jew approaches these jeal- 
 ously-guarded precincts, he is permitted to slip 
 a paper prayer through a rent in the outer wall, 
 which, like the great beveled stones of ''the wail- 
 ing place," in Jerusalem, are worn smooth with 
 the reverent touch of lips and hands. 
 
 On the faces of these persecuted pilgrims is 
 stamped a pathetic expression, from patient 
 waiting for the coming of Christ to restore them 
 their own again. 
 
 The place assigned to Joseph in the Mosque, 
 is not as positively substantiated as the others. 
 
 He died in Egypt, was brought up and laid in 
 
A TRIP TO HEBRON. 99 
 
 consecrated ground, in Shechem, and there is 
 no record of his removal. 
 
 On the occasion of the visit of the Prince of 
 Wales, in 1862, he explored the passage leading 
 to the cenotaph of Joseph, and made drawings 
 of the same. 
 
 Further down the aisle two apocryphal shrines 
 are shown as Adam's and Eve's, but were not 
 sufficiently authentic to "weep over," on the 
 spot, where it is said lies the head of Esau, while 
 his body was buried in the little village of Siain, 
 in the same valley, which is greatly venerated. 
 Here is the stone, brought six hundred years ago 
 from Mecca, with an impression shown as the 
 foot-prints of Adam. 
 
 Though of great faith, these legends could not 
 be accepted unquestioned. 
 
 A solitary palm stands in stately beauty by the 
 door of the Mosque. Beneath its shade sat the 
 ubiquitous bHnd beggar of Syria, asking alms, 
 which were freely given. 
 
 So ignorant and lazy are these natives, it will 
 remain always a solemn mystery how they man- 
 age to keep soul and body together. 
 
 The unchanging habits of the Orientals are 
 shown in their adherence to ancient customs and 
 laws. Polygamy is part of their religion now, 
 
100 A TRIP TO HEBRON. 
 
 and the Bedouin chief who came from Chaldea, 
 nearly four thousand years ago, is the same chief, 
 ruling still the nomadic tribes of the desert. 
 
 "The ancestral burying place is the one fixed 
 element in the unstable Hfe of a nomadic race." 
 This Hebron furnished the Patriarch. 
 
 A half-hour's ride from the city brought us to 
 the old, old oak (Terebinth tree), of Mamre, 
 which measured thirty-three feet around, with 
 wide-spreading branches, and roots walled about 
 with stone, to protect it from the desecrating 
 touch of tile spoiler. The ground under it was 
 bright with the pale, purple crocus, bravely 
 blooming in the barren soil. 
 
 A branch, bearing acorns from this famous 
 tree, is framed under glass, in my library, an 
 ever-present memento of Mamre. 
 
 Here Abraham builded an altar to the Lord, 
 who appeared unto him as he sat in the doorway 
 of his tent, in the noonday heat. 
 
 The prophetic soul of the venerable Patriarch, 
 looking down successive ages, saw the fulfill- 
 ment of the Lord's promise, that through him 
 should all the nations of the earth be blessed. 
 
 The three angels came to them, and Sarah 
 made ready the cakes of meal upon the hearth, 
 and ministered to the Heavenly visitors. In fol- 
 lowing her precedent of loving hospitality, many 
 
A TRIP TO HEBRON. lOI 
 
 of her descendants have thereby entertained 
 "angels unawares." 
 
 Here was confirmation strong of the truth of 
 the Bible narrative of these localities. Any but 
 the most skeptical traveler must reach his high- 
 est mood, and find his heart deeply touched with 
 these sacred surroundings and associations, 
 where — 
 
 "The memory sees more than the eye." 
 
 Another day will tell of our return to Bethle- 
 hem, w^here we dined with the Greek Patriarch, 
 in the Church of the Nativity; camped near Mar 
 Saba, where banished monks will not allow 
 women to enter their convent; tasted the water, 
 bitter as death, of the Dead Sea; cooled our 
 burning heads in the rushing waters of the Jor- 
 dan; tented at Jericho, near the Fountain of 
 Elisha, and, after five days in the saddle, revisited 
 the Holy City. 
 
IV. 
 
 GYPSIES I HAVE SEEN. 
 
 When I was a child, tales of gypsies had a 
 peculiar charm for me, the fascination of the 
 unknown and fearful; something like the blood- 
 curdling delight of ghost and robber stories. 
 
 Those I heard were usually of an old, old 
 w^oman, in a red cloak, who had the gift of the 
 evil eye; that is, she could, by a certain glance, 
 cast such a spell that the person on whom it fell 
 would have nothing but bad fortune forever 
 afterward. She could tell fortunes by looking 
 at the palm of your hand, and loved nothing so 
 well as stealing little boys and girls. 
 
 Poetry and music, romance and fancy united 
 have pictured a many-colored halo round the 
 head of the Gypsy Queen, the wild Bohemian of 
 song. How it vanishes at the first glance at 
 reality! Never were truth and fiction further 
 apart than in the portraiture of this race. 
 
 The summer of 1881 we spent on the upper ^ 
 
 Bosphorus, where the opening toward the Black 
 
 Sea stretches away like a wide, shoreless eternity. 
 
 103 
 
104 GYPSIES I HAVE SEEN. 
 
 One soft, bright afternoon we walked beside the 
 blue w^aters to a broad green field in the plain of 
 Buyukdere, where, centuries ago, Godfrey of 
 Bouillon encamped on his way to Palestine. Of 
 the plane trees which sheltered the old crusader 
 and his host seven giants remain, called the 
 Seven Brothers. They are knotty and gnarled, 
 tremendous sycamores, and appear ancient, as 
 though they might have borne the weight of the 
 flood. 
 
 I seated myself on one of the twisted roots, up- 
 heaved through the soil, and looking toward the 
 road which runs to Constantinople, counted 
 thirteen tents. 
 
 In this country of soldiers a camp is the most 
 common sight, and I had not noticed it but for 
 the swarms of children about. They were 
 ragged, dirty little imps, in one garment, or half 
 a garment, bare-footed and bare-headed, up- 
 roarious in their laughter as they played, holding 
 hands in a ring much as our children do in "ring 
 around the rosy." They did not look at the 
 strangers till we came near, when they broke and 
 fled like startled quails, and sought shelter with- 
 in the tents. 
 
 What forlorn old tents they were! patched 
 with scraps of quilts that once were gay, pieces 
 of old sacks and bits of carpet. Mangy and wolf- 
 
GYPSIES I HAVE SEEN. I05 
 
 ish dogs (of the big "yaller dorg" species) looked 
 from the tent doors, and when the children disap- 
 peared, out came the mothers, wrinkled, weath- 
 er-beaten hags, looking old as the hills, who eyed 
 us with sharp, suspicious glances. 
 
 A few men lazily smoked in the shade of the 
 tent. 'What manner of men are these?" I 
 asked. "Soldiers, without arms or uniform." 
 
 'This is a gypsy camp," said the guide, with 
 professional brevity. And was that the Queen 
 of the band, tira-la-la-a-ing to a wheezy, rickety 
 guitar; that withered witch, with sore eyes and 
 skinny hands, her hair, in long, matted locks, 
 straggling down to her waist below a dingy, 
 purple hood; was that the note of the trouba- 
 dour strings? And that the gypsy chief, in filthy 
 rags, sprawling on the ground, smoking a cigar- 
 ette? Where were my visions and dreams? 
 
 Nothing of aught imagined was there, except 
 the traditional black kettle; not as it should be, 
 simmering over the fire, and sending up a fra- 
 grant and savory steam, inviting to the traveler, 
 but a greasy abomination upset, where a gaunt 
 and famished dog was licking the earth for the 
 little moisture its contents had left. 
 
 The gypsies of the Kingdom of Turkey num- 
 ber about two hundred thousand souls. 
 
 Nominally Moslems, they are outlawed by the 
 
lo6 GYPSIES I HAVE SEEN. 
 
 faithful, excluded by them from the mosques, 
 and denied a burial-place in their cemeteries. 
 But they have certain rites and heathen supersti- 
 tions, handed down from remote antiquity, with- 
 out written creeds or books. It is not likely that 
 many gypsies in the whole world can either read 
 or write. The gypsy has no wish to learn, or to 
 do anything but steal enough to keep soul and 
 body together; for if he accumulated property, it 
 would be a hindrance to his roving. These peo- 
 ple are identical in manners and habits wherever 
 seen; as has been well written, they are a curious 
 mixture of the human and the animal, having the 
 scent of the dog, the cunning of the monkey, 
 and the form and vices, but none of the virtues, 
 of mankind. 
 
 Many suppose they come from the lowest 
 castes of East India, as is shown by their un- 
 speakable filth and fondness for carrion, and were 
 driven out at the great invasion of Timour Bey. 
 Others maintain they are of Egyptian descent, 
 whence the name. They have the tricks and jug- 
 glery of the farthest East, are skilled in the mys- 
 tery of snake-charming, handling serpents with 
 perfect safety, and seem to have a sort of liking 
 for them, which they never kill or hurt. It is 
 said they have secret herbs gathered at a certain 
 time of the moon on the hills of the Bosphorus, 
 
GYPSIES I HAVE SEEN. 107 
 
 from which they distill a draught which is a 
 sure charm against snake-bite. 
 
 The ancients of the tribe mix and prepare it 
 with great solemnity, the secret is handed down 
 from father to son, and none of them are known 
 to suffer from the deadliest reptiles. They cer- 
 tainly have a Malay look, with that peculiar yel- 
 low hue familiar to us in the Chinaman, the 
 blackest eyes, small and piercing like the eyes of 
 mice; their hair is a wiry mane; their gait a 
 shuffle without any sort of grace. These power- 
 ful-looking vagabonds have no uniformity of 
 clothing in Turkey, except the red fez cap; any 
 sort of greasy, ragged, cast-off stuff is enough 
 for their ambition. A scrap of gay color on the 
 head or a fragment of variegated sash round the 
 waist, baggy pantaloons, and wooden sandals 
 suffice for the happiness of the Chenguin, be he 
 chief or follower of the gang. 
 
 When you hear a specially crazy hand-organ, 
 and the cry of a doleful and abused monkey in 
 the streets of Constantinople, you may be pretty 
 sure it belongs to a gypsy. Sometimes a divis- 
 ion of labor is secured by one stalwart lazybones 
 carrying the machine, while his partner-drone 
 moves his muscles a little by doing the grinding. 
 
 I have seen very many, but have never been 
 able to detect the scar above the jet-black eye- 
 
Io8 GYPSIES I HAVE SEEN. 
 
 brow, nor yet the strawberry-mark on the left 
 arm. 
 
 During the late war they were pressed into 
 military service, but went at the point of the 
 bayonet, some pretending sickness, some insan- 
 ity, and those who actually reached the seat of 
 operations proved such cowards that it is said the 
 officers were relieved when they deserted. In 
 many traits they are like the Apaches, the in- 
 curably wild Indians of the Rocky Mountains, 
 but they lack the fire and love of war of the red 
 race, which gains in contrast with those worth- 
 less nomads of the Orient. 
 
 I came to know them at a glance in the streets 
 of Stamboul. The women go in a slow, aimless 
 wandering about the city, as you see Pamba in 
 the picture. Their dress has no uniformity ex- 
 cept in dirt, and I have not seen one red cloak 
 among them. On their flat sprawling feet are 
 clumsy leather shoes, a long, reddish skirt, a yel- 
 low, ragged sa.cque tied round the waist with a 
 sash made of a strip of "Turkey-red" cotton, a 
 loose gray woolen hood with ends crossed under 
 the chin, and thrown back over the shoulders. 
 Over all, a long cotton cloak like an ulster, of no 
 particular color and no sort of fit. You know 
 them afar off by the basket — not the scar on their 
 arm — and gridiron and shovel carried on the 
 
GYPSIES I HAVE SEEN. 109 
 
 shoulder. Pamba has no guitar, no castanets, 
 no flying feet and tambourine, no memories of 
 marble halls and better days. Sometimes she 
 engages in a graceless dance under the chestnut 
 trees in the Turkish villages, where men smoke 
 and stare, and the hurdy-gurdy grinds its dreary 
 rounds; and when very young there is a dash 
 of beauty in the bright eyes and white teeth. 
 She is a woman at fourteen, at thirty wrinkled 
 and shapeless, at forty a withered hag. 
 
 The elders of the camp are old witches in ap- 
 pearance; stripped of the fairy myths surround- 
 ing them, they are hideous and repulsive to the 
 last degree. Those who have statistics regarding 
 gypsies say their life of exposure, meager diet, 
 and scant comforts tells on them, even in this 
 mild climate, with such effect that none, abso- 
 lutely none, lives to old age. 
 
 They make capital of their witch-like appear- 
 ance, and pretend to cast spells over the passer- 
 by, which will be broken only by laying a piece 
 of silver in the extended palm ; and the credulity 
 of some of the victims of this superstition is 
 amazing. I have seen some women who looked 
 old as the Pyramids, and ugly as the obscene 
 Harpies among whose ancient haunts they rove. 
 
 Treacherous, cowardly, impossible to influ- 
 ence, as was proved by Sultan Murad IV., who 
 
no GYPSIES I HAVE SEEN. 
 
 ordered them driven to the Balkans and forced 
 to live a regular life. But they broke through 
 the imperial decree, and scattered in every direc- 
 tion, regardless of the authority they have defied 
 from the beginning; no more to tt^m than the 
 wind which blows their tattered tents. If they 
 are despised and outcast from one end to the 
 other of the earth, it is the just desert of the low- 
 est of fallen human creatures, on whom all efforts 
 at uplifting are but as wine that is poured on the 
 ground. 
 
 I inquired about the baby-stealing, feeling as- 
 sured that a legend so widespread must have 
 some grains of truth in it, and was told that 
 gypsy women steal them to beg with, as they are 
 too careful of their own children to expose them 
 as they do those of strangers. They smear the 
 stolen ones with walnut-juice, as a disguise, and 
 along the streets of Constantinople the poor 
 babies lie on the stones, half-naked, moaning 
 and wailing in a weak way that is heart-breaking 
 to hear. The snow and the rain fall on their 
 ghastly faces; the hot sun burns them, freezing 
 winds from the sea chill them like frost, and the 
 pretended mother stretches out her hand, dyed 
 with henna to a reddish-brown tint, and takes the 
 piastres which the child's wretched wailing ex- 
 torts. 
 
GYPSIES I HAVE SEEN. m 
 
 A lady from Thrace told me of a peasant, a 
 gardener's wife, who went out one day to gather 
 lavender for the market. She left her little girl, 
 eight months old, playing with a box of bright 
 stones on the floor of the hut. Returning from 
 the garden with the sweet herbs, she found the 
 house empty; the poor playthings were scattered 
 in the center of the room, but the Httle Janina, 
 who was the light and life of her life, was miss- 
 ing. She knew instantly what it meant, and the 
 tiger-blood in every mother robbed of her child 
 was up. She could run and not be weary, she 
 could walk and not faint, she would find her 
 darling. Night was coming fast, no human habi- 
 tation or help of man was in sight, and only a 
 few miles away was the great Servian forest. 
 
 That awful forest, from the forgotten ages the 
 haunt of brigands and gypsies, where the tall 
 oaks make dusk at noonday and twilight is black 
 as midnight. In its depths every crime is hidden, 
 and outrage and murder are the sentinels on 
 guard at its entrance, keeping the world at bay. 
 Like a revelation the idea came that whoever 
 had carried off the child would make for the 
 forest. Once within its black shadows, good-by 
 to baby; hope never enters there. 
 
 Along the bare, stony road she ran with 
 bruised feet, past a clump of holly trees growing 
 
112 GYPSIES I HAVE SEEN. 
 
 in a little thicket, on, on, with the courage of 
 love and faith, when behind her she heard a 
 singular cry, like, yet unlike, her own Janina's 
 prattle. Her listening heart stood still, and 
 again it came from the holly bushes, — a choking 
 sound. It must be, it was her lost one. She 
 turned back, left the road and stumbled over a 
 familiar gypsy basket half full of crusts and 
 refuse vegetables. A minute more, and, guided 
 by the sound, she was within the center of the 
 leafy copse, where a piece of black tent-cloth 
 was fashioned into a rude shelter. 
 
 There was a woman seated on the ground, 
 holding Baby Janina across her lap and tickling 
 its feet, — the dimpled feet which she had kissed 
 a thousand times. That is the gypsy trick to 
 make the stolen child's voice tmnatural if it tries 
 to cry. The mother sprang upon her; the gypsy 
 saw she was beaten; silent and dogged she 
 handed up the baby, and the mother sped home 
 through the darkness, the little dove cooing in 
 her bosom. 
 
 There was no pursuit or attempt at punish- 
 ment, not even an inquiry about the child- 
 stealer. Every one knew it was only a gypsy, 
 and "that's a way they have." 
 
V. 
 
 HOUSEKEEPING IN TURKEY. 
 
 The people of Turkey comprise so many races 
 quite unlike each other that housekeeping is un- 
 equal and varied according to means and nation- 
 ality. But all is there — the splendor of the 
 Padisha, the squalor of the hamal whose hut has 
 only earth for rest and rafters open to the sky for 
 shelter. 
 
 The houses of the well-to-do are built on the 
 same general plan — spacious, rambling, with 
 much waste room. A middle hall divides the 
 haramlik, or apartments for women, from the 
 salamlik, or rooms for men. The former is the 
 larger and better arranged portion. 
 
 In some old buildings is still to be seen carved 
 woodwork of arabesque patterns on ceiling and 
 side walls, which has now passed out of fashion, 
 possibly because it affords secure harbors for 
 vermin. 
 
 The wooden floors are overlaid with rugs, and 
 the furnishing is scant and meager to Western 
 eyes. Multiplied windows are prettily hung with 
 
 lis 
 
114 HOUSEKEEPING IN TURKEY. 
 
 gauzy curtains that hide dreary iron lattices 
 through which eyes, outside or in, must not peer. 
 
 A wide, low divan, made gay with Broussa silk 
 or French chintz, runs round every room against 
 the wall; and as bedsteads are unknown, it is 
 spread with mattresses and quilts at night, mak- 
 ing a comfortable bed. All bedding is rolled 
 up and kept in presses through the day. Square 
 cushions are tossed about and piled away in 
 corners; and on a sofa the hanoum, or wife, — 
 few Turks have more than one, — sits in the place 
 of honor among draperies and soft cushions. 
 
 Small tables of cedar and pearl stand here and 
 there, holding perhaps an ash tray, a few cups or 
 a bunch of flowers; but there are no pretty trifles 
 to adorn the rooms — no vases, no pictures on the 
 walls. These lead to idolatry, and are forbidden 
 by the prophet. And though the Mohammedans 
 possess curios that would delight an American 
 heart, — china, tapestries, armor, etc., — they are 
 kept packed away in boxes and rarely exhibited. 
 I never understood the reason why. 
 
 There is no one place for eating, and dinner 
 may be served wherever caprice or convenience 
 orders it; sometimes overlooking the street or in 
 the walled garden. The party sit cross-legged 
 on cushions round one of the low tables, to 
 
HOUSEKEEPING IN TURKEY. II5 
 
 which dishes in courses are brought on copper 
 trays. 
 
 First, servants pour water over the ready 
 hands, hold basins to catch it, and napkins for 
 drying them and for use during the meal. 
 
 Thick soup begins the feast. The lady of 
 highest rank dips her spoon in it, and invites the 
 next below her to follow. The piece de resist- 
 ance is pilaf, a mixture of stewed rice and game. 
 Bits of meat, cut in the kitchen and boiled with 
 vegetables, come on in succession. 
 
 The stranger finds it impossible to reach the 
 deft and skillful neatness with which the Oriental 
 manages a repast without knife or fork. 
 
 Wine is never seen. Sweets come between the 
 courses and after dinner; in fact these, with 
 cigarettes, are two luxuries always in order, at 
 once food and recreation. 
 
 Nor is there any special place for making a 
 toilet. A maid brings a round hand-mirror, and 
 holds it while a second one arranges my lady's 
 hair, brushing it well and plaiting it in many 
 strands. If a grande toilette is contemplated, 
 she pencils brows and eyelids, and thickly lays 
 on white and pink "face painting" before the 
 silken robe is unfolded and Cinderella sHppers 
 adjusted to the small feet. 
 
Il6 HOUSEKEEPING IN TURKEY. 
 
 The harem is the center of the world to the 
 home-keeping Turk, who never emigrates nor 
 wishes to travel beyond hearing of the muezzin's 
 call to prayer. Eastern women do not care for 
 privacy, and all of one household gather there 
 with the children. In patriarchal fashion, several 
 generations abide under one roof. 
 
 Except in early youth the sexes do not min- 
 gle; and one man only enters the ''abode of 
 felicity." To please him is the study and pleasure 
 of the inmates of the harem; and if there is truth 
 in appearance, peace and content reign there 
 supreme. 
 
 When slippers before the door proclaim a visi- 
 tor within, even the master of the house may not 
 enter his wife's room. 
 
 It is the law or custom, rigid and binding as 
 any law, that men must work and women must 
 not. The slave girl seems to do little but em- 
 broider, and hold herself ready for the trifling 
 service of her mistress. Abundant space, sun- 
 shine and lolling ease are the requirements of 
 the harem. 
 
 The bath is a suite of three rooms. The first 
 one is made of marble or other stone, lighted 
 from above, and very warm with furnace heat. 
 Hot and cold water at pleasure are turned into 
 
HOUSEKEEPING IN TURKEY. H? 
 
 reservoirs, where rubbing and soaking are pro- 
 longed indefinitely. 
 
 The second apartment contains lounges and 
 sofas for rest in the fatigues of the bath. 
 
 In the third or outer chamber are soft couches 
 and downy wraps, where there is long repose; 
 where preserves and sherbet may be served, and 
 much time is spent. 
 
 Even the poorest houses have some sort of 
 bath-room, where the women of the household 
 gossip and smoke away their mornings, undis- 
 turbed by letter-writing or newspapers, secure 
 from the world's turmoils, as though grief and 
 care were far dwellers in remote regions beyond 
 the seas. 
 
 The house itself is of minor importance in the 
 land of the fig-tree, where nine months of the 
 year one may live in rose-gardens or sun-bright 
 kiosks made of lattices and trailing vines. And 
 as in all hot countries building is for the summer, 
 and winter is ignored; the houses are poorly 
 heated, and when fountains are rimmed with ice, 
 and racking winds blow, it is vain to attempt 
 to keep warm over a handful of coals or by hud- 
 dling in a fur blanket. 
 
 When cold days come, in rooms where there is 
 much luxury there is little comfort; and in 
 
Il8 HOUSEKEEPING IN TURKEY. 
 
 palaces with lofty ceilings and mosaic floors one 
 sighs and shivers, remembering warm old base- 
 burners and open grates glowing with anthracite. 
 A large mangal or brazier of burnished metal 
 — often an elegant ornament — is in general use 
 as a heater. Partly filled with wood ashes and 
 burning charcoal, it still is a scant contrivance in 
 a frosty day. 
 
 There is a story told of a diplomat who, after 
 presentation to the Sultan, while gracefully re- 
 tiring from the august presence, backed into a 
 brazier of red-hot coals, and losing* his balance 
 and self-possession together, sat down in it. 
 
 The upsetting of mangals is a cause of fre- 
 quent fires in Stamboul, where buildings are 
 mainly of wood, and cheaply constructed. Every- 
 one expects to be burnt out at least once in a 
 lifetime. 
 
 For supplying the table there is a monthly 
 allowance made to a stew^ard, who goes to mar- 
 ket, attends to details and usually is honest and 
 capable. 
 
 The kitchen is a roomy building detached from 
 the mansion, and is of stone, including the floors. 
 A range, heated by charcoal, has grates on the 
 top, where roasts are laid and boiling and stew- 
 ing go on. 
 
Entree du Palais de Gueuk-Sou. 
 
 Page ii8. 
 
HOUSEKEEPING IN TURKEY. II9 
 
 There are few utensils compared with ours, 
 but plenty of hand-work instead of patent ma- 
 chines; copper and brass platters and boilers are 
 shining bright, and cleanliness without order 
 prevails. 
 
 Nothing is wasted. If the cook is a female, 
 supplies are passed through a revolving door by 
 the purveyor, so that her face, usually old and 
 ugly, often jet black, may not be seen by mortal 
 man. 
 
 Do not attempt housekeeping unless you have 
 the gift of tongues. Your cook may come from 
 any country between the White Nile and the 
 Danube. Your maid may be Armenian, Bul- 
 garian, Maltese; your porter from Herzegovina; 
 and the various dealers of curious things, native 
 Turks or peddlers, from regions beyond the 
 Caucasus. How are you to treat with them ex- 
 cept in pantomime? 
 
 It is amazing to see the quickness with which 
 they catch, without a word spoken, your mean- 
 ing, especially when you are paying four times 
 the actual worth of the article offered for sale. 
 Poultry and vegetables are cheap, fruit abundant, 
 strawberries delicious — ah, those strawberries! 
 I taste them yet. But do not look for good 
 butter in Constantinople, nor sigh for Jersey 
 cream. They are not to be had. 
 
120 HOUSEKEEPING IN TURKEY. 
 
 Instead of these daily comforts, be satisfied 
 with grapes like those of Eshcol, long, yellow 
 melons equal to our best cantaloupes, and nut- 
 megs and a drink made of pomegranate-juice 
 cooled with snow from the mountains overlook- 
 ing the Marmora. 
 
 There seems none so poor but he may have a 
 servant. Apropos, a story is told by one of our 
 missionaries of a traveler to Stamboul among 
 the one hundred thousand daily crossing Galata 
 Bridge. It is the place where beggars most do 
 congregate, and the stranger dropped a gold 
 piece into the hand of a wretched mendicant, 
 instead of the small copper coin he intended for 
 alms. 
 
 The gentleman soon discovered his mistake, 
 and after business hours were ended — begging is 
 a genteel profession in the East — he inquired the 
 way, arid with the help of a native found the 
 dreary lodging of the wretched man in tatters. 
 
 A knock at the door brought a servant to 
 open it. After a few moments the polite 
 Oriental appeared, shorn of his rags, in loose, 
 flowing gown and slippers. The blunder was ex- 
 plained, the suave pauper accepted the copper 
 piece, returned the gold lira and, apparently sat- 
 isfied, courteously salaamed his visitor away. 
 
HOUSEKEEPING IN TURKEY. 121 
 
 To return to the harem. In the middle hall, 
 before the forbidden door, is a servant ready to 
 make coffee for the visitor. 
 
 Turkish coffee is considered the finest in the 
 world. The fragrant berry is roasted golden 
 brown, and pounded in a mortar till fine as 
 snuff, a powder without grain. A large table- 
 spoonful, and several lumps of sugar, with a pint 
 cup full of cold water are placed in a brass pot 
 with a long handle. Set on burning charcoal, it 
 is allowed to boil to the top three times, removed 
 and left to stand a few moments. Then it is 
 poured into tiny cups resting in filigree stands, 
 which at the palace are encrusted with diamonds. 
 
 Hotels are usually kept by Greeks. In almost 
 any of the large cities you may order an English, 
 French or Turkish dinner, and each will be ex- 
 cellent in its own way. 
 
 The old names that can never die come to base 
 uses here. Demosthenes silently blacks your 
 boots; Themistocles stands behind your chair at 
 table; and Leonidas holds the narrow pass be- 
 tween the kitchen and dining-room. Worse 
 than this, Euphrosyne, with her bang in little 
 tins, brings your brass pitcher of hot water, and 
 Aglaia and Thalia impose their cheap broideries 
 and counterfeit coins on the unsuspecting tour- 
 ist. 
 
122 HOUSEKEEPING IN TURKEY. 
 
 Among them sometimes appear pure Attic 
 features — faces like those sculptors must see in 
 their dreams. 
 
 The young girls go bareheaded, and their 
 knotted hair and fillet of shining cord give the 
 final suggestion of the models sought for the 
 ancient marbles. Such picturesque heads I have 
 never seen where there is no Greek blood. 
 
 i 
 
A Greek Girl. 
 
 Page 122. 
 
VL 
 
 AT BETHLEHEM. 
 
 The long, gray hill up which Joseph and Mary 
 toiled because there was no room for them in 
 the inn, is bare and burnt now, and the rocky 
 road is white with chalky dust. That first Christ- 
 mas eve when the Virgin Mother looked back 
 at the Holy City, she saw no Moslem flag float- 
 ing over Moriah, but the glory of the Temple, a 
 mass of glittering terraces, shining like silver, its 
 roof planted with spear heads of solid gold. 
 
 Leaving the Joppa Gate, she passed the tomb 
 of Rachel, the first love for whom Jacob served 
 seven years, and they seemed to him but a few 
 days for the love he had to her. Instead of the 
 curse of barrenness and desolation she could, 
 from the old House of Bread, look on smiling 
 vineyards and barley fields in the valley where 
 Ruth came gleaning in the early days of Israel. 
 The waters of a pretty brook go softly through 
 it yet — a scene fair to the eye, pleasant to mem- 
 ory. It is the field of the Shepherds, where 
 
 angel songs were heard but once on earth. She 
 
 123 
 
124 AT BETHLEHEM. 
 
 saw, as we did, the purple wall of Moab, and the 
 peak where the greatest of Prophets went up to 
 die, and the shining, steel-blue sea which forever 
 buries the dead cities of the plain. Probably the 
 wayfarers drank of the spring of the Magi, soon 
 to mirror a miraculous star — the spring for 
 which her ancestor David longed. ^'O that one 
 would give me to drink of the well that is at 
 Bethlehem by the gate." Perhaps in prophetic 
 vision she saw herself on this road fleeing by 
 night in obedience to the heavenly warning, and 
 bearing in her bosom the Light of the World, 
 the future Judge of the quick and the dead. 
 More than a thousand years the Kahn, most 
 noted in Judea, was on the rocky ridge that has 
 never changed its name. It was the first camp 
 after leaving Mt. Zion and first on the route to 
 Egypt. 
 
 No scoffer doubts that the Church of the Na- 
 tivity, a noble basilica built by the Empress He- 
 lena, and the most ancient pile of the Christian 
 world, is the same one now covering the sacred 
 grotto. Surrounded by three convents — Greek, 
 Latin and Armenian — it stands above a cave 
 hewn from the living rock; remove the roof and 
 marble front and there remains one of the in- 
 numerable caves of Palestine. These are tran- 
 sient dwelling places for travelers and refugees, 
 
AT BETHLEHEM. I25 
 
 often sheltering lunatics and lepers, and afford- 
 ing rendezvous for outlaws, as when David fled 
 from the wrath of ^aul. 
 
 Follow your guide through filthy, narrow 
 streets swarming with beggars; by massive walls, 
 seemingly old as the world; through dark aisles 
 and long galleries, taper in hand. At last enter 
 a cavern, hung with velvet and embroideries and 
 lighted by everburning lanterns of silver and 
 gold, the gifts of Emperors and Kings. Pause 
 before an altar loaded with precious offerings. 
 Beside it is a granite slab covering a bench left 
 in the first excavation and hollowed like a 
 trough — the familiar manger of Syria, often used 
 as a baby's bed, softened only with a blanket of 
 sheepskins or shawls. 
 
 This is defended by a marble slab renewed 
 several times, being kissed away by reverent pil- 
 grims constantly coming and going — men and 
 women who for one moment still their restless 
 hearts to quiet beating, and in the calm starlight 
 of Bethlehem forget the fever and fret we call 
 living. 
 
 A few feet this way or that make no difference, 
 and somewhere very near us, the Wise Men — 
 never so wisely as then — knelt in adoration. 
 The shadowy silence, the subdued lights, the 
 smell of incense, start deep and singular feeling, 
 
126 AT BETHLEHEM. 
 
 bringing a sense of unreality. We were as they 
 who dream while standing beside the silver star 
 that marks the place where the Savior lay. 
 Whether in the body or out of the body, I cannot 
 tell. 
 
 It would hardly have been a surprise had 
 cherub faces illumined the gloom and the rust- 
 ling of wings mingled with murmurs of wor- 
 shipers gliding to and fro like mystic spirits. 
 
 So long as the earth remains the hills of Judea 
 cannot be removed, and after two thousand 
 years Bethlehem is much the same as when the 
 Messiah came and the centuries began. 
 
 Around this center illustrious warriors have 
 fought — Saul and Gideon, Tancred and Saladin, 
 kings of Persia, Egypt, Rome. Every step has 
 been trodden by chiefs, prophets, heroes, and 
 rung with the clash of steel and glistened with 
 flaming banners. None who went before or came 
 after was like the Son of Mary, long foretold and 
 then, in some vague, indefinite way, expected by 
 every race and in every nation. 
 
 While the Roman world was all at peace, and 
 shepherds kept watch over their flocks by night, 
 Heaven bent low and the Great Love came to 
 His own. Not in anguish but in rapture did 
 Holy Mary bring us the promised Redemption. 
 She saw the mystical radiance, an out-glancing 
 
AT BETHLEHEM. 127 
 
 of the All-Seeing Eye, the light beyond every 
 light; and the voice which made the shepherds 
 sore afraid made her soul leap for joy. The 
 chanting of the multitude of the heavenly host 
 did not startle her. Eager watchers who live in 
 the air and neither slumber nor sleep ministered 
 to her, and in the stable, warm with fragrant hay 
 and breath of kine, she laid the sweet Baby 
 down. No seraph half so fair. He was from the 
 beginning the One altogether lovely. Beautiful 
 in the arms of His mother, beautiful in the 
 Temple, beautiful on the cross, and beautiful in 
 the sepulcher. 
 
The Little Princes. 
 
VII. 
 IN THE TOWER OF MANY STORIES. 
 
 The Little Princes. 
 
 London Tower is the name given to an im- 
 mense mass of buildings on the Thames, east of 
 the city, and made strong enough to last ages 
 on ages. Ceilings, walls, floors are of stone and 
 its mighty foundations, said to have been laid 
 by Julius Caesar, look as though they would 
 stand as long as the world endures. 
 
 Any attempted description would be disap- 
 pointing; the record of captives held there in 
 the last eight hundred years would fill many 
 volumes. Under the rule of despots, high- 
 minded women, patriots, Jews, heroes, exiled 
 nobles, Christians condemned for heresy, have 
 there languished in rooms foul and damp as 
 neglected cellars. It has underground dungeons 
 and gloomy cells scratched with names of poor 
 prisoners on walls that have heard, when noth- 
 ing else could hear, their groans and sighs. 
 There are torture rooms with thumbscrews and 
 the rack, axes which have been wet with brave 
 
 129 
 
130 THE TOWER OF MANY STORIES. 
 
 men's blood, and the block of wood where fair 
 young heads have lain to be chopped off be- 
 cause they were in the way of some other head 
 that wore a crown. The keepers show horrible 
 tools made to grind and twist men's bones, to 
 burn their eyes out and tear their ears to pieces. 
 Under the floor of the Chapel moulder the bodies 
 of the murdered, and we can almost believe it 
 true that strange voices are yet heard from some- 
 thing out of sight and a long way off, whisper- 
 ing in the language of the dead. 
 
 There was no breath to stir the old shadows, 
 no voice nor hearing, o-nly a stillness, solemn 
 past telling, as we trod the pavement of the great 
 historic prison. 
 
 In this scene of blackest crimes nothing re- 
 membered is half so sorrowful as the murder of 
 the two Princes who were sent to the Tower by 
 their uncle, Richard III., King of England. You 
 have heard it, for it is an old tale and often told. 
 He is usually called the Hunchback; some say 
 he was not deformed, except in having a very 
 short neck and one shoulder higher than the 
 other. He was lame, but this defect was soon 
 forgotten in the beauty of his face. He had 
 pale olive skin, delicate features, smooth fore- 
 head, and proud lips quick to express the feel- 
 ing which S'hone in his deep black eyes. His 
 
THE LITTLE PRINCES. 131 
 
 will was law, and he sprang on his enemies like 
 the tiger on its prey if they were between him 
 and his aims. 
 
 In the first year of his reign he cleared away 
 all who were suspected of plots, till no heirs to 
 the throne were left except his two nephews, sons 
 of Edward IV. The wicked heart of the Hunch- 
 back was moved to one more crime; then, he 
 believed, the crown of England would be se- 
 cured. They were graceful boys of eight and 
 twelve years, with clear bright eyes, rosy cheeks, 
 long flowing hair like threads of gold, and the 
 courteous manner early taught to those who 
 expect to rule a great nation. 
 
 Edward, Prince of Wales, was stolen while on 
 a journey; he was the elder; and Richard, Duke 
 of York, the second son of the late King, was 
 demanded of his mother, the widowed Queen of 
 Edward IV. She was a high-born lady, famous 
 for beauty when chosen from among the many 
 who longed to sit on the throne. She was with- 
 out power to resist, and how she begged the 
 brutal Richard to be allowed to keep her young- 
 est darling let other mothers tell. 
 
 The little fellows were lodged in the Garden 
 Tower, so called from its opening into pleasure- 
 grounds with a terraced walk, which in sunny 
 days gave to vieAv the river and bridge. It was 
 
132 THE TOWER OF MANY STORIES. 
 
 the cheerfulest room in the doleful pile, and was 
 lighted on both sides, so the captives could 
 watch what stir there was in the inner wards, and 
 the shipping along the wharf and on the Thames. 
 It had a separate entrance to the promenade, 
 where in fine weather they had leave to run and 
 play, chasing each other into forgetfulness, if 
 they knew, that they were doomed never to 
 leave their prison-house alive. 
 
 But Richard could not feel at ease while his 
 nephews lived. So one day Sir James Tyrrel, 
 Master of Horse, "a, trusty knight," brought an 
 order under the royal seal that Brackenbury, the 
 Lieutenant of the Tower, should for one night 
 give up the keys and absent himself from his 
 ofifice. Brackenbury had already refused to make 
 away with the Princes. The tale runs that Tyrrel 
 was much agitated in mind while riding out with 
 two men — professional murderers — by name 
 John Dighton and Miles Forrest. They, thought 
 their master, are not weak like Brackenbury, and 
 will not mind getting these brats out of the way 
 any more than wringing the necks of a couple of 
 house sparrows; they will never blench nor quiver 
 even at sight of the blood of the Lord's anointed. 
 
 The keeper of the keys feared and hated the 
 King, but dared not disobey him. He gave up 
 his place and trust for the time ordered. 
 
THE LITTLE PRINCES. 133 
 
 The butchers rode across the country, pleasant 
 in the rich fulness of summer, with its avenues of 
 trees, scents of flowers and songs of birds under 
 the free blue sky. England is the land of stately 
 homes and many dear delights; not the least of 
 them is liberty. When night fell after the long 
 twilight, they crept around the winding stairs 
 and through black corridors Hghted only by the 
 lanterns they carried. The floors gave back no 
 sound while the keys harshly grated in the rusty 
 locks. It was a hot night in August, 1483. The 
 moon shone through the barred windows, mak- 
 ing a checkered light on the floor, and when the 
 death men entered the chamber they paused 
 awhile before the living picture there, the fairest 
 under all the wide curtains of darkness. 
 
 Youth seems younger and loveliness lovelier 
 in the helpless hours of sleep. The Princes lay in 
 the sweet slumber of healthful childhood, sinless 
 and confiding, nestled close in each other's arms. 
 To kill them was like sending spirits ready for 
 Heaven home too soom Some pretty belong- 
 ings, toys and playthings given by their mother, 
 were scattered about, and a book of prayers, 
 open on a table at the bed's head, almost changed 
 the mind of the guilty wretches. 
 
 But they did not linger; the sleepers made 
 swift passage to the dreamless sleep which has 
 
134 THE TOWER OF MANY STORIES. 
 
 no waking, smothered with the pillows of their 
 own bed. If there was moan or outcry the 
 Tower walls were thick, and in the midnight 
 hush only the listening angels on airy wings 
 might hear. 
 
 Singers have sung the woful story, and artists 
 have painted the piteous scene. The great 
 poet's touch brings it before our eyes. The 
 hardened villains melted into tenderness and 
 mild compassion when they reported to their 
 master: 
 
 " 'O thus/ quoth Dighton, 'lay the gentle babes.' 
 'Thus, thus,' quoth Forrest, 'girdling one another 
 Within their alabaster, innocent arms; 
 Their lips were four red roses on a stalk, 
 Which in their summer beauty, kissed each other.' " 
 
 By a private stairway the trusty Tyrrel slipped 
 in from the gate, where he waited imp3.tiently, 
 felt their pulses to be certain there was no life 
 left, and sought the Tower priest to make him 
 help in- hiding the devilish deed. They carried 
 the warm bodies down. Oh, what a sight it 
 was! the soft limbs not yet stiffened for the 
 grave, the delicate hands dragging the steps. 
 Without coffin, shroud, or winding-sheet, with 
 neither hymn nor prayer, they were thrown into 
 a hole dug by the wall. Rapidly the grave was 
 filled with loose soil and stones from scattered 
 
THE LITTLE PRINCES. 135 
 
 building-material left lying in heaps some 
 months before; then the pit was smoothed till 
 there was no sign of disturbance or violence, 
 silence settled over all, and the tragedy seemed 
 ended forever. 
 
 "Trusty" Tyrrel mounted his horse and rode 
 in the dewy daybreak along green lanes and 
 blossoming hedges to the palace. He was cruel 
 as a blood-hound, yet tears ran down his face like 
 rain when he described to the satisfied monarch 
 how the "gentle babes," his brother's sons, would 
 trouble the kingdom no more. 
 
 Richard had been crowned with great pomp, 
 feasting, and shouting. He sat on a marble seat 
 in Westminster Hall, with a nobleman on each 
 side, and told the crowd assembled there he 
 meant to be just and maintain the laws and re- 
 spect the rights of his people. But this was mere 
 talk. The reign begun in murder continued the 
 same way. His spies learned that titled sub- 
 jects drank healths in private to the Princes in 
 the Tower, and he thought best to announce the 
 truth, though he had intended to keep their fate 
 a secret. Besides, Uncle Richard's sleep was 
 broken by bad dreams come of the hideous sin. 
 The crown of his nephew did not rest easy on his 
 head, bloody fingers pulled at it; the lights 
 burned blue at midnight; strange calls, as from 
 
136 THE TOWER OF MANY STORIES. 
 
 desolate shores, answered each other across his 
 bed; he heard muffled groans, and ghosts that 
 would not down sat heavy on his soul. Eyes 
 starting from their sockets glared at him; vis- 
 ions of baby throats purple with strangling and 
 pale faces bedabbled with blood haunted the pil- 
 low of the last Plantagenet. 
 
 He woke in a cold sweat of terror from dreams 
 of a tomb which opened of itself; where the 
 earth cracked with a hollow noise and showed a 
 coffin wide and short, and hair living and golden 
 streaming out under the lid. 
 
 Were the boys indeed buried? And why 
 should their white souls ride the winds on crim- 
 son clouds in the dead hours of the night? 
 
 To banish the specters and quiet the shrieks 
 in his ears he commanded the Tower chaplain to 
 unearth the corpses and have them better placed, 
 under the marble floor of some shrine or safe in 
 a corner of the court-yard of the Tower. It was 
 done. None ever knew when or with what holy 
 rite they were buried the second time, because 
 the priest soon afterward died, and with him 
 went the knowledge of their resting-place. 
 
 Richard did not long enjoy his throne, but in 
 his brief reign noble ladies and gallant gentle- 
 men were imprisoned in grim strongholds, and 
 marched from dungeons to death on the heads- 
 
THE LITTLE PRINCES. 137 
 
 man's block. Sometimes he would have drums 
 beat and trumpets sound, so that the last words 
 of the dying could not be heard by the assembled 
 crowds, for he feared an uprising of his subjects. 
 Only two years afterward he dashed into the 
 thickest of the fight at Bosworth, and there lost 
 his kingdom and his life. Under a hawthorn- 
 bush Lord Stanley found the crown of England, 
 which the tyrant had worn to the battle-field. It 
 was badly bruised and trampled on, the jewels 
 dim with dust and clouded with blood. Stanley 
 placed it just as it was on the head of Henry, 
 Earl of Richmond, and the soldiers of the royal 
 arms shouted with joy, "Long live King Henry 
 
 vn." 
 
 Later in the day the body of the Hunchback 
 was pulled out of the mire, stripped naked, tied 
 across a horse's back like a sack of worthless clay 
 (which indeed it was), and taken to a near 
 church-yard for burial. Nobody cared for the 
 monster, nor minded how his blood ran down 
 in the dust of the road on its way to the grave 
 which had no mourners. 
 
 The new King marched in the splendor of 
 banners and with triumphal music to the 
 Tower, at that time used as a palace. He was 
 attended by a princely escort, gentlemen on 
 horseback wearing jeweled armor, and long 
 
 10 
 
138 THE TOWER OF MANY STORIES. 
 
 trains of gilded coaches filled with ladies in bril- 
 liant robes, making altogether a brave show. 
 Chambers tapestried in silk were set apart for 
 the court, beds were canopied with velvet, soft 
 carpets and rich hangings — gold, crimson, violet 
 — covered the rough stones, and there was 
 high feasting and much merry-making. When 
 the ceremonies were over, Henry thought of the 
 murdered innocents, and made inquiry about 
 them. Forrest and the priest were dead, and the 
 other two accomplices — to whom was offered 
 pardon on confession — knew nothing of the 
 second burial. It was supposed the chaplain 
 would, if possible, lay the Princes in consecrated 
 ground. St. Peter's Chapel was rummaged, 
 many coffins were opened and stared into, 
 and the near church-yard was upturned and 
 searched for the precious relics, but none was 
 discovered. Court flatterers pretended to be- 
 lieve the children had been sent out of the coun- 
 try, and were still alive somewhere in the prov- 
 inces. 
 
 Kings came and went. The Tower guns 
 thundered when a young Sovereign was crowned 
 but they never pointed to the terrible mystery. 
 Every newly made King searched for the little 
 Princes and roused a passing interest that quick- 
 ly waned, and the shadowy history faded into a 
 
THE LITTLE PRINCES. 139 
 
 sad tradition with hardly a color of reality. It 
 would never be known, they said, till the day 
 when the earth and the sea, and all that in them 
 is, shall give up their dead. But the earth and 
 the sea are always giving up their secrets. 
 
 The ancient fortress grew grayer and drearier 
 than ever, and portions of it began to crumble 
 and rot. Then the murder came to light, proved 
 by best evidence — the remains of the Princes 
 themselves. Some workmen making a new 
 stairway to the royal chapel found under the 
 steps, hidden close to the wall and covered with 
 earth, two skeletons answering exactly to the 
 missing youths long sought. 
 
 Intense feeling was excited; news of the find- 
 ing was hurried to Charles Second, then King of 
 England. He stopped chasing butterflies with 
 the gay ladies of his court, and under the kind 
 impulse that never quite forsook the trifler, he 
 arranged for their removal and fitting interment. 
 
 There was not much left of the beloved dead 
 to be gathered together. The flesh was gone to 
 dust, and mixed with common earth were shreds 
 of golden hair, stained and soiled by long burial. 
 Tenderly they were borne to Westminster Abbey 
 and laid away not far from the ashes of the kins- 
 man who sought their death. 
 
I40 THE TOWER OF MANY STORIES. 
 
 Sir Walter Raleigh. 
 
 The most illustrious name connected with 
 London Tower-^-high over king, priest, or 
 prince — is the name of Raleigh. There at four 
 different times he was sent, not so much prisoner 
 of England as of Spain. He never lay in the 
 lonesome cell in the crypt called his. His long- 
 est term was in the grim fortress Bloody Tower, 
 where his undaunted spirit taught the world 
 
 "Stone walls do not a prison make, 
 Nor iron bars a cage." 
 
 He was allowed the freedom of the garden, 
 with a little lodge for a study — a hen-house of 
 lath and plaster, where he experimented with 
 drugs and chemicals, studied medicine and ship- 
 building, kept his crucibles and apparatus, and 
 the near terrace he paced up and down through 
 weary years is to this day called Raleigh's walk. 
 
 It was in the reign of King James the First — 
 the cruel and cowardly — that Raleigh was 
 doomed, and never in his peerless prime was 
 he greater than in the fourteen years that sen- 
 tence of death hung over his head. His prison 
 was a court to which men crowded with delight. 
 Queen Anne sent gracious messages to him, and 
 
SIR WALTER RALEIGH. 14I 
 
 Prince Henry rode down from Whitehall to hear 
 the old sailor tell of green aisles with waving 
 palms like beckoning hands, birds of wonderful 
 plumage, hissing serpents in tropic jungles, bar- 
 barian cities built of precious stones, and of 
 rivers running over sands of gold, all waiting 
 for the English conqueror to come and make 
 them his own. 
 
 After a morning of high converse the Prince 
 cried out, "No man but my father would keep 
 such a bird in such a cage," and when the young 
 listener fell ill the Queen would have him take 
 nothing but Raleigh's cordial, which, she said, 
 had saved her life. 
 
 His best biographer writes: "Raleigh was a 
 sight to see; not only for his fame and name, 
 but for his picturesque and dazzling figure. 
 Fifty-one years old, tall, tawny, splendid, with 
 the bronze of tropical suns on his leonine cheek, 
 a bushy beard, a round mustache, and a ripple 
 of curling hair which his man Peter took an hour 
 to dress. Appareled as became such a figure, 
 in scarf and band of richest color and costliest 
 stuff, in cap and plume worth a ransom, in jacket 
 powdered with gems, his whole attire from cap 
 to shoe-strings blazing with rubies, emeralds, 
 and pearls, he was allowed to be one of the hand- 
 somest men alive." 
 
142 THE TOWER OF MANY STORIES. 
 
 In the eleventh year of his bondage he finished 
 the first part of the History of the World. He 
 wrote what men will not let die, invented the 
 modern vv^ar-ship, and from the turrets of Bloody 
 Tower looked across the vast blue plain of ocean 
 and directed operations in Virginia and Guiana. 
 He was a guiding light to his beloved England; 
 proud and brilliant heroes deferred to him, 
 sought his advice; charming women were 
 charmed by the most courtly of courtiers, and all 
 felt him to be a man whom the government 
 could not afford to spare. He knew more than 
 any other person living of the endless riches 
 offered by the New World to the Old, and his 
 services were at the King's command. While 
 prisoner to the crown he sailed with five ships 
 under royal orders for the region of the Orinoco, 
 the land of promise unfulfilled. The golden city 
 lighted by jewels was a vanishing illusion end- 
 ing in bitter disappointment. 
 
 Years before, in 1609, he had written to 
 Shakespeare, whom he called, *'My Dearest 
 Will:" 
 
 "Great were our hopes, both of glory and of 
 gold, in the kingdom of Powhatan. But it 
 grieves me much to say that all hath resulted in 
 infelicity, misfortune, and an unhappy end . . . 
 
SIR WALTER RALEIGH. HS 
 
 As I was blameworthy for thy risk, I send by 
 the messenger your £50, which you shall not 
 lose by my overhopeful vision. For its usance 
 I send a package of a new herb from the Chesa- 
 peake, called by the natives, tobacco. Make it 
 not into tea, as did one of my kinsmen, but 
 kindle and smoke it in the little tube the mes- 
 senger will bestow ... it is a balm for all sor- 
 rows and griefs, and as a dream of Paradise . . . 
 Thou knowest that from my youth up I have 
 adventured for the welfare and glory of our 
 Queen, Elizabeth. On sea and on land and in 
 many climes have I fought the accursed Span- 
 iard, and am honored by our sovereign and 
 among men . . . but all this would I give, and 
 more, for a tithe of the honor which in the com- 
 ing time shall assuredly be thine. Thy kingdom 
 is of the imagination, and hath no limit or end." 
 
 The dreams of the Admiral far outran any 
 possibility, and the mines of Guiana proved a 
 cheat equal to the yellow clay of the Roanoke. 
 Peril of life, fortune, and the varied resources of 
 genius and valor were not enough to insure suc- 
 cess, and a failure in the paradise of the world 
 probably hastened the sentence for which Philip 
 III. of Spain clamored. 
 
 The charges of treason against Raleigh were 
 
144 THE TOWER OF MANY STORIES. 
 
 pure invention; but on his return from South 
 America he was arrested, committed to the 
 Tower, and the warrant for execution was signed 
 without a new trial, while men from the streets 
 and ships came crowding to the wharf, whence 
 they could see him walking on the wall. He 
 was advised to kill himself to escape the shame- 
 ful sentence of James I., but he solemnly spoke 
 of self-murder, and declared he would die in the 
 light of day and before the face of his country- 
 men. In the field of battle, on land and on sea, 
 he had looked at death too often to tremble 
 now. 
 
 His farewell letter to his wife is one of the 
 sweetest. I give it entire: 
 
 "You shall now receive, dear wife, my last 
 words in these lines. My love I send you, that 
 you may keep it when I am dead; and my coun- 
 sel, that you may remember it when I am no 
 more. I would not by my will present you with 
 sorrows, dear Bess; let them go to the grave 
 and be buried with me in the dust. And seeing 
 that it is not the will of God that I shall ever 
 see you more in this Hfe, bear it patiently and 
 with a heart like thyself. 
 
 "Firstly, I send you all the thanks my heart 
 can conceive, or words can express, for your 
 
SIR WALTER RALEIGH. 145 
 
 many troubles and cares taken for me; which 
 though they have not taken effect as you wished, 
 yet the debt is nathless, and pay it I never shall 
 in this world. 
 
 ''Secondly, I beseech you by the love you bear 
 me living, do not hide yourself in grief many 
 days, but seek to help the miserable fortunes of 
 our poor child. Thy mourning cannot avail 
 me; I am but dust. . . Remember your poor 
 child for his father's sake, who chose and loved 
 you in his happiest time. God is my witness 
 it is for you and yours I desired life; but it is 
 true I disdain myself for begging of it. For 
 know, dear wife, that your son is the son of a 
 true man, and one who in his own respect de- 
 spiseth death, and all his misshapen grisly forms. 
 I cannot write much. God knows how hardly 
 I steal the time when all sleep; and it is time to 
 separate my thoughts from the world. Beg my 
 dead body, which living is denied thee, and either 
 lay it at Sherbourne or in Exeter, by my father 
 and mother. I can write no more. Time and 
 Death call me away. 
 
 'The everlasting God, Infinite, Powerful, In- 
 scrutable; the Almighty God, which is Goodness 
 itself, Mercy itself; the true Hght and Hfe — keep 
 thee and thine, have mercy on me, and teach me 
 to forgive my persecut9rs and false witnesses, 
 
146 THE TOWER OF MANY STORIES. 
 
 and send us to meet again in His Glorious King- 
 dom. My own true wife, farewell. Bless my 
 poor boy. Pray for me, and let the good God 
 fold you both in His arms. Written with the 
 dying hand of sometime thy husband, but now, 
 alas! overthrown. 
 
 ''Yours that was, but not now my own, 
 
 *'W. Raleigh." 
 
 In his final imprisonment Lady Raleigh was 
 not allowed a share. When she caught his 
 youthful fancy it was as Elizabeth Throckmor- 
 ton, maid of honor to Queen Elizabeth. 
 
 ''Sweet Bess" was a favorite there among^ 
 ladies of gentle blood. The flatterers of the 
 dazzling court fluttered round the lovely young 
 girl, conspicuous for beauty and grace; slender, 
 fair, golden-haired. Her sighs were only for the 
 sea-captain who expected to crown her with 
 glory won by his sword, and riches, the spoil 
 to be fought for in many lands. She was his 
 loyal wife to the end, always pleading for pardon, 
 defiant before King and court, where she ap- 
 peared daily in her husband's cause, "holding 
 little Wat by the hand." When her petition was 
 refused, she was not afraid to call down curses 
 on the head of the tyrant, who heeded not her 
 wrath or her grief. 
 
SIR WALTER RALEIGH. 147 
 
 The water-way from the Thames is a dark 
 passage under whose arch a pale procession of 
 ghosts of the murdered may easily be fancied as 
 coming up out of the past. Beneath it went 
 Raleigh from prison to hear his sentence in 
 Westminster Hall; from the King's Bench he 
 was sent to Westminster Abbey. Crowds 
 thronged to watch him pass, and from the car- 
 riage window he noticed his old friend Burton, 
 and invited him to Palace Yard next day to see 
 him die. 
 
 The warrant came on a dark October morn- 
 ing, 1618. Raleigh was in bed, but on hearing 
 the Lieutenant's voice he sprang lightly to his 
 feet, threw on hose and doublet, and left his 
 room. At the door he met Peter, his barber, 
 coming in. "Sir," said Peter, ''we have not 
 curled your head this morning." His master 
 answered with a smile, "Let them comb it that 
 shall have it." The faithful servant followed him 
 to the gate insisting on the service. "Peter," he' 
 asked, "canst thou give me any plaster to set 
 on a man's head when it is off?" 
 
 John Eliot wrote: "There is no parallel to the 
 fortitude of Raleigh. Nothing petty disturbed 
 his calm soul in ending a career of constant toil 
 for the greatness and honor of his country. The 
 hero who created a New England for Old Eng- 
 
148 THE TOWER OF MANY STORIES. 
 
 land was fearless of death, the most resolute and 
 confident of men, yet with reverence and con- 
 science." 
 
 The executioner was deeply moved by the 
 matchless spirit of the martyr. He knelt and 
 prayed forgiveness — the usual formula at the 
 block or scaffold. Raleigh placed both hands on 
 the man's shoulders and said, "1 forgive you with 
 all my heart. Now show me the axe." He care- 
 fully touched the edge of the blade to feel its 
 keenness, and kissed it. ''This gives me no fear. 
 It is a sharp and fair medicine to cure all my ills." 
 Being asked which way he would lie on the 
 block, he answered, 'Tt is no matter which way 
 the head lies, so that the heart be right." Pres- 
 ently he added, "When I stretch forth my hands, 
 despatch me." There were omissions in his last 
 speech, but we may be sure they were noble ut- 
 terances. He prayed in an unbroken voice, and 
 begged his friends to stand near him on the scaf- 
 fold so they might better hear his dying words. 
 Which being done, he concluded, "And now I 
 entreat you all to join with me in prayer that the 
 great God of Heaven, whom I have grievously 
 offended — being a man full of vanity, and having 
 lived a sinful life in all sinful callings, having 
 been a soldier, a captain, and a sea-captain, and 
 a courtier, which are all places of wickedness and 
 
SIR WALTER RALEIGH. ' 149 
 
 vice — that God, I say, would forgive me and cast 
 away my sins from me, and that He would re- 
 ceive me into everlasting life. So I take my 
 leave of you making my peace with God. 
 
 ''Give me heartily of your prayers," he re- 
 peated, turning right and left. The headsman 
 cast down his own cloak that the victim might 
 kneel on it after laying off his velvet robe. An 
 act that reminds us of the happy chance for like 
 courtesy that made Raleigh's fortune when he 
 was a boyish adventurer in the train of. Sussex; a 
 beautiful youth watching the state barge of 
 Queen Elizabeth. 
 
 The supreme moment came; the great cap- 
 tain, never greater than in death, stretched out 
 his palsied hands. The deathman hesitated. 
 "What dost thou fear, man? Strike, strike." 
 One blow — a true one — and the murder was 
 done. There were those standing near who saw 
 his face as it had been the face of an angel. Cour- 
 tier, historian, poet, seaman, soldier, his was the 
 noblest head that ever rolled into English dust. 
 
 The wasted body was laid under the altar of 
 St. Margaret's, the church of the House of Com- 
 mons, across the way from Westminster, with 
 only a small tablet to mark his resting-place. 
 
 Sweet Bess, who shared his glory and his 
 prison-house, and with little Wat had v/alked the 
 
ISO THE TOWER OF MANY STORIES. 
 
 terrace with him, does not He beside him. I do 
 not know where that fond and faithful heart went 
 to dust, but I do believe that in the final day, 
 for which all other days are made, true love will 
 find its own, and they will be reunited for ever- 
 more. 
 
 I saw no monument to Raleigh in Westmin- 
 ster Abbey. The fame of the colonizer of Vir- 
 ginia belongs to us of the New World, and in 
 1880 a memorial window was placed there at the 
 expense of Americans in London. Canon Far- 
 rar's address at the unveiling was a brilliant re- 
 view of Raleigh's life and varied fortunes in the 
 most glorious portion of the Elizabethan era. It 
 concluded with an earnest appeal to the England 
 of Queen Victoria and the America of Lincoln 
 and of Garfield to stand shoulder to shoulder 
 under the banner of the cross. 
 
 Lady Arabella Stuart. 
 
 One of the most familiar names to the student 
 of English history is that of Lady Arabella 
 Stuart, who was long a constant source of alarm 
 to James L, because she was born near the 
 throne. She never urged her claim nor appeared 
 to covet the crown, though daughter of Charles, 
 Earl of Lennox, and cousin to the King. A 
 
LADY ARABELLA STUART. 151 
 
 lovely girl, full of wit and grace, gifted with the 
 gentle art of making friends, she was the life of a 
 lifeless court. 
 
 Many matches were proposed to the Sover- 
 eign, who had power to make or break a mar- 
 riage for her. Suitors of various rank and coun- 
 tries knelt at her feet, and it was told that even 
 Henri the Great of France had dreams of seating 
 the blue-eyed Countess with the wavy tresses on 
 the throne of Charlemagne. 
 
 So passed her youth; and in her thirty-fifth 
 year James, by way of banter, told the maiden 
 she had remained fancy free to suit him long 
 enough; she might now wed whom she would. 
 Poets, adventurers, courtiers, and knights of 
 high lineage kissed her white hand, but came no 
 nearer the heart, which beat faster for none but 
 William Seymour, afterward Marquis of Hert- 
 ford, a youth of twenty-three years. Only the 
 stars were witness as they sealed their vows and 
 oath, and the secret kept well for a season. But 
 a bird in the air carried the matter to Windsor, 
 and Seymour was arrested and brought before 
 the Council to answer for the outrage — betrothal 
 in secrecy. 
 
 He denied everything; swore he had not 
 thought of anything but pastime. What did he 
 want with a wife ten years older than himself? 
 
152 THE TOWER OF MANY STORIES. 
 
 And so the rumor was forgotten with other 
 court gossip. 
 
 They thought the King would give up his 
 nonsense, for Seymour was from one of the 
 proudest families of Europe, and there was no 
 reason in this opposition; besides, he had con- 
 sented to a wedding. But no relenting was ad- 
 mitted by James, and in July, 1610, a poor priest 
 was found and bribed to risk his neck by going 
 through the marriage ceremony for the lovers. 
 
 After a year of concealment the news reached 
 the King's ear. He was enraged; the priest was 
 thrown into prison, the two witnesses present 
 were arrested, and the offending pair parted in 
 the first sweetness of the honeymoon. Seymour 
 was sent to St. Thomas's Tower on the river. 
 He was furnished handsome apartments, with 
 plates, hangings, books, luxurious belongings; 
 and the Countess was lodged in a fine house on 
 the Thames, with attendance and surroundings 
 as became her rank; allowed every freedom — 
 except freedom. 
 
 Indifferent to the elegancies about her, the 
 bride wrote tender and passionate letters to her 
 bridegroom, but he answered never a word. 
 Sweet William made no sign, sent no love-gift. 
 He wrote only to the Lords of the Council, pray- 
 ing to be restored to liberty, that his health 
 
LADY ARABELLA STUART. l53 
 
 would be lost if he were not freed, and busied his 
 days making himself comfortable in the cham- 
 bers over the Traitors' Gate of London Tower, 
 his wife's money paying the bills. 
 
 One dull, foggy day she quietly stepped into a 
 common barge and floated down the river to the 
 barred window on the wharf, where she might 
 make signs to him who did not appear bold 
 enough to plan an escape, and returned safely 
 to her castle. The brave movement could not 
 be concealed, and in his wrath the King ordered 
 a dozen counties to be put between his cousin 
 and the defiant prisoner looking with despair 
 at the water-gates. 
 
 Sadly did the tearful blue eyes turn to the 
 bleak and frozen North, while sentinels doubled 
 their watch on the square tower built over the 
 moat. 
 
 Such was his Majesty's pleasure. 
 
 Lady Arabella's attendants were devoted, 
 
 ready to brave death itself for their mistress; 
 
 her soft, kind manner never failed to win where 
 
 self-love had not taken too deep a hold. Day 
 
 and night, while she sighed her soul away, they 
 
 schemed and planned to open a path to reunion 
 
 in the pleasant land of France, where they might 
 
 be at peace in banishment. At last she slipped 
 
 off, well provided by her aunt, the Countess of 
 n 
 
154 THE TOWER OF MANY STORIES. 
 
 Shrewsbury, with costly jewels current in any 
 country, and with good English gold to lavish 
 on any who might espouse her cause. She 
 glided down the Thames, reached the Channel, 
 by arrangement was taken on a light French 
 bark; but the open water in front of Calais was 
 not for the hapless bride. Captain Corve did his 
 best; his little craft was no match for the swift 
 war-ship Adventure in pursuit. Gallantly he 
 fought wind and wave, but Admiral Monson 
 outsped him, and after thirteen shots were fired, 
 he struck his flag, and the crew of the victorious 
 vessel boarded the bark which carried the royal 
 lady. 
 
 She gracefully yielded herself prisoner to 
 James, King of England, consoled by the 
 thought that he whom she loved better than 
 life was so well disguised, and his plot so well 
 laid, that he was safe in French port. 
 
 "Where is William, Earl of Seymour?" de- 
 manded Monson, Admiral in command of the 
 chase. 
 
 Lady Arabella smiled. 
 
 "I cannot tell, but I believe he is beyond the 
 reach of his enemies and mine." 
 
 So she was marched to the Tower, into rooms 
 once occupied by Margaret Douglas, the com- 
 mon grandmother of the King and herself. 
 
LADY ARABELLA STUART. 155 
 
 When brought before the Lords she was mild 
 and patient, yet asked with becoming spirit why 
 she, a free woman of royal blood, should be held 
 a criminal and separated from her lawful hus- 
 band. 
 
 The furious King seized her jewels and money; 
 and her two companions in the flight, gentlemen 
 by birth, were dragged to the torture-chamber of 
 the Tower, and forced to confess what they knew 
 of the perilous attempt. 
 
 The tale of Seymours changes of wig and 
 cloak, in various disguises and places, is too 
 long to tell here. Delighted with liberty and 
 with France, he seemed to mourn the loss of his 
 bride less than the loss of her jewels and money, 
 for William dearly loved to loiter in the delicate 
 plain called Ease, and lie in the soft places gold 
 can buy. The calculating fellow found his high 
 name a passport in Paris, which city was vastly 
 amusing, and so was the staid but not less de- 
 lightful capital of the Belgians. 
 
 In the damp old rooms of her grandmother, 
 Lady Arabella languished five years. The third 
 year an escape was arranged, and when the time 
 was ripe and success appeared assured she was 
 betrayed, and the venture ended in nothing but 
 harsher treatment. While ''William, dearest," 
 danced the night away, she wore out the dark 
 
156 THE TOWER OF MANY STORIES. 
 
 • 
 
 hours writing prayers to the King, who deigned 
 no answer. 
 
 Like other high-born dames, she was skilled 
 in cunning needle-work, and many a doleful day 
 was spent stitching gay silks into canvas, mak- 
 ing a bright embroidery, offered as a souvenir 
 to the man who imprisoned her; but the King 
 w^ould not touch the pretty gift. The courtesy 
 did not move him any more than her demand 
 to be tried by her peers, according to law, in 
 open court, instead of by a Committee of the 
 Council sitting with closed doors. 
 
 When the tapestry came back rejected the blue 
 eyes grew dimmer, and her cheek paled with the 
 heart-sickness of hope deferred, or rather of de- 
 spair, and it was rumored that the daughter of 
 the House of Stuart had met her doom in mad- 
 ness. Sorriest of all the history is that the youth- 
 ful husband forgot his too-loving wife. The let- | 
 ters full of tenderness reached the trifler at 
 European courts, and lay unanswered. The low- 
 browed villain Wood, who had her in charge, 
 knew the death of his captive w^ould please King 
 James and the courtiers who lived on his smiles. 
 His small mind lent itself to all sorts of petty 
 annoyances and means to make imprisonment 
 unwholesome. She must not walk, nor have 
 her own attendants, nor food and dress befitting 
 
LADY ARABELLA STUART. 157 
 
 the near kinswoman of queens, though the of- 
 fended monarch generously had the ceiHng of 
 her room "mended to keep out wind and rain." 
 
 The forlorn lady passed from deep melancholy 
 to spasms that touched her brain. Even in such 
 pitiful condition she was closely watched and 
 guarded by the nervous coward, who pretended 
 to believe there was an Arabella plot, with Ral- 
 eigh at its-head, secreted in the Tower. 
 
 For a year the insane Countess lived, gentle 
 and harmless, chattering like a little child. Her 
 one amusement was singing songs of love and 
 longing, learned in happy days, with the lute, 
 whose trembling strings made the saddest strains 
 ear ever heard. The heart-breaking music soft- 
 ened even her jailer; he grew compassionate, and 
 she wandered at will through the doleful halls 
 and the garden. But the wan face never bright- 
 ened; she faded slowly, drooped, and died. 
 
 In the chill midnight of autumn her wornout 
 body was brought by the black-flowing river to 
 Westminster Abbey, in a miserable coffin with- 
 out a plate, and laid away in that sanctuary with 
 no ceremony, not even a prayer. 'Tor," says a 
 loyal courtier, "to have had a great funeral for 
 one dying out of favor with the King would re- 
 flect on the King's honor." 
 
 After a troubled life she sleeps well in the tomb 
 
158 THE TOWER OF MANY STORIES. 
 
 of her ill-starred family, close beside the dust of 
 her grandmother, Margaret Douglas. Her cof- 
 fin lies across and flattens the leaden casket 
 which holds the headless corpse of her great-aunt 
 Mary, unhappy Queen of Scots. Neither name 
 nor date is above her breast, and the skull and 
 bones were plainly seen below the rotten wood 
 in 1868 (a ghastly sight!) when the vaults were 
 searched for the remains of James I. 
 
 Her persecutor rests near his victim. The 
 enemies are at one now. The strange peace of 
 death which ends all feuds has brought them to- 
 gether, and their restless hearts lie still. 
 
 The periods of which I write are sometimes 
 called the good old times. I call them the bad 
 old times. 
 
 The Earl of Essex and His Ring. 
 
 The many portraits of Queen Elizabeth I have 
 seen are marked by severity. Red hair, a pale 
 high forehead, keen dark eyes, a nose hooked 
 like the beak of an eagle, sharp chin; such is not 
 the face to win admiration, much less to waken 
 love; yet, when nearly seventy — an age which no 
 art can conceal — she listened to the soft flatteries 
 of her courtiers as tributes to her beauty which 
 they could not repress. When one shaded his 
 
THE EARL OF ESSEX. 159 
 
 eyes at her approach, as though the luster of her 
 face dazzled his sight Hke the sun, and said "he 
 could not behold it with a fixed eye," she was de- 
 lighted with the foohsh speech, as a young girl 
 with the roses of her first ball. One can hardly 
 keep from laughing at the idea of high-born 
 youths of twenty-five or thirty hanging breath- 
 less on her withered smiles and pretending wor- 
 ship of her charms. Such was her daily portion 
 from the shining train of courtiers surrounding 
 her, and she never tired of it. One said of her 
 red hair: "A poet, madam, might call it a 
 golden web wrought by Minerva; but to my 
 thinking it was paler than even the purest gold 
 — more like the last parting sunbeam of the soft- 
 est day of spring." 
 
 She vowed that England was her husband, 
 whom she loved with a perfect love, and she 
 would have none other; she had wedded herself 
 to the kingdom at the coronation by the ring 
 then placed upon her finger: in remembrance 
 thereof she wished engraved on her tombstone 
 these words: "Here lies Elizabeth, who lived 
 and died a Maiden Queen." 
 
 There was another ring, of which I shall pres- 
 ently tell, more precious than that which went 
 with the crown, because life and death were in 
 its keeping. 
 
l6o THE TOWER OF MANY STORIES. 
 
 It was her custom to select from her courtiers 
 one on whom she lavished a fickle love and tran- 
 sient favor. When the court was beginning to 
 tire of Raleigh, Leicester, a former favorite, in- 
 troduced his step-son, Robert Devereux, second 
 Earl of Essex, in hope of weakening the in- 
 fluence of Raleigh. Essex was a spirited boy of 
 seventeen, fresh from Oxford, with handsome 
 face and graceful mien. Clad in the picturesque 
 dress of the period, wearing crest and plume, 
 badges and ribbons of honor, he was a figure to 
 claim the glance of a king as he greeted his sov- 
 ereign, and it is not strange that the susceptible 
 virgin felt the fascination of such a presence, 
 although she was then fifty years old. 
 
 Before he was twenty he fought gallantly with 
 the English army in Holland, and was foremost 
 in the battle of Ziitphen, where Sir Philip Sidney ^ 
 
 fell. On his return to court the Queen's fancy 
 deepened into dotage, and, fond and foolish, she 
 would hardly let him quit her presence. This 
 became so irksome that he ran off to the war in 
 Spain, and refused to return when she sent an 
 officer after him. When he was pleased to come 
 back she forgave all, and redoubled her favors 
 in hope of keeping the wanderer; but in a short 
 time he again disappeared, and secretly married 
 the widow of Sir Philip Sidney. The Queen 
 
THE EARL OF ESSEX. l6i 
 
 could never endure the marriage of her courtiers, 
 still less that of a favorite. She banished him; 
 but he reappeared in a few months, and only re- 
 gained the Queen's grace by neglecting his fair, 
 sweet wife, who lived in seclusion in the country 
 while he shone at court. 
 
 When Essex was about twenty-nine years old 
 he set out with the royal army for Cadiz, and at 
 parting Elizabeth gave him a ring, telling him, 
 "whatever crimes his enemies might accuse him 
 of, or whatever offences he may have committed 
 against her, if he sent it to her she would forgive 
 him." The precious gift was probably a true- 
 love-knot, set with a gem that means unchang- 
 ing; for the time was rich with sentiment in trin- 
 kets, and we may be sure the compact was sealed 
 with vows and kisses on the proffered hand. He 
 returned from Spain unsuccessful, and although 
 the Queen still petted him, from this time on they 
 quarreled. Essex was haughty and insolent; 
 and she, violent and exacting with him, yet for- 
 giving in the end. 
 
 When she decided to appoint a Lord-Deputy 
 for Ireland, then in a state of revolt, she called to 
 her private room three of her court officers — 
 Cecil, the Clerk of the Seal, and Essex. He ex- 
 pected the appointment, but failed to get it, 
 spoke angrily to the Queen, and turned his back 
 
l62 THE TOWER OF MANY STORIES. 
 
 on her. She boxed his ears, and told him to "go 
 and be hanged." So furious was he that his 
 hand reached for his short sword, but Cecil 
 stepped between them; and Essex said, with an 
 oath, ''that he would not have taken that blow 
 from King Henry, her father, and it was an in- 
 dignity he neither could nor would endure from 
 any one." Then muttering something about "a 
 king in petticoats," he rushed madly from her 
 presence. In any one else such conduct would 
 have been death. 
 
 Again the Earl disappeared from court, and 
 he and Elizabeth never were good friends after- 
 wards, although a peace was patched up, and she 
 made him Lord-Lieutenant of Ireland. His ene- 
 mies persuaded her that the Lord-Lieutenant 
 wanted to make himself King of Ireland; spies 
 were sent to watch him, but one of them was 
 kind enough to warn Essex of his danger. With 
 his usual rashness, on learning this he at once 
 returned to London, without permission of the 
 Queen — an act in itself treason — and finding 
 court adjourned to ''Nonesuch" in the country, 
 he rode at speed through mud and mire to antici- 
 pate his enemy, Lord Gray, who had heard of his 
 arrival, and started in haste to give his version of 
 the affair before Essex could reach her. Gray 
 had been closeted with the Queen's councillors 
 
THE EARL OF ESSEX. 163 
 
 a half-hour when he arrived. Hearing this, Es- 
 sex lost all sense of propriety, hurried unan- 
 nounced to the Queen's apartments, and not 
 finding her in the outer reception-room, pushed 
 on into her private bedroom. Her maid was 
 combing her hair, which, gray and thin, was 
 hanging about her bony shoulders — for she had 
 not yet made choice out of her eighty wigs of 
 many colors for the day — nor were her paint and 
 powder on, and patches pasted over the wrinkled 
 cheek. 
 
 He threw himself at her feet, covered her hand 
 with kisses, poured out his story with oaths of 
 fidelity, vowing that he had ever borne in his 
 heart the picture of her beauty, completely win- 
 ning the "most sweet Queen" to him. He re- 
 tired to dress, and in an hour was recalled to an 
 audience, and was again well received. But by 
 night the fitful maiden had changed her mind, 
 influenced by the Cecil faction, and perhaps by 
 thinking how ugly she must have looked in the 
 morning. She was then sixty-eight years old, 
 and as vain as in youth. When he again offered 
 respectful homage she received him with great 
 sternness, and commanded him to confine him- 
 self in his apartments until sent for to appear 
 before her council the following day. His ever- 
 active enemy Cecil brought against him many 
 
l64 THE TOWER OF MANY STORIES. 
 
 charges — not least, "his over-bold going to her 
 Majesty's presence in her bedchamber." 
 
 The Queen then ordered him to be held a 
 prisoner at York House, where he remained 
 many months. He pretended to be sick — a trick 
 he had to gain forgiveness when his royal mis- 
 tress was out of humor; but it did not move her 
 this time, although it soon became reality. His 
 wife was not permitted to visit him, nor even 
 write to him. He had only one true friend at 
 court, the gentle Lady Scroope, his cousin, and 
 sister of the Countess of Nottingham. She wore 
 mourning for him, and endured bad treatment 
 from Elizabeth on his account, but stood faithful 
 to the end. 
 
 Yet the love-sick woman could not entirely 
 banish thoughts of her proud favorite, although 
 her mind was constantly filled with suspicions by 
 Cecil and Raleigh. To forget him she had bear- 
 baitings, jousts at the ring, and a splendid tour- 
 ney in honor of her coronation day. These fri- 
 volities filled the weeks that poor Essex passed 
 alone and wretched in one room at York House. 
 EHzabeth would not listen to the prayers of his 
 sisters and Lady Scroope for his release, but she 
 accepted the costly presents they offered, among 
 them a gown worth £500 (about $2,500). Essex 
 finally fell so ill that his life was despaired of. On 
 
THE EARL OF ESSEX. 165 
 
 hearing his pitiable state the Queen wept, and 
 sent him her own physician, and had prayers 
 read for him in all the churches of London, but 
 something changed her mood again, and she was 
 harsher than ever. Not until March 16, 1600, 
 did she allow him to go to his own home, Essex 
 House on the river and the Fleet, first sending 
 away his family and all the servants but two. 
 Essex was kept there prisoner for seventeen 
 weeks, when the Queen removed his keeper and 
 allowed him to become a prisoner on parole. 
 
 During this time he was examined before a 
 commission of his enemies, appointed for the 
 purpose, and was treated most cruelly. They 
 let him stand, occasionally leaning for rest 
 against a cupboard, from nine in the morning till 
 eight at night ; and when accused of treason, he 
 replied: 
 
 "I should do God and my own conscience 
 wrong if I do not justify myself as an honest 
 man. This hand shall pull out this heart when 
 any disloyal thought shall enter it." 
 
 The following August his tyrant again sum- 
 moned him to York House, where he was told 
 that her Majesty was pleased to give him his 
 liberty, but he must not enter her presence nor 
 come to court. Though free, he was constantly 
 spied upon. Through the remainder of the sum- 
 
l66 THE TOWER OF MANY STORIES. 
 
 mer his friends appealed to the Queen to restore 
 him to favor. Essex wrote her imploring letters, 
 that brought no answer. He brooded over his 
 fall and loss of power, until he grew desperate, 
 and gathered about him at Essex House all the 
 disaffected people of London, among them a 
 host of Puritans. They formed many wild 
 schemes — at one time a plan to capture the 
 Tower and palace; at another, to march to the 
 court and compel Essex's enemies to give him a 
 hearing. The Queen remained cold and silent. 
 He talked of her and of his own wrongs, and 
 said ''she was an old woman crooked both in 
 body and in mind." Sir Walter Raleigh insisted 
 that this speech sealed his doom; for spies re- 
 ported everything he said and did. 
 
 His last piece of folly was to raise a riot one 
 morning in the streets of London with three 
 hundred followers, declaring that ''the kingdom 
 was sold to Spain by Cecil and Raleigh." The 
 mob was quickly dispersed, and Essex slipped 
 back to his house alone in a small boat. He had 
 shut up as prisoners there some officers of the 
 court who had been sent to talk with him and 
 bring him to reason. He had hoped to secure 
 his own safety by giving these as hostages, but 
 Sir Ferdinando Georges, one of his own men, 
 had liberated them, and as he had already been 
 
THE EARL OF ESSEX. 167 
 
 proclaimed traitor, there was nothing to be done 
 but to barricade the house. It was surrounded 
 by the Queen's troops, and he held out till ten 
 o'clock at night, and only surrendered then be- 
 cause "he was sore vexed with the tears and in- 
 cessant screams of the ladies." He was confined 
 that night in Lambeth Palace, and on Monday, 
 February 9, 1601, together with his followers, 
 was. taken to the Tower. When the boat glided 
 through the Traitor's Gate beneath St. Thomas's 
 Tower, he must have realized the hopelessness 
 of his case, for those who went in by that low 
 dark tunnel rarely came out again. 
 
 The apartment to which he was committed 
 was only nineteen feet in diameter, the walls 
 eleven feet thick, and, in memory of the chivalric 
 Earl, it is to this day called Devereux Tower. 
 When he passed the ponderous door his bright- 
 ness of soul was yet undimmed, but a short while 
 in that chill lone chamber would subdue it to 
 silence if not to resignation. Love of life cannot 
 long endure in such a prison, and rapid changes 
 in the career of soldier, statesman, courtier, had 
 taught him the uncertainty of fortune which 
 hangs on the caprice of king or queen. 
 
 On the 19th of the same month he and South- 
 ampton were brought to trial, and, as usual, he 
 was unfairly treated. Even Lord Bacon, to 
 
l68 THE TOWER OF MANY STORIES. 
 
 whom he had given an estate, and who was not 
 of the Queen's counsels, appeared against him. 
 One lawyer compared him to a crocodile; 
 another called him an atheist and papist, when 
 it was well known he was a Puritan. The trial 
 lasted from nine o'clock in the morning to six 
 o'clock in the evening. He was sentenced to 
 death, and on hearing it, said: "I am not a whit 
 dismayed to receive this doom. Death is wel- 
 come to me as life. Let my poor quarters, which 
 have done her Majesty true service in divers 
 parts of the world, be sacrificed and disposed of 
 at her pleasure." 
 
 As he marched through the streets to the 
 Tower, with the edge of the headman's axe car- 
 ried toward him — the custom when prisoners 
 were condemned to die — he walked swiftly, with 
 his head hanging down, and made no answers to 
 persons who frequently spoke to him from the 
 crowds. He was allowed six more days to pre- 
 pare for death. It is said that Elizabeth signed 
 his death-warrant firmly, and with even more 
 than the customary flourishes, but she wept and 
 hesitated about appointing the execution. 
 
 Meanwhile where was the gay gold ring given 
 to him in the bloom of his youth, as he marched 
 to Spain with the beauty of banners and roll of 
 drums, under no shadow deeper than the folds 
 
THE EARL OF ESSEX. 169 
 
 of the royal standard? Many times Essex must 
 have looked at the amulet, and in the long, slow 
 waiting sickened for gracious message or friend- 
 ly sign, but none came. And Elizabeth, too, 
 must have wondered what had become of the 
 token; and why did not he, so wildly loved and 
 deeply mourned, send the pledge and claim the 
 pardon? 
 
 Early one morning while this time was pass- 
 ing, not knowing whom to trust, he chanced to 
 see from his window, that overlooked the street, 
 a lad with an honest, open face, which so pleased 
 him it won his confidence. He managed to 
 throw down a small bribe and the ring, and told 
 him to take it to his good cousin Lady Scroope, 
 and she would send it to the Queen. The boy 
 took the keepsake, but gave it into the hand of 
 the wife of one of Essex's worst enemies, the 
 Countess of Nottingham, who passed it to her 
 husband. 
 
 How terrible must have been the suspense o-f 
 
 Essex, for, in spite of everything, he trusted the 
 
 word of his sovereign. The day broke that was 
 
 to see his execution. Still no sign of pardon or 
 
 reprieve. Calmly he prepared for death, and 
 
 dressed with his usual care and elegance. He 
 
 wore a long black cloak of wrought velvet over a 
 
 satin suit, which consisted of a doublet of bro- 
 12 
 
170 THE TOWER OF MANY STORIES. 
 
 cade with ruffles of lace in the sleeves, a silken 
 scarf confining it at the waist, short breeches of 
 satin, silken hose, and leather buskins. Usually 
 with this costume a jeweled sword was worn, and 
 an immense ruff of lace around the neck. On 
 this occasion both were omitted. His picture 
 shows a well-turned head, with dark curling hair, 
 straight nose, brown eyes, a mustache, and the 
 pointed beard affected at that period. 
 
 Essex had begged as a last privilege that he 
 might have a private execution. The poor pe- 
 tition was granted, and he was permitted to suf- 
 fer death on Tower Hill. The Earl was then in 
 his summer prime — only thirty-three years of 
 age. Valor, beauty, fortune had been his from 
 birth, but failed to avert his fate. The place of 
 execution was hallowed by the best blood of 
 England, and there two fair queens had laid 
 their young heads on the block to satisfy the 
 brutal rage of Elizabeth's father. 
 
 Ash-Wednesday, February 25, 1601, at eight 
 o'clock in the morning, he was led to the fatal 
 block. As he knelt to place his head in position 
 he showed no fear, and three strokes of the axe, 
 the first one mortal, severed his head from his 
 body. He was buried in the Tower Chapel, 
 though some believed the Queen kept the skull 
 in her own private room. Notwithstanding it 
 
THE EARL OF ESSEX. I?! 
 
 was a cold, gloomy day, one hundred gentlemen 
 sat near the scaffold, and Sir Walter Raleigh 
 secretly watched the execution from a window 
 of the armory, little thinking that thirteen years 
 later he would meet the same fate in the same 
 place. During this tragedy Queen Elizabeth 
 amused herself playing on the spinet. But there 
 came an hour of repentance bitter as death. 
 
 About two years afterward the Countess of 
 Nottingham was taken with an illness, which 
 proved her last. She begged to see the Queen; 
 she could not die in peace without it. Elizabeth 
 came, and when the Countess confessed having 
 kept the ring of Essex, the Queen wept, and 
 then flew into a fury, and shook the dying wo- 
 man in her bed, crying, *^God may forgive you, 
 but I never can!'^ 
 
 This disclosure affected her so she could 
 neither sleep nor eat. The dreadful secret 
 pressed on her soul, and the old love and long- 
 ing came back with remorse for tenderness 
 turned to hate. 
 
 Dreams of Devereux in his morning beauty 
 kneeling at her feet must have risen to her sight. 
 The hand whose touch had made her pulses 
 quicken, that never drew sword except for Eng- 
 land's glory, was laid low; the brilliant noble- 
 man — a headless corpse — was buried among 
 
172 THE TOWER OF MANY STORIES. 
 
 criminals in Tower Chapel, when a word from 
 her would have saved him. 
 
 Who may tell her anguish when she lay on 
 the palace floor ten days and nights, refusing to 
 be comforted, haunted by memories of crime 
 unpardonable, till death came to close the scene? 
 
 Henry the Eighth. 
 
 There was once a King of England whose 
 family name should have been Bluebeard, but 
 it happened to be Henry Tudor, and a proud old 
 name it was too. Born in 1501, Prince Henry 
 was just eighteen when he came to the throne, 
 and his subjects were well pleased to see an end 
 to the long Wars of the Roses, because in him 
 were united both lines, the White and the Red, 
 and that meant peace. He had a most fortunate 
 start — riches, power, health, friends. Life lay 
 fair before; what would he do with it? His un- 
 popular father's avarice had massed an immense 
 fortune, and the son was quite ready to spend 
 it. He was well educated, a bold huntsman and 
 dashing rider, full of spirit and energy, and with 
 a turn for letters and business. He must have 
 had wonderful strength, for his armor weighed 
 ninety-two pounds. It is in London Tower yet, 
 is of German-work, silvered and engraved over 
 
HENRY THE EIGHTH. 173 
 
 with saintly legends and scroll-work, and the 
 initials H. and K. for Henry and Katharine of 
 Aragon. 
 
 The King was exceedingly attractive. An 
 Ambassador from Italy, the land of beauty, 
 wrote: ''Nature could not have done more for 
 him. He is much handsomer than any other 
 sovereign of Christendom — a good deal hand- 
 somer than the King of France — ^very fair, and 
 his whole frame admirably proportioned. He is 
 fond of hunting, and never takes his diversion 
 without tiring eight or ten horses, which he has 
 stationed beforehand along the line of country 
 he means to take; and when one is tired he 
 mounts another, and before he gets home they 
 are all exhausted. He is extremely fond of ten- 
 nis, at which game It is the prettiest thing in the 
 world to see him play, his fair skin glowing 
 through a shirt of the finest texture.'' 
 
 Bluebeard had six wives. The second Is the 
 one whose woful tale I have to tell. Early In his 
 xclgn he married Katharine of Aragon, a noble 
 Princess, daughter of Ferdinand and Isabella, 
 whose girlhood had been spent among the 
 orange gardens and tinkling fountains of the 
 Alhambra. 
 
 She had a maid of honor named Anne Boleyn, 
 a light-hearted damsel, skilled in music, singing 
 
174 THE TOWER OF MANY STORIES. 
 
 delightfully, full of repartee, with a laugh gay as 
 her costumes and dances. Her favorite dress 
 was blue velvet starred with silver, a mantle of 
 watered silver, lined with minever, and on her 
 little feet blue velvet shoes flashing each with a 
 diamond star; around her head a gold-colored 
 aureole of gauze above a fall of ringlets rich and 
 rare, a toilet that well became her dimples, her 
 fresh lips, her teeth like hailstones, and her witch- 
 ing glance. Tall and slender was she, a true 
 daughter of the How^ards, and so "passing sweet 
 and cheerful" that every man who looked on her 
 was her lover. 
 
 At the midnight ball given to the French Am- 
 bassador, the King chose her for his partner 
 in the dance, and Mistress Anne's pretty head 
 was wellnigh turned by the royal flatterer's 
 whispers of sparkling eyes and twinkling feet and 
 the fairest hand he ever touched, and then he 
 kissed her. 
 
 Soon he began to write letters, beginning 
 "Mine own Sweetheart," and sent her a jewel 
 valued at fifteen thousand crowns. Then he 
 would ride out to visit her in the chestnut 
 avenues of Hever Castle, gallantly prancing 
 along the greenwood, and sounding his bugle to 
 announce his approach, for he went unattended. 
 
 At first Anne resented such close attention 
 
HENRY THE EIGHTH. 175 
 
 from one already married, King though he was; 
 but the letters came often and the writer came 
 oftener, and in the dewy springtime they strolled 
 through flowery gardens together, and heard 
 the nightingale's love-song to the rose, and the 
 cuckoo pipe her pretty note telling her name to 
 the meadowlarks, till the fair maid forgot her 
 honor and began to think wild thoughts. Wood- 
 land scents and sounds were sweet, but per- 
 fumed palace chambers were sweeter, and court 
 minstrel and laureate sang as never did bird in 
 summer. 
 
 What a fine thing it would be, by-and-by, to 
 sit on the throne of England in the place of the 
 faded old Queen, six years older than her hus- 
 band, the magnificent monarch Henry the 
 Eighth! Evidently he tired of the wife of his 
 youth, and plotted separation from her who had 
 faithfully loved and obeyed him more than 
 twenty years. \ 
 
 The tale of divorce is too long to tell here; 
 enough that it was done by the help of the 
 Church, and Queen Katharine was ordered to 
 leave the court. She made a dignified speech 
 before her judges, declaring herself daughter of 
 a King and still Queen of England, and should 
 so continue to the end of her days. She then 
 retired to the palace assigned her, degraded — no. 
 
176 THE TOWER OF MANY STORIES. 
 
 not degraded, but shorn of her rank, and yet 
 loving him without change. Her last message 
 written in banishment was, "I make this vow, 
 that mine eyes desire you above all things." 
 
 Henry admitted that Kate had been the best 
 of wives; but the old love was off, the new one 
 was on, and a private marriage with AnneBoleyn 
 took place — just when and where is not known. 
 The coronation was proclaimed May, 1534, and 
 London, in sleepless preparation, made ready to 
 hail Anne Boleyn Queen Consort of England. 
 
 The Tower was at that time palace as well as 
 prison and fortress, and the Thames was crowded 
 with every sort of craft, full of crews who flocked 
 to behold the like of which has not been seen 
 before or since in that greatest city on the earth. 
 Bells chimed, music floated over the water, and 
 thousands of flags saluted when Anne came out 
 of Greenwich Palace clad in cloth of gold, at- 
 tended by her maidens — a beauteous sight to see. 
 When she reached the Tower in the state barge 
 a mighty peal of guns was shot off. The tre- 
 mendous wave of sound broke over the barriers 
 of Katharine's retreat, and oh, how the salute 
 smote the ear of the neglected and forgotten 
 Queen, where she sat mourning for her dead 
 sons and worse than dead husband ! 
 
 The roofs and bridges were alive with men 
 
HENRY THE EIGHTH. 177 
 
 and boys, musicians playing divers instruments, 
 and making a far-reaching melody of trumpets. 
 The Lord Mayor and officers of the city were in 
 crimson and scarlet, with gold chains round their 
 necks, and there was no end of velvet, ermine, 
 and jewels. Carpets of Persia and India hung 
 from windows and balconies, and there was such 
 splendor as tongue cannot tell, or minstrel sing, 
 or painter paint. 
 
 Henry met the bride at the water's edge, 
 showy in white and green, the livery colors of 
 his family. We can imagine he looked right 
 kingly, for he was of heroic height, and had not 
 reached the swinish shape that in later years 
 made him the likeness of a prize pig at the fair, 
 a monstrous brute. He kissed Anne, called her 
 the desire of his heart and the delight of his 
 eyes, and vowed to love her and none other 
 while woods grow and rivers run to the sea. 
 
 Days of merriment and revel welcomed her 
 to the palace, and then the coronation came. 
 The streets were graveled from Tower to 
 Temple Bar, and freshly hung with purple. The 
 crown of Edward the Confessor was too heavy 
 for the girlish brow, and a new one was made 
 for the new Queen, mainly of rubies red as 
 blood. You may see it in the jewel-room of the 
 
178 THE TOWER OF MANY STORIES. 
 
 Tower with the other crowns and the Kohinoor 
 of Queen Victoria. 
 
 There were vast processions of horsemen, Am- 
 bassadors with badges and decorations, and so 
 many collars set with gems it was said whole 
 estates were carried on men's shoulders. A 
 fountain ran wine, and any — the way-side beggar 
 with the rest — might put in his cup and drink 
 his fill. Even the cooks wore satin that day. 
 
 But all else was of slight interest — Duke and 
 Earl, belted knight and high-born gentleman — 
 beside the lady for whom the parade was ordered. 
 She was seated in an open litter covered with 
 cloth of gold shot with white. Her robe was 
 silver tissue under a mantle of ermine, auburn 
 ringlets flowing on her shoulders below the ruby 
 crown. The ladies attending were mounted on 
 palfreys with trappings that shone with gold and 
 crimson. It was in bridal June, when merry 
 England is merriest, and with shoutings and 
 trumpetings Anne entered Westminster, and 
 was crowned at the high altar of the Abbey. 
 Royal purple took the place of crimson robes, 
 and the unholy marriage was preceded by the 
 Holy Sacrament, and made a sinful mockery 
 with vows solemn and binding. Countesses and 
 marchionesses were the Queen's train-bearers, 
 and the world seemed at her feet. No warning 
 
HENRY THE EIGHTH. 179 
 
 prophet was there to foretell that the triumph 
 would pass like a vision of the night, and when 
 the blossoming hedges had showered their snows 
 three times she would slip from her high place 
 and, for her sweet lord's pleasure, fall a headless 
 corpse. 
 
 Bluff King Harry was highly pleased with the 
 coronation show, and the bride, radiant with 
 bloom and happiness, held his fickle fancy for a 
 time. She was used to admiration, and knew 
 the art of pleasing. Studying the moods and 
 tenses of her fitful master, she bent her finer 
 nature down to his. Did he wish to ride, she 
 could try the mettle of his best jennet, her glossy 
 red-brown hair mingling with the floating 
 plumes of her hat, making a sunlit picture. 
 Would his Majesty walk, in banquet-hall or 
 bower, on greensward or under silken pavilion, 
 she was ready to trip with fairy tread. Did he 
 want music, she charmed with lute and song. 
 If the stormy ruler preferred silence, she could 
 sit still as chiseled marble till his varying temper 
 brought her lord to her side again. 
 
 Her study was difficult, for absolute power 
 makes tyrants, and the King subdued to his 
 humor every one about him. No man ever ven- 
 tured to ask, why do you do so? He varied 
 court gayeties, and maintained them also, by 
 
l8o THE TOWER OF MANY STORIES. 
 
 plundering churches and abbeys; and burning 
 at slow fires sainted men as high above him as 
 the heavens are above the earth, because they 
 presumed to differ from him in opinion of the 
 body and blood of Christ. He grew meaner and 
 more cruel every day, fattened and bloated into 
 a hateful beast, and to this most Christian King 
 belongs the fame of being the first to torture 
 women with machines made expressly to grind 
 and twist human bones. In London Tower to- 
 day you may see these infernal devices, and the 
 rack where an undaunted woman was stretched 
 till the tormentor refused to turn the wheels 
 again; then she was carried in a chair to a fire 
 and burned alive. 
 
 And this was free and merry England three 
 hundred years ago! 
 
 Where were the people? 
 
 The strangest part of history is their submis- 
 sion to bloody despotism. The time was rich in 
 heroes — nobles come of generations born to 
 command, who had looked death in the face on 
 land and sea, and knew no fear; they were as 
 silent slaves. Thoughtful men grown gray in 
 the service of the state were tortured, maimed, 
 and crippled. The princely Buckingham was 
 sent to the block, and gallant chiefs and captains 
 
HENRY THE EIGHTH. l8l 
 
 were racked for heresy, and the pleasure of the 
 King was the pain of dying men. 
 
 It was not the oppression of an army or a 
 mob of enraged persecutors, as in France two 
 centuries later, but a one-man power, a Tudor 
 reign of terror. So the years went by, and King 
 Henry went on fattening till he could hardly 
 see. 
 
 It was written of him a generation afterward: 
 "If all the patterns of a merciless tyrant had been 
 lost to the world, they might have been found in 
 this Prince." Royal blood was precious in those 
 evil days; all below the highest were mere 
 worms. The court poet wrote verses that made 
 Henry the brightest star of a constellation com- 
 posed of Hector, C^sar, Judas Maccabeus, 
 Joshua, Charlemagne, King Arthur, Alexander, 
 David, Godfrey de Bouillon; and the satisfied 
 monarch believed whatever was said or sung in 
 his praise, and loaded minstrel and troubadour 
 with costly presents, jeweled badges, and deco- 
 rations. . 
 
 Among Anne's maids of honor was a delicate 
 girl of exquisite charm, and as witty as the 
 Queen herself. Jane Seymour came of a 
 haughty house, but had missed the imperious 
 bearing that was the heritage of her race. The 
 winsome presence, all sweetness and grace. 
 
l82 THE TOWER OF MANY STORIES. 
 
 caught the restless fancy of the ungoverned 
 King, and so bewitched was Bluebeard that he 
 determined to slip off the bonds that bound him, 
 and lead another wife to the altar and throne. 
 To be sure, he had worn the light fetters of his 
 second marriage loosely enough, and how to rid 
 himself of the tireless devotion of Anne must 
 have made him ponder and hesitate. 
 
 Not for long did he ever wait; patience was 
 not a trait of even the best of the Tudors. One 
 day, at Greenwich Palace, the Constable of Lon- 
 don Tower suddenly appeared, and announced 
 it was the King's pleasure that the Queen 
 should at once depart with him. She was in an 
 agony of terror, but calmly said, "If it be the 
 King's pleasure, I obey." Without changing 
 her dress, she entered her barge and was silently 
 rowed to the Traitor's Gate. Under the fatal 
 black arch she knelt and solemnly protested her 
 innocence, prayed and wept, then laughed, and 
 cried again, distracted like one insane. Two of 
 her worst enemies were appointed ladies in wait- 
 ing, in reality to watch her every movement day 
 and night, tormenting the woful prisoner with 
 questions. "The King wist what he did when 
 he put such women about me," cried the 
 wretched Anne. Faithful friends were lodged 
 
LETTER OF ANNE BOLEYN. 183 
 
 near, but not allowed to come close enough to 
 ward off her persecutors. 
 
 On the fourth day of her captivity the Queen 
 wrote a heart-breaking letter to the brute she 
 called her sweet lord. It is so touching and 
 tender I give it in full. The original manuscript 
 you may see in the British Museum. 
 
 Last Letter of Anne Boleyn to Henry Eighth. 
 
 "The Tower, May 6, 1536. 
 
 "Sir: Your Grace's displeasure and my im- 
 prisonment are things so strange unto me, as 
 what to write or what to excuse, I am altogether 
 ignorant, whereas you send unto me (willing me 
 to confess a truth, and so obtain your favor) by 
 such an one whom you know to be mine ancient 
 and professed enemy. I no sooner received this 
 message by him than I rightly conceived your 
 meaning; and if, as you say, confessing a truth 
 may procure my safety, I shall with all willing- 
 ness and duty perform your command. 
 
 "But let not your Grace ever imagine that 
 your poor wife will ever be brought to acknowl- 
 edge a fault where not so much as a thought 
 thereof preceded. And, to speak truth, never 
 Prince had wife more loyal in all duty and in all 
 true affection than you have ever found in Anne 
 
i84 THE TOWER OF MANY STORIES. 
 
 Boleyn, with which name and place I could will- 
 ingly have contented myself, if God and your 
 Grace's pleasure had been so pleased. Neither 
 did I, at any time, so far forget myself in my ex- 
 altation, or received queenship, but that I always 
 looked for such an alteration as I now find; for 
 the ground of my preferment being on no surer 
 foundation than your Grace's fancy, the least 
 alteration, I knew, was sufficient to draw that 
 fancy to some other subject. You have chosen 
 me from a low estate to be your Queen and com- 
 panion, far above my desert and desire. If then 
 you found me worthy of such honor, good your 
 Grace, let not my light fancy, or bad counsel of 
 mine enemies, withdraw your princely favor from 
 me; neither let that st^in, that unworthy stain 
 of a disloyal heart towards your good Grace, 
 ever cast so foul a blot in your most dutiful wife, 
 and the infant princess, your daughter. Try me, 
 good King, but let me have a lawful trial, and let 
 not my sworn enemies sit as my accusers and 
 judges; yea, let me receive an open trial, for 
 my truth shall fear no open shame; then shall 
 you all, either mine innocency cleared, your sus- 
 picion and conscience satisfied, the ignominy and 
 slander of the world stopped, or my guilt openly 
 declared. So that whatsoever God or you may 
 determine of me, your Grace may be freed from 
 
LETTER OF ANNE: BOLEYN. i8S 
 
 an open censure, and mine offense being so law- 
 fully proved, your Grace is at liberty, both before 
 God and man, not only to execute worthy pun- 
 ishment on me as an unlawful wife, but to follow 
 your affections already settled on that party, for 
 whose sake I am now as I am, whose name I 
 could some while since have pointed unto; your 
 Grace being not ignorant of my suspicions there- 
 in. 
 
 "But if you have already determined of me, 
 and that not only my death, but an infamous 
 slander must bring you to the enjoying of your 
 desired happiness, then I desire of God that He 
 will pardon your great sin therein, and likewise 
 mine enemies, the instruments thereof, and that 
 He will not call you to a strict account for your 
 unprincely and cruel usage of me, at His general 
 judgment seat, where both you and myself must 
 shortly appear, and in whose judgment I doubt 
 not (whatever the world may think of me) mine 
 innocence shall be openly known and sufficient- 
 ly cleared. My last and only request shall be 
 that myself may only bear the burden of your 
 Grace's displeasure, and that it shall not touch 
 the innocent souls of those poor gentlemen, who 
 (as I understand) are likewise in strict imprison- 
 ment for my sake. 
 
 "If ever I have found favor in your sight, if 
 
 13 
 
i86 THE TOWER OF MANY STORIES. 
 
 ever the name of Anne Boleyn has been pleasant 
 in your ears, then let me obtain this request, and 
 I will so leave to trouble your Grace any further, 
 with mine earnest prayers to the Trinity to have 
 your Grace in His good keeping, and to direct 
 you in all your actions. 
 
 *'From my doleful prison in the Tower this 
 6th cf May. 
 
 "Your most loyal and ever faithful wife, 
 
 '*Anne Boleyn." 
 
 The trial was held the i6th May in the great 
 Hall of the Tower, the scene of much iniquity, 
 but none so black as this. The twenty-six ''lords 
 triers" were picked men who knew Henry's will 
 and pitiless cruelty. The defenceless prisoner 
 had no counsel or advice of any kind, but she 
 bore herself composedly, and fearlessly held up 
 her hand and pleaded not guilty. The records 
 of the trial were destroyed, but it is said she de- 
 fended herself with power and eloquence. It was 
 a mere form; she was sentenced to be burnt or 
 beheaded in three days, at the pleasure of the sov- 
 ereign, and was requested to lay aside her crown, 
 which she did, swearing herself innocent of any 
 crime against her husband. Then clasping her 
 hands, she appealed from earth to heaven, to the 
 One who judgeth quick and dead: "O Father! 
 
LETTER OF ANNE BOLEYN. 187 
 
 O Creator! Thou who art the Way, the Truth, 
 and the Life! Thou knowest that I have not 
 deserved this fate!" 
 
 The whole proceeding was a bitter mockery, 
 the deHberate sentence to death of one wife to 
 make room for another. 
 
 She knew him too well to entreat for life or 
 an extension of time. Three days more were 
 allowed her, and of the hundreds the lovely lady 
 had befriended not one was bold enough to 
 stand between the murderer and the Queen. He 
 was surrounded by flatterers who compared him 
 to Absalom for beauty, Solomon for wisdom, and 
 heroes ancient and modern for courage. And 
 the same day she was condemned bluff King 
 Harry signed the death warrant of his "entirely 
 beloved Anne Boleyn.'* 
 
 In the dismal Tower she wrote her own re- 
 quiem, so pitiful, yet so brave a thing few souls 
 could dare. It begins: 
 
 "O Death! rock me asleep! 
 
 Bring on my quiet rest; 
 Let pass my very guiltless ghost 
 
 Out of my careful breast. 
 Ring out the doleful knell; 
 
 Let its sound my death tell; 
 For I must die. 
 
 There is no remedy, 
 For now I die!" 
 
l88 THE TOWER OF MANY STORIES. 
 
 Her old friend, Sir Henry Kingston, was 
 charged to announce the dreadful sentence that 
 she be beheaded at noon the 19th of May, 1536, 
 and, instead of the axe, the. King graciously 
 ordered she be beheaded by a sword; there was 
 an expert in the horrid business who should be 
 sent for to come from Calais. 
 
 Said the messenger, "I told her that the pain 
 would be little, it was so subtle;" and then she 
 replied, ^'I have heard say the executioner is 
 very good, and my neck is very slender," upon 
 which she clasped it with her two hands and 
 smiled serenely; was even cheerful. 
 
 A few minutes before noon the Queen of Eng- 
 land, attended by four maids of honor, appeared 
 on Tower Hill,dressed in a robe of black damask, 
 w^ith deep white crape ruffling her neck, a black 
 velvet hood on her head. Her cheeks were 
 flushed with fever, and her beauty, says an eye- 
 witness, was fearful to look upon. 
 
 In sight of the scaffold she made a speech, 
 resigned and gentle: ''I come here to die, not 
 to accuse my enemies. ... I pray God to save 
 the King, and send him long to reign over you, 
 for a gentler and more merciful Prince was there 
 never. To me he was ever a good and gentle 
 sovereign lord. . . . Thus I take my leave of 
 
LETTER OF ANNE BOLEYN. 189 
 
 the world and of you, and I heartily desire you 
 all to pray for me." 
 
 Then she bade her weeping ladies farewell, re- 
 fusing to allow her eyes to be covered, and the 
 skilful Frenchman, avoiding her reproachful 
 glance, with one blow of the sharp steel parted 
 the burning brain from the true heart, and Anne 
 Boleyn entered the strange peace we call death. 
 The dripping head with its soft silky tresses 
 and the dissevered body reeking in blood were 
 thrown into an old elm chest that had been used 
 for keeping arrows, and carelessly buried in the 
 chapel, without hymn or prayer. 
 
 Again the Tower guns sounded — the signal 
 for death, not life. The solemn knell was music 
 of wedding-bells in the listening ear of Henry. 
 Dressed for the chase, he had stood under a 
 spreading oak waiting impatiently till the sun- 
 dial told noon, when the heavy booming filled 
 the air. "Ha! ha!" he cried, with unnatural joy. 
 'The deed is done. Uncouple the hounds and 
 away!" And mounting his horse, he rode at 
 fiery speed to his bride expectant at Wolf Hall. 
 The peerless Seymour, the pure white lily-bud, 
 in the freshness of life's morning, married Blue- 
 beard the very next day. 
 
 The wedding feast was spread, the coronation 
 a cloudless splendor; submissive courtiers held 
 
I90 THE TOWER OF MANY STORIES. 
 
 to the ancient proverb that the crown covers all 
 mistakes, and they kissed the bloody hand of 
 their master and hung on the smiles of the 
 youthful Queen. 
 
 The sins of Anne Boleyn lie lightly on her 
 now. Whatever her vanity and follies, she was 
 a thousand thousand times too good for her 
 "merciful Prince." 
 
 The fair Seymour, happily for herself, died the 
 next year after her marriage, and Henry made 
 offers to several royal ladies, and to an Italian 
 Princess who had the shrewdness to decline, say- 
 ing she might consider the proposal if she had 
 two heads, but could not afford to lose her only 
 one by the axe. And it was a good answer. 
 A German Princess married him, and was di- 
 vorced for Catherine Howard, who was mur- 
 dered as Anne Boleyn had been; and then came 
 the last wife, Catherine Parr, widow of Lord 
 Latimer. By that time the King was grown a 
 beast, with savage will unbroken, ready to kill, 
 kill, kill whatever opposed caprice . or whim. 
 She lived to nurse him, this proud lady, till his 
 bloated body almost rotted; he became a loath- 
 some object, polluting the air (I may say the 
 world), fearful to approach; and she paid a high 
 price for her diamond coronet and whatever else 
 came by the death of the despot she outlived. 
 
VIRGIN QUEEN IMPRISONED. 191 
 
 Of the latter days of Henry the Eighth the less 
 said the better. 
 
 Beloved, these are sorry tales to tell, but the 
 Tower is a dreary place, and the greater portion 
 of its history was made in barbarous ages. The 
 historian mousing through the records of a ter- 
 rible past has little pleasure, except in the 
 thought that these murderous old days are ended 
 forever. It is now a government store-house and 
 armory. 
 
 The Virgin Queen Imprisoned. 
 
 One more story, and we say good-bye to the 
 famous Tower whose foundations were laid by 
 Julius Caesar. 
 
 Not every reader of its history remembers that 
 the greatest of England's rulers was once pris- 
 oner there. When Bloody Mary, daughter of 
 Henry the Eighth and Katharine of Aragon, was 
 Queen, she had Elizabeth, daughter of Anne 
 Boleyn, arrested for conspiracy. The Princess, 
 who could look down a lion, clad herself in white 
 to proclaim her innocence, and rode to her 
 prison in an open litter, that she might be seen 
 by the people. A sick girl, faint and pale, her 
 mien was lofty and defiant. It was but eleven 
 days since Lady Jane Grey had been beheaded, 
 
192 THE TOWER OF MANY STORIES. 
 
 and no one, high or low, knew when he might be 
 marched to the dungeon or the block. 
 
 At the Traitor's Gate the Princess Elizabeth 
 refused to land. One of the lords attending told 
 her she must not choose, and, as it was raining, 
 offered her his cloak. She dashed it from her 
 "with a good dash," and setting her foot on the 
 stairs, exclaimed: "I am no traitor! Here lands 
 as true a subject, being prisoner, as ever landed 
 at these stairs. Before Thee, O God, I speak it, 
 having no other friend but Thee." Instead of 
 passing through the opened gates, she sat on a 
 cold, wet stone, determined not to enter the 
 prison of her own mother. However, the daunt- 
 less maid was forced to yield. The death of her 
 half-sister made her Queen, and she reigned long 
 and wisely, with a strange mixture of weakness 
 in the midst of her wisdom and strength. 
 
 Once in a time of peril vshe mounted a white 
 horse and rode through her army, very stately, 
 in a steel corselet, bareheaded, her page bearing 
 her plumed helmet, and spoke in words unsur- 
 passed for appeal: 
 
 "My loving people, we have been persuaded 
 by some that are careful of our safety to take 
 heed how we commit ourselves to armed multi- 
 tudes, for fear of treachery; but I do assure you 
 I do not desire to live to distrust my faithful and 
 
VIRGIN QUEEN IMPRISONED. 193 
 
 loving people. Let tyrants fear. I have always 
 so behaved myself that under God I have placed 
 my chiefest strength and safeguard in the loyal 
 hearts and good will of my subjects; and there- 
 fore I am come amongst you as you see me at 
 this time, not for my recreation and disport, but 
 being resolved in the midst and heat of battle to 
 live or die amongst you all, to lay down for my 
 God, and for my kingdoms, and for my people, 
 my honor and my blood even in the dust. I 
 know I have the body of a weak, feeble woman; 
 but I have the heart of a King, and of a King of 
 England, too, and think foul scorn that Parma of 
 Spain, or any Prince of Europe, should dare to 
 invade the borders of my realm; to which, rather 
 than any dishonor should grow by me, I myself 
 will take up arms, I myself will be your General, 
 judge, and rewarder of every one of your virtues 
 in the field. I know already for your forwardness 
 you have deserved rewards and crowns, and we 
 do assure you, on the word of a Prince, they 
 shall be duly paid you. 
 
 ^'For the mean time my Lieutenant-General 
 shall be in my stead, than whom never Prince 
 commanded a more noble or worthy subject; 
 not doubting but by your obedience to my Gen- 
 eral, by your concord in camp and your valor 
 in the field, we shall shortly have a famous vie- 
 
194 THE TOWER OF MANY STORIES. 
 
 tory over these enemies of my God, of my king- 
 doms, and of my people." 
 
 No wonder the troops fell on their knees as 
 one man, and shouted themselves hoarse in ap- 
 plause for their lion Queen, mother of all true 
 Englishmen. 
 
 The greatest of peacemakers is Time. The 
 two daughters of Henry the Eighth — Mary and 
 Elizabeth — heirs of a contested throne, so wide 
 apart and repellant in life, are at one now. Henry 
 the Seventh's Chapel of Westminster Abbey con- 
 tains a narrow vault that holds what remains of 
 the rival Queens. Their tomb allows no other 
 tenant, and they will never more be divided. 
 In calm after storm the unquiet Tudor sisters lie 
 there alone, the leaden casket of Elizabeth rest- 
 ing on the coffin of Mary, well named the Bloody. 
 
VIII. 
 A FAIR CLIENT'S STORY. 
 
 One cold November night my husband and I 
 settled to a long, quiet evening with books and 
 newspapers. 
 
 A furious storm was raging. I had closed 
 blinds, drawn bolt and bar against it, and heaped 
 the hall mat behind a crack under the street 
 door, which long has baffled the skill of the 
 most expert carpenters in Jefferson. The chil- 
 dren were fairly extinguished in bed and asleep, 
 after repeated recitations, at their own request, 
 of a gay old ballad briefly setting forth the life 
 and death of Solomon Grundy, and the produc- 
 tion of a certain imbecile conundrum sacred to 
 snowy evenings. 
 
 As usual in such a night, I had almost de- 
 stroyed myself in the vain effort to guess '^what's 
 that which goes round the house and round the 
 house and lays a white glove in every window?" 
 This done, and the whole house still as a mouse, 
 I put the finishing stitch and ribbon to a pair of 
 baby-socks, and set them on the mantel for 
 further admiration. In answer to my question as 
 
 195 
 
196 A FAIR CLIENT'S STORY. 
 
 to their being too sweet for anything, Mr. Wilhs 
 responded, with manly fervor, "Yes, presently," 
 without raising his eyes from the Tribune. 
 
 The wind raved and tore at the shutters, and 
 sharp sleet forced its way between their slats and 
 rattled like shot against the glass where 'Svhite 
 gloves" piled in deepening drifts. Firelight and 
 lamplight glowed warm on crimson curtain and 
 carpet, and tipped with ruddy shine bright mold- 
 ing and polished mirror. The pert cuckoo flew 
 out of the clock, flapped her wings, and chirped 
 eight times. The sleepy canary stirred on his 
 perch, gave an answering cheep, tucked his head 
 under his wing and rolled himself into a little 
 yellow ball. 
 
 It was the best hour of the week, Saturday 
 night. My six days' work done, I saw it was 
 good, and very good; before me were hours of 
 restful ease and enjoyment, and then dear old 
 Sunday. My lines had fallen in pleasant places; 
 •I felt as though I could stretch myself on the 
 velvety rug with Malta and purr in measureless 
 content. 
 
 At this happy moment we were startled by a 
 ring of the doorbell; a time unheard-of for visi- 
 tors even in a pleasant evening, and, in this 
 storm, surely no one on pleasure bent would be 
 out. We looked at each other. 
 
A FAIR CLIENT'S STORY. 197 
 
 "It can't be one of those dreadful book- 
 agents," I said, doubtfully. 
 
 "No; they never make their rounds at night," 
 answered Mr. Willis. "I'm afraid it's a message 
 from the Common Council" — he glanced af- 
 fectionately at his slippers — "and I've just this 
 minute taken my boots off." 
 
 Nora appeared and reported, "A lady to see 
 the gintleman of the house. She says she will 
 wait in the entry till you send word if you bees 
 home for business." 
 
 "Now," said Mr. Willis, in a tone of vexation, 
 "Mike Brady has cracked his wife's skull again, 
 or Hartung has tried his butcher's whip on poor 
 Fraulein." 
 
 "No, it's not thim," said Nora; "it's a raal 
 lady!" 
 
 Feminine clients were by no means rare in my 
 husband's law practice. They usually came to 
 our residence instead of the office; and the first 
 glance at this intruder on our peaceful evening 
 showed her to be what Nora had proclaimed, "a 
 real lady." 
 
 She entered the door in a startled way — such 
 a wee mite of a woman ! — and with irregular step, 
 which resembled the movement of a blinded bird 
 fluttering to the light, sought the fire and held 
 both hands toward its blaze. Her shawl slipped 
 
198 A FAIR CLIENT'S STORY. 
 
 from her throat and unveiled a diminutive figure, 
 shaped with exceeding grace, frail as a lily-stem 
 bending under the weight of rain. A profusion 
 of light flossy curls hung below her hood, cov- 
 ered her shoulders and fell about her waist in 
 damp ringlets. 
 
 She looked like one born to wear soft raiment, 
 to be shod in satin, mantled and lapped in fur, 
 and borne from velvet carpets to cushioned car- 
 riages. 
 
 What business could this tender girl, or wo- 
 man, have, seeking a lawyer's counsel, alone in 
 the wild night, breasting ice and snow, jaded, 
 numbed and chilled? 
 
 In seeming forgetfulness of her purpose, she 
 stood mutely facing the fire, as though merely 
 enjoying its warmth and cheer. As we stood 
 behind her, waiting to learn her errand, the 
 mantel mirror gave to view a childish face, deli- 
 cately molded and deadly pale, which could not 
 have reached its first score of years. Livid rings 
 encircled eyes burnt out with tears or fever; 
 lovely eyes they must have been one day, like 
 violets undimmed, now faded and lusterless. The 
 glance from under their languid lids told of in- 
 finite sorrow and long despair. 
 
 Suddenly lifting her head, she caught sight 
 of the baby-socks on the mantelpiece. She took 
 
A FAIR CLIENT'S STORY. 199 
 
 them in her hand — thin as a bird's claw, and al- 
 most bleeding with cold — and softly kissed them. 
 There was no mistaking the sign. It was the 
 mother's kiss for her own baby out under the 
 snow. 
 
 Ah, thought I, the old tale so often told! She 
 has been deceived, betrayed, deserted. I whis- 
 pered to John: 
 
 "She may not like to speak before me. I will 
 slip out." 
 
 The stranger's hearing was too quick for me, 
 and my words broke the trance. 
 
 "No, do not go," she said, laying her hand on 
 my arm; "let me tell my story before you!" 
 
 There was an appeal in her voice not to be re- 
 sisted. 
 
 "Certainly I will stay. Now take this low 
 chair, put your feet on the fender, child! Let 
 me offer you a glass of wine." 
 
 "No, nothing — I want nothing. You call me 
 child; I am a woman. Married — or was." Her 
 voice faltered, and sunk into silence. After a 
 moment, she said, simply: "I do not cry any 
 more. I cried my tears away long ago." 
 
 "Let me have your shawl." I took it from 
 under her feet and spread it across my lap. 
 "There, it will be good and warm when you want 
 it. Now take your own time." 
 
^oCi A FAIR CLIENT'S STORY. 
 
 Ag-ain she essayed to speak, and failed. 
 
 ''I am in no hurry," said Mr. Willis, kindly. 
 "Don't distress yourself. You have a secret to 
 tell me." 
 
 "Yes, it was a secret; but I suppose every one 
 must know it soon. I have been very ill, and it 
 is not easy for me to control my thoughts. I am 
 here for a paper to show that my marriage was 
 unlawful." 
 
 My whole heart went out to the bruised and 
 broken creature. Misguid-ed she mig'ht have 
 been, but there was neither guilt nor shame in 
 the fair face so young in years, so worn by suf- 
 fering. 
 
 I tried to reassure her, and gradually she 
 nerved herself to speak; and, addressing me, 
 rather than my husband, told her woful tale. 
 
 No words of mine can give you an idea of the 
 rapid utterance, the swift gesture, the forlorn 
 wail, "I shall never see him again," at the end 
 of the story. 
 
 "Why did you choose such a night as this to 
 come in?" I asked, as she rose to go. 
 
 "Because I was advised to consult a lawyer, 
 and it has been on my mind so long, I thought 
 speaking would lighten the load I bear. Thank 
 you both for your patient hearing. I came in 
 
A FAIR CLIENT'S STORY. 20I 
 
 a carriage. The snow is so deep, you did not 
 hear it." 
 
 *'Let me dismiss it, and you wait till morning. 
 If it is no warmer the storm will have passed by 
 that time." 
 
 "Oh, no; my mother would be alarmed; in- 
 deed, to make a full confession, I came off with- 
 out her consent, and in my haste forgot my 
 gloves." 
 
 "Then you must at least let me wrap you in 
 my fur cloak." 
 
 I brought it, warmed and muffled her in it, 
 and saw her safely lifted to the coach, where she 
 sat alone, passive and desolate, but in better 
 heart — so she said — than when she came. From 
 that night dated a friendship, or rather, love, for 
 Anne Singleton which ended only with her life. 
 
 I have never known a woman — and I have 
 known many women — cursed with so fine an 
 organism. Fashioned of clay well-refined, body 
 and spirit were alike sensitive and quivering; and 
 for such natures there is in this bitter world one 
 common doom. From the beginning, they are 
 elected to toil up the steep paths of life, against 
 driving misery, and to tread its sharp thorns with 
 naked feet, torn and bleeding. 
 
 A few months after our first meeting she went 
 abroad, and I lost sight of her two years, when 
 
 14 
 
202 A FAIR CLIENT'S STORY. 
 
 she returned to Jefferson, homesick and travel- 
 worn, spent with seeking rest and finding none. 
 In appearance unchanged, except that her skin 
 had lost its waxen look, and her silky tresses, 
 those "ringlets rich and rare," showed faint 
 streaks of gray. 
 
 I had opportunity to do her a kindness she 
 greatly overrated, and by slow degrees — for she 
 was shy as a humming-bird — I won her to be our 
 frequent visitor, and she became dear to me as 
 a daughter. 
 
 She was made to love and be loved, was full of 
 eager tenderness, especially for the little ones, 
 and had kept her pure childish beliefs to woman- 
 hood. A certain native grace of movement, and 
 low voice, clear as a meadow-lark's, gave her 
 address a delicate charm. I hold nothing in 
 sweeter memory than the little sing-song in 
 which she used to read fairy tales and recite "The 
 Flower of Love Lies Bleeding," to her adorers 
 — our children, Ben and Mary. 
 
 Habitually silent, yet attentive, in the presence 
 of her elders, she rarely smiled. Now and then 
 there were varying tints in her exquisite cheek, 
 and a quick flash of the violet eyes, but her face 
 usually wore the fixed calm of one who has a 
 long time mourned for the dead. 
 
 Her home was four miles beyond the town — 
 
A FAIR CLIENT'S STORY. 203 
 
 or city, I suppose it should be called, though it 
 numbered only five thousand souls — which lay 
 between us. There she lived alone with her 
 mother, a good old body whose chief aim and 
 end appeared to be in the cultivation- of holly- 
 hocks and the drying of apples in the sun. It 
 takes whole generations of culture and refine- 
 ment to produce such a woman as Anne Single- 
 ton, and if the gushing old novels were yet in 
 belief I should fancy she had been changed in the 
 cradle. 
 
 Toward the town people Mrs. Singleton held a 
 thin ice of reserve in manner, that distanced fa- 
 miliarity and silenced gossip. There was a sus- 
 picion, named only in the lowest whisper, that 
 this fine lady who had traveled everywhere and 
 seen everything, had been converted to Roman- 
 ism. Perhaps the Mother Church, in its marvel- 
 ous adaptation to every want of the human soul, 
 had seemed to her the shadow of a great rock 
 in a weary land, and she had found refuge in its 
 broad shelter. She kept aloof from society and 
 all churches. The gracious charities, which 
 large fortune gave her ample means of dispens- 
 ing, went far toward averting heavy judgments 
 from her neighbors. She was quietly allowed 
 to pass as a privileged person, not to be judged 
 by ordinary rulers. 
 
204 A FAIR CLIENT'S STORY. 
 
 Various elegant belongings brought from 
 abroad made her rather conspicuous in town. 
 Among these was a phaeton of cunning work, 
 the airiest, fairiest thing under the sun, light as a 
 wicker toy, graceful as the sea-shell after which 
 it was modeled. Add to this an Indian pony, 
 Tecumseh by name, a genuine mustang, ready 
 to kick and bite every one but his gentle mis- 
 tress, a brave harness of blue and silver, with gay 
 rosette and streaming ribbon, and there was a 
 turnout the envy and despair of our whole 
 country. 
 
 She was very fond of driving over the prairie 
 with Mary and Ben, our two elder children. 
 They were brought up, or, as we Indianians say, 
 "raised," on Pilgrim's Progress, and had named 
 it the "King's Garden," and well was it so called. 
 Not in the flower-beds of England, the tulip 
 borders of Holland, nor even in the pleasant 
 land of France, have I seen such outpouring of 
 vivid color from the hand of the Great Master as 
 on the sweeping levels of the Western plains. 
 
 From long excursions the children, as we 
 called them, came in at evening with a fragrant 
 load of herb and flower, and garlanded with vines 
 and braided creepers. 
 
 "You have a special knack at this sort of 
 work," I once said to Anne. 
 
A FAIR CLIENT'S STORY. 205 
 
 "Yes, I learned it of the basket weavers of 
 Brabant; but they have no such material as this, 
 only twigs, reeds and rushes. There is no end 
 of treasure in the King's Garden, and I give you 
 the spoil of our whole day's hunt." 
 
 "Generous woman! and what return can I 
 make you?" 
 
 "That you lend me your jewels through all the 
 fine days. Mary is a pearl which needs sunning. 
 You know pearls require air and exercise ; lock 
 them up and they lose their complexion." 
 
 "Precisely. Take them and welcome; but I 
 lay an injunction on you to be back and the 
 youngsters in bed by dark." 
 
 "Depend on me, and many thanks for the loan. 
 I will teach your pretty boy every blind road 
 and by-path throughout the length and breadth 
 of Wea Plains." 
 
 Well did Anne keep her promise. From the 
 day the first dandelion looked up in the grass, 
 till Indian Summer, with its magical lights and 
 dreamy mists lulls the world to rest, the children 
 haunted prairie and forest, apparently as happy 
 as though youth was eternal and fauns still piped 
 to the wood-nymphs of a new Arcadia, and 
 Endymion slept in the moonlight on low West- 
 ern hills. 
 
 In the heart of the prairie they often met a 
 
206 A FAIR CLIENT'S STORY. 
 
 professional hunter, who made a Hving by send- 
 ing game to the St. Louis market. He was 
 skilled in the subtle mysteries of trapping and 
 fishing, and had so long been monarch of all 
 he surveyed as to watch with jealous eye even a 
 picnic that had appeared encroaching on his 
 game preserves. A surly fellow, gaunt, mack- 
 erel-eyed, ''sandy complected," and freckled as 
 the tiger-lilies growing by his cabin-door. 
 
 One summer morning while I was at work 
 with trowel and scissors among my roses, he 
 scaled the garden wall, which was neither high 
 nor hard to climb, strode up the walk and fa- 
 vored me with a generous burst of confidence. 
 Without needless preface plunging at once into 
 his subject: 
 
 "I say. Miss Willis," he began, "that Miss 
 Midget who totes your young folks round in 
 the gay buggy had better mind what she's 
 about!" 
 
 "What's the matter, Griffith? She's a very 
 harmless lady! Only a child herself. Are you 
 in danger of taking her for a fawn or a fox?" 
 
 "Not yet awhile," grinding his heel into the 
 gravel, "But the way she does go on, it beats all! 
 I've saw her wade out with your little Mary to 
 whare the grass is higher'n both thare heads. 
 
A FAIR CLIENT'S STORY. 207 
 
 Why, I mind the time when thare was blue racers 
 thare more'n six feet long." 
 
 *'You haven't noticed any lately, have you?" 
 I asked, seating myself in the arbor, for I saw my 
 visitor had come to ''talk his mind." 
 
 "No, I'm obleeged; just as cheap standin'." 
 Here Griffith struck the classic pose of the Co- 
 lossus of Rhodes. "As I was sayin', I disremem- 
 ber the last, but the parayra rattlers! Every 
 fool knows nothin' can cure their bite, not even 
 red ash leaves. And that isn't all. Down by 
 the swamps, among the skunk-cabbage and cat- 
 tails, there used to be hoop-snakes that would 
 take their tails in their mouths and roll arter you 
 like a bar'1-hoop, and jointed snakes that fly to 
 flinders at a blow, and every piece git together 
 and in running order by sundown." 
 
 "But really, nothing appears to hurt Mrs. 
 Singleton," I pleaded. 
 
 "Nobody knows when he's safe.' I've tuck 
 notice to her ever since she was knee-High to a 
 duck, and she's out a-flyin' round every day, rain 
 or shine." 
 
 "I promise to warn the little lady of these 
 perils. Perhaps she's a trifle willful." 
 
 "Willful's a feeble word," said the hunter, 
 warming with his own eloquence. "I told her 
 once she'd better not take off them boots of hern 
 
2o8 A FAIR CLIENT'S STORY. 
 
 to paddle her feet in the spring branch, the first 
 thing she knowed there'd be leeches a-hangin' 
 on her toes. She jest looked me through and 
 through, and Ben he snickered out in my face." 
 
 "I shall call Ben to account for his ill man- 
 ners." 
 
 "Oh, I don't keer; but it 'peers like that 
 young woman's no account. What good is sich 
 people in the world, anyhow?" 
 
 "What good is there in a rose, Griffith?" 
 
 "Why a rose is a good for pretty." 
 
 "Yes, and so is my children's friend. She 
 sweetens and brightens this whole country, and 
 the boy fairly worships her; and, now I think 
 of it, she left a nice fishing-rod here for you, with 
 her compliments. Will you take it now?" 
 
 "Bless me, yes, and snap at it." 
 
 I ran into the house and brought out the case. 
 He unlocked it, and scanning each separate 
 joint of the pole, fitted them together, rubbed 
 them with his handkerchief, and then burst out: 
 
 "Well, I swan! That woman is a rose and no 
 mistake! Who'd a-thought I'd a-lived to own 
 a bamboo Chinee fishpole!" 
 
 "She has some nice ways, after all, hasn*t she?" 
 
 "Yes, she has; and many a bass I'll send her 
 for this. Now I must be a gittin' along to the 
 train." He turned to go, and, after a few steps. 
 
A FAIR CLIENT'S STORY. 209 
 
 came back, and thusting his freckled hand in his 
 pocket, said, sheepishly: "Maybe you'd best not 
 tell Miss Midget — bother— what's her name? — 
 about the blue racers. I have my doubts about 
 'em, anyhow." 
 
 "No; and as you say it might make her afraid, 
 so we'll keep it to ourselves." 
 
 The hunter seemed relieved, and pensively 
 chewing a budding rose, he inquired: 
 
 "Do you mind the old ellum that leans over 
 the creek by Indian Ford?" 
 
 "The one wrapped with poison ivy?" 
 
 "Jes so. Well, I see her thare last October in 
 the fall, kinder campin' out, and a mighty pretty 
 sight it was. Ben he built a fire, and Miss Midget 
 she spread a striped table-cloth on a stump, and 
 laid a row of blood-red maple-leaves round it, and 
 red haws on green leaves, and black haws on 
 yellow ones, and a pile of pawpaws in a bunch 
 like them furrin things." 
 
 "Bananas, you mean." 
 
 "Them's um. I peeked a while, and heern her 
 chatter away like all possest; but the minit I 
 hove in sight, she shet up tight as a clamshell, 
 yet she doesn't seem skeary, neither. As I was 
 sayin', your little Mary said a blessin', then they 
 passed round crackers no bigger'n a minit, and 
 poured tea in baby cups, and topped off with a 
 
210 A FAIR CLIENT'S STORY. 
 
 mess of chinkapins and hickory-nuts. A gay bird 
 set on a swingin' limb and winked at 'em, and the 
 chipmunks didn't seem to mind 'em no mor'n 
 if they was squirrels theirselves. She's mighty 
 peert and sociable with them sort of things, but 
 not with folks. Now I must break for the train." 
 
 "Good-by, then, if you will go." 
 
 "Good-day. Tell Ben if he'll come round 
 some Saturday, I'll teach him how to track wood- 
 chucks, and some moonshiny night we'll tree a 
 coon. I'd a showed him long ago, but boys is 
 so leaky they can't keep nothin'." 
 
 A timely call to the nursery ended the par- 
 lance, which otherwise might have flowed on 
 like the brook we all know and love so well. 
 
 It was plain that my sweet Anne was con- 
 demned in a society where the useful contends 
 with the beautiful; set down as ''no account" by 
 the housekeepers of Jefferson, who did their own 
 work and cooked their way through all the 
 books, from Miss Leslie to Pierre Blot. 
 
 'Twere vain to tell what sylvan treasures accu- 
 mulated in our back yard that summer. The 
 flights of catstairs, the rushes to scour tins with, 
 the roots for transplanting, forgotten over night, 
 sassafras for tea nobody liked, catnip for babies 
 never born, pennyroyal for mosquitoes never 
 
A FAIR CLIENT'S STORY. 211 
 
 near, thyme good for all time, everlastings for 
 eternity, and balsam for everything. 
 
 In tangled thickets, dark as robber paths, their 
 bright eyes glanced, and many a dusky labyrinth 
 
 "Made by Nature for herself," 
 
 bore the light print of their innocent feet. 
 
 There is no cure for sorrow like the company 
 of happy children. 
 
 A year went by; in their unconscious ministry, 
 and under the sweet influences of nature, Anne's 
 face rounded, healthful tints played on cheek 
 and lip. There was healing in the wings of the 
 South wind, balm of Gilead in shrub and tree; 
 and bird, bee, and murmuring water revealed to 
 her finely tuned ear snatches of the old music 
 in which the young earth answered the song of 
 the morning stars. Such tender light beamed in 
 the violet eyes and brightened the pensive face, 
 I had hope that somewhere in the secret places 
 of the King's Garden she had found, and wore 
 hid in her bosom, a sprig of the herb called 
 heart's ease. 
 
 One afternoon In June they were gone later 
 than usual. The long, hot day was spent, and 
 shadows fell in blessing on parched earth and 
 drooping flower. Six o'clock came, seven; tea 
 was over, yet no children. I feared Tecumseh, 
 
212 
 
 A FAIR CLIENT'S STORY. 
 
 true to his Indian instincts, might, after years of 
 kindness, play some vicious trick. I walked to 
 the carriage gate and looked a little anxiously 
 toward the East, where a winding lane, by which 
 they should return, led to the broad road, now 
 fast growing to the dignity of a street. 
 
 It was a heavenly evening. The new moon, a 
 faint crescent, hung dim in the Western hori- 
 zon, crickets chirped their shrill song, and swal- 
 lows circled low in airy flights. The sky was soft, 
 the winds were whist. Opposite me, across the 
 way, a glorious forest of beech trees stood in 
 close ranks, with trunks solid and immovable as 
 shafts of stone. Beneath their drooping boughs 
 the leafy arches were vistas of silence, where even 
 at noon light and darkness strove for the mas- 
 tery, and when the sun scorched like flame their 
 foliage was cool and fresh. There twilight trailed 
 her banner of purple and gold, and in its shadow 
 — the first halting-place of advancing night — 
 hovered peace and midnight hush. 
 
 My watch was not long. Soon my eager ear 
 caught the sound of rapid hoof-beats and voices 
 gayly singing: 
 
 "There is a happy land, 
 Far, far away." 
 
 A sudden turn of the lane brought in sight the 
 fairy chariot, flaming with scarlet poppies and 
 
A FAIR CLIENT'S STORY. 213 
 
 wild eglantine, its three passengers crowned with 
 lilies and embowered in an arch of plaited red 
 willow mixed with plumes of feathery fern. 
 Every portion of the harness was a wavy rope of 
 blossom and verdure, and Tecumseh was further 
 embellished with a necklace of star flowers, his 
 mane braided with larkspur, and in his forelock 
 shone a big Miami rose. The golden light trans- 
 figured each face, and as the fantastic car ap- 
 proached, iris-hued and radiant with its burden 
 of beauty and bloom, I thought it the loveliest 
 picture I ever beheld. I think so still. 
 
 We merrily saluted with waving hats and 
 handkerchiefs. The children jumped over the 
 wheels and hung round me with hugs and kisses. 
 
 ''Now," said Anne, ''be quick, Mary and Ben. 
 It is too late to drive in; unload your things and 
 be off." 
 
 They gathered up their flowers and scam- 
 pered away to the house. 
 
 "What kept you so long?" I asked. "I began 
 to think some outlaw had spirited you away to 
 Redwood Forest." 
 
 "I did not notice the time. We have been by 
 the riverside beyond the prairie, saw the mirage 
 for the first time this year, and found " 
 
 "That the happy land is not so 'far, far away,' " 
 I said, interrupting her. 
 
214 A FAIR CLIENT'S STORY. 
 
 "It may be nearer than we know," said Anne, 
 reverently, with a weary smile. ''I have a bunch 
 of violets for you. They grew under the moss 
 and alders of the lower spring, a little wilted now, 
 but sweeter in death than anything else in life." 
 She stepped lightly from the low carriage to the 
 sidewalk. 'They are lovely against your brown 
 hair." 
 
 She fastened them carefully (I have those 
 wilted petals yet), and after a moment's pause 
 reached up and kissed me. 
 
 Anne had never been given to caresses; her 
 warmest endearment was to call me ''my friend," 
 and the action was a sweet surprise. I drew the 
 slight, pliant figure close to my side, my hand on 
 her heart, and felt it throb in irregular, heavy 
 strokes. 
 
 "You are tired, dear, and a trifle out of spirits. 
 Isn't it so?" 
 
 "Somewhat tired; but I shall sleep well to- 
 night," she answered, evasively. 
 
 "Something ails you, little one. What is it? 
 Whisper to me now, and I will bend my ear so 
 close even pony cannot hear a word." 
 
 Just then there swung through the deepening 
 hush of evening the mellow chime of the cathe- 
 dral bell. It was a delightful bell, made at Milan, 
 and bought with a great price. Wherever we 
 
A FAIR CLIENT'S STORY. 215 
 
 might be we always hushed to hear it, partly be- 
 cause it was newly hung and had the charm of 
 novelty, more for its rich and resonant note, 
 which held the ear and swayed us like music. I 
 felt Anne tremble as we stood in silence, Hstening 
 to what seemed a deep wave of sound swelling 
 toward us from an unseen world close at hand. 
 Her head bowed as to a benediction, and when 
 the quivering echo, long lingering, died into 
 silence, she said, softly: 
 
 "It is the vesper. Oh, how often have I heard 
 the answering bells on the hills about old Rome. 
 Kow good it is to hear it here." 
 
 Her eyes wore the unseeing gaze of a dreamer. 
 They wandered over the green earth filled with 
 the "pomp of glorious summer," then up to the 
 sky, which vapory shadows veiled in a robe of 
 tender gray. As she stood in the paling light, 
 the silver lilies about her brow, so fragile in her 
 evanescent beauty, her appearance impressed me 
 painfully. My motherly heart yearned toward 
 the fair creature who looked fleeting as her dying 
 flowers, and I said, with an effort at unconcern: 
 
 "Are you going abroad again? It is plain you 
 are plotting something. Is that it?" 
 
 "No, no! To-day is Friday. If I live I shall 
 come again next Tuesday. Now, one kiss, and a 
 
2l6 A FAIR CLIENT'S STORY. 
 
 thousand good-nights! I have four miles to 
 make in this dusk!" 
 
 "Good-night, pretty one! Mind the iron 
 bridge! Don't let pony shy off!" 
 
 She seated herself in the phaeton, and picked 
 up the blue ribbons. The pony sprung forward 
 at her touch. She looked back, shouted and 
 pointed toward the sundown, but Tecumseh was 
 on the home-stretch, and her words did not reach 
 me. 
 
 It was Dante's fair spirit wreathing flowers 
 with flowers on the edge of happy Lethe. I saw 
 Anne Singleton in life no more. 
 
 She died suddenly and alone. Physicians 
 thought, and I suppose truly, it was of heart-dis- 
 ease. Among her effects was found a small 
 Roman cabinet, sealed and addressed to me. 
 With many tears I opened it, and the first thing 
 my glance fell on was a sealed envelope marked, 
 "My Husband." It held a locket of plain gold, 
 containing a ring of shining hair, and the minia- 
 ture of a young man — a serene, poetic face of 
 surpassing beauty. 
 
 Possibly the artist had idealized his subject, 
 but one does not see three such heads in a life- 
 time. Its graceful outline was relieved against 
 a background of dark blue; the deep, Judean 
 eyes were managed with wonderful skill, in life 
 
A FAIR CLIENT'S STORY. 217 
 
 they must have shone with steady luster; the 
 forehead, ample, but not too high; the hair and 
 beard, colored the peculiar reddish-brown famil- 
 iar to the old masters' pencils. Only a nimbus 
 was lacking to make the pictorial face a close 
 copy of Murillo's ''Ruler of the Marriage Feast in 
 Cana." 
 
 Under the portrait were a few trinkets — sou- 
 venirs of travel — mainly of Florentine work. An 
 ivory crucifix; a package of letters, perfumed, 
 like the dead, with heliotrope and tuberose; and 
 a journal kept at intervals over a period of six 
 years. It touched me deeply to find the last note 
 in it was made but a few days before our final 
 parting. In fresh ink below it was written, "I 
 leave this to you, my friend, because I cannot 
 burn what is so dear to me." 
 
 From these broken, scattered threads I have 
 woven the brief history, which is most naturally 
 repeated, as the greater portion came to me, in 
 the first person. 
 
 I have no recollection of my father. I cannot 
 remember beyond a time when my mother and 
 I lived alone in a little cottage near a maple- 
 grove, beyond which the prairie — a flowery 
 savanna — rolled away to the edge of a river, 
 whose course could be easily traced by the white 
 
 15 
 
2i8 A FAIR CLIENT'S STORY. 
 
 fog in summer, the black line in winter. I grew 
 up with slight restraint or control, a lonely child, 
 given to idleness and dreaming, and the prairie 
 was my garden, my playground and companion. 
 Sometimes I fancied it was a sea, stretching to 
 the Eastern horizon; the groves dotting its sur- 
 face were regions like the Fortunate Isles oi the 
 story books, blossoming in fadeless splendor, 
 filled with spicery, myrrh and balm, whose faint 
 odors reached me in summer evenings. Though 
 seeming near, I knew they were miles away, 
 and longed to break the mystery that shrouded 
 them, and explore the rich solitudes which prom- 
 ised everything to my imagination. When the 
 rank grass was taller than my head, I knew where 
 fern-leaves grew broadest, where strawberries 
 were sweetest, and loved to watch a shower, and 
 run before wind and rain into the house. But I 
 loved the prairie best in hot August days, when 
 before my dazzled eyes uprose the wonderful 
 mirage ; fairy towers and palaces, silver fountains 
 and plumy palms hanging in mid-air over the 
 green waves of verdure. I filled those airy cas- 
 tles with princes and paladins, heroes and cru- 
 saders, and in girlish dreaming, fancied a 
 mounted knight in bright armor, with flashing 
 sword and spur, would some day dash up to the 
 door, swing me into the saddle, and gallop away 
 
A FAIR CLIENT'S STORY. 219 
 
 with me to the great world which lay hidden 
 beyond the river. Thus I grew to womanhood in 
 the wild beauty of the prairie; its bloom on my 
 cheek, its freedom in my step, and, I would will- 
 ingly believe, some poption of its sweetness in my 
 heart and soul. 
 
 The mailed knight on the coal-black steed tar- 
 ried so long on the mountain I quit looking for 
 him, and met my destiny in the guise of a mer- 
 chant of New York. It was at a small party 
 given by one of my schoolmates in the neighbor- 
 ing village. The word beautiful is rarely applied 
 to men, but it rightfully belonged to William Sin- 
 gleton. The turn of his head and shoulders was 
 peculiarly graceful, the color of his hair and 
 beard precisely that I have since seen in Old 
 World pictures of Christ, "the color of a ripe 
 filbert," as Lentulus described it. 
 
 Something of city polish and refinement 
 marked him from the rustics about him; he 
 entered heartily into our sports, and when the 
 evening's fun was at its height a game of romps 
 was proposed, and, amid shouts of laughter, Mr. 
 Singleton was blindfolded. The room was too 
 crowded for escape, and I was soon caught. 
 
 "It is the httle lady in blue," said he, holding 
 my arm tightly, "I don't know her name, but 
 now she must sit down." 
 
220 A FAIR CLIENT'S STORY. 
 
 I did so, and in the shadow of a curtain 
 watched the progress of the game. It mattered 
 Httle who was caught or who struggled away, I 
 saw only the dark eyes, the princely brow, the 
 chestnut hair of William Singleton; heard but 
 the one voice which touched my ear and subdued 
 my soul as the South wind quieteth the earth. 
 He drew me as by subtle magnetism, and in that 
 hour all the currents of my being set toward the 
 graceful stranger. 
 
 He walked home with me, the way was long, 
 he talked like one well pleased, and at parting 
 asked leave to visit me. In Jefferson society 
 scant ceremony sufficed, and the permission was 
 readily given. He called next day, and the 
 fourth day after our first meeting I sat in the 
 latticed porch idly gazing at the Western sky, 
 then ablaze with yellow light, which gilded the 
 long grass and groves which lay in the level ex- 
 panse like "Summer isles of Eden." 
 
 A narrow footpath wound across the open 
 meadow, and slowly, as one oppressed with 
 thought, I saw Mr. Singleton approach. Though 
 unrevealed by word or sign, I knew he sought 
 me, and why. Some presence or intelligence, 
 spirit of earth or air, whispered the coming 
 secret. 
 
 We sat in the porch together, and he made a 
 
A FAIR CLIENT'S STORY. 221 
 
 passionate declaration of love, which I heard 
 without affectation of surprise or indifference. 
 He said his life had been one long disappoint- 
 ment, his aims baffled from first to last. 
 
 "If the sunny places dreamed of in childhood 
 were spread for me, I never found them, till now 
 I seem to be nearing a sweet resting place." He 
 paused, trembling visibly, while I held my breath 
 to hear. "I love you, truly, as I could after a 
 year's acquaintance. Has hope befooled me? 
 If you are not promised to another, give me a 
 little love now, more by-and-by; for this mo- 
 ment, Anne Raymond, you are dear to me as my 
 own soul." 
 
 He snatched my hand fiercely as if I had in- 
 tended to break away, but I had no such pur- 
 pose. I frankly looked into the dark, bright 
 eyes, and said: 
 
 "I have loved you from the first, and shall love 
 you to the last." 
 
 He wrapped me in his arms and covered my 
 face with lingering kisses. Oh, why did I not die 
 in that hour? his cheek against mine, his voice 
 in my ear, murmuring words from the first love 
 song: 
 
 "Thou art all fair, my love; there is no spot in 
 thee ! My dove, my undefiled is but one, she is 
 the only one of her mother." 
 
222 A FAIR CLIENT'S STORY. 
 
 Evening fell round us, myriad voices of bird 
 and insect echoed through the gathering gloom, 
 but we heard them not. We had drifted away, 
 whether in the body or out of the body I cannot 
 tell, and heeded nothing on earth or in heaven 
 but the rapture of loving. The noise of closing 
 shutters snapped the spell. 
 
 "I must speak with your mother," said Will- 
 iam, releasing me from his arms. ''In the early 
 train I leave for New York to-morrow. In four 
 months I will come to you again, and then" — he 
 spoke exultingly — "then, my little darling, we 
 will be married." 
 
 I wonder now at my ignorance and blind trust; 
 at mother's consent, when asked to give her 
 only child to a stranger — we were but simple 
 women — he appeared to us like some Eastern 
 prince come on purpose to seek and claim his 
 own, and a half-hour's pleading won her to his 
 cause. We parted, not without tears, my be- 
 trothed to business a thousand miles away, I 
 to my little chamber under the roof, that 
 thoughts of him made brighter than ever before. 
 Mine was the perfect love which casteth out fear. 
 I asked no questions, required no pledge, sure he 
 was mine, and our union natural as to live and 
 breathe. I never thought of asking whether he 
 was rich or poor, or, indeed, of any question. I 
 
A FAIR CLIENT'S STORY. 2,2^ 
 
 only knew him to be young, beautiful beyond the 
 privilege of men, and my lover. My cup was 
 filled and crowned. My colorless life, flushed 
 and warmed, glowed with tropic splendor. 
 
 The winter sped swiftly. I was busy tucking 
 and ruflfling, preparing for the future into which 
 doubt, suspicion or regret never for one moment 
 entered. It was agreed the wedding should take 
 place in June. Mother should live with us just 
 the same, with only the difference that then she 
 should have a son as well as a daughter. The 
 bright hour came, and one soft, fair evening, 
 when the earth, long buried in snow, put on 
 youth again, rising as to resurrection, we were 
 quietly married. There was no tour proposed 
 by him or anticipated by me. Whatever he sug- 
 gested was best, and wherever he went there was 
 my home, my only home. A month went by — 
 thirty precious days, like the thirty rooms in the 
 enchanted castle, each more beautiful than all 
 the others. An idle, foolish, happy time. Under 
 the blue sky, like the protecting hand of God 
 above us, we wandered beside glassy ponds bor- 
 dered with lilies, and through flowery meadows, 
 repeating the endless story, old as the hollow 
 murmur of the river, sweeter than ever sang bird 
 in summer. 
 
224 A FAIR CLIENT'S STORY. 
 
 As we sat in the doorstep one evening, Will- 
 iam said to me: 
 
 ''Anne, my little girl, I cannot wait longer to 
 tell you I cannot live with you all the time." 
 
 "And why not, my love? You know I cannot 
 live without you." 
 
 "Because of business. I must be in Owego 
 three months of the year, three m.onths I travel, 
 and the remainder of the time am in the city 
 when I am not with you. It would be very ex- 
 pensive to take you everywhere, and much better 
 to stay with your mother, who cannot well do 
 without you." 
 
 "I will if you make me," I answered, clinging 
 to him; "but it is very hard. Indeed I did not 
 expect this, William, and am not ready to obey 
 you, though I promised so lately to do it." 
 
 A whippoorwill set up his boding cry in the 
 willows, and the dismal notes fell on my ear like 
 a dirge. 
 
 "A bird of ill omen," I said. 
 
 "Yes, but I don't believe in signs. If you do, 
 look at the lovely light in the West and take that 
 as a sign of safe return and long reunion." He 
 drew me to him closer, and added: "Tell me. 
 sweet, if a stranger should come and tell you of 
 a crime I had committed, would you believe in 
 me all the same?" 
 
A FAIR CLIENT'S STORY. 225 
 
 "I took you for life and death; but what a 
 question. . Have you murdered somebody?" 
 
 I laughed and smoothed his clustering hair, 
 those beautiful silken locks, without misgiving. 
 Lovers always talk so, I thought. 
 
 ^'Would you believe the tale?" he asked earn- 
 estly. 
 
 * Would I? Oh, yes," I said, lightly, "I would 
 beheve you murdered a lone traveler, robbed 
 him, cut off his finger for the ring, and buried 
 him under the stones of the hearth. Yes, I warn 
 you I shall beheve the story when it comes, and 
 then I shall leave you for ever and a day." 
 
 In the dying twilight I saw his face change, 
 and made haste to say: 
 
 "I was only laughing at you, foolish boy. 
 Though all the world should forsake you, I 
 should never." 
 
 Oh, how my young heart bowed down to that 
 man who was to me an embodied day-dream! It 
 was pure idolatry. I could have laid all the 
 crowns of earth at his feet, and anointed them 
 with my lifeblood had he demanded so high a 
 sacrifice. 
 
 He left me the day afterward, and long sep- 
 aration followed, cheered by hopeful words for 
 the hour of my great trial — a trial without re- 
 ward, for my baby never breathed. We laid the 
 
226 A FAIR CLIENT'S STORY. 
 
 little waxen image away under the ice and snow, 
 and mourned for it with bitter tears. The fairy 
 socks and dainty embroideries, worked with lov- 
 ing care, were sprinkled with rose-leaves and lav- 
 ender, locked in a drawer which seemed like a 
 grave, and so that dream died. 
 
 Health returned slowly, but sickness had a 
 charm, for it brought me nearer, if that could be, 
 to my husband, and no one was ever petted, 
 caressed, indulged more than I was. I think 
 William must have been happy, too, as he sat 
 through long hours in silence, better than other's 
 speech, holding my wasted hand in his own. I 
 had reached a tranquil pause, a calm resting in 
 the present. A peace fell on me, deep as the old 
 Pilgrim's after he had passed the Valley of the 
 Shadow of Death, and lay down and slept in a 
 meadow curiously beautified with lilies, and it 
 was green all the year long. 
 
 But this could not last, and the day came 
 when business claimed my husband once more. 
 Softly fell the dews of that last evening. Let 
 me linger a moment over the dear, remembered 
 picture. I see it yet, the low cottage shaded by 
 wild vines that climbed to its roof, the grassy 
 lawn sloping to the fence by the roadside, be- 
 yond it the prairie, blooming in tangled luxuri- 
 ance down to the black line of the river. The 
 
A FAIR CLIENT'S STORY. 227 
 
 world without us might be dull and dreary, but 
 ours was all peace and love. 
 
 We sat by an open window, through which the 
 breeze brought health and perfume, the voices of 
 robins calling their young, and the rush and 
 roar of the river, now swollen by spring rains. 
 My heart was full, and my voice faltered as I 
 asked, for the hundredth time: 
 
 "May I go with you, my love?" 
 
 "I do not know, child. Some day, when it 
 seems best — some day," he repeated, dreamily, 
 as if talking with himself; "if not here, up yon- 
 der," and he pointed to the evening star, twink- 
 ling pale in the twilight. 
 
 "You put me off so long. Fix a day, even if it 
 is a long while to wait; give me a promise to 
 rest on. When may I go?" 
 
 "Maybe not on earth, maybe next time I come. 
 My little girl," he said, with pitying tenderness, 
 "try to be content. I do all with a view to what 
 is best for us both, and bear you a love passing 
 the love of woman. Now for a lock of your hair, 
 that is all of you I can take away this time." 
 
 My hair, escaped from its net, hung in loose 
 masses over my shoulders. He took the scissors, 
 long unused, from the work-basket, cut a bright 
 band of gold, wound it in a ring, and fastened it 
 under in a locket I had given him. I swallowed 
 
228 A FAIR CLIENT'S STORY. 
 
 my tears and looked toward the East, radiant 
 with Orion, Arcturus and his sons, and thought I 
 conld welcome the death which would give us 
 eternal reunion there. He soothed and quieted 
 me, but would not or could not stay, nor yet 
 allow me to go with him. 
 
 I watched his receding form as he set out next 
 day. Now and then he turned to wave his hand, 
 till a bend in the road shut him from sight, and I 
 felt I should see him no more till I see him for 
 ever. 
 
 Several months passed. I was not strong, and 
 life without my husband was as altered as my 
 faded face. Slowly the time wore on till I began 
 to expect him home. The thought gave my 
 cheek new brightness. I was well again, and no 
 one but myself should arrange the house for his 
 coming. Our snug parlor was the very picture 
 of serene comfort; the easy-chair of my father 
 was in its place, slippers were on the rug, and, as 
 the day was damp, a wood fire behind the bright- 
 est andirons crackled a merry welcome home. 
 Train time came, and I, too happy to sit still, 
 restlessly wandered through the house trying to 
 find something left undone, but all was in perfect 
 order, every chair in proper standing, every fold 
 of drapery exactly right. I could not bear the 
 sight of mother quietly knitting, she appeared so 
 
A FAIR CLIENT'S STORY. 229 
 
 unconcerned7 and, oppressed and expectant, I 
 leaned over the gate and looked toward the vil- 
 lage by which he should come. No William in 
 sight, but a woman walking toward me. As she 
 slowly approached, I had ample time to mark 
 her dress and bearing, and a dark presentiment 
 fell on my heart that this person was a messenger 
 of Fate coming from him to me. 
 
 She was, perhaps, thirty-five years of age, hard 
 featured, muscular, sallow, not exactly vulgar- 
 looking, but common — exceedingly common. 
 Her clothes were costly, but badly chosen and 
 ill-fitting. She carried a small vahse, which she 
 rested on the ground when she neared the gate. 
 Then she boldly eyed me a moment, and then 
 asked: 
 
 "Does a man named William Singleton live 
 here?" 
 
 "He does." 
 
 "Is he tu hum?" 
 
 Her manner was eager and curious, and she 
 spoke in Western New York dialect. 
 
 I shivered as with sudden pain. 
 
 "He is not," I answered. 
 
 "Air you acquainted with him?" 
 
 "I am his wife," I replied, trembling from head 
 to foot. 
 
 "You air, now deu tell! You may as well know 
 
230 A FAIR CLIENT'S STORY. 
 
 it first as last!" She paused before striking the 
 deadly blow. *'So be I ! Now, now " 
 
 I heard no more. I fell prone on the earth, 
 my face in the dust. 
 
 I afterward learned she lifted me in her arms 
 and carried me into the house, where she ex- 
 plained to mother that she was the true Mrs. 
 William Singleton — married ten years ago; had 
 heard a rumor of this marriage, and, after finding 
 an empty envelope post-marked "Jefferson, In- 
 diana," determined to know the truth. She set 
 out at once. The result is already known. 
 
 The story was told without much feeling, and 
 the woman, coarse but kindly, said: ''She didn't 
 know how Bill could make up his mind to act 
 so, and was very sorry she hadn't broke it easier 
 to the poor young thing!" 
 
 Mother was easily moved, and invited the 
 stranger to remain with her, instead of returning 
 to the hotel. She did so, and for one night two 
 wives of the same husband slept under one roof. 
 
 And I? How truly has it been written of utter, 
 utter misery, that it cannot be remembered? A 
 horror of great darkness fell on me — the black- 
 ness of desolation! A deluge had rushed over 
 my world. Above its wreck no light of sun or 
 star, sign of promise, dove or olive! Bless you, 
 dear mother, for your gentle nursing, that, little 
 
A FAIR CLIENT'S STORY. 231 
 
 by little, raised me from prostration of mind and 
 body, and won me back to life again. I went 
 down into the very gajes of Death and looked 
 in his face; I lay i»n his lap and slept in his outer 
 chambers. 
 
 A letter came, and my feeble pulses fluttered at 
 sight of the familiar handwriting, but weeks went 
 by before I could gain courage to break the seal. 
 I smoothed the envelope as though it had been 
 a living thing that could feel caresses. Many 
 times I kissed it; many days carried it in my 
 bosom pressed close to my aching breast! I 
 longed to open it, but was afraid. How could 
 he explain his deceit so I could- — as I must — for- 
 give him? Broken in heart and body, moaning 
 and well-nigh dead, I yet kept one thought which 
 saved me from madness. I had loved and been 
 beloved. 
 
 At last, by the dim light of the lamp, while my 
 wornout mother was buried in sleep, I unsealed 
 the revelation. Still and solemn was the night, 
 dread the moment, as when the seventh seal was 
 broken and there was silence in heaven for the 
 space of half an hour. 
 
 The letter was long; explaining how, in the 
 seclusion of the country, William thought he 
 had loved a woman four years his senior; a boy- 
 ish penchant, that would have died and been 
 
232 A FAIR CLIENT'S STORY. 
 
 forgotten, but under a hasty and mistaken im- 
 pulse they were married: 
 
 "At the time I had no one to compare with 
 Ellen, and as my observation enlarged and 
 showed me of what coarse fiber and make the 
 companion I had chosen for life's journey really 
 was, I speedily rued my folly. Had we children 
 they might have brought us together, but this 
 was denied us, and, as I grew older, I grew 
 away from her, and wore the marriage-bond not 
 as a rosy garland, but a heavy fetter, dragging 
 me down to the very dust. I tried to be just 
 and kind, and believe I was, in every outward 
 sign. She was easily satisfied, and a happy ob- 
 tuseness prevented a sense of inferiority on her 
 part or of coldness on mine. 
 
 "Artfully I veiled my disappointment, and, 
 having accepted this order of things, I thought 
 by doing my whole duty to find in that difficult 
 path all the happiness destined for my portion. 
 My heart grew hard and indifferent, but never 
 swerved from its allegiance to her, and, after 
 years of trial, I believed myself beyond the reach 
 di temptation. 
 
 "I saw you and the delusion burst. To a ter- 
 rible blunder I determined to add foul crime, 
 but never did I mean to torture you, my darling. 
 
A FAIR CLIENT'S STORY. 233 
 
 my darling! Some day I thought she would die, 
 and then you could be lawfully my own. She 
 die! The very birds of the air would carry my 
 hideous secret. Fool, fool! that I was, and 
 blind! She had the strength of ten such women 
 as you, and resolution enough to strangle me in 
 my sleep if once she willed it. 
 
 "Forgive me for your abused trust, your 
 blighted life, your ruined name. I have no ex- 
 cuse but the mad passion which possessed me 
 when I recognized in you all my nature de- 
 manded but never found in her. Do you re- 
 member the old verse I used to sing under the 
 clematis by the porch? — 
 
 " 'Thou art all to me, love, 
 
 For which my soul did pine; 
 A green isle in the sea, love, 
 
 A fountain and a shrine. 
 All wreathed with fairy fruits and flowers, 
 
 And all the flowers are mine.' 
 
 "But this is mockery. The poets say affection 
 never was wasted, nor any true love in vain. 
 The purple and gold of your heart are mine to 
 hold and to keep for ever. Blessings on you 
 for the fleeting glimpse of Eden which you gave, 
 and you alone can restore. That vision cannot 
 fade, till all fades. Even now, I look backward 
 to its happy gate, nor can awful cherubim or 
 
 16 
 
234 A FAIR CLIENT'S STORY. 
 
 flaming sword drive me far from the garden 
 where the fairest of women walked with me, mak- 
 ing it Paradise. 
 
 "I linger over this page. Slowly I bring it to 
 a close, for it is parting the last strand of the 
 bond that unites us. 
 
 "Of course you know our marriage is null. 
 Go to some lawyer, have him give you a paper 
 to that effect, and send it to Ellen, as a security 
 against future visits from her. She bears my 
 name and enjoys my fortune, but henceforth my 
 arms are empty, for there is none upon earth 
 that I desire beside thee. 
 
 "These are my last words on earth, but I 
 shall find thee again, sweet wife! in the better 
 land, where all wrongs are righted, and shall 
 be there, as I am here — only thine, 
 
 ''William Singleton." 
 
 You have seen old forests called deadenings — 
 girdled trees standing bare and lifeless, their 
 branches bleached to ghastly skeletons, which 
 spring rain or summer sun will never warm to 
 leaf or flower. Such is my life. The bloom has 
 vanished from it, and cannot come back any 
 more than the rose leaves we used to toss into the 
 river can drift to our feet again. 
 
 I wrote a few words to my husband — let me 
 
A FAIR CLIENT'S STORY. 235 
 
 call him by that dear name still — and returned 
 his many valuable gifts, but not all of them. In 
 the churchyard is a nameless grave, scarcely 
 more than a span long, where lies buried dust 
 that is his as well as mine, binding us yet by the 
 mystery of death and the deeper mystery of life. 
 
 Shortly afterward an unexpected inheritance 
 fell to us, and with mother and her youngest 
 brother I wore away two years in travel, finding 
 in the din and tumult of cities something in ac- 
 cord with my restless, unsatisfied nature. We 
 visited Rome, Constantinople, Damascus, and, 
 driven by feverish unrest, flew from place to 
 place, trying to escape memories which haunted 
 me like pale specters. We saw Karnak and 
 Luxor, the splendors of the furthest East, and 
 with reverent feet trod the holy hills round about 
 Jerusalem. 
 
 But the magic light was gone from sea and 
 land. There was no thrill when I rested my hand 
 on the stone where the Savior of the world 
 might have lain. Coldly I looked on Gethsem- 
 ane and Calvary, wearily I rocked in the fairy 
 boats of the Adriatic, and names whose glory has 
 filled the earth, legend, fable and story, all the 
 siren songs of the Mediterranean, fell on listless 
 ears. 
 
 I thirsted for the cool springs of my own 
 
236 A FAIR CLIENT'S STORY. 
 
 meadow brook; in dreams gathered lily buds and 
 bells, and sat among the purple water flags and 
 dipped my fevered feet in the golden-brown rip- 
 ples that rose to kiss them. Better to me the 
 prairie breeze, with its fresh scents of spicewood, 
 mint and calamus, than all ^^olian airs, wafted 
 from summer seas across the soft Campania. So 
 I came home to them as the tired child to its 
 mother. 
 
 Time, the consoler, laid his hand on my heart, 
 stilHng its pulses to quiet, healthful beating, and 
 I settled to the calm duties of the kind of life the 
 world gives those of whom it significantly says, 
 ''She has been disappointed." 
 
 I have health, one tried friend not bound to 
 me by ties of blood, and mother love, the daily 
 manna of the wilderness. Yesterday a news- 
 paper paragraph (she sent it) announced the 
 death of William Singleton. I had thought my 
 love, too, was cold and dead, but it stirred under 
 its winding-sheet, uncovered its face, rose and 
 stood before me in the light of morning. 
 
 Through the long afternoon I threaded famil- 
 iar paths beside glittering waters, and listened to 
 words like old remembered music heard in the 
 stillness of summer nights. The risen dead, be- 
 loved of my soul, went with me. I saw the per- 
 fect face, with its divine eyes, so like the King 
 
A FAIR CLIENT'S STORY. 237 
 
 in His beauty. I leaned on my beloved, and in 
 the purple twilight tiny hands waved to us from 
 out the shadowy distance. Last night, oh, happy 
 night, some pitying spirit lifted the wxight of 
 years. I felt warm breathings, soft touches of 
 my baby that died without the light, and under 
 the shadow of sheltering wings slept as they sleep 
 who wake in Paradise. 
 
 Divided from her, he is all mine. And now I 
 await reunion, warned by surer tokens than fad- 
 ing lips and whitening tresses the time of my de- 
 parture is at hand. In the night I have dreamed 
 dreams, in the day I have seen visions, and as I 
 write tears dim my eyes, but they are not tears of 
 sorrow. Many waters cannot quench love, 
 neither can floods drown it. I look across the 
 gulf that daily narrows, and fearlessly stand and 
 wait for — ^well, ah, well, I know whose he shall be 
 in the resurrection. 
 
William Wetniore Story. 
 
 Page 2^u. 
 
y 
 
IX. 
 WILLIAM WETMORE STORY. 
 
 A Memory. 
 
 The Golden Milestone has never been set up 
 outside the Forum, and Rome is yet the center of 
 the world. To enter its gates after years of hope 
 and despair, and salute it with the freshness of 
 unworn enthusiasm is such happiness as rarely 
 comes. Our visit was made while the earth was 
 passing through the fiery sunsets of November, 
 1883, and from the far Campania to see the dome 
 of St. Peter's against the blood-red sky that 
 flamed through the arches of the Coliseum, 
 changing them to beaten gold, was even a deeper 
 pleasure than to float along the silver streets of 
 the silent city of Desdemona; — there where 
 Shakespeare's spirit still walks the waters. 
 
 I am not here to prose, guide book in hand, on 
 what has been told a thousand times and a thou- 
 sand times better than I can tell it. My reader 
 has probably felt the fascination of the Eternal 
 City, but may not have learned how soon the 
 
 spell grows wearisome. We long to escape the 
 
 239 
 
240 WILLIAM WETMORE STORY. 
 
 cold companions of the sculptor, the chill of the 
 marble mountains of Cararra though wrought 
 into shapes of imperishable beauty. 
 
 In the Barberini Palace, the cheerful home of 
 W. W. Story was filled with the warmth the 
 stranger covets, and was like hopeful, sunny 
 Italy of to-day contrasted with the gloom of 
 dismal records studied in schools. Under the 
 church hard by, in sacred earth from Jerusalem, 
 the bones of 4,000 Capuchins are the decorations 
 of their burial place. To leave these ghastly 
 memorials for the apartments of the poet so long 
 a social center, ah, it is as much better as youth 
 is better than age, as life is better than death. I 
 do not know the history of the Barberini Palace, 
 only that its stones were quarried by Urban 
 Eighth from the stones of the Coliseum. In 
 olden times famous banquets must have been 
 held there, and perhaps the Grand Duke himself 
 dined in sumptuous state with princes and cardi- 
 nals, churchmen and statesmen, chiefs and chief 
 priests; the heart and brain of Italy have planned 
 and plotted there, and fancy easily peoples the 
 ample space with phantoms from among the gen- 
 erations long vanished. Lords of high degree 
 and ladies gay have swept the halls in pictorial 
 dress, and flowers, perfumes, lights, music and 
 the dance have made the night festal In stormy 
 
A MEMORY. 241 
 
 centuries past, it may have withstood sieges, and 
 the stone floor resounded with gride of sword 
 and jingle of spurs as the lover bound for battle 
 knelt to kiss the hand of his bright mistress. 
 
 The Recording Angel holding sleepless watch 
 over men has registered births and bridals within 
 these walls, many unions, sweet and dear, but 
 none more happy than the married life of the 
 poet-sculptor I write of. It is said the duration 
 of a man's friendships are the measure of his 
 worth. If this be true, we must award the high- 
 est praise to him. His friends never dropped 
 from their allegiance, some subtle quality en- 
 forced remembrance, and even the employes of 
 his studio and their families served him with un- 
 failing fidelity nearly half a century, and brought 
 their flowers to lay on the oaken casket of the 
 master who was also their friend. 
 
 Native gaiete du coeur made him a charming 
 host, and exquisite tact brought out what was 
 best in his visitor. 
 
 Nor was he, like Coleridge and de Quincy, 
 merely strong in monologue; he was, what is 
 much rarer, attentive hearer as well, and used to 
 say there are ten fine talkers to one fine listener. 
 Under his guidance conversation never declined 
 to dullness nor sunk to the level of gossip. At 
 his table Margaret Fuller talked, and led her 
 
242 WILLIAM WETMORE STORY. 
 
 hearers captive; they who denied her behefs and 
 defied her teachings going down before her al- 
 most without a struggle. There Hawthorne, 
 poet though he made no rhymes, was beguiled 
 into society, but only when his wife was near to 
 break up the ice around him, his morbid dread 
 of strangers making the sensitive soul shrink 
 from sight, sometimes to spend a whole evening 
 in the shadow of a curtain. At meetings to which 
 every comer contributed were gathered Miss 
 Hosmer, Harriet Martineau, Thackeray, Brown- 
 ing and his ethereal wife, now sleeping in Flor- 
 ence, the city of her love. Rogers, Landor, 
 Leighton — how can I number the choice spirits 
 who held high converse in the drawing-room of 
 the ancient Palace? There were debates of law, 
 politics, science, literature, subjects free of the 
 vice of the commonplace, forecasting the destiny 
 of Italy, the mysteries of the Unseen, death and 
 life undying. Attrition of kindred minds pol- 
 ished and sharpened, as iron sharpeneth iron, 
 and Story was master of the feast. 
 
 The gracious power of making friends was 
 laid with other ancestral gifts in his cradle. 
 Not subject to moods and tenses, a certain 
 sweetness of manner impressed all so fortunate 
 as to come near him, reminding me of what Sen- 
 eca wrote of his favorite brother: *'No one is so 
 
A MEMORY. 243 
 
 pleasant to any one as my brother Galeon is to 
 every one." It was not acquired pleasantness, 
 for the charm was lasting, and remained after the 
 graces that wait on youth were faded, and age 
 with stealing step, was nigh. There was no need 
 for him to sing as he did: 
 
 "Old age in others is charming, 
 In mothers is lovely, 
 But somehow 'tis not in ourselves." 
 
 One of his household at this time wrote: "Mr. 
 Story was a man of such rare intellectual powers, 
 combined with such kindliness and sweetness of 
 disposition, that no one was ever a more delight- 
 ful companion to live with." It appeared slight 
 effort for him to do what mediocrity accom- 
 plished by slow toil. Whatever he touched was 
 beautified. A poem, a charade, a little play 
 thrown off to be enacted the night after it was 
 written; how easy it seemed! Whoever has tried, 
 knows that the faculty for rapid and excellent 
 work is the result of practice. Skill comes by 
 doing. With such boyish enjoyment did the 
 versatile mind enter into pastimes he called fool- 
 ish games that we hardly believe him the patient 
 worker of whom Mrs. Story said: "WiUiam has 
 not had a holiday in thirty years. ^ * * All 
 the world knows his genius, only I know his 
 goodness." 
 
244 WILLIAM WETMORE STORY. 
 
 He did not quit the study and practice of law 
 through failure. Early in life he turned from 
 Boston to the only land where sculptor's dreams 
 come true. Fifty years ago this was considered 
 a bold move, with uncertainty at the end. But 
 he chose to be a laborer in the Kingdom of the 
 Beautiful, and must go where there were artists 
 enough to create an atmosphere of their own, 
 instead of living in the arctic regions of Beacon 
 street. At best, the sculptor is a solitary man, 
 though his is the only calling in which the drudg- 
 ery may be done by another. The dusty stone- 
 cutters of Rome, though called mere mechanics, 
 being often more skillful with mallet and chisel 
 than the master who shapes the clay model, 
 where all the genius lies. 
 
 One day in the studio I asked Mr. Story to 
 have the work go on. The cutter struck the 
 snow white mass, without hesitancy, apparently 
 a careless blow; but it was of sure effect. 
 
 "Does he make no false strokes?" I inquired, 
 for the artisan looked less skilled than our tomb- 
 stone carvers. "Never," was the answer, "men 
 of his class have a feeling for the clay model not 
 found in other countries." 
 
 Story's rest was change of employment, and 
 the ink in his blood was stirring when he began 
 his career as sculptor. The loveliness of Italy 
 
A MEMORY. 245 
 
 sunk deep into his soul, and made it overflow in 
 prose and verse. 
 
 Some forlorn aspirant for literary honors, 
 secretly making a timid offering to fame, may 
 take heart at learning how "Roba di Roma" fared 
 when first given to the public. A portion had 
 been printed in ''Blackwood's Magazine" and 
 the "Atlantic Monthly." The papers were col- 
 lected, and, with fresh material added, were sent 
 to a Boston publisher. Months passed without 
 news of the venture. My reader knows with 
 what fond, pathetic yearning the youthful writer 
 waits to' hear from his beloved manuscript. A 
 year went by. The precious thing could not be 
 found. Whether destroyed by fire, theft, or care- 
 lessness, none could tell, and, though with little 
 hope, the author, visiting his native land, insisted 
 on a thorough hunt for the manuscript. The 
 vaults of the house were overhauled, and dusty 
 copy in quantity brought to light, but no "Roba 
 di Roma." The search was abandoned as useless. 
 Disappointed, but not cast down. Story went 
 back to Rome and set about a new composition. 
 One day — a happy one we may be sure — a heavy 
 package was received by mail and proved to be 
 the missing child so long mourned as lost. It 
 was before the typewriter's day and there had 
 been no second copy. Then he had the supreme 
 
246 WILLIAM WETMORE STORY. 
 
 revenge of the sufferer under rejected manu- 
 scripts. He published the book on both sides of 
 the sea, and from the first it was received with 
 favor and his victory complete. 
 
 Its vigorous Protestantism made it odious to 
 the Catholic Power, and it was proscribed by 
 Pope Pio Nino. Only through artful smuggling 
 in small packages did the volume find way into 
 the Papal States, where it was eagerly sought by 
 native and foreigner. Its popularity has not 
 waned; still in demand in Europe, and in the 
 United States it remains his best known book. 
 
 When we see the author whose works we have 
 admired, there is often a sense of disappointment. 
 He is not like his own ideals, nor yet a likeness of 
 the image we had in mind and a moment of sad 
 surprise may follow a meeting sought with an- 
 ticipated delight. There was no such risk in 
 near approach to Story. The man was wiser, bet- 
 ter than his books. One of the elect whom fate 
 had fitted to his surroundings, he put to flight 
 the old idea that to follow art aright one 
 must forsake father and mother and cleave 
 only unto her. He loved ''dear Nature" and, lean- 
 ing on her breast, he dreamed dreams and saw 
 visions. In cool, shadowy places, with sense at- 
 tuned to finest harmonies, he had ears to hear 
 the grass grow, the trees stretch their liml)s, the 
 
A MEMORY. 247 
 
 calling voices of naiads haunting the oaks, or to 
 interpret far-off music, the messages of the winds 
 and the waterfalls. 
 
 It was himself of whom he wrote: "He was in 
 the habit of wandering alone, during the summer 
 mornings, through the forest and along the 
 mountainside, and one of his favorite haunts was 
 a picturesque glen, where he often sat for hours 
 alone with Nature, lost in vague contemplation; 
 now watching the busy insect life in the grass or 
 in the air; now listening to the chirping of birds 
 in the woods, the murmuring of bees hovering 
 about the flowers, or the welling of the clear 
 mountain torrent, that told forever its endless 
 tale as it wandered by mossy boulders and 
 rounded stones to the valley below; now gazing 
 idly into the sky, against which the overhanging 
 beeches printed their leaves in tessellated light 
 and dark, or vaguely watching the lazy clouds 
 that trailed across the tender blue." 
 
 When we met we naturally talked of the new 
 book just out : He and She. A volume bound 
 in bridal white, light to the touch, fair to the 
 eye. Mrs. Story, the proud and loving wife, 
 quoted "The Song of the Vanquished" as his 
 best. 
 
 "I sing the hymn of the conquered, who fell in the battle 
 of life— 
 
248 WILLIAM WETMORE STORY. 
 
 The hymn of the wounded, the beaten, who died over- 
 whelmed in the strife; 
 Not the jubilant song of the victors, for whom the 
 
 resounding acclaim 
 Of nations was lifted in chorus, whose brows wore the 
 
 chaplet of fame. 
 But the hymn of the low and the humble, the weary, the 
 
 broken in heart. 
 Who strove and who failed, acting bravely a silent and 
 
 desperate part. 
 Whose youth bore no flower on its branches, whose hopes 
 
 burned in ashes away, 
 From whose hands slipped the prize they had grasped at, 
 
 who stood at the dying of day 
 With the wreck of their life all around them, unpitied, 
 
 unheeded alone. 
 With death sweeping down o'er their failure and all but 
 
 their faith overthrown." 
 
 We, the visitors, declared for the poem writ- 
 ten in the fervor and passion of youth, "Cleo- 
 patra." The very spirit of Antony's "Serpent of 
 Old Nile" breathes in every line. It calls up the 
 commanding figure of Oriental history, con- 
 queror of conquerors; the fateful woman full of 
 beauty and of poison, who held in check the gen- 
 erals of wars that changed the map of the world. 
 This poem sings of the enchantress of many lov- 
 ers whom he had carved in marble, and marvel- 
 ous is the cunning that can shape a lump of wet 
 clay from the Tiber into a creation so like life 
 that it seems to lack nothing but breath. 
 
 Not many see the marble woman whose heart 
 
A MEMORY. 249 
 
 of fire never cools, but all may feel the fierce 
 power of the sorceress in the burning words of 
 Antony. 
 
 "Tell my dear serpent I must see her, fill 
 My eyes with the glad light of her great eyes, 
 Though death, dishonor, anything you will, 
 Staid in the way! Aye, by my soul, disgrace 
 Is better in the sun of Egypt's face 
 Than pomp or power in this detested place! 
 Oh, for the wine my queen alone can pour 
 From her rich nature! Let me starve no more 
 On this weak, tepid drink that never warms 
 My life-blood, but away with shams and forms! 
 
 Away with Rome! One hour in Egypt's eyes 
 Is worth a score of Roman centuries." 
 
 Of the friends we left in Rome, Story was 
 among the last to join the silent majority. 
 
 The loss of the wife of his youth, whom he 
 survived but a year, was a bitter blow; and with 
 her passed his interest in affairs. It was only 
 when his children suggested that he should make 
 a monument to her memory that he consented to 
 resume work; the design he chose was the Angel 
 of Grief, and it is wrought to exquisite finish, as 
 are the statues modeled in his summer prime. 
 When this was done he left the studio never to 
 return. The illness which began shortly after- 
 ward was long and severe. Soon he was forced 
 to stay almost continually in his room, and 
 
 17 
 
250 WILLIAM WETMORE STORY. 
 
 strength waned till time became a burden too 
 grievous to be borne. His best lover would not 
 have held him back from the unseen land of 
 which he wrote so tenderly. His latter months 
 were a rapid decline, and October 7, 1895, the 
 end came. It was in the matchless vale where 
 Milton first beheld Paradise; at Vallambrosa in 
 the villa of his beloved daughter, Madame Per- 
 uzzi di Medici, to whom were spoken his last 
 words, "O, dear, I am so glad to have you near 
 me." Suddenly life forsook his face like light 
 removed. 
 
 "the great sculptor, Death, 
 
 Whom men should call Divine, had at a blow 
 Stricken him into marble;" 
 
 In the city of many fames his fame is secure. 
 
 Near the antique Pyramid of Caius Cestius, 
 beside the Aurelian wall, in the dust to which he 
 was drawn by mysterious kinship, he sleeps as in 
 a sheltered garden. Nearly a hundred years ago 
 Shelley said of the Protestant cemetery of Rome : 
 ''It might make one in love with death to think 
 of burial in.so sweet a place." So lovely is it and 
 so lonely ! Through ages to come, pilgrims will 
 pause there reverently under the sighing pines 
 and the sad cypresses that whisper their secrets, 
 not disturbing the still sleepers below. Daisies 
 and violets bloom the year round, and picture the 
 
A MEMORY. 251 
 
 sod where I drop this poor Western flower. At 
 morning, larks flood the sky with melody; in the 
 hush of evening, when shadows gather broad and 
 dark, the love-lorn nightingale stills all the world 
 to hsten to her tale of how the rose has pierced 
 her breast with cruel thorns. 
 
 The husband and wife rest close together, and 
 near them is the urn holding all that remains of 
 the restless heart of Shelley. The body of their 
 old friend Marsh is not far off, and across a 
 ruinous space is a little winding path, ending at 
 one of the saddest shrines on the face of the 
 earth, — the grave of the sweet wailing singer, 
 Keats. Round about, on carved stones, are names 
 in various languages foreign to Italy, brief, pa- 
 thetic records. Travelers from countries wide 
 apart, leaving their homes in search of health, 
 have come together in this consecrated spot. 
 
 Except that death is always mournful, there is 
 nothing for tears by the tomb of Story. A full, 
 rich life lived out, a stainless name linked with 
 varied victories, are the heritage of his children. 
 The sons who keep their name illustrious by 
 their own light, though his has set, remember 
 him as the playmate of their childhood, the com- 
 panion of their youth, the patient counselor of 
 their later years. 
 
 Death breaks the lock of every portfolio, and 
 
252 WILLIAM WETMORE STORY. 
 
 without unveiling sacred places, I venture to 
 enrich an imperfect sketch with a letter from 
 Mrs. Story. It seems a sort of treachery to print 
 what was never intended for publication, and I 
 pray forgiveness of the writer if, perchance, her 
 gentle shade hovers about the world she made 
 the fairer for her living in it. 
 
 Letter of Mrs. Story. 
 
 "N. Lago di Vallambrosa, 
 "October 28, 1886. 
 
 "My Dear Mrs. Wallace : Many a time, im- 
 patient of the silence which has come between us, 
 have I wished to break it on my side, but so 
 vague was my knowledge of your whereabouts 
 that I was frightened about launching into in- 
 finite space my little skiff. Your most kind let- 
 ter came and helps me to find you out. How 
 often is 'Ben-Hur' in our minds and its praises on 
 our tongues ! 
 
 "The book of books of this age ! Read aloud 
 for the second time it has lost none of its rare 
 charm, and it is beyond words to say how greatly 
 we prize it. All our English friends to whom we 
 have introduced it join in this chorus and its 
 reputation is fast growing there as in America. 
 
 "I do not like to think that being snugly set- 
 
LETTER OF MRS. STORY. 253 
 
 tied in your old home, ^outre mer,' we are not 
 likely soon to see you in Rome, but we cling to 
 the hope that it is not impossible. We have had 
 a most delightful summer at St. Moritz in the 
 Engadine, and are there, in the pine woods, 
 building a house ! There are few things more ab- 
 sorbing than the building of one's future home, 
 and when, as in this case, the situation is so com- 
 pletely to one's tastes and physical wants, it is 
 abundantly comforting to see its growth. We 
 are building of the stone found on the place, 
 rough and unhewn. It was graciously brought 
 there ages ago by some friendly old glacier and 
 delivered, fit for use, at our very door. As it 
 grows in height we see that it dominates the val- 
 ley with no discordant note, it might have grown 
 there, first cousin to the snow-capped mountains, 
 all gray and subdued. The cement between the 
 stones has been carefully made of the same color 
 and there is no offense to the landscape, or any- 
 thing too new about it. The greater part of each 
 day have we passed in our pine wood there, until 
 we feel that we already have possession, and 
 have grown familiar with all its shades and 
 moods. They promise to have it ready for occu- 
 pation next summer. 
 
 "We are now making a visit to our daughter, 
 Edith Peruzzi, and are greatly enjoying the 
 
254 WILLIAM WETMORE STORY. 
 
 grandchildren, who are very original, clever, and 
 amusing. It is in the heart of the Vallambrosa 
 forest, and the leaves are thick as in Milton's 
 time. 
 
 ''The life here is singularly simple and idyllic. 
 No report of the outer world comes except 
 through Galignani's judging columns, and the 
 days go by happily, without incident or note. 
 
 "Our plan is to go to Rome next week and 
 shake down into our old routine at the Palazzo 
 Barberini early in November. How pleasant 
 had we hope of seeing you there this winter. I 
 do not like to wait too long for my good things, 
 but am impatient in my old age to snatch them 
 up lest they escape me altogether. 
 
 "My husband, for the first time since our mar- 
 riage, has been taking a holiday, and while 
 watching the masons and stonecutters at St. 
 Moritz has found ample amusement and, I hope, 
 rest from his constant work. However, his is 
 the working temperament, and it is his great de- 
 light as he goes from one thing to another. The 
 Key monument, for San Francisco, is finished, 
 and, if I say it, who perhaps shouldn't say it, is 
 one of the grandest monuments of modern 
 times. 
 
 "My boy Julian is painting, in Paris, a large 
 historical picture; it is the incident of Madame 
 
LETTER OF W. W. STORY. 255 
 
 de Sembreuil and her father. They tell us (we 
 haven't seen it) that it will be a great success, and 
 this I am not unwilling to believe, as you may 
 imagine. 
 
 "My son, Waldo, and my son-in-law, Peruzzi, 
 have just come in with their dogs and guns. A 
 slender bag is all they can hope for here as the 
 game is not abundant. But the accidental wood- 
 cock involves a long tramp over the hills, and 
 this is what they must be content with instead 
 of the full bags of England. 
 
 ''Now, my dear friend, pray let us hear from 
 you sometimes, and believe that we have a very 
 deep interest in all that concerns you and your 
 husband. Though our intercourse was all too 
 short, yet it was long enough to make us feel 
 the most affectionate sympathy and abiding con- 
 fidence in you both. 
 
 ''With love from my husband, 
 
 "Yours, most cordially, 
 
 '^Emelyn Story." 
 
 Letter of W. W. Story. 
 
 "Palazzo Barberini, 
 "Rome, Feb. 15, 1884. 
 
 "My Dear Mrs Ben-Hur: I was very much 
 touched by your kind remembrance of me, and 
 
256 WILLIAM WETMORE STORY. 
 
 ought long ago to have thanked you, as I do 
 now, most heartily, for the handsome kufyah 
 which you were so good as to send me. It was a 
 great surprise as well as a great pleasure to re- 
 ceive such a token of your kindly feeling toward 
 us. 
 
 ''My excuse for not writing to you before is 
 simply this. I wanted first to read Ben-Hur, so 
 as to be able to say something about it. But 
 with the thousand interruptions to which our 
 evening life is subject it was not easy to find a 
 series of evenings which we could devote to the 
 reading, and as all were anxious to hear it, we 
 determined to read aloud and enjoy it together. 
 This, at last, we have done, my wife and I alter- 
 nately reading each other, and what do we say 
 now that we have finished the last page with deep 
 regret to come to the end? We all agree that 
 it is a most remarkable book, of deep and sus- 
 tained interest, vivid to an extraordinary degree, 
 full of life and character and power. Through- 
 out it is masterly and there are passages and 
 scenes which stir one's blood like the sound of 
 the trumpet. The galley life, the naval fight with 
 the pirates, the race in the Circus are so full of 
 fire and life that we seem to have been there as 
 spectators or actors. I cannot imagine how Gen- 
 eral Wallace could have created, without ever 
 
Last Work of W. W. Story. 
 
 1 ]\Iontiment to his wife, i F\\ge 257. 
 
LETTER OF W. W. STORY. 257 
 
 having personally visited and been familiar with 
 the life and scenery in the East. It seems almost 
 impossible. There is no smell of books, no cram 
 (to speak slang) in any of it. It seems like a real 
 experience. The characters are admirably drawn 
 and constantly consistent, and the entire book 
 has left a deep impression on my mind. It ought 
 to have had a very great public success, and I 
 hope it has. If it has not then it has been badly 
 managed by the publishers. You must not think 
 that in saying this I am simply wishing to say 
 what is pleasant. I speak the truth according 
 to my own feeling and judgment. 
 
 'We remember our only too brief intercourse 
 with you and your husband with great pleasure, 
 and wish that it could have been prolonged. 
 Sometime, let us hope that we may again see 
 you here or elsewhere (but better here) for a 
 longer time. 
 
 "With our united kind regards to you and 
 General Wallace, I am, 
 
 "Yours, most faithfully, 
 
 **W. W. Story." 
 
5 
 
X. 
 
 AMONG THE PALACE-GALLERIES OF 
 FLORENCE— MADONNAS- 
 RAPHAEL 
 
 In Florence — flower of all cities, city of all 
 flowers — there is a small room of the Ufflzzi Pal- 
 ace given to portraits of illustrious artists. There 
 is Rubens in very becoming hat and streaming 
 plume; Vandyke, with the wide collar which 
 bears his name; Velasquez, in rich mediaeval 
 dress; Titian, robed in faultless drapery; paint- 
 ers with lesser fame and faces unlike, having one 
 distinguishing quality : each is extremely hand- 
 some. The stranger does not understand why 
 this should be, until he learns they are auto- 
 graphic portraits; and at once he feels no man is 
 bound to paint an ugly picture of himself any 
 more than to parade his secret faults or place his 
 vices on exhibition. 
 
 Foremost for beauty, where all are beautiful, 
 
 is the foremost artist of all this world, Raphael 
 
 Sanzio, well named by his countrymen El Di- 
 
 vino, ''the divine one." Artists have so long 
 
 259 
 
26o THE PALACE-GALLERIES. 
 
 sought Italy for models that the Italian face 
 seems familiar at first glance through the wist- 
 ful eyes, so sad, so sweet, which look at you 
 from the walls of every art gallery on the earth. 
 Sometimes, in passing a shop, a figure appears 
 behind the window, with face so Hke picture 
 that, till it stirs, the passer-by does not know if 
 it be art or nature; a shopman maybe, or a mil- 
 liner endowed with the rich heritage of regular 
 feature and soft warm color. The same curious 
 sensation came over us at seeing living cherub 
 faces framed in dingy tumble-down doorways, 
 or breathing angel-boys, on a background of dirt 
 and darkness, playing marbles in narrow alleys, 
 chattering with flute-like voices and a charming 
 grace of gesture which is natural and uncon- 
 scious as the movements of the gazelle. 
 
 The Raphael face, as it has come down to us, is 
 the type of perfect manly beauty, second to the 
 god of the Vatican. He was twenty-three years 
 old when it was painted. Rhythmic lines of ut- 
 most delicacy make the three-quarter face of the 
 portrait. A tight velvet doublet, cut close 
 round the shoulders, would render almost any 
 other masculine neck hideous. It only brings 
 out the elegant contours of his long, flexile 
 throat, shaped like a slender woman's. Thick 
 chestnut hair, slightly curling, falls below the 
 
MADONNAS— RAPHAEL. 261 
 
 black velvet cap still worn by Roman artists. 
 Clear olive skin, pure" forehead, and dark, lumin- 
 ous eyes make what painters name a color-har- 
 mony. He used to say good judges are as rare 
 as beautiful women. We may add a beautiful 
 man is rarer than either. The pensive, pleasant 
 face, suggestive of dream and reverie, commands 
 our admiration in a different way from the 
 Apollo, lacking, as it does, the Greek fire which 
 stirs in that wonderful statue. 
 
 Not much is known of the early life of our 
 artist, who was fortunate as though born in the 
 purple. His father was a limner of no preten- 
 sion, and at his birth in 1483 gave his son the 
 name of the Archangel, as though he foresaw 
 the celestial brilliance of his fame. The modest 
 house where his hazel eyes opened to the light 
 is kept as pubhc property and pointed out to the 
 traveler through Urbino. Half way up the 
 mountain side it clings to the shelving rock as a 
 swallow's nest clings to the eaves. The sharp 
 peaks of the Appenines are in sight, and in the 
 farness of the distance sparkles the blue Adriatic. 
 
 The boy had no nurse but his mother, and 
 there is a rude picture, still extant, of a mother 
 and child, supposed to be the work of Giovanni 
 Santi, Raphael's father. The life, which was a 
 triumphant epic, began as it ended, under 
 
262 THE PALACE-GALLERIES. 
 
 gracious influences in an atmosphere of love. 
 His studies commenced with Perugino, a faith- 
 ful, religious teacher, the most distinguished of 
 his period, who exclaimed when he examined 
 Raphael's first sketches, *This youth, who is my 
 pupil, will soon become my master." One of the 
 best gifts his good genius laid in his cradle was 
 "the power to toil terribly." He had the rare 
 felicity of doing rapid and excellent work, and 
 the amount he accomplished was enormous. 
 
 While yet in his 'teens, he left Perugia for the 
 peerless city of the Red Lily, and there met his 
 first love, whose name has escaped the historian. 
 In the British Museum are treasured a fac-simile 
 and translation of sonnets to the unknown one. 
 Consoling is it to others who have rung the 
 changes on love, dove; youth, truth; chime, sub- 
 lime, and like familiar jingles, to know the love- 
 sick youth had trouble with his rhymes in the 
 language which lends itself most readily to verse. 
 In the corner of the sheet are such words as 
 solo, dolo, volo, noted down; and after a line 
 ending with luce we find reduce, conduce, aduce, 
 testimony to his perplexity in choosing the fit- 
 ting word. 
 
 It would seem the serene pictorial face of 
 Raphael must be a reflex of his own soul; the 
 outshining of a heavenly spirit within. They 
 
MADONNAS— RAPHAEL. 263 
 
 tell yet, in the studios, of his lofty nature, his 
 princely hospitality, his courtesy; so gentle and 
 so generous as to make him beloved even by 
 rivals who pined and died of envy at his su- 
 periority. He escaped the customary curse, and 
 had no long struggle in garrets for daily bread. 
 He lived in splendor as became the splendor of 
 his genius; was the companion of nobles, the 
 peer of princes, and never felt the force of the 
 proverb, "To follow Art aright you must for- 
 sake father and mother, and cleave only unto 
 her." His life was varied and delightful. He 
 was fond of elegant costumes, and had them; 
 loved dainty food and wine, and had them; and 
 it is asserted his luxurious habits shortened his 
 days. His lovers choose rather to believe he died 
 before his life was lived out, because in thirty- 
 seven years his spirit burned away its frail prison- 
 house; his soul wore out his breast as the sword 
 out-wears its sheath. 
 
 He painted over one hundred Madonnas, and 
 his work is so unequal it leaves the impression 
 that portions of it are unfinished. The cartoons 
 designed for Flemish tapestries are singular 
 drawings to us, and the hands of some of his 
 pictures are stiff and awkward. He belonged to 
 the school of students who trust nothing to in- 
 spiration. He employed living models, and his 
 
264 THE PALACE-GALLERIES. 
 
 method was to draw the figure in red chalk and 
 then clothe it as one clothes the naked human 
 body. Not otherwise, he said, could the an- 
 atomy be accurately kept. He spent long nights 
 in dissecting dead bodies, and never indulged the 
 dolce far niente dear to the lazy Southron. At 
 the summit of his glory, when kings were con- 
 tending for the slightest touches of his pencil, 
 his processes were toilsome. After painting the 
 human form and clothing it, he said he painted 
 the soul — a nobler task than either of the other 
 two; but he reached the point where seraphs 
 and cherubs seem to "draw themselves," and the 
 Divine Child assumes the thoughtfulness of the 
 future Judge of quick and dead. 
 
 The power to illumine ideal faces with the hal- 
 lowed light from their own hearts is a transcend- 
 ent gift vouchsafed to few. It is beyond the 
 reach of airy pencil and costly color, unless they 
 are guided by the subtle, mystic force never com- 
 prehended, which the world calls genius. 
 
 There are deep mysteries in that strange gift. 
 Grosser natures feel, but understand not, the 
 methods by which a masterful hand produces 
 effects that bring tears to your eyes ; you scarce- 
 ly know why, for it is a feeling more intense than 
 the mere sense of the beautiful. Given a 
 
MADONNAS— RAPHAEL. 265 
 
 stretched canvas, half a dozen brushes and a few 
 colors to paint the invisible soul. 
 
 Incredible you say; yet it has been done. If 
 you do not believe, go visit Italy; stand before 
 the St. Sebastian of Guido and frescoes of Fra 
 Angelico, and be convinced. 
 
 There is a picture which once filled with its 
 solitary presence a room of the Pitti Palace. The 
 subject is the Visitation of the Virgin, and was 
 conceived in ignorant but zealous times, when 
 men, shut in the soft gloom of convent cells, gave 
 form and hue to children of their dreams, and 
 did not know they were dreaming. In it there 
 are no accessories. Mary arose and went up into 
 the hill country, with haste, to the house of her 
 cousin Elizabeth and saluted her. The meeting 
 is in a garden in front of a sculptured archway, 
 against a dark blue sky. They stand alone and 
 look as they should who were worthy to be moth- 
 ers of the greatest of kings and the greatest of 
 prophets. The elder woman steps eagerly to 
 greet the mother of our Lord, who, with eyes 
 downcast and ineffable meekness in her face, re- 
 ceives the mysterious welcome. There is a tra- 
 dition about the studios that a woman of a 
 strange country far from home, lonely and home- 
 sick, would go and sit hours at a time in that 
 room "for company," wistfully praying that the 
 
 18 
 
266 THE PALACE-GALLERIES. 
 
 kind, penetrating, sympathetic look of the tender 
 old Elizabeth might fall on herself. 
 
 Day after day the poor creature went to the 
 majestic picture, little knowing its great merit, 
 until (so the story runs) a sweet peace sunk into 
 her soul, which she accepted as a sign from 
 Heaven. Everyone is not thus strongly moved, 
 but the memory of that painting is a precious 
 possession to those who have been blest with the 
 sight. 
 
 To perfect his sculpture, Michael Angelo, 
 when young, changed his living models for 
 corpses. Through twelve years he lived among 
 the dead, studying them and almost analyzing 
 them. Once he became infected with the virus 
 of putrefaction and was near death, from an 
 effort to extract the sublime out of the remains 
 of a skeleton laid aside as useless by the surgeons. 
 Thus with Guido, when congratulated on his 
 success in painting upturned eyes, he said, mean- 
 ingly, "I never understood the method until I 
 had dissected eyes." 
 
 I asked the most famous sculptor now living 
 if he ever reached his ideal. He answered, 
 "Never! If I should touch It, one Incentive 
 would be gone. I start on each new study with 
 hope, like sure prophecy. Gradually the rapture 
 fades, the fire burns out. When two-thirds done. 
 
MAD O N N AS— RAPHAEL. 267 
 
 there comes a period of despair. I can not reach 
 the height up which I ran so fast at first, and so 
 I plod on as best I may and accept fate, believ- 
 ing this the common doom." It is difficult for 
 us to believe the work of the first artists can fall 
 short of their imaginings, and we readily see the 
 type of woman admired by each. 
 
 The Madonnas of Rubens are fat, heavy, red- 
 cheeked German women; of the earth, earthy. 
 The Madonnas of Michael Angelo are remote, 
 magnificent, stately, and suited to the fancy of 
 the sculptor who, beholding with clear vision a 
 white-winged angel in a block of marble by the 
 wayside, attacked it with hammer and chisel, 
 determined to set the imprisoned spirit free. I 
 need not run through names familiar. The vir- 
 gins of Raphael are only a little lower than the 
 angels, yet always the woman, too. The expres- 
 sion of rapture in the face does not destroy the 
 meekness of the Jewish maiden, who answered 
 the messenger Archangel, "Behold, the hand- 
 maiden of the Lord; be it unto me according to 
 thy word." So' arbitrary was the fashion of 
 painting the virgins in close, red tunic, with long 
 sleeves, and over it a blue robe or mantle, like 
 those worn to this day by Bethlehem girls, that 
 when Raphael ventured on a bare right arm, 
 public opinion obliged him to cover it with the 
 
268 THE PALACE-GALLERIES. 
 
 long sleeve. He was very devout. The poetic, 
 dreamy expression of his face inclines us to think 
 he was one of the enthusiasts who steeped his 
 brushes in holy water during Lent, and wept as 
 he worked at the canvas, which he never ap- 
 proached till first purified by prayer. More than 
 this, we may almost credit the legend told by 
 Guido, that while he was adoring Mary, she re- 
 vealed her person to him in a vision, that he 
 might the more worthily portray her loveliness. 
 They are pictures to haunt you and hold you. 
 Such might easily lead any motherless woman 
 to worship of the mother of Christ. 
 
 It is a pity to die without seeing Italy. Only 
 in the land of Raphael can you learn the possi- 
 bilities which lie in the intellect of man. If 
 tempted to describe the indescribable, I might 
 try to tell of angelic faces gleaming on cloudy 
 backgrounds that, invisible at first, come softly 
 into view, as stars come out in summer twilights, 
 till the canvas is crowded with heavenly shapes — 
 a seeming miracle. 
 
 In Art, as in Nature, we receive but what we 
 give, and unless in sympathy with the subject 
 and its treatment, vainly do you visit the Palace- 
 Galleries. You will be Hke the smart American 
 
MADONNAS— RAPHAEL. 269 
 
 in Switzerland, among the sublimest scenes earth 
 has to show, beholding the glory of Mount 
 Blanc, and pertly saying: "Well, Blanc looks 
 pretty tall this morning, and white headed at 
 that." It is the spectator's mood which trans- 
 figures the Transfiguration, and, I confess, the 
 extreme painfulness of that great work kept me 
 from a longer study of it. I turned with a sense 
 of relief to the Savior ascending in a golden ra- 
 diance, a light Kke that from the Eternal Throne, 
 painted by Guido, which hangs near it in the 
 Vatican. 
 
 No picture of Him touched me like the Ecce 
 Homo of Carlo Dolce. The head is of supreme 
 beauty. The eyes look at you instead of up- 
 ward, as is usual with paintings of this class; 
 the blood-stained face, so divine yet so human, 
 is agonizing. 
 
 I could not bear to look, yet found myself 
 drawn from all else in the room, returning to the 
 image of the Man of Sorrows, which almost said : 
 "This have I done for thee, what hast thou 
 done for Me?" 
 
 There is an ancient tradition which claims that 
 Luke, the beloved physician, was also a painter, 
 and the familiar pictures of Christ (distinguish- 
 able as portraits of Washington are), follow his 
 original, from which all after likenesses have 
 
270 THE PALACE-GALLERIES. 
 
 been made. You who are interested in this sub- 
 ject may find a delightful chapter on it in 
 Geikie's Life of Christ. 
 
 If there be a fairer thing than Florence outside 
 of Heaven, I have not foimd it. Such heroic 
 deeds have there been done that the imperish- 
 able names of poet, hero, prince, prophet, are 
 written in the very paving stones of the streets 
 they have trodden. He is a dull clod who does 
 not thrill to the spell of her loveliness, old, cen- 
 turies old, yet forever young, and does not say 
 to himself, I, too, will do something to make my 
 name remembered. 
 
 The wavy lines of Carrara and the Appenines 
 encircle her with a magic girdle. Ethereal walls 
 of amethyst, amber, and pearl, which shut out 
 the curse of age and decay. 
 
 At evening Raphael used to thread the white- 
 paved path up San Miniato, while the dove-like 
 tints of the sky flushed red as the redness of 
 roses, and climbed the tower where a century 
 later Galileo learned the story of the sun and 
 Milton looked on Vallambrosa and dreamed of 
 Eden. 
 
 To-day San Miniato wears as a crown, no king 
 has half so precious, Angelo's perfect statue of 
 David, the shepherd-boy who sang, "The Lord 
 is my Shepherd." 
 
MADONNAS— RAPHAEL. 271 
 
 It is worth a long pilgrimage only once to see 
 the sun go down to the swift music of the bells of 
 Campanile, the lily carved in stone by the boy 
 who left his flocks to build himself an everlasting 
 fame. 
 
 In the pure elastic air of Valdarno lie palace 
 turrets, towers, spires in a sort of spiritual beauty 
 such as sculptors must see in their dreams. The 
 Vecchio battlements sharply pierce the sky and, 
 dominating all, the tall shaft of the Duomo, a 
 poem of the earth and air, rises in the speckless 
 blue. Its many-colored marbles, touched with 
 gold and ivory by the opaline light, are fresh 
 as if sculptured last night. Here history, poetry, 
 romance hold eternal and undisputed sway. 
 The Past is not the dead Past. It is round about 
 you and enfolds you like this ethereal atmos- 
 phere. The memories of greatness are ever 
 present and ineffably dear even to the meanest 
 Florentine. Every beggar knows where Pe- 
 trarca sang, where Dante lived, where Boccaccio 
 told his wild tales, and the Square where the tried 
 soul of Savonarola was freed by fire. In grate- 
 ful recognition of the anniversary he will give 
 from his poverty a violet to strew on the pave- 
 ment where the martyr suffered. 
 
 Across the Happy Valley, where there is an 
 ideal side to the poorest life, beyond the gray 
 
2^2 THE PALACE-GALLERIES. 
 
 olive orchards and sad cypresses lies, warm in 
 the sun, white Fiesole, unspeakably beautiful. 
 There is the villa of the Medici princes, who lav- 
 ished their miUions on palaces, churches, hospi- 
 tals, Hbraries, and in their cool, flowery gardens 
 the nightingale sings her love-songs to the rose. 
 On festal days, and they are many, from a hun- 
 dred standards floats the crimson cross, the red 
 lily of Florence, which once blossomed in victory 
 on the gates of Rome. Oh, there is no beauty 
 like the beauty of Italy ! Well do her children 
 sing, out of it every land is exile. 
 
 Under a compelling impulse, Raphael forsook 
 the flag of the lily for the imperial purple. He 
 said a final prayer beneath the vaulted roof 
 which now shelters all that can die of Michael 
 Angelo and Giotto, and sought the mountain 
 rim, which at morning seems impalpable and 
 evanescent as the passing drifts of clouds. 
 
 Through tender lights and hazy curtaining 
 shadows he rode, where the ashes of a hundred 
 generations without a history lie in unrecorded 
 battlefields. 
 
 A misty procession from the ranks of the for- 
 gotten marches with you who journey there to- 
 day. Nameless rulers, law-givers, people (Italy 
 has always a people) — phantom hosts growing 
 dimmer and dimmer, vanishing at last into the 
 
MADONNAS— RAPHAEL. 273 
 
 regions of myth and fable. Over the dead and 
 gone Etruscans, in their cheerful tombs, he rode; 
 over that older city whose name is lost; along 
 the weird, ghastly Campagna, whose creeping, 
 damp winds are freighted with death; he trav- 
 eled in search of severer studies and sterner tasks. 
 Fair Florence is a poetess; in brute greatness 
 Rome is a gladiator. He entered it by the wall 
 scaled in our generation by the red-shirted troops 
 of Garibaldi. He went as a conqueror, to write 
 his name on high in the noblest cathedral built 
 by mortal hands. 
 
 Orders from the Pope at once poured in on 
 him. The church princes instantly gave him a 
 loggia in the Vatican for his frescoes. He was 
 the spoiled darHng of art-lovers, and wrought in- 
 cessantly; making designs for mosaics, tapes- 
 tries, scenes for theaters; using wood for small 
 pictures, instead of canvas. At intervals he prac- 
 ticed modeling with clay and, in boundless ambi- 
 tion, expected to rival Angelo in sculpture and 
 Bramante in architecture. 
 
 He had a school of pupils eager to learn, who 
 dressed in gay and smiHng colors, and when he 
 walked on the Palatine, fifty youths attended 
 him; which made Michael Angelo — a sour, soli- 
 tary man — exclaim : "You go about surrounded 
 like a general." 
 
274 THE PALACE-GALLERIES. 
 
 In the sixteenth century the church was the 
 best patron of art. High dignitaries must be 
 propitiated; and in courtly flattery, a cardinal 
 or archbishop was represented talking with the 
 Holy Family, or a Medici or Colonna, stained 
 with unspeakable crimes, throned on the shining 
 clouds of Paradise. This is bad enough; but, 
 oh! what shocking blasphemy, to see God the 
 Father pictured a benevolent old man, watching 
 the martyrdom of some saint or the mystery of 
 the Incarnation! That face which no man can 
 see and live, before whose awful majesty the first 
 Archangel veils his eyes as he sings. But it was 
 not conscious blasphemy to the prayerful mas- 
 ters. In those days lived artists who believed in 
 God and glorified Him in their works, before 
 people who believed in Him as truly. In little 
 towns there was, here and there, an obscure man, 
 who rarely wandered beyond hearing of his ves- 
 per bells, who has left, in a dim gray church 
 or dusty cathedral, the portrait of the wife of his 
 youth above the lighted altar, and the face of his 
 first-born in the Christ-child she holds in her 
 arms. His holy work lives on; but his name is 
 recorded only in Heaven. 
 
 The dreams of the painters in the sixteenth 
 century were realities to themselves. It is im- 
 possible to produce such results without convic- 
 
MADONNAS— RAPHAEL. 275 
 
 tion. Raphael denied that any of his Madonnas 
 are portraits; all are varied copies, from no 
 earthly face, of the sinless ideal mirrored in his 
 own soul. Spinello fainted when he laid on the 
 finishing stroke of his portrait of Satan; and 
 the Fra Angelico deemed it profanation to alter 
 a feature of the angels who visited him one lus- 
 trous night and shadowed his cloister with 
 wings, that they might live visibly before men in 
 the starry faces of his frescoes. 
 
 While the ruling powers were to be conciliated 
 in delicate compliment, so grudges were some- 
 times paid by painting a favorite enemy as Judas, 
 always with red head, or a condemned soul in 
 hell wearing ass's ears, or as Satan, with bat's 
 wings, hoofs, and a tail. Then again the hus- 
 band deifies his wife, his children, or oftener the 
 high-born lady whom the artist may worship 
 from afar. 
 
 There is Httle of gayety in the works of the 
 painter who painted for eternity, who knelt be- 
 fore his easel for a blessing on his labors; and I 
 recall but one so cheering that when unveiled it 
 made the people laugh and sing for joy. It was 
 a fresco in the Sanzio Villa, near Rome, painted 
 in extravagance of fun, as though he had re- 
 served his whole stock for this one outburst. 
 There are all sorts of whimsical designs — Loves 
 
276 THE PALACE-GALLERIES. , 
 
 balancing on poles or mounted on horseback; 
 dancing Graces; Fauns overflowing with jollity; 
 Mercury alight or flying; nymphs with arms en- 
 twined making garlands of human flowers; baby 
 cherubs nursed in Eden; rose-winged Cupids 
 poised on purple mists; young gods crowned 
 with myrtles, innocent, ethereal as visions of 
 childhood. There, too, are trooping Auroras ris- 
 ing on the radiant lines of morning; Naiads float- 
 ing on sea-foam, so aerial and fleeting a breath 
 would blow them away. On the ceiling of the 
 same salon are medallion portraits of the For- 
 narina, the baker's daughter, with bold, black 
 eyes and cheeks of ruddy bronze. 
 . Usually the finest foreign pictures of moder- 
 ate size are under glass to prevent accidents, for 
 copyists are constantly at work before them. 
 They are property of the Government and the 
 privilege of copying is free. No one is allowed 
 to keep his easel in place longer than two 
 months; the names of applicants are kept in a 
 registered list, and so great is the number of can- 
 didates for the sittings, that not unfrequently 
 the applicants must wait six years for their turn 
 to come. The first copy is held as a model not 
 for sale, else each remove (copies of copies), 
 would take from the likeness, till it would gradu- 
 ally be lost like the long-continued impressions 
 
MADONNAS— RAPHAEL. ^17 
 
 of an engraving. A copyist may spend his life 
 re-producing one picture, and if he has the soul 
 of an artist he should get very near the touch of 
 him whose best Madonna is represented upborne 
 by the air, uncrowned, save with her own fair 
 tresses. Usually the copy misses the last inde- 
 finable charm in about the same distance that 
 Addison's Cato falls below the Julius Caesar of 
 the great master of morals and humanity. 
 
 In the golden year, 1520, Raphael touched his 
 meridian. 
 
 Then it was time to depart. Happy for him to 
 cross the boundary between the things misnamed 
 death and existence, ere the excellency of his 
 strength declined, before his work-worn hand 
 had lost its cunning or his marvelous personal 
 charm was dimmed. The circumstances of his 
 death are obscure. After a short rapid fever it 
 was announced that El Divino had passed above 
 the brightness of the sun — had joined the saints 
 and martyrs, who were to him not shadowy 
 myths or phantoms, born of fear and supersti- 
 tion, but beings whom he loved to contemplate, 
 the subjects of his dearest fancies and devotions. 
 He must have entered that innumerable com- 
 pany, as an equal and familiar spirit. In his 
 own studio, loving pupils folded to rest the illus- 
 trious and reverent hands which had painted the 
 
278 THE PALACE-GALLERIES. 
 
 Apostles, the Blessed Mother and Redeemer tri- 
 umphant in glory, now revealed to his actual 
 sight. At his head they placed his grandest pic- 
 ture, on which the paints were still wet. ''And,'* 
 says an old chronicler, "when the people of 
 Rome flocked to look upon him for the last time, 
 and raised their eyes to the unfinished Trans- 
 figuration, and then bent them on the lifeless 
 form beneath, there was a wail of sorrow and 
 every heart was like to burst with grief." His 
 sickness was so brief there was no wasting of the 
 refined clay. 
 
 It lay in statuesque repose exquisite as marble 
 of Carrara, brought by the mighty sculptor into 
 the matchless symmetry of the crucified Christ. 
 
 At his own request he was buried in the Pan- 
 theon, that august monument whose colossal 
 lines had been one of his favorite studies, and a 
 simple slab of marble, let into the wall, marks 
 the tomb of the greatest of painters. If opened, 
 we might almost think to find, instead of dust, 
 roses and lilies such as the Disciples found in- 
 stead of the body of the Virgin when they sought 
 it, sorrowing. 
 
 In 1833 his coffin was unclosed and his skele- 
 ton exposed to the adoring gaze of a vast con- 
 course of people; and after five weeks of homage 
 it was returned with incredible pomp to its sepul- 
 
MADONNAS— RAPHAEL. 279 
 
 cher. The sad Miserere sounded through St. 
 Peter's and was echoed by the bells of the other 
 churches in a solemn night-service. There was 
 a funeral procession with banners, torches, flam- 
 beaux; and the Pantheon was illuminated to re- 
 ceive the beloved remains. 
 
 Beyond the majestic, pillared portico, among 
 arched recesses and stately altars once dedicated 
 to heathen gods (Christian through twelve cen- 
 turies), he sleeps well. Wrapped in his shroud, 
 forever safe with his undying^ fame. 
 
The Divide Child. 
 
 Page 281. 
 
XI. 
 LETTER FROM DRESDEN. 
 
 The Sistine Madonna. 
 
 "December, 1884. 
 
 "The gallery of Dresden, in what is called the 
 Green House, is superior to anything of the kind 
 outside of Italy. Only the Vatican is richer in 
 statuary and the Pitti Palace surpasses it in pic- 
 tures. I made haste to find the masterpiece of 
 Raphael, having held (heretically) that Murillo's 
 Immaculate Conception is more beautiful than 
 the Sistine Madonna of Sanzio. After careful 
 study I cannot now say it is less beautiful. They 
 are both divine; in design and execution the 
 very first in the world. A peculiarity of the Ra- 
 phael is that it sinks into your heart as you 
 stand before it. Like the Murillo, the Virgin- 
 Mother is a girl not more, in appearance, than 
 sixteen, which, you remember, was near her age 
 when our Savior was born. Right here is the 
 failure in all the prints and copies of it I ever 
 saw, and it was on account of this failure that I 
 so unjustly gave it the second place. The youth- 
 
 19 281 
 
282 LETTER FROM DRESDEN. 
 
 ful mother seems to hold the infant up to you, 
 with a look which says, ever so plainly, yet with- 
 out pride or exultation: Behold the Light of 
 the world! Here is the goodness of God in- 
 carnate. She knows the future; those eyes have 
 looked through infinite sorrow, and found in- 
 finite peace. On its part, the Child is seeing 
 things of the earth, at the same time they are 
 lighted with a glow of Heaven. The two to- 
 gether are in perfect keeping with their wonder- 
 ful story. After a time I found myself looking at 
 them to the entire exclusion of the outre figures 
 of the Pope and Santa Barbara, whose introduc- 
 tion into the scene may possibly be excused on 
 the ground that their absolute earthliness makes 
 perfect contrast with the divinity which shines 
 from the principal characters. 
 
 "Finally the cherubs, dimpled and smiling, 
 could not be spared from the picture. With 
 them are three couples, with an unlikeness each 
 to the others, that is of itself a revelation of the 
 power of characterization which lies in a pencil 
 under the guidancy of a mighty master. For 
 this latter, give me the crayon of Raphael and 
 the pen of Shakespeare and the multitudes of 
 men are mine, and I shall do with them as I 
 please. 
 
 "With all my devotion to the Sistine Madonna 
 
THE SISTINE MADONNA. 283 
 
 I have not forsaken my first love; the floating 
 figure with crescent beneath her feet, ringed 
 with cherubs as with roses, there in her happy 
 home in the Louvre. 
 
 "Raphael's Mother and Child in the chair are 
 on exhibition in the same gallery. This picture 
 is also a wonder, but the attractions of the other 
 obscure it utterly. A thin little woman had her 
 canvas set up before it, and using the license al- 
 lowed in European galleries I dared to look over 
 her shoulder. She was struggling with a task 
 beyond her power. The likenesses were good, 
 but then I realized, as never before, the immeas- 
 urable distance which may lie between an orig- 
 inal and a copy; a portrait and the object re- 
 produced, — the distance between a dead statue 
 and a spiritualized something that suggested or 
 sat for it. I felt very sorry for the pale little 
 woman. It was brave in her to attempt the copy, 
 and she will work over it so long, so long, and 
 then fail, and some day awake to the conscious- 
 ness that it is a failure. How painful that waking 
 time is!" 
 
XII. 
 
 A REMINISCENCE. 
 
 It is long since I heard a voice from Heaven 
 saying, write; so long I sometimes fancy that the 
 far cry answered in the vanity of youth was in 
 reality addressed to another. But there can be 
 no mistake in the call that comes to-day, and 
 not to appear unheeding, I have looked through 
 treasured papers and find manuscript of more 
 value than any fresh material I might offer. 
 From among letters, new and old, I select one 
 of General Sherman's illustrating his kindliness 
 and unfailing interest in all so fortunate as to 
 come near him. It is in reply to a request for 
 leave to print certain private correspondence in 
 a biographic sketch — an idea afterward aban- 
 doned. You notice how unlike it is to the usual 
 brief response by the hand of a secretary : 
 
 "FiFTH-AvE. Hotel, 
 "New York, Jan. 17, 1887. 
 
 ''Dear Mrs Wallace : Your welcome letter of 
 the 15th is at hand, and without stopping to ex- 
 
 19 
 
 285 
 
286 A REMINISCENCE. 
 
 amine whether the letters from me to your hus- 
 band were recorded or not, I freely consent to 
 the use you propose to make of them, with the 
 simple proviso that they, in general, express the 
 w^arm feeling I felt for every man who wanted to 
 fight the good fight m which we were then en- 
 gaged. 
 
 "The quotation you make, 'Hold your horses 
 for the home stretch,' comes back to me as the 
 memory of a dream. I surely thought of it often 
 when I saw the splendid young fellows spoiling 
 for a fight, for glory and fame, when my better 
 knowledge told me the end was not yet or near; 
 but I none the less loved the ardent, brave and 
 handsome fellows who needed the curb to hold 
 them back for the 'home stretch.' It must have 
 been in this mood that I wrote to General Lew 
 Wallace in 1863. 
 
 *'I have seen so much mischief done by garb- 
 ling letters that I prefer the letter should be em- 
 bodied entire, as also the General's letter which 
 called for these answers; but as they are some- 
 times too full for the text, with full faith in your 
 good sense, of which I have heard much, I leave 
 the subject to you free. 
 
 "So many of our comrades have dropped ofT 
 of late that, though in good health and strength, 
 I feel like a patriarch, ready and willing to be 
 
A REMINISCENCE. 287 
 
 called on short notice, and I shall be the more 
 willing if I know that some remain who are ca- 
 pable of recording the deeds and thoughts and 
 feelings of the men who rescued our govern- 
 ment from the greatest danger that ever threat- 
 ened its existence. 
 
 "With love and respect to the General, and 
 wishing you and yours every earthly blessing, 
 
 I am, truly yours, 
 
 ''W. T. Sherman." 
 
 How well I remember the one bright day 
 after a week of rain when we last saw him at 
 West Point (1890). One by one the cadets, 
 eager and fluttered, came up to the stand to re- 
 ceive their diplomas. When General Sherman 
 presented the parchments, instead of repeating a 
 stiff formula, he told a gay anecdote, or some 
 reminiscence of the days when he, too, was a 
 boyish aspirant, or gave the class a little playful 
 advice. It was done with nicest tact in fitting 
 words so free from the vice of the commonplace 
 that each youth had a sense of personal friend- 
 ship, assured that his glorious career would be 
 shaped under the watchful eye of the great com- 
 mander. 
 
 As was written of Lord Raglan, that by some 
 gift of imagination he divined the feelings of 
 
288 A REMINISCENCE. 
 
 all sorts and conditions of men, and whether he 
 talked to a statesman or a school boy, his hearer 
 went away captive. Nor was it an acquired 
 grace, a mere society gloss, but the outshining 
 warmth of a generous spirit. This subtle force in 
 General Sherman made the festal day a proud 
 historic date for the graduates of the military 
 academy. 
 
 The veteran, in rusty uniform and careless col- 
 lar, looked the soldier he was, the greatest with 
 the least pretense. Worn by years, but not brok- 
 en; alert, ready to speak or to listen with wakeful 
 attention; never forgetting the old acquaintance, 
 equally mindful of the new, it was easy tO' see the 
 springs of his popularity. Wherever he went 
 there was the center, and the gracious charm of 
 his manner set at ease the ancient captain who 
 helped put down the rebellion and wanted (O 
 how he wanted !) to talk over the march to the 
 sea, its grief and its glory. His cheery voice 
 calmed the distracted matron seeking introduc- 
 tion to the hero of whom she had heard and read, 
 not knowing how to behave when at last she 
 ventured into his presence; and the quick eye 
 and friendly greeting reassured the bashful boy, 
 hungry for honors, till the lad grew radiant with 
 confidence. 
 
 The stir of the crowd, the banners floating in 
 the rich and balmy air, the roll of drums, the 
 
A REMINISCENCE. 289 
 
 joyful appeal of bugles, the cheers, evidently 
 moved General Sherman. Yet, in the midst of 
 adulation, the sweetness of unstinted praise, he 
 would drop into silence, his face put on an ex- 
 pression of listening, rapt, intent, as though he 
 already heard ''the advancing tread of the stone 
 statue." 
 
XIII. 
 
 ABOUT BOOKS.* 
 
 In answer to the question what book has 
 given me the most pleasure, I reply without hesi- 
 tation, "Pilgrim's Progress." It was when I 
 was about seven years of age that I passed from 
 "Cinderella" to Bunyan's matchless work with- 
 out suspecting that it was not a child's book. 
 And possessed of the precious volume — new 
 books were rai'e in those days — I climbed a tall 
 "secretary," to escape the younger children, who 
 were too small to scale the back of a chair and 
 follow me. We were a noisy set — nine in all — 
 and, secured in comparative quiet, on my high 
 perch, I dreamed dreams and saw visions such as 
 no fairy tale ever unveiled to me. Types and 
 shadows there were none. The actors of the 
 drama were not creatures of fiction, they were 
 positive substance, my familiars, and now are 
 placed with my personal recollections. 
 
 The narrow path, straight as a rule could make 
 it, was plain to my eyes as the footpaths which 
 
 * From Edward W. Bok. 
 
 291 
 
292 ABOUT BOOKS. 
 
 streaked my father's orchard, under the apple 
 trees. I hung entranced over every step in the 
 marvelous journey, and saw clearly, as I see this 
 pen and paper, the very stately palace, the name 
 of which was Beautiful, and it stood by the high- 
 way side. How my young heart rejoiced when 
 Christian found the lions guarding it were 
 chained ! As he dropped his load into a sepulcher 
 and gave three leaps for joy, my soul leaped too, 
 only to sink again when he fell into the clutches of 
 Giant Despair and w^as beaten with the grievous 
 crab-tree cudgel in the awful courtyard paved 
 with skulls of Pilgrims. How foolish of him to 
 forget the key Promise, which would open any 
 lock in Doubting Castle, and how I longed to 
 twist my hands in the hair of that Flatterer with 
 his net! 
 
 Delicious to imagination were the good things 
 the travelers had to eat by the way. The raisins 
 and pomegranates, the cordials, wine red as 
 blood and those wonderful grapes that go down 
 so sweetly as to cause the lips of them that are 
 asleep to speak. The feasts almost made up for 
 the fights with scaly dragons and terrific shapes 
 coming out the burning pit, terrors that made 
 hideous the road through the Dark Valley and 
 satisfied my juvenile love of the mysterious and 
 horrible. 
 
ABOUT BOOKS. 293 
 
 Sweet to childish fancy were the rarities 
 and fair shows of the Interpreter's House; the 
 letter of the King, which smelt after the manner 
 of the best perfumes; the orchards and the vine- 
 yards of the Delectable Mountain (then I had 
 never seen a mountain), and the loving shep- 
 herds at Beulah who strewed flowers before the 
 feet of the Pilgrims bound for the city of their 
 Prince. 
 
 Here and there I had to spell out hard words, 
 many things were puzzling, but the very wonder- 
 ments added to the charm O'f the story. What 
 was a quagmire, what was a muck-rake, what 
 were stocks, a civet-box; how could one grass- 
 hopper burden a man, and what sort of shoes 
 were they which never wear out, and how could 
 the shining ones dress in gold clothes? I shiv- 
 ered at the passage through the cold, black river, 
 forever flowing; the river that has no bridge, but, 
 oh, the rapture in the triumph beyond! The 
 ringing bells, the melodious noises, the singers 
 and harpers with their harps; above all, that One 
 who sat on the great white throne with the rain- 
 bow round His head. Those pages thrilled me 
 like an outburst of triumphant music, the exult- 
 ant feeling one has in cathedrals resounding with 
 some mighty anthem. 
 
 It was winter time, and the pleasanter for deep 
 
294 ABOUT BOOKS. 
 
 snows without were thoughts of warm palace 
 rooms, the delicate plain Ease, the shady arbor 
 and the meadow curiously beautified with liHes, 
 green all the year long. At sunset I looked 
 through glistening towers on frosty window-- 
 panes, as many years afterward I watched the 
 domes and spires of old Stamboul floating in 
 silvery mists of the Bosphorus, and recalled the 
 tremulous glimmer in the shepherd's perspective 
 glass. On the top of a high hill called Clear they 
 could not look steadily, yet they thought they 
 saw something like the gate of the Celestial City, 
 and also some of the glory of the place. Noth- 
 ing was faint or vaporous. Near at hand, not 
 high and distant, was the City of the King — an 
 undimmed splendor. 
 
 When I went to bed that night, lovely shapes, 
 walking, floating, flying, w^ent with me, and 
 angel-eyes watched over my sleep. The supreme 
 delight of the book was Greatheart, my hero in 
 bright armor and helmet with plumes; the giant- 
 killer, the lover of women and children, who 
 marched up to the lions, not minding if they were 
 chained or not. That warrior-image has not 
 changed in the waste of years, nor can it change. 
 He lives while realities have died. I loved him 
 then, I love him yet. 
 
 Familiarity has not dulled the charm of the 
 
ABOUT BOOKS. 295 
 
 wondrous tale, and still does the mystic touch 
 of memory sound the ancient strings. In a half- 
 century of pilgrimage I have repeatedly met the 
 very brisk lad named Ignorance, who came from 
 the country Conceit, have caught glimpses on 
 several continents of Madame Bubble selling her 
 vanities, a tall, comely dame, with something 
 of a swarthy complexion. And, in strange lands, 
 while under the friendly roof of our missionaries, 
 I bethought me of the large upper room where 
 the Pilgrims slept and Mercy dreamed her glori- 
 ous dream. Its window opened toward the sun- 
 rising, the name of the chamber was Peace. 
 
 From Bunyan, the change to ''The Arabian 
 Nights" was easy; thence I turned to Shakes- 
 peare, where I remain unto this day. No shrine 
 outside of Palestine moved me like the poor little 
 house where he spent his boyhood, unconscious 
 that he was to enrich the human race with its 
 greatest literary inheritance. 
 
 As I write the name there rises before me the 
 cool, gray day we spent at Stratford. The waters 
 of Avon go softly past the old town, which is 
 specklessly clean and bowered in vines and 
 creepers. On the Lucy estate, hard by, is the 
 Shakespeare style, made in ancient fashion, so 
 the upper bar drops and catches the feet of the 
 poacher trespassing on the deer park. We regis- 
 
296 ABOUT BOOKS. 
 
 tered our names in the book, always open, where 
 every year twelve thousand are written, mainly 
 visitors from the dear land we love to call our 
 own. Two quaint women keep the place, and 
 tell their story with a freshness which cheers the 
 tired traveler. Again I touch the ceiling of the 
 room where "the foremost man of all this world" 
 was born, and mark the low doorways, the 
 cramped and crooked stairs leading to the loft in 
 which he used to sleep among the rolls of wool. 
 There is the chimney seat where the lad must 
 have warmed his feet and watched the embers of 
 the hearth turn to phantoms dim and gray. Im- 
 mortal beings were all about us. They filled the 
 air, peopled the spaces, flitted by on noiseless 
 wing and swung on threads of gossamer in the 
 tree-tops. The pleasant spirits came unsought 
 and without call. Mysterious footfalls left no 
 sound or imprint in the quiet streets, though 
 august shapes attended us. We felt the majestic 
 presence of Lear and of the Roman sweeping by 
 in gorgeous robe, surrounded by centurions — 
 a mighty company. The winds whispered sweet 
 secrets, and swaying boughs sheltered troops 
 of harmless little folks tripping it on fairy feet. 
 Fairest and palest of shades among many fair 
 and pale were Juliet, all beautiful, and the gentle 
 lady wedded to the Moor. They joined our walk 
 
Abbotsford. 
 
 Page 297. 
 
^ 
 
ABOUT BOOKS. ^297 
 
 and hovered along our way till chased back home 
 by the palHd ghosts that sHde on the moon- 
 beams above Kenilworth Castle. 
 
 Not one thought of the endless debate came 
 near us that day. Among the green haunts were 
 many shadows, but the cloudy specter named 
 Bacon did not appear. Who wrote ''Othello/' 
 the most pathetic of human compositions? As 
 well ask who made the world. 
 
 Next to Shakespeare stands Scott. "Ivanhoe" 
 is a perfect romance, and the last conversation 
 of Rebecca with the Templar is worthy the great 
 master himself. The sylvan scenes, with scented 
 woods and rushing brooks, are reminders of the 
 deep forest where Jacques mused and Rosalind 
 laughed at love till he caught her in his net. 
 
 It ill becomes one who has not read "Robert 
 Elsmere" to criticise the modern novel or tell, 
 even in this strict confidence, how, in the general 
 deluge of literature, the only rest is found with a 
 few souls counted worth saving from the flood. 
 
 Read mean books and you think the whole 
 world mean. Better to seek the demigods of 
 Plutarch, or read tales of brave men near our 
 time, who were stirred by deep impulses to en- 
 dure sacrifice for a noble end. Though there is 
 no opportunity for heroic deeds, we can admire 
 and revere the heroes who heard heavenly voices 
 20 
 
298 ABOUT BOOKS. 
 
 and thrilled with the sense of great things, visible 
 and invisible, to be struggled for. So shall we, 
 too, be uplifted. 
 
 The brief space allotted me forbids more than 
 a hint of afternoons filled with the music of the 
 poets. Familiar are the melodies of 'Tenser- 
 oso" and ''Alegra," the words of the ''Ancient 
 Mariner," of ''Marmion," the ''Prisoner of 
 Chillon," and the voice, "hollow like a ghost's," 
 of Arthur — the ideal, yet most real of English 
 kings — blessing the Queen with milk-white arms 
 and golden hair, low lying at his feet. 
 
 When the lamps are lighted then comes the 
 hour for the household singer, the Cambridge 
 poet, most beloved man of letters in our genera- 
 tion; who spends the evenings with him keeps 
 good company. 
 
XIV. 
 
 FLORENCE NIGHTINGALE. 
 
 Soon after the close of the Crimean war there 
 was a memorial dinner in London, given by Lord 
 Stratford to the ranking officers of the British 
 army and navy. Naturally conversation turned 
 on the recent conflict, and toward the conclusion 
 of the entertainment the host suggested that 
 each guest should write on a sHp of paper the 
 name connected with the war which he beheved 
 would be most illustrious through future ages. 
 All wrote as requested, the ballots were collected 
 by the proposer of the movement, were opened 
 and read amid enthusiastic cheers, for every one 
 of them contained the name of Florence Night- 
 ingale. 
 
 The result has proved the truth of that even- 
 ing's prophecy; a whole generation has passed 
 since then, and who thinks of the dead and gone 
 generals who fell at the storming of the Mala- 
 koff ? The elocutionist gives the "Charge of the 
 Light Brigade" without knowing who obeyed 
 the bitter blunder; the military student may re- 
 
 299 
 
300 FLORENCE NIGHTINGALE. 
 
 call the hero of Kinglake's history — the beloved 
 Raglan — and possibly some veteran dimly re- 
 members the commander of the gray hosts of the 
 Vladimir, but the sweet name of Florence Night- 
 ingale is dear in almost every home where the 
 English language is spoken. 
 
 Ancient Scutari, the largest city on the Asian 
 shore of the Bosphorus, is overlaid with history, 
 far-reaching and full of association which stirs 
 the deep waters of memory. It was the haunt of 
 hordes in the mythic period; they are forgotten. 
 Persian satrap and Western crusader encamped 
 on the heights; they are not mentioned now, 
 nor is the pious Godfrey nor Imperial Constan- 
 tine; but every tourist is pointed to the yellow 
 building, used as Turkish barracks, where the 
 world has learned how divine a woman may be 
 in ministry to men. 
 
 In Constantinople it was my good fortune to 
 know an English woman well acquainted with 
 the subject of my sketch, who left England when 
 she was about thirty-six years old. Said my in- 
 formant, I have often seen her in the midst of 
 suffering, and where misery and despair were 
 deepest she was sure to be found. Her figure 
 was slight and graceful, her manner dignified, her 
 face beaming with tenderness for the soldiers, 
 who blessed her as she went by. Her fortitude at 
 
FLORENCE NIGHTINGALE. 301 
 
 surgical operations passes belief. Once, when 
 the agonies of a patient in the hands of surgeons 
 put to flight his attendants, Miss Nightingale 
 turned around and with grave rebuke called to 
 the trembling fugitives: ''Come back! Shame 
 on you as Christians! Shame on you as wom- 
 en!" And her courage, joined with what the 
 French call the gift of command, brought the 
 timid nurses again to their duty. 
 
 She was always on her feet. "I never saw her 
 seated but once in a council of surgeons, who 
 hated her because she broke through their rou- 
 tine and refused submission to regulations." 
 From the bloody heights of Inkerman nine hun- 
 dred wounded were sent to Scutari. She de- 
 manded mattresses, stores for the sick, locked in 
 the custom house or lying in the ships in the har- 
 bor, and was told three days was the shortest 
 time in which they could be unloaded and dis- 
 tributed, and the rules of the service could not 
 be transgressed to save even a thousand men. 
 She hastened to the magazine, told the sergeant 
 of the guard who she was, and asked if he would 
 take an order from her. He replied he would. 
 She commanded him to break down the door, 
 for the men would arrive in a few hours and no 
 beds were ready. That incomparable woman 
 stood all day, ordering, arranging, distributing 
 
302 FLORENCE NIGHTINGALE. 
 
 in the midst of unspeakable misery, her appear- 
 ance everywhere a sign of good comfort, and so 
 touched with heavenly charm that virtue seemed 
 to go out from her garments in the press of the 
 crowd. 
 
 Night was her accepted time. When the at- 
 tendant and medical officers slept, and silence 
 and darkness settled on the long lines of cots, 
 holding broken wrecks of the bloom and flower 
 of English soldiery, she walked the dreary cor- 
 ridors alone. A little lamp in her hand scarcely 
 illumined the gloom a few feet around her, but it 
 was cheering as sunlight, an omen of hope to the 
 hopeless. Now she whispered holy words to 
 a youth moaning in half-sleep of home and 
 mother, now smoothed the pillow of some wasted 
 skeleton from the trenches, or lightly touched 
 the Jimbs straightening for the grave. What 
 wonder that hundreds kissed her shadow as it fell, 
 and, soothed by her benign presence, turned on 
 their narrow beds and closed their eyes to pleas- 
 ant dreams. 
 
 "As if a door in Heaven should be 
 Opened, and then closed suddenly, 
 The vision came and went, 
 The light shone and was spent." 
 
 When her work was ended and peace declared 
 honors were showered on her. The Cross of St. 
 
FLORENCE NIGHTINGALE. 3^3 
 
 George was presented by Queen Victoria, en- 
 graved, "Blessed are the Merciful." An exqui- 
 site bracelet came from the Sultan, but she stead- 
 ily refused all moneys. A man-of-war was placed 
 at her disposal on the return voyage to England; 
 she declined the distinction and traveled through 
 France by night in order to save publicity. Sore 
 need had she of rest and quiet; though pros- 
 trated bodily by the long strain, her spirit was 
 undaunted. From her darkened chamber and 
 invalid chair she spoke cheerfully to the infirm of 
 heart and purpose who sought her counsel, wrote 
 letters to unknown correspondents and patiently 
 listened to intrusive appeals which must have 
 appeared trivial to her comprehensive mind. 
 Her heart beat for all humanity, and before her 
 noble nature nothing was too petty or mean for 
 interest. To the last she was a comforter, brave 
 and busy, refined and delicate, forgetful of noth- 
 ing but self. 
 
 In Athens, at Mrs. Hill's American School for 
 Girls, there are two portraits of Florence Night- 
 ingale. One as she went out to the Crimea, the 
 other as she returned. And O the difference! 
 She started, a young woman; she went home 
 three years afterward an old woman. 
 
XV. 
 TWO DAYS IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY. 
 
 "Let's talk of graves, 
 Of worms and epitaphs." 
 
 — King Richard II. 
 
 Introductory. 
 
 To my friend who asks, 'Why write about 
 these old things, old as the hills, centuries before 
 we were born?" 
 
 I will not insult your intelligence, O Beloved, 
 by suspicion that anything said of Westminster 
 Abbey can bring the charm of novelty to one of 
 mature years. Happily for the human family, 
 youth never forsakes this world, and bright eyes 
 undimmed by tears or study may fill to overflow 
 at my little tale of the Princes strangled in the 
 Tower, and a fresh recital of the woes of fair 
 Arabella Stuart. 
 
 The returned traveler is fond of sailing the sea 
 
 again; of telling the horrors of sea-sickness; of 
 
 eight days and nights in the narrow berth, — but 
 
 one bed is narrower, colder, harder. 
 
 305 
 
,3o6 WESTMINSTER ABBEY. 
 
 "What in the world is there to pay for that?" 
 asked the patient Hstener. 
 
 "The first day in Westminster Abbey." 
 
 Especially does the voyageur expatiate on the 
 awful storm off Newfoundland; when for thirty 
 hours we heard the fog horn sounding danger, 
 danger, danger; when thick darkness enveloped 
 the vessel, which groaned like a living thing 
 beaten by mountain billows, every timber shriek- 
 ing as in agony, and it seemed that nothing made 
 by mortal hand could survive the fierce assault 
 of warring wind and raging waters. 
 
 Sometimes the steamer appeared to stand up- 
 right in air and again to lie on its side. The 
 hatches closed, the air was poison, the floors 
 flooded. Then the lights went out and we would 
 go down, down to the deepest depth, beating 
 along the sea-floor among the dead of thousands 
 of years. I saw their ghosts in the dark. 
 
 She yawned in my face — this radiant daughter 
 of our golden age — and inquired, "What paid for 
 that dreadful experience?" "The second day in 
 Westminster Abbey." 
 
 The dimensions of the Abbey are: 
 
 Feet. 
 
 Exterior. — Length from east to west, including 
 
 walls, but exclusive of Henry VII.'s Chapel 416 
 Height of the West Tower to top of pin- 
 nacles 225 
 
HISTORIC. 307 
 
 Interior. — Length within the walls to the piers of 
 
 Henry VII. 's Chapel 383 
 
 Breadth at the Transept 203 
 
 Nave. — Length 166 
 
 Breadth ., 38 
 
 Height 102 
 
 Breadth of each aisle 17 
 
 Extreme breadth of nave and its aisles 72 
 
 Choir. — Length 156 
 
 Breadth 31 
 
 Height 102 
 
 Historic. 
 
 There is an ancient legend that this magnifi- 
 cent cathedral, the most venerated fabric of the 
 English Church, is founded on the ruins of a 
 pagan temple; but Sir Christopher Wren and 
 other architects, after nicest examinations, de- 
 cided against the tradition. Whatever it may 
 have been, it now is the final sanctuary of Eng- 
 lishmen of every rank and creed and every form 
 of mind and genius; a consecrated burial ground. 
 It is not often the sight-seer on pilgrimage of 
 half a century, says heartily, with the freshness 
 of unworn enthusiasm: ^'This is just what I ex- 
 pected!" But we said it at Westminster Abbey. 
 The building in the heart of the grand old city 
 was familiar by picture and description; in its 
 solemn magnificence recognizable at the first 
 glance, and even more imposing in its union of 
 
3o8 WESTMINSTER ABBEY. 
 
 lightness and strength than fancy had imagined 
 it. In no other portion of this earth is there so 
 much dust made from the fine clay of which 
 Nature is most sparing. Nowhere is there such 
 an array of glorious names. Even the spot where 
 Caesar fell is less illustrious. Well has it been 
 called the temple of science and reconciliation, 
 where the enmities of twenty generations lie bur- 
 ied. Men who hated, fought; women who in- 
 trigued, schemed, murdered, lie here within a 
 few feet of each other, brought to a common rest 
 by the hand which levels all ranks as they pass 
 under its mighty shadow. 
 
 Slowly we moved, with reverent step, down 
 the vast nave, written over with names of kings 
 and kinglike men, heroes of peace and war, a 
 "chapel-of-ease" for the still sleepers, and recalled 
 the words of one who was afterward buried in 
 the spot where he so often rambled. "When I 
 see kings lying by those who deposed them; 
 when I consider rival wits placed side by side, or 
 the holy men that divided the world with their 
 contests and disputes, I reflect, with sorrow and 
 astonishment, on the little competitions, factions, 
 and debates of mankind. When I read the sev- 
 eral dates of the tombs, of some that died yes- 
 terday and some six hundred years ago, I con- 
 sider that great day when we shall all of us be 
 
HISTORIC. 309 
 
 contemporaries and make our appearance to- 
 gether." There is the greatest variety of monu- 
 ment and epitaph, recording, unconsciously, 
 changes of taste and varying standards of art 
 from age to age. In the antique effigies every 
 variation of sepulchral attitude is visible, from 
 the crusader of the thirteenth century, with 
 crossed legs on his flinty couch, to the states- 
 man of our own times, with legs crossed in an 
 attitude by no means deathlike, sitting in his 
 own study chair. The old statue, done by 'pren- 
 tice hand, finds place here, not to be banished or 
 despised because it suffers by comparison with 
 works from the chisel of Chantrey. 
 
 It is not necessary to inflict the guide-book on 
 the reader for whom I write. He probably 
 knows the architecture of the Abbey is florid 
 Gothic; that it was founded in the seventh cen- 
 tury by Sebert, King of the East Saxons; was 
 destroyed by the Danes; rebuilt; at various 
 times received additions, and the final grace of 
 its haughty and rhythmic arches in 1822. 
 
 No other coronation rite reaches back to so 
 early a period as that of the sovereigns of Great 
 Britain. The tradition runs that Arthur was 
 crowned at Stonehenge; but from the time of 
 William the Conqueror, the fierce, powerful 
 Norman, standing on the grave of the fair, sen- 
 
3IO . WESTMINSTER ABBEY. 
 
 sitive, feeble Saxon buried under the high altar, 
 the ceremony of coronation inalienably attaches 
 to the Abbey; and even when a prince has been 
 enthroned elsewhere, the ceremony must be re- 
 peated here. The first coronation, more than 
 eight hundred years ago, was a strange one. On 
 Christmas, the usual coronation day of Anglo- 
 Saxon sovereigns, the Conqueror (he of the pon- 
 derous glove and iron hand) appeared with his 
 courtiers and his army. Outside the church, 
 guarding him from his new subjects, were his 
 tried Norman cavalry; the interior was packed 
 with Norman nobles and Saxon people. To 
 each a question was addressed — to the Norman 
 in French, by a French prelate; to the Eng- 
 lish in English, by an English prelate, the Arch- 
 bishop of York — whether they would have this 
 King to reign over them. A great welcome 
 thundered to the vaulted roof. So loud and 
 fierce was the discord of the two languages, that 
 the Norman soldiers outside, hearing, but not 
 understanding the cry, burst in upon the church. 
 A strange panic, flight, and bloody massacre fol- 
 lowed, and the Abbey was left almost empty, the 
 uncrowned King, with the assistant clergy, 
 standing alone by the altar. 
 
 The record runs that the hero of Hastings, 
 who had never quailed in his life before, was so 
 
Westminster. 
 
 Page 311. 
 
HISTORIC 311 
 
 terrified by the scene, that he remained trem- 
 bling from head to foot in a paroxysm of fear. 
 The sacred forms were hurried through, the oil 
 was poured on his face, the holy anointing clum- 
 sily finished, the crown was planted on his huge 
 head, and so was begun, in fright and murder, 
 the series of those august ceremonies which have 
 since never ceased to be celebrated within these 
 venerable walls. 
 
 When the crown is lifted, the peers and peer- 
 esses put on their coronets, the trumpets sound, 
 and by a signal given, the great guns in the 
 Tower are fired in the same instant. Here the 
 royal children are christened, married, and here 
 the dead are buried. From the time of Edward 
 the Confessor, till the reign of Charles I., none 
 but those of kingly blood were allowed room in 
 this august sepulcher. Royalty has never been 
 the same in England since the days Cromwell 
 denied the "divine right of kings to govern 
 wrong," and among the princes whose power he 
 was first to break he was laid away; but not to 
 rest in solemn pomp. 
 
 In the barbarous ceremonial following the 
 restoration, his discontented bones were dragged 
 to Tyburn, hanged, beheaded, and buried under 
 the gallows. His head was planted on the top 
 of Westminster Hall, and from that exhibition 
 
31^ WESTMINSTER ABBEY, 
 
 became the property of a museum, or, if we 
 credit the legends of showmen, of several mu- 
 seums in England. 
 
 The genius, valor, and patriotism of the Pro- 
 tector are recognized by the country which owes 
 to him some of her most precious elements of 
 strength. His name remains in Westminster, 
 and laid asleep by death, makes no mention of 
 the blood spot on his hand, or of the fact that 
 the only desecration the Abbey has received in 
 all these ages has been by the Puritan soldiers 
 quartered there in 1643. They burnt the altar 
 rails, sat on benches round the communion ta- 
 ble, drinking, smoking, singing; broke many 
 altars, images; defaced tombs, and shattered the 
 pictured windows. 
 
 Some of the oldest inscriptions are amusing 
 as New Hampshire epitaphs. Take this, written 
 in decayed and decaying letters, at the base of a 
 pedestal and pyramid: 
 
 ''Nicolas Bagenall, a child two months old, 
 overlaid by his nurse, died 1688." Why being 
 smothered in that ignoble way should be 
 thought worthy so lasting a record in this noble 
 burial place, is to the writer a deep, unfathomable 
 mystery. 
 
 Here is another from the Chapel of Edward 
 the Confessor, where many monuments are so 
 
HISTORIC. 313 
 
 timeworn and dilapidated that the crumbhng let- 
 ters are almost illegible. There were poets in 
 those days, as is witnessed by the tomb of Sophia, 
 daughter of James First, who died in 1607, aged 
 three days: 
 
 "When the Archangel's trumpet shall blow. 
 And souls to bodies shall join, 
 Millions will wish their lives below 
 Had been so short as thine." 
 
 Observe the melody and grace of the versifi- 
 cation, the excellence of the sentiment equaled 
 only by the musical rhythm of the singer. The 
 design of Baby Sophy's monument I have never 
 seen elsewhere; a cradle of alabaster, once pre- 
 sumably white as sculptured snow, now discol- 
 ored by time, dust and smoke, and spotted yel- 
 low and brown as an Autumn leaf. The top is 
 overarched at one end, and under this canopy 
 appears a chubby little face, covered to the chin 
 with an embroidered coverlet, wrought to high 
 and .delicate finish in the exquisite marble. It 
 was a happy thought to perpetuate the little 
 Sophy's face sleeping in her cradle, which is it- 
 self the tomb, and touched me deeply. A model 
 that might be copied in our own green ceme- 
 teries, carpeted with violets and heart's ease, 
 where mothers loiter on quiet Sundays, and 
 21 
 
314 WESTMINSTER ABBEY. 
 
 whisper words full of hope and yet of heart- 
 break. 
 
 The vandals are roving tribes not confined to 
 America in their wanderings, and here ambitious 
 savages have scribbled unmeaning names, other- 
 wise lost to history. Some have even gone so 
 far as to carve their initials in the sculptured 
 faces of the honored dead, and add the date of 
 the desecration. 
 
 There is a quaintness and simplicity in the 
 verses of the older graves not found in those of 
 a later date. Take this on the tablet of Grace 
 Scott, died 1644: 
 
 "He that will give my Grace but what is hers, 
 Must say her death hath not 
 Made only her deare Scott, 
 But Virtue, Worth and Sweetness widdowers." 
 
 And did he, the first of those four "widdow- 
 ers," cry his eyes out for a day, then wipe them 
 dry, go a-courting in his mourning suit, and 
 marry again within a year? I wonder how it 
 was in those old times. 
 
 It must be admitted the Abbey of Westmin- 
 ster, the most lovely and loveable thing in Chris- 
 tendom, as it has been affectionately called, is a 
 very dirty place, and the dust and grime of the 
 monuments lie in heavy deposits, giving the im- 
 
HISTORIC. 315 
 
 pression of neglect. In time-worn gray marble 
 the effigy of Edward Third lies, at his head his 
 sword and shield, carried before him to France. 
 The sword is seven feet long, and weighs 
 eighteen pounds; a mass of rust, in high con- 
 trast with the niceness with which the French 
 guard the sacred relics of the Louvre. In that 
 palace is the old sword of Charlemagne, under 
 poHshed glass, not a speck of dust on the velvet 
 scabbard. No trace of the god-like grace of 
 Edward remains in the blackened stone which 
 bears his name and features, carved, it may be, 
 by skillful hands, now moldering and marred by 
 effacing fingers, busy as Time itself. 
 
 The west end of the Abbey was formerly the 
 Almonry, where the alms of the Abbey were dis- 
 tributed, more remarkable for being the place 
 where the first printing-press ever known in 
 England was erected, w^hen William Caxton pro- 
 duced the "Game and Play of Chesse," the first 
 book ever printed on the Island. And here the 
 first English Bible was issued, an upspringing 
 light breaking the bands of darkness which had 
 settled on the moral, social, political life of the 
 nation. The morning star of the Reformation 
 had risen and Wickliffe's Bible was multipHed by 
 thousands; no more to be the object of careful 
 destructive search as in the days of persecution; 
 
3i6 WESTMINSTER ABBEY. 
 
 to shrivel in fires of war or to be burned, with 
 those who loved the name of Christ, in the public 
 squares. Let me enrich my page with the glow- 
 ing sentences of Dr. Storrs: *'By this Bible the 
 grandest poetry became England's possession; 
 the sovereign law, on which the blaze of Sinai 
 shone, or which glowed with serener light of 
 divinity from the Mount of Beatitudes. Inspired 
 minds came out of the past — Moses, David, 
 Isaiah, John, the man of Idumea, the man of 
 Tarsus — to teach the long-desiring English 
 mind. It gave peasants the privilege of those 
 who had heard Elijah's voice in the ivory pal- 
 aces, of those who had seen the heaven opened 
 by the river of Chebar, of those who had gath- 
 ered before the temples made with hands which 
 crowned the Acropolis. They looked into the 
 faces of apostles and martyrs, of seers and kings, 
 and walked with Abraham in the morning of 
 Time." 
 
 Andre and Mary, Queen of Scots. 
 
 In the south aisle of Westminster is the me- 
 morial which comes nearest home to us; a last- 
 ing trace of our Revolutionary struggle, mark- 
 ing one of its saddest episodes. The remains of 
 Major John Andre, executed as a spy by the 
 
ANDRE AND MARY. 317 
 
 Americans, 1780, lie close beneath our feet. The 
 bas-relief on the sarcophagus of statuary marble 
 represents the flag of truce being conveyed to 
 Washington with the letter of Andre, containing 
 this touching petition, addressed to him: "li 
 aught in my character impresses you with es- 
 teem toward me; if aught in my misfortunes 
 marks me as the victim of policy and not of re- 
 sentment, I shall experience the operation of 
 these feelings in your breast by being informed 
 that I am not to die on a gibbet." 
 
 The expression of so high and manly an im- 
 pulse stirs the reader even at this late hour. The 
 conduct of the Commander-in-Chief thus ad- 
 dressed does equal honor to his noble nature; 
 but by the laws of nations pardon would have 
 been a departure from his unswerving fidelity to 
 a cause that gave us independence through re- 
 treats and skirmishes. 
 
 Andre's magnetism was wonderful, and all 
 who came within his influence confessed the 
 charm of his presence. He was handsome, frank, 
 engaging, with an elegant turn of mind and taste 
 for art. In conversation with Hamilton, he 
 mentioned the candor, liberality, and indulgence 
 with which his trial was conducted, and wrote 
 Sir Henry Clinton: *T receive the greatest at- 
 tention from His Excellency, General Washing- 
 
3lS WESTMINSTER ABBEY. 
 
 ton, and from every person in whose charge I 
 happen to be placed." His fate moved the whole 
 country to sympathy. On the day of execution 
 the sentinels served with tears and the populace 
 wept over the untimely death of one so gifted 
 and so beloved. His love story stirred the hearts 
 of sympathetic women who knew the miniature 
 of sweet Honora Sneyd was not unwound 
 from the prisoner's neck till he went out to exe- 
 cution, and some kind woman's hand planted 
 two cedars above the grave after it was 
 smoothed. It is said that Washington never, 
 but once, even by his own fireside, alluded to the 
 doom of Andre. 
 
 When his body was removed from the green 
 banks of the Hudson, where it had been buried 
 under the gallows nearly forty years, the skeleton 
 was entire. A few locks of his beautiful hair, 
 and the leather string which tied them were 
 found, gathered up with pitying care, and sent 
 to his sisters in England. A pile of stones had 
 guarded the spot inviolate from the plowman's 
 rude furrow. When the remains were taken 
 away, a peach-tree, whose roots had penetrated 
 the cofHn and wound around the skull, was 
 taken up and transplanted to the King's garden 
 behind Castleton House. An old lady died in 
 the present century who had, as a little girl, of- 
 
ANDRE AND MARY. 319 
 
 fered the prisoner a peach while he was on his 
 way to execution. She loved to tell of his beauty 
 and grace and cry over the cruel necessity which 
 brought him to such a death. Isaac Van Wart, 
 one of his captors, watched the last breath of the 
 gallant spy, and could rarely afterward be per- 
 suaded to speak of it, and never without tears. 
 An old Revolutionary soldier, Enos Reynolds, 
 used to tell the story with tears running down 
 his cheeks: ''He was the handsomest man I 
 ever laid my eyes on, and all the men around 
 were weeping when he met his death." As every 
 possible amenity was given the victim of the 
 laws of war, so when the body was disinterred, 
 an Englishman records: "The courtesy and 
 good feeling of the Americans were remark- 
 able." The bier was decorated with garlands 
 and flowers when it was transported to the ship, 
 and royal Republicans, with moistened eyes and 
 quivering lips, watched the mournful procession. 
 The old woman who kept the turnpike gate, 
 opened it free to all who came and went on this 
 excursion; and six young girls of New York 
 united in a poem that accompanied the myrtle 
 tree they sent, with the body, to England. Not 
 one hardened or indifferent person w^as present 
 among the crowd that day. The monument to 
 him at Tappan, New York, was chipped away by 
 
320 WESTMINSTETt ABBEY. 
 
 relic-hunters and finally blown up with nitro- 
 glycerin. The place now has an air of desola- 
 tion, and the railing is rusty and broken down, 
 so the locality will soon belong to tradition and 
 memory. 
 
 Romance, chivalry, poetry, have touched the 
 name of the unfortunate Andre with color that 
 charms the imagination and memory of men. 
 My readers are familiar with it, and deplore the 
 fate of the young hero whose just sentence was 
 passed by a tribunal of his peers; but how many 
 Am.erican readers know half the story of Nathan 
 Hale? Brief be the tale told here by the grave 
 of a spy in the opposing army. 
 
 He was a graduate of Yale, and left his pur- 
 pose of becoming a minister to join the cause of 
 liberty. "Everybody loved him," said a lady of 
 his acquaintance, "he was so sprightly, intelli- 
 gent, and kind and so handsome." Captain Hale 
 volunteered his services as a spy to Washington, 
 was arrested in the British lines, and the next 
 morning, without even the form of trial, was de- 
 livered to Cunningham to be executed. This 
 Cunningham was a special pet of Lord George 
 Germain, Secretary for the Colonies, and was a 
 disgrace to the service. He caused the murder 
 by starvation or poison of 2,000 American pris- 
 oners, that he might, while he starved them. 
 
ANDRE AND MARY. 321 
 
 profit by the sale of their rations. The gentle, 
 fearless Hale was treated with great inhumanity 
 by the brutal provost-marshal. The presence 
 of a clergyman and the use of a Bible were denied 
 by Cunningham, and even the letters which he 
 had been permitted by Howe to write to his 
 mother and sisters during the one night of his 
 imprisonment were destroyed. He was hanged 
 on a tree near the present intersection of East 
 Broadway and Market streets. His last words 
 were: 'T only regret that I have but one life to 
 give to my country." 
 
 Why do I tell this old tale here? Because, 
 dear reader, it is sometimes the fashion to call 
 the treatment of Andre a "blot" on the white 
 name of Washington. Both these young officers 
 justly suffered death by the laws and usages of 
 war; both are to be deplored, and most of all 
 the necessity which makes such procedure in- 
 evitable. Pardon this digression. When you 
 grieve over Andre do not forget the name of 
 Nathan Hale. 
 
 Had Arnold succeeded in his treason, the body 
 of Washington would have been dismembered 
 and his head would have rotted away on Temple 
 Bar. 
 
 Pass we on. 
 
 In a magnificent tomb in the south aisle repose 
 
322 WESTMINSTER ABBEY. 
 
 the ashes of Mary, unhappy Queen of Scots, 
 whose history, oft-repeated in every year of its 
 three hundred years, charms us yet. She is one 
 of the dear dead women, in our imagination, for- 
 ever fresh and unfaded, who had a mystic witch- 
 ery over the hearts of men. She was born to 
 the power which makes them slaves, fools, mad- 
 men. No man ever saw her without admira- 
 tion, or heard her history without regret. That 
 face, melancholy as moonlight and as fair, shines 
 through the clouds which encompass it from the 
 hour of her piteous farewell to the pleasant land 
 of France to the last scene which ends her 
 strange, eventful history in the dim castle hall 
 at Fotheringay Castle. Through the thunders 
 of John Knox at mass, the spell of her beauty 
 enthralls us; in the romantic intrigues, the flight 
 and escape from the water-girdled castle of Loch- 
 leven it is supreme. Nor do we abate our fealty 
 in the gloom three centuries have failed to clear 
 away from the mystery that hangs over the Kirk 
 of the field. So long as youth warms at tales of 
 chivalrous devotion, Mary Stuart's fair fame is 
 secure despite the name of Bothwell. Nor will 
 there ever be wanting defenders for her passion 
 for the Earl with the fair curling beard, a gentle- 
 man of ancient lineage with the manners of a 
 great lord, who bore himself haughtily as a feu- 
 
Marv Stuart. 
 
 Page 322. 
 
MARY, QUEEN OF SCOTS. 3^3 
 
 dal noble. Such was his domination over Mary 
 that the ladies of her court attributed it to necro- 
 mancy. The secret was the magic power of a 
 fine person, ^'built more like a tower than a 
 man;" a resolute, unbroken will, and that un- 
 changeable loyalty which has won many a 
 stronger woman than the frail Queen of Scot- 
 land. While the English language endures 
 school girls will argue and college boys debate 
 the question, had she come to the throne would 
 we have had another bloody Mary? Was she 
 or was she not guilty? 
 
 Mary, Queen of Scots. 
 
 Often as we think of the prisoner, who, in nine- 
 teen years, never knew the rapture of freedom, 
 arrayed in velvet as became the daughter of a 
 King, the print of her lost crown upon her brow, 
 comforting her weeping maids, and with Christ- 
 ian dignity laying her head upon the block, her 
 misfortunes and death seem an atonement. We 
 recall the faded face where lovely lines still linger, 
 the prematurely gray hair, the hideous execu- 
 tioner's axe yet to be seen in London Tower, the 
 headless body, the dripping life-blood lapped up 
 by her pet dog, and we say again 'Toor Mary," 
 and in our hearts her sins, which are many, are 
 all forgiven. 
 
324 WESTMINSTER ABBEY. 
 
 She was buried in the Cathedral at Peter- 
 borough, and over the site of her grave there 
 hangs the letter of her son ordering the removal 
 of her body to the Church of Westminster, in 
 the place where the kings and queens of this 
 realm are commonly interred, that the like honor 
 might be done to the body of his dearest mother, 
 and the like monument be extant of her that had 
 been done to his dear sister, the late Queen 
 Elizabeth. In the center of a new vault in the 
 north wall her leaden cofifin was placed; a spot 
 afterward crowded by remains of her unfortunate 
 descendants. When the royal vaults were in- 
 vestigated in 1868 an awful scene came to the 
 view of masons, workmen, and the Dean of the 
 Abbey. A high pile of leaden coffins rose from 
 the floor, some the size of the full human stature, 
 but many more of infants and little children, all 
 confusedly heaped or tossed about in reckless 
 disorder throughout the vault of brick, which 
 was more than twelve feet long. Along the 
 north wall, writes an eye-witness, were two cof- 
 fins, much compressed and distorted by the 
 superincumbent weight of four or five lesser cof- 
 fins heaped upon them. No plate could be found 
 on either. The upper one was much broken, and 
 the bones, especially the skull, turned on one 
 side, were distinctly visible — the casket of Ara- 
 
MARY, QUEEN OF SCOTS. 325 
 
 bella Stuart, who inherited her full share of the 
 beauty and misfortunes of her ill-fated race. 
 The lower coffin was saturated with pitch and 
 was deeply compressed and flattened by the 
 weights above. It was of solid and stately work, 
 shaped to meet the form; the fatal coffin which 
 had received the headless corpse of Fotheringay. 
 
 It seemed indecent confusion and forgetful- 
 ness of so much departed greatness gathered 
 round the famous and wonderful central figure 
 of the house of Stuart. As far as possible the 
 wreck and ruin of the dynasty were reduced to 
 order, the neglected relics laid in becoming rows 
 with reverential care. The smaller coffins were 
 lifted from above the two larger ones, and placed 
 in an open space at the foot of the steps. A curse 
 reserved for the doomed race was fulfilled in the 
 fact that ten infant children of James 11. He here; 
 and no less than eighteen children of Queen 
 Anne were found, of whom only one required 
 the space allotted a full-grown child. 
 
 In the deadly chill of the cavernous chamber, 
 over-buried till the marred shape was crushed 
 from its fair proportions, moldered away the 
 frail beauty, forgotten till the site of her grave 
 was matter of dispute with the keepers of the 
 Abbey. The victim, in the same chapel with her 
 vanquisher, sleeps well, and her tomb was early 
 
326 WESTMINSTER ABBEY. 
 
 visited by devout Scots as the shrine of a can- 
 onized saint. Thirteen years after the removal 
 of the ghastly remains from Peterborough, an 
 old gossip writes: "I hear that her bones, lately 
 translated to the burial-place of the Kings of 
 England at Westminster, are resplendent with 
 miracles" — the last record of a miracle-working 
 tomb in England. 
 
 The tenderness with which we enshroud the 
 unhappy Queen of Scots is intensified in the 
 haunted house, where that pathetic dust is lying, 
 but a few steps away from the coarser clay of her 
 triumphant rival, Queen Elizabeth. 
 
 The marble effigy represents her in the fa- 
 miliar cap, or curch, which yet bears her name, 
 the classic face upturned, the hands petitioning, 
 as in prayer — lovely hands, whose bluest veins 
 courtiers proudly knelt to kiss. Irreverent visi- 
 tors have broken and carried off two fingers, a 
 painful desecration, done no one knows when or 
 by whom. 
 
 Queen Elizabeth. 
 
 We naturally look for the grave of Queen 
 Elizabeth, whom a strange destiny brought so 
 near to Mary, the unhappy Queen of Scots, in 
 their safe, final resting-place. On a lofty and 
 
QUEEN ELIZABETH. 3^7 
 
 elegant tablet, supported by four lions, lies the 
 statue of the lion-hearted Queen, last of the il- 
 lustrious house of Tudor, greatest of England's 
 sovereigns. Judge the wondrous maid not as a 
 woman but as a ruler. Consider the country and 
 the government, when she came to the throne, 
 at the age of twenty-five, the treasury empty, the 
 state weakened by exhausting wars, the army a 
 mere handful of ill-armed men. See to what a 
 height the kingdom rose, and how speedily its 
 strength departed when the scepter passed from 
 her firm hand to the weak House of Stuart. 
 
 She was strong and wise, ready to sacrifice 
 small things for a great end, and all things for 
 the good of her subjects. 
 
 The sculptured, imperious face is strikingly 
 like that of the portrait of George Eliot. I have 
 thought their souls might be akin; that, under 
 different training and environment, the author 
 of ''Romola" might have made a ruler of the visi- 
 ble kingdoms of men, even as she has swayed the 
 invisible realm by the compelling force oi her 
 genius. Each of these women had her full 
 measure of glory, and their conduct in later 
 years proves they had learned — as, sooner or 
 later, all women must learn — that a little love is 
 sweeter than much fame. 
 
 The homely, high-arched forehead and beaked 
 
32§ WESTMINSTER ABBEY. 
 
 nose, the set determination in the lines of the 
 mouth of Elizabeth, make a haughty and tyran- 
 nic face. The Loves and the Graces did not flut- 
 ter round the steps of her who could box the ears 
 of the Lord Lieutenant, and send a courtier 
 with muddy boots in disgrace to the Tower. At 
 the same time she was on watch night and day, 
 steering the ship of state through stormy seas. 
 And loyal Englishmen are in the habit of saying 
 never has it been so uniformly well done except 
 in the days of the gentle and gracious Victoria. 
 Still is the Elizabethan era named the Golden 
 Age, and after eight generations have spent their 
 criticisms her name is yet dear to the hearts of 
 her countrymen. 
 
 While we gazed on the rigid features free of 
 softness and delicacy, there rose a sense of ab- 
 surdity in the idea of scholars, poets, statesmen, 
 courtiers, a shining ring, whispering soft non- 
 sense, mingled with sweet love songs in the ear of 
 the withered maiden Queen, in her latter days a 
 witch-like creature, haggard and to the last de- 
 gree unlovely. Of the men of letters who laid 
 their laurels at her feet, it has been recorded that 
 they made their period a more glorious and im- 
 portant era in the history of the human mind 
 than the time of Pericles, of Augustus, or of 
 Leo. 
 
QUEEN ELIZABETH. 3^9 
 
 But the great ruler never learned to rule her 
 own spirit. 
 
 Sir Christopher Hatton was at one time the 
 favorite, rising rapidly from obscurity to the des- 
 potic Queen's right hand. Her pet names for 
 him are quite original: "My Sheep," "My Eye- 
 lids," and when in high good humor, "My Most 
 Sweet Lids." He possessed many accomplish- 
 ments and one of Hatton's rivals said the Vice- 
 Chamberlain danced into her heart by his grace 
 in a galliard in some theatrical performance 
 given for amusement of the Court. 
 
 Here is one of the letters of the wily young 
 courtier to the charmer who had seen the scat- 
 tered roses of sixty summers: 
 
 "June, 1573. 
 
 "If I could express my feelings of your gra- 
 cious letters I should utter unto you matter of 
 strange effect. In reading of them, with my 
 'tears I blot them; in thinking of them I feel so 
 great comfort that I find cause, as God knoweth, 
 to thank you on my knees. Death had been 
 much more to my advantage than to win health 
 and life by so loathsome a pilgrimage. The time 
 of two days hath drawn me further from you 
 than ten, when I return, can lead me towards 
 
 you. Madam, I find the greatest lack that ever 
 
 22 
 
330 WESTMINSTER ABBEY. 
 
 poor wretch sustained. No death, no, not hell, no 
 fear of death, shall ever win of me my consent so 
 far to wrong myself again as to be absent from 
 you one day. God grant my return, I will per- 
 form this vow. I lack that I live by. The more 
 I find this lack, the further I go from you. 
 Shame take them that counselled me to it. The 
 life (as you well remember) is too long that loath- 
 somely lasteth. A true saying, Madam; believe 
 him that hath proved it. The great wisdom I 
 find in your letters with your country counsels 
 are very notable; but the last word is worth the 
 Bible. Truth, truth, truth! Ever may it dwell 
 with you. I will ever deserve it. My spirit and 
 soul, I feel, agreeth with my body and life, that 
 to serve you is a heaven, but to lack you is more 
 than a helFs torment unto them. My heart is 
 full of woe. Pardon, for God's sake, my tedious 
 writing. It doth much diminish (for the time) 
 my great griefs. I will wash away the faults of 
 these letters with the drops from your poor 'lids' 
 and so enclose them. Would God I were with 
 you but for one hour! Bear with me, my most 
 sweet, dear lady. Passion overcometh me; I 
 can write no more. Love me for I love you. 
 Live forever! Shall I utter this familiar term 
 (farewell!), yea, ten thousand, thousand farewells. 
 He speaketh it that most dearly loveth you. I 
 
QUEEN ELIZABETH. 331 
 
 hold you too long. Once again I crave pardon 
 and so bid your own poor Xids/ farewell, 
 "your bondsman everlastingly tied, 
 
 ''Ch. Hatton." 
 
 If the most sweet, dear lady wrote any love 
 letters it is not known — none have come down 
 to us. Perhaps she was discreet enough to send 
 only verbal messages that could be denied 
 should it be thought expedient. We cannot 
 imagine the Sovereign Lady of the Kohinoor 
 calling her Lord Chancellor her "most sweet 
 Eyelids," or receiving such an epistle from 
 "Lids" himself. We are living in a more re- 
 served and delicate generation than that of the 
 lion Queen. 
 
 The portraits of Hampton Court and the 
 waxen effigy in the Tower are very like, and by 
 that comparison must be correct likenesses. She 
 had, with the Tudor lust of power, mingled the 
 caprices and vanity of Anne Boleyn; and her 
 three thousand robes, fit for use, attest the femi- 
 nine failing of extravagance. 
 
 A strange mixture of strength and frailty; at 
 the age of seventy, doting on the handsome, 
 chivalrous Essex, yet condemning him to the 
 vilest of deaths; and then remorsefully lament- 
 ing him as she tossed in feverish unrest on the 
 
332 WESTMINSTER ABBEY. 
 
 cushioned floor of Richmond Palace. What a 
 comment on the vanity of human wishCvS are her 
 last words, gasped out between heart-breaking 
 moans: ''All my possessions for one moment of 
 time!" 
 
 Her body was brought by the Thames to 
 Westminster. On the oaken covering of the 
 leaden coffin were engraved the double rose and 
 the august initials ''E. R., 1603." Raleigh was 
 on duty as captain of the guard, his last public 
 act, and the ancient chronicler writes there was 
 "such a general sighing, groaning, and weeping 
 as the like has not been seen or known in the 
 memory of man." 
 
 In the tomb of the half-sisters, the children of 
 Henry Eighth, the series of royal monuments is 
 brought to an end in Westminster Abbey. 
 
 When the search was made for the grave of 
 James First the excavations laid bare the wall 
 at the east end of Elizabeth's . monument, and 
 through a small opening the Dean of the Abbey, 
 with reverent glance and bated breath, looked 
 into the low, cramped black vault where the two 
 queens lie alone together, the Tudor sisters, 
 partners of the same throne and grave, sleeping 
 in the hope of resurrection. There was no dis- 
 order or decay apparent, except that the wood 
 had fallen over the head of Elizabeth's coffin. 
 
QUEEN ELIZABETH. 333 
 
 and the wooden case had crumbled away at the 
 sides and had drawn away part of the decaying 
 lid. No coffin plate was visible, but the murky 
 Hght gave to view a fragment of the lid, slightly 
 carved. This led to further search, and the en- 
 tire inscription was discovered, the Tudor badge, 
 a full double rose, on each side the proud initials 
 "E. R.," and date. The coffin-case was of inch 
 elm, but the ornamental lid was of fine oak, half- 
 an-inch thick, laid on the inch elm cover. The 
 whole was covered with red silk velvet, "as 
 though the bare wood had not been thought rich 
 enough without the velvet." The vault was im- 
 mediately closed again, never, in all probability, 
 to be opened till the great day for which all other 
 days were made shall rise and every burial stone 
 be rolled away. 
 
 We did not take a guide or book, preferring 
 to wander about the immense Abbey where 
 every inch of space is storied and find it out for 
 ourselves. We guessed at what was not appar- 
 ent, and smiled over some mysterious effigies not 
 easily solved by pilgrims unused to distant 
 shrines. The tomb of Henry Fifth has suffered 
 strange mutilations, but must have been a singu- 
 lar thing in its best estate. Upon it, his statue, 
 cut from the solid heart of an English oak, was 
 plated with silver and had a head of solid silver. 
 
334 WESTMINSTER ABBEY. 
 
 No other monument in the Abbey has been so 
 despoiled. 
 
 Two teeth of gold were early missing, and 
 some years later the whole of the silver head was 
 carried o£f by robbers who broke in at night. Sir 
 Roger de Coverly's anger was roused at sight 
 of the figure of one of our English kings, with- 
 out a head, which had been stolen away several 
 years since. "Some whig, I warrant you. You 
 ought to lock up your kings better. They'll car- 
 ry oiT the body, too, if you don't take care." 
 
 High above Henry hangs his great emblaz- 
 oned shield, his saddle, and his helmet. The 
 shield is dinted, bruised and rusty, hacked in 
 many a bloody battle; the helmet, gashed by 
 heavy saber-strokes, is the "very casque that did 
 affright the air at Agincourt;" the same bruised 
 helmet which he refused to have borne in state 
 before him on his return to London. Is there a 
 reader who does not instantly recall the madcap 
 Prince Hal, made familiar to the theater-loving 
 by the grand players of our day? Here is the 
 cumbrous antique saddle, and all armed he 
 
 "vaulted with such ease into his seat, 
 
 As if an angel dropped down from the clouds, 
 
 To turn and wind a fiery Pegasus 
 
 And witch the world with noble horsemanship." 
 
 Who does not remember him in his wild 
 
Catharine de Valois, 
 
 Page 335. 
 
CATHARINE DE VALOIS. 335 
 
 pranks with Falstaff; the scene in the Jerusalem 
 Chamber of this very building where he tried on 
 the sleeping king's crown in the spirit we can 
 imagine a certain prince might this day long for 
 that self-same crown? Can we forget his re- 
 pentance in agony of tears and remorse and the 
 never dying honors of his later Hfe? And then 
 his rebuke to Falstaff: 
 
 "I know thee not, old man! Fall to thy prayers! 
 How ill white hairs becomes a fool and jester!" 
 
 A gallant prince and noble king he loved the 
 Abbey; and, the obstinate enemy of heretics, de- 
 termined, had he conquered France, to cut down 
 her vines with a view to suppressing drunken- 
 ness. A wondrous change from the sack-drink- 
 ing companions of Bardolph at Dame Quick- 
 ley's, intent only on laughing away the roystering 
 hours. And his sweet Kate, his Flower-de Luce, 
 the bright, bewitching princess with her broken 
 English and liquid French words — how sleeps 
 she, waiting for the last summons to rise? Her.e 
 is the chronicle of Catharine of Valois. 
 
 Catharine De Valois. 
 
 The remains were thrust carelessly into the 
 vacant space beneath her husband's chantry. The 
 body, the tender daughter of the royal Hne, was 
 
336 WESTMINSTER ABBEY. 
 
 laid in a rude coffin, in a badly-appareled state, 
 open to view. There it lay for many years. On 
 the destruction of that chapel by her grandson it 
 was placed beside her noble husband, and ''so it 
 continued to be seen, the bones being firmly 
 united, and thinly clothed with flesh, like scrap- 
 ings of fine leather." 
 
 What strange impiety was this which gave the 
 corpse of a princess to the eyes of the gaping 
 crowd for years old Westminster walls do not 
 record. History fixes the fact; but makes no 
 comment on the disgraceful, brutish exposure. 
 
 Anne Boleyn. 
 
 One curious old custom, very dear to loyal 
 hearts in Elizabeth's time, has happily fallen into 
 disuse. It was called "the herse," a platform 
 draped with deepest black, on which rested the 
 waxen effigy of the dead. It remained a month 
 in the Abbey, near the grave; in the case of kings 
 for a much longer time, after being carried in the 
 funeral procession before the body of which it 
 was the image. These effigies were sacred as 
 holy relics in the monasteries of the Middle 
 Ages; and late as the time of Nelson were in 
 repute, so that the sightseers might be beguiled 
 from Westminster to St. Paul's. 
 
ANNE BOLEYN. 337 
 
 Here is a tourist's notice of the ghostly ap- 
 paritions as they appeared in the solemn shades 
 of Westminster in 1708: 
 
 "And so we went on to see the ruins of majes- 
 ty in the women (sic: waxen?) figures placed 
 there by authority. As soon as we had ascended 
 half a score of steps in a dirty cobweb hole, and 
 in the old worm-eaten presses, whose doors flew 
 open at our approach, here stood Edward, the 
 Third, as they told us, which was a broken 
 piece of wax-work, a battered head, and a straw- 
 stuffed body not one quarter covered with rags; 
 his beautiful Queen stood by, not better in re- 
 pair; and so to the number of half a score kings 
 and queens, not near so good figures as the King 
 of the Beggars make, and all the begging crew 
 would be ashamed of the company. Their rear 
 was brought up with good Queen Bess, with the 
 remnant of an old dirty rufif, and nothing else to 
 cover her." 
 
 Think of such a ridiculous row of puppets 
 desecrating the aisles of to-day! 
 
 Among royal coronations none have been 
 given with greater splendor than Anne Boleyn's. 
 The streets were freshly strewn with gravel; the 
 buildings hung with tapestries, scarlet and crim- 
 son and rich carpets from Persia and the East. 
 
 "It is no easy matter to picture to our- 
 
33^ WESTMINSTER ABBEY. 
 
 selves the blazing trail of splendor which, in such 
 a pageant, must have drawn along the streets — 
 those streets which now we know so black and 
 smoke-grimed, themselves then radiant with 
 masses of color — gold and crimson and violet. 
 * * * In an open space behind the constable 
 there was seen a white chariot, drawn by two 
 palfreys in white damask which swept the 
 ground, a golden canopy upborne above it mak- 
 ing music with silver bells, and in the chariot sat 
 the observed of all observers, the beautiful oc- 
 casion of all this glittering homage. "^ "^ There 
 she sat, drest in white tissue robes, her fair hair 
 flowing loose over her shoulders, and her tem- 
 ples circled with a light coronet of gold and dia- 
 monds, most beautiful, loveliest, most favored, 
 perhaps, as she seemed at that hour, of all Eng- 
 land's daughters. * * * Did any twinge of 
 remorse, any pang of painful recollection, pierce 
 at that moment the incense of glory which she 
 was inhaling? Did any vision flit across her 
 of a sad mourning figure, which once had stood 
 where she was standing, now desolate, neglected, 
 sinking into the darkening twilight of a life cut 
 short by sorrow? Who can tell? 
 
 "Three short years have yet to pass; and again, 
 on a summer morning, Queen Anne Boleyn will 
 leave the Tower of London — not radiant then 
 
ANNE BOLEYN. 339 
 
 with beauty on a gay errand of coronation, but 
 a poor wandering ghost on a sad, tragic errand, 
 from which she will never more return, passing 
 away out of an earth where she may stay no 
 longer."* 
 
 A stone in the courtyard is inscribed with her 
 name and the date of her execution. Light and 
 trifling in life, she exhibited serene fortitude in 
 death. 
 
 The most thoughtless person cannot stroll 
 through historic places, guarded by the banner 
 of St. George, and not feel the world is growing 
 better. Can we think of the coming king, albeit 
 not the best of husbands, chopping off the tender 
 Alexandra's head to make room for another 
 wife; or the ruling sovereign leaving her favor- 
 ites to languish in prison for a breach of etiquette 
 or a fancied slight? The years since Elizabeth 
 stormed and Anne Boleyn suffered death for her 
 sweet lord's pleasure are but as one day in the 
 long Chronicles of Kings. The statues of saints 
 and martyrs are a testimonial that we live in the 
 best age of the world; and in this atmosphere of 
 deep pervading peace, where there are no dreams 
 save the dreams of the passing traveler, history is 
 very gentle to the victims of envy, bigotry and 
 hate. 
 
 *Froude. 
 
340 WESTMINSTER ABBEY. 
 
 We are tempted to think that, could England's 
 bride, the Virgin Queen, rise again, among the 
 refinements, engaging graces and courtesies of 
 the nineteenth century, she would subdue her 
 temper to the atmosphere of the times. The 
 mildest oath would be unheard, and such epi- 
 thets as "wench" and "knave" would not be ad- 
 dressed to high born courtiers and ladies of 
 gentle blood. 
 
 As I write, the newspapers are giving descrip- 
 tions of a portion of Westminster where the 
 flooring is being taken up, revealing fine pave- 
 ment of encaustic tiles, of the fourteenth cen- 
 tury, covering the entire "Abbot's House" — red, 
 bufT, yellow, of geometrical designs; and now 
 that the craze for tiles has possession of lovers 
 of art and aesthetics, they have a higher value 
 than when laid there four hundred years ago. 
 
 Strange that in a building where the records 
 are so carefully kept there should ever be mis- 
 takes, confusion of any kind, or that anything be 
 lost sight of in the dust and cobweb of passing 
 years. The old battle against oblivion is a hard 
 one; and though the fight goes bravely on, the 
 steady march of ages is pretty sure to bewilder 
 the children of men, and dust to dust at last blurs 
 over their most hallowed inscriptions. 
 
 The latest examinations of builders prove 
 
ANNE BOLEYN. 341 
 
 Westminster in a state of lamentable neglect. 
 In some parts the soft, porous stone has grad- 
 ually loosened and crumbled, till walls are hol- 
 lowed out and shaken; and it is even asserted 
 that the whole structure shows signs of disinte- 
 gration. At odd times, in the different centuries, 
 immense sums have been spent and slow and 
 conscientious labor has gone into the work of 
 replacing one block or one mullion by another, 
 but the substitution has been insufficient. In- 
 spectors complain that the offfcial architect, Sir 
 Gilbert Scott, has not given the Abbey the 
 needed attention. He failed to report its con- 
 dition, and, in fact, rarely went near the place or 
 showed an interest in it. As a result of not mak- 
 ing repairs in time the estimate now is that 
 twenty-four thousand pounds are the least sum 
 required for an effective restoration of the waste 
 places. And every traveler comprehends the 
 danger of restorers, the vanity of man leading 
 him to inflict damages in the way of change 
 greater than the common enemy has power to 
 bring about. 
 
 The men of old planned and built as men have 
 not wrought in later times, and the Pyramid, 
 which was a marvel of antiquity in the days of 
 Herodotus (which, by Arab tradition, is the only 
 thing on earth that bore the weight of the 
 
342 WESTMINSTER ABBEY. 
 
 Flood), will probably last, with its stupendous 
 masonry unaltered, when every other temple 
 tower and tomb on the globe shall have mold- 
 ered into ruin. 
 
 But this is a digression, as our friends, the 
 novelists, say. 
 
 The Chair of State. .* 
 
 The best view of the interior of Westminster 
 Abbey is from the great western door. The 
 whole design is then under the eye, with its lofty 
 roof, beautifully disposed lights, and long ar- 
 cades of columns. On the arches of the pillars 
 are galleries of double columns, fifteen feet wide, 
 covering the side aisles and lighted by a middle 
 range of windows, over which there is an upper 
 range of larger windows: 
 
 "richly dight 
 
 Casting a dim religious light." 
 
 The monuments in the nave are of compara- 
 tively recent work, many are dedicated to the de- 
 fenders who fell while upholding the flag which 
 flies wherever wood will float. 
 
 It is not strangQ that seamen are proud of a 
 
THE CHAIR OF STATE. 343 
 
 country so proud of them, and that the battle cry 
 of her foremost admiral should be '''Victory or 
 Westminster Abbey !" But he who looked for- 
 ward only to triumphs — Nelson — found his 
 grave in St. Paul's. I do not undertsand why, or 
 why the Duke of Wellington should lie there, 
 his statue above him, 'like a warrior taking his 
 rest, with his martial cloak around him," instead 
 of holding a place in this sanctuary of famous 
 Englishmen. We pause before a bust of War- 
 ren Hastings, Governor of Bengal. The glitter- 
 ing page of Macaulay has made familiar to my 
 reader the story of that life, more varied and 
 wonderful than the wildest romance. At one 
 time denounced by the greatest orator of a great 
 age as the common enemy and oppressor of the 
 human race, after he had for years maintained 
 the dignity and splendor of an Oriental satrap; 
 tried before one generation, accused before an- 
 other, his fate is a bitter comment on the in- 
 stability of human power and human glory; most 
 of all of human friendship. The dust of the il- 
 lustrious accused does not mingle with the dust 
 of his accusers under this roof; but his fame 
 is secure, for his name is here. Had his lot been 
 cast in North America, and he been there devoted 
 to his king, as in India, possibly England might 
 not have lost her colonies in the New World. 
 
344 WESTMINSTER ABBEY. 
 
 Many things were strange to me in this Pan- 
 theon of Britain, where each loyal Englishman 
 covets a place; but the strangest sight was*'the 
 Queen's Chair, used only on Coronation Days 
 in that ceremonial of utmost pomp and splendor. 
 
 I had supposed the chair of state, which took 
 part in the most splendid pageant of the proudest 
 city on the face of the earth, was of ivory and 
 precious stones, cloth of gold, jeweled and daz- 
 zling to the sight. But no; as the ancestors of 
 the Empress of India sat, so sits she. This old 
 arm chair is of carved oak, almost black, very 
 dirty and dilapidated. Part of the carven back 
 is broken off, the remainder scribbled over; the 
 velvet covering, if velvet it was, is worn down to 
 the ragged foundation. The arms thereof are 
 covered with dirt, as if greasy fingers had been 
 wiped on them. Perhaps they are regal finger- 
 prints, and the divinity which doth hedge a king 
 forbids covering them with the work of plebeian 
 hands. On its own merits it would hardly bring 
 ten dollars in a furniture shop, unless some crazy 
 hunter of antiques should take an insane liking 
 to the four badly carved lions which support the 
 heavy seat. The historic chair holds associations 
 more precious than gold, than much fine gold; 
 phantoms from out the stillness of the past flit 
 before us as we stand beside the time-worn, dusty 
 
THE CHAIR OF STATE. 345 
 
 relic. Long lines of kings "come like shadows, 
 so depart;" for in this chair every English sov- 
 ereign from Edward First — second founder of 
 the Abbey, who lies in its center (1065) — to the 
 time of Victoria (1837) has been inaugurated 
 and enthroned. 
 
 Edward the First originally intended the seat 
 of the chair should be of bronze; but afterward 
 had it adapted to the Stone of Scone, on which 
 the Scottish kings were crowned, which is im- 
 bedded in the Plantagenet oak. It was his latest 
 care for the Abbey, and brings to the place a 
 mythic charm with its many legends and varied 
 traditions. They veil the nakedness and shab- 
 biness of the antique seat with such grace that we 
 begin to comprehend why it is allowed to re- 
 main unaltered in the alterations of many cen- 
 turies. 
 
 The tale runs that this consecrated piece of 
 rock was the stone which Jacob "had put for his 
 pillow" the night of that radiant vision at 
 Bethel. His countrymen carried it to Egypt; 
 for it was a sacred pillar, a consecrated altar after 
 the patriarch poured oil upon it in the morning. 
 The daughter of Pharaoh, married to a Greek, 
 alarmed at the fame and power of Moses, fled 
 with it to Spain. From Brigantia it was carried 
 off to Ireland, and on the Holy Hill of Tara's 
 
 ,23 
 
346 WESTMINSTER ABBEY. 
 
 chiefs it was called Lia Fail ''the Stone of Des- 
 tiny," and on it the kings of Ireland were 
 crowned. 
 
 From Scotland, the shadowy region of mists 
 and fogs, the chosen home of legendary lore, 
 arose the founder of a kingdom, Fergus by 
 name. He seized the priceless treasure, and bore 
 it across the sea to Dunstaffnage; from thence 
 it went through various migrations and in 840 
 was laid on a raised plot of ground at Scone, 
 "because that the last battle with the Picts was 
 there fought;" and from this period its history 
 is authentic and unbroken. The kings of Scot- 
 land were there crowned by the Earls of Fife. 
 
 Geology, which proves the truth or falsity of 
 countless sermons hid in stones, reports this a 
 true Scottish sandstone, such as forms the west 
 coast of Scotland. Its quality is undoubted, and 
 it has the appearance of having been once part 
 of a building. Vainly the Scottish kings tried 
 to recover the Stone of Scone; the affection 
 which attaches to it and the proud memories it 
 stirs forbade the removal of the last relic of Scot- 
 land's kings. The Royal Chair, of which it is 
 part, is the most interesting object where many 
 are hallowed, and its very disfigurements add to 
 its sanctity; a regal seat which needs no adorn- 
 ing but its own history. The wild dreams of 
 
THE CHAIR OF STATE. 347 
 
 the Duchess of Gloucester hovered about this 
 august throne. 
 
 "Methinks I sat in seat of majesty, 
 In the cathedral church of Westminster, 
 And in that chair where kings and queens are crowned." 
 
 — Shakespeare, Henry VI. 
 
 But once since it entered the Abbey has the 
 Stone of Destiny been moved out of its place, 
 a day more important in England's annals than 
 generations of time coming and going since 
 then. When Cromwell was inaugurated Lord 
 Protector in Westminster Hall, to give the pe- 
 culiar pageant some flavor of the right of royalty, 
 the Chair of Scotland was brought out of West- 
 minster Abbey for that one most solemn hour. 
 Who may tell what drearfis of glory, towering 
 high as the heavens, opened in vision to the first 
 dreamer on this legendary stone, rose upon 
 Cromwell's sight as he sat, usurper of the 
 Queen's Chair, under a princely canopy of state? 
 The hand of the great master of morals and hu- 
 manity touches it in Macbeth. On this stone, 
 about the year 1039, the King stood to receive 
 the anointing oil and crown of Scotland. It 
 was part of his prophetic revelation on the 
 blasted heath, when louder than loudest thunder 
 he barkened to the "All hail, Macbeth, that 
 shalt be king hereafter!" And with prompt 
 
348 WESTMINSTER ABBEY. 
 
 alacrity the brainsick usurper hastened to 
 Scone, "to be invested," after the gracious Dun- 
 can was murdered. 
 
 Speaking of Macbeth brings up the peerless 
 actress who for thirty years played the part of 
 his relentless queen, and never failed to find, in 
 each representation, new excellence in the trag- 
 edy. The statue of Mrs. Siddons, wrought in 
 purest marble, stands in St. Andrew's Chapel, 
 Westminster Abbey; a little above life size, yet 
 hardly a colossal figure; a faithful presentment 
 of the dazzling woman whose charm lasted to 
 three-score years, and whose high presence made 
 every woman beside her appear plain and com- 
 mon-place. The profile is absolutely perfect; but 
 the sight-seer stands too near the heroic work 
 of the cunning sculptor. The picture in the 
 National Gallery, by Gainsborough, taken in the 
 hat with streaming plume which yet bears his 
 name, gives a softer face, of exquisite color and 
 mold; and the 'Tragic Muse," by Sir Joshua 
 Reynolds, is indescribably fine. Such a face in 
 pagan lands might create a siege of Troy or 
 battle of Actium. A quaint old writer says of the 
 Mary Stuart of history and the Lady Macbeth 
 of Shakespeare : 
 
 "We know that the former had a delicate ex- 
 terior, auburn hair and beaming blue eyes; her 
 
THE CHAIR OF STATE. 349 
 
 tone of speaking was gentle and voice sweet, ex- 
 cellently soft and low. Mrs. Siddons, whose 
 style and color were altogether different, became 
 so saturated with Lady Macbeth as to be con- 
 vinced she must have been a blonde. We think 
 that Shakespeare implies and justifies this deli- 
 cate perception and turns it into history. Both 
 the Queens of Scotland represented the kind of 
 blonde women who are fired by sunlight; it 
 crisps the golden or the chestnut hair, becomes 
 quicksilver in the veins, hits every brain-cell with 
 its actinic ray, and chases over the yielding hair 
 in ripples like a blown wheat field." 
 
 Campbell ridicules this idea, and writes of 
 Lady Macbeth : 
 
 "She is a splendid picture of evil ^ h^ * 
 a sort of sister of Milton's Lucifer; and, like him, 
 we surely imagine her externally majestic and 
 beautiful. Mrs. Siddon's idea of her having been 
 a blonde and delicate beauty seems to me a pure 
 caprice. The public would have ill exchanged 
 such a representative of Lady Macbeth for the 
 dark locks and eagle eyes ol Mrs. Siddons." 
 
 It is well known that she preferred the part of 
 Queen Catherine — the gentle, forgiving wife — 
 to the character by which her name is perpetu- 
 ated. Sweet lady and great artist — greatest 
 among a family represented on the stage for 
 
350 WESTMINSTER ABBEY. 
 
 two hundred years — her heart was not that of 
 the ambitious schemer of undaunted mettle, urg- 
 ing her vacillating lord to catch the nearest way 
 to the throne. She stands in Westminster stately 
 and splendid, a fascination in her lofty bearing 
 and proportions, not lessened by the delicacy of 
 the little hand which all the perfumes of Arabia 
 "will not sweeten." 
 
 She was beautiful at every age; and many a 
 player will act well his part, and many a star will 
 rise and set as our old earth swings among the 
 constellations, before it produces another such 
 transcendent genius. 
 
 In singular contrast with this immortality in 
 Westminster is the fact that pleasure-loving 
 France denies Christian burial to actors, except 
 opera singers. When the all-gifted Lecouvreur 
 went home from the scene of her triumphs, to 
 die after four days of anguish without absolution, 
 the gates of every recognized burial ground in 
 the kingdom were closed against her wasted 
 body — the poor relics of a gifted and bewitching 
 woman whom all that was distinguished and 
 splendid in the society of her native land had 
 loved to look upon. At dead of night her corpse 
 was carried in an old coach a little way out of 
 town, just beyond the city limits, to a spot of 
 bare earth, the empty suburb of gay and laugh- 
 
Adrienne Lecouvreiir. 
 
 PAGE 350. 
 
THE CHAIR OF STATE. 351 
 
 ing Paris. The fiacre was followed by one 
 friend, two street porters, and a squad of police- 
 men. There the melancholy grave was dug, 
 sadder than funeral rites could make it; the 
 frail, slender form was covered from sight, no 
 turf or stone to mark the condemned earth where 
 the sleeper of twenty-eight years rested from her 
 reckless fever, called living. 
 
 Gradually the city grew over the lost and 
 nameless sepulcher and hid it forever. Perhaps 
 it shocked the thousands who had hung dazed 
 and breathless on her words to think of her being 
 taken out at night and put away in a corner of 
 d road on the banks of the Seine, in a field trod- 
 den by hoofs of cattle instead of the feet of men. 
 Be that as it may, the charity of Protestant 
 Wesminster is in broad contrast with the after- 
 death scruples of infidel Paris. A whole race of 
 renowned actors and actresses lie here, and the 
 holiest dust beneath the floor is not defiled. 
 When Garrick's funeral was held, the crowd was 
 ennobled with the finest literary men of that day 
 bewailing the stroke of death "which eclipsed the 
 gayety of nations and impoverished the public 
 stock of harmless pleasures." Old Samuel John- 
 son was bathed in tears; and soon his own coffin 
 was placed close to Garrick's and beside that of 
 his deadly enemy, Macpherson, editor of "Os- 
 
352 WESTMINSTER ABBEY. 
 
 sian." No sparring or backbiting then between 
 the ambitious Hterary rivals. 
 
 Seest thou a man diligent in business? He 
 shall stand before kings, was the proverb that 
 came to mind as I read a memorial line under the 
 colossal statue of James Watt, "Improver of the 
 Steam Engine;" and hard by lie Telford and 
 Robert Stephenson, the bridge builders. The 
 window erected to the latter commemorates, in 
 unique fashion, the mechanics of the world, 
 from the Tower of Babel down to railways, and 
 the rich light falls tenderly on their names as on 
 escutcheons of nobles whose haughty ancestry 
 warred with the Roses. White Rose and Red 
 Rose are at one in this calm center, round which 
 the whirling currents of London life are rushing; 
 and artisans raised by their own energy from ob- 
 scurity are not least in the mixed multitude of 
 names the world delights to honor. 
 
 I am sure all persons with or without teeth will 
 approve a recognition of that benefactor of the 
 human race, the inventor of chloroform. 
 
 It is noticeable that no such deeds were thus 
 recognized by the earlier generations who held 
 the keys of the Abbey. A medallion in marble, 
 not ancient enough to take on the amber tinge 
 dear to the British heart and eye, is the ship of 
 
THE CHAIR OF STATE. 353 
 
 Sir John Franklin, with the same ice around her 
 still; and beneath it are these lines: 
 
 "O ye frost and cold, O ye ice and snow, 
 Bless ye the Lord, praise him and magnify Him forever." 
 
 A wide, catholic spirit is that which offers a 
 mural tablet to the memory of the Wesleys. In 
 the marble we see the well-known figure of John, 
 preaching on his father's grave, and engraved 
 below are the words, "The workers die, but the 
 works live on," and the last words of the great 
 reformer, "Best of all, God is with us." Strong 
 testimonials that the good men do is not interred 
 with their bones, as the mocking Antony would 
 fain have taught the Roman populace. 
 
 A monument attractive by its singularity is a 
 Negro kneeling beside a lion and a lamb. It 
 commemorates the learning and labors of the 
 earnest abolitionist, Granville Sharp, and the in- 
 scription to the most rigidly orthodox of men 
 was the work of the Unitarian, William Smith. 
 In the broad tolerance of the narrow house ap- 
 pointed for all living there are no wrangles or 
 disputed points, no questions about creeds or 
 dogmas, nor anything but charity for the spirit 
 passed beyond the veil, standing before a Judge 
 who can do no wrong. 
 
354 WESTMINSTER ABBEY. 
 
 Poets' Corner. 
 
 In the melancholy which the lightest of heart 
 must feel before the invisible presences peopling 
 this space, we passed under a low doorway hard- 
 ly two feet above a man's height, into a large 
 hollow cross. Through its rich windows glim- 
 mered a subdued light, solemn and mystic in its 
 lovely coloring. Stooping to pick up a dropped 
 handkerchief I read under my feet, in fresh, un- 
 tarnished gilt letters the name of Charles Dick- 
 ens. It was a species of profanation to stand 
 there; but to reach this stone we had crossed a 
 pavement of blue marble, about fourteen inches 
 square, with these four magic words : 
 
 "O rare Ben Jonson!" 
 
 Another step would be on the grave of Ma- 
 caulay; above, around, beneath, were names 
 whose glory fills the world. I was in the Poets' 
 Corner, the holiest shrine of this sanctuary. 
 
 How well we remember the funeral of Dick- 
 ens. By his will it was strictly private. One soft 
 summer morning, when the somber shadows of 
 the Abbey fell heavily, a little train of mourners, 
 representing the sorrowing thousands of English 
 speaking people, stood beside the open grave of 
 the author of "The Tale of Two Cities," the least 
 
POETS' CORNER. 355 
 
 read and most admirable of his works; the one 
 on which his future fame will rest. The grave 
 had been dug the night before in secret, and the 
 organ swelled the heavy anthem of the dead 
 while the clergy read the funeral service. But 
 fourteen mourners were present. Myrtles and 
 evergreens, lilies and roses were dropped upon 
 the cofKin lid. Many days flowers were laid for 
 remembrance by unknown hands on the fresh 
 slab; the vast space of the solitary floor was 
 trodden by poor figures of every-day people, who 
 had laughed and wept over the well thumbed 
 pages of the cheap editions of "Pickwick" and 
 ''Dr. Marigold." They were friends of him who 
 had pleaded the cause of suffering humanity be- 
 fore Parliament and the Queen; before the 
 world. Among the rows of warriors and walks 
 of kings none have been more missed and 
 mourned. 
 
 We sadly looked in each other's faces when 
 the news came ''Dickens is dead," and our first 
 thought was "Edwin Drood" is not finished. It 
 was offered to the public in fragmentary parts; 
 and one ambitious writer thought to link his 
 name with that of the greatest story-teller since 
 Scott by a weak effort to fill up the outline and 
 guess the probable continuation and conclusion 
 — a towering vanity that found fit end. The un- 
 
356 WESTMINSTER ABBEY. 
 
 finished window of Aladdin's Palace must remain 
 forever unfinished. While I stood above the 
 grave of the man beloved and praised through- 
 out two continents, I remembered the record of 
 his early life, more wretched than the most 
 wretched of the young heroes of his own novels. 
 For years he said he was never free from the 
 sensation of hunger. Could that miserable boy, 
 pasting labels on blacking bottles, have foreseen 
 his high and brilliant career, it would have com- 
 forted him in those heavy hours, have been a 
 little sweet among so much bitter to know he 
 should lie at last under these arches, hardly less 
 glorious than the azure overarching all. But he 
 did not work, like Milton, 
 
 "As ever in his great Taskmaster's eye." 
 
 The shadow which dims the luster of his name 
 fell on it by his own fireside. The wife of his 
 youth, beside him twenty years, mother of many 
 children, that is the shape it takes. He accused 
 her; but she died and made no sign. Oh ! how 
 much better to have veiled her faults with the 
 soft mantle of silence and patiently waited for the 
 long divorce of death, never far off after we pass 
 the half-way house. When the departing spirit 
 reaches the bar before which soon or late we 
 
POETS' CORNER. 357 
 
 all appear, the tenderest lines he ever wrote may 
 yet thrill his memory : 
 
 "Oh ! woman God — beloved in old Jerusalem ! 
 The best among us need deal lightly with thy 
 faults if only for the punishment thy nature will 
 endure in bearing heavy evidence against us in 
 the Day of Judgment." 
 
 We are not here to sit in judgment, only to 
 learn lessons of forbearance, and reconciHation, 
 and to renew our remembrance of kinship to the 
 great family of man. Leveled by death, who lays 
 the shepherd's crook beside the scepter, they 
 sleep, the beloved dead, under the floor, type of 
 the last assemblage when we shall stand on equal 
 level — small and great, rich and poor, bond and 
 free — and each give account for himself. 
 
 Under an altar tomb with Gothic canopy rests 
 Geoffrey Chaucer, father of English poetry : 
 
 "Of English bards who sung the sweetest strains 
 Old Geoffrey Chaucer now this tomb contains; 
 For his dea4:h's date if, reader, thou shouldst call, 
 Look but beneath, and it will tell thee all. 
 25th October, 1400." 
 
 Originally the back of the tomb contained a 
 portrait of Chaucer. I have not been able to 
 learn when it disappeared. Near him, first to 
 drop from the singing brotherhood who made 
 
S5^ WESTMINSTER ABBEY. 
 
 Elizabeth's reign a dating point for after ages, 
 lies in the eternal silence, Edmund Spenser. I 
 rest my paper against Dryden's monument, and 
 copy verbatim the inscription : 
 
 ''Here lyes (expecting the second comminge 
 of our Savior Jesus Christ) the body of Edmund 
 Spenser, the Prince of Poets, in his tyme, whose 
 divine spirrit needs noe other witness than the 
 works which he left behinde him. He was borne 
 in London in the yeare 1553, and died in the 
 yeare 1598." 
 
 As a curious old scribbler has said, it is enough 
 to make passengers' feet to move metrically who 
 go over the place where so much poetical dust is 
 interred. The funeral of the author of the 
 ''Faerie Queen" has often been described. The 
 expense was borne by the Earl of Essex, the last 
 favorite of the old Queen who could look down 
 a lion, like the heroes of fable. The poets in a 
 body wept beside the hearse, lamenting their 
 chief. That was one of the grandest funerals 
 these venerable walls have ever witnessed. 
 Mournful elegies and poems and the pens that 
 wrote them were dropped on the body in the 
 cofifin after it was lowered to the dust toward 
 which it was drawn by such mysterious kinship. 
 What a sepulcher is that in which Shakespeare's 
 pen and song may have moldered away beside 
 
POETS' CORNER. 359 
 
 those of Beaumont, Fletcher and Jonson ! Think 
 of the gallant gentlemen in the elegant and pic- 
 turesque dress of the period, velvet and royal 
 purple, slashed with v/hite, nodding plumes and 
 flashing swords, exquisite lace and jeweled 
 badges of honor, and the high presence of church 
 dignitaries and courtiers used to command! 
 There has been no grander funeral since the 
 prophet and seer of Israel went up to die on 
 Nebo's height, and the mighty hand which had 
 led him in the wilderness journey of forty years 
 buried him there. 
 
 I looked in vain for the names of Burns and 
 Byron; nor could I discover any memorial of the 
 author of the "Ancient Mariner." Their burial 
 places are made for special pilgrimage, and we 
 must not be surprised that the doors of this far- 
 reaching cemetery were closed against the 
 author of "Childe Harold." Even his statue by 
 Thorwaldsen was refused admission; but his 
 name is eternally sounding in the songs of the 
 Storied Sea, "o'er the glad waters" which he 
 loved well, while hating the land of his birth. 
 
 Many graves have been opened and closed 
 here, as public opinion has changed from gener- 
 ation to generation; and perhaps the beautiful 
 statue of the most gifted and most reckless of 
 men may, in another decade, take place beside 
 
360 WESTMINSTER ABBEY. 
 
 the Bob Southey who writhed under his blister- 
 ing wit. 
 
 I delight in the old poets when they are de- 
 lightful, but cannot value them as certain con- 
 noisseurs value cracked ceramics, merely because 
 they are old. If my aesthetic reader does, then 
 he may be pleased with the following, inscribed 
 on a marble sarcophagus supported by the muses 
 of history and poetry : 
 
 "Nobles and heralds by your leave, 
 
 Here lies what once was Matthew Prior, 
 The son of Adam and of Eve. 
 
 Can Bourbon or Nassau claim higher?" 
 
 Here is a bust of Milton, "the regicide," whose 
 name was once thought a pollution to these 
 walls. Beneath the delicate work perpetuating 
 the features without blemish or defect, is a lyre 
 encircled by a serpent holding an apple; and 
 Macaulay's gravestone is hard by — the orator, 
 poet and statesman, who "ran through each 
 mood of the lyre, and was master of all." 
 
 I regret not having copied the comprehensive 
 epitaph of Lord Lytton, or, as he is best known 
 in America, Bulwer. What days and nights of 
 pleasure we owe to his vari-colored creations — 
 history, poetry, romance, the perfectly embodied 
 Richelieu, love itself on the stage, and the magic 
 mirror held up before ancient Pompeii. What a 
 
POETS' CORNER. 3^1 
 
 range of subjects! Stand before a shelf filled 
 with his volumes and remember that besides 
 these works completed, he was a member of 
 Parliament, in good standing among his peers, 
 and always a man of fashion and society. What- 
 ever he did appeared his best; and how gratify- 
 ing to his lovers to watch the chastening of his 
 imaginings as the years changed the author of 
 "Pelham" to the better man of "The Caxtons." 
 
 Through the long drawn aisle and fretted 
 vault the heavy organ swell thundered in our 
 ears. I think Gray's Elegy must have been in- 
 spired by these strains. Its rich melody will out- 
 last the marble bust of its author. It was Dick- 
 ens who said no man ever went down to posterity 
 with so small a volume under his arm as Thomas 
 Gray. 
 
 Last, though always first, I name the poet who 
 stands alone, without equal or second — the glory 
 of the human race, the foremost man of all this 
 world — 
 
 William Shakespeare, died 1616. 
 
 The full length statue represents him leaning 
 on a pillar whereon rests a scroll with the familiar 
 lines from "The Tempest :" 
 
 "The cloud capped towers," etc., etc. 
 But for the warning over his grave at Strat- 
 
 24 
 
362 WESTMINSTER ABBEY. 
 
 ford, his ashes would have been removed to this 
 spot long ago — the poet of all time who built his 
 own monument, greater than mausoleum of king 
 or prince, or starward-pointing pyramid. 
 
 Why do we linger about the Poets' Corner? 
 Because we have talked with them as friend with 
 friend. They have shortened the heavy hours of 
 sickness and cheered the dull days of ennui and of 
 care. They have been like old familiar faces 
 under the evening lamp, and their hymning has 
 been sweeter to us than the blue-bird telling of 
 coming spring. Blessings be with them and 
 eternal praise ! Walter Scott's name is not here. 
 Perhaps it is as well that the genius of the best 
 beloved of the harpers should hover about the 
 scenes of his minstrelsy, that we should have him 
 only in heart and mind in the lone magnificence 
 of Dryburg Abbey. The pride of all Scotsmen, 
 every stony hill is his monument, and every 
 glassy lake beyond the Tweed mirrors his scenes 
 in the waters he loved so long and loyally. 
 
 My reader will remember the pleasure with 
 which he read that a bust of Longfellow was to 
 be placed in "Poets' Corner." The impressive 
 ceremony was held at midday, on Saturday, 
 March 2, 1884. It is the work of Mr. Thomas 
 Brock, A. R. A., and was executed by the de- 
 sire of some five hundred admirers of the Amer- 
 
POETS' CORNER. 3^3 
 
 ican poet. It stands on a bracket near the tomb 
 of Chaucer, and between the memorials to Cow- 
 ley and Dryden. 
 
 Before the ceremony took place, a meeting of 
 the subscribers was held in the Jerusalem Cham- 
 ber. In the absence of Dean Bradley, owing to 
 a death in his family, the Sub-Dean, Canon 
 Protheroe, was called to the chair. 
 
 Mr. Bennoch having formally announced the 
 order of proceeding. Dr. Bennett made a brief 
 statement, and called upon Earl Granville to ask 
 the Dean's acceptance of the bust. 
 
 Earl Granville then said: "Mr. Sub-Dean, 
 ladies and gentlemen, * * * j ^m afraid I 
 cannot fulfil the promise made for me of making 
 a speech on this occasion. Not that there are 
 wanting materials for a speech; there are ma- 
 terials of the richest description. Thereoare, first 
 of all, the high character, the refinement, and the 
 personal charm of the late illustrious poet, — if 
 I may say so in the presence of those so near 
 and so dear to him. There are also the charac- 
 teristics of those works which have secured for 
 him not a greater popularity in the United States 
 themselves than in this island and in all the Eng- 
 lish-speaking dependencies of the British Em- 
 pire. There are besides very large views with 
 regard to the literature which is common to both 
 
364 WESTMINSTER ABBEY. 
 
 the United States and ourselves, and with regard 
 to the separate branches of Hterature which have 
 sprung up in each country, and which act and 
 react with so much advantage one upon another; 
 and there are, above all, those relations of a 
 moral and intellectual character which become 
 bonds stronger and greater every day between 
 the intellectual and cultivated classes of these 
 two great countries. I am happy to say that 
 with such materials there are persons here in- 
 finitely more fitted to deal than I could have 
 been even if I had had time to bestow upon the 
 thought and the labor necessary to condense into 
 thie limits of a speech some of the considerations 
 I have mentioned. I am glad that among those 
 present there is one who is not only the official 
 representative of the United States, but who 
 speaks with more authority than any one with re- 
 gard to the literature and intellectual condition 
 of that country. I cannot but say how glad I 
 am that I have been present at two of the meet- 
 ings held to inaugurate this work, and I am de- 
 lighted to be present here to take part in the 
 closing ceremony. With the greatest pleasure 
 I make the ofifer of this memorial to the Sub- 
 Dean; and from the great kindness we have re- 
 ceived already from the authorities of Westmin- 
 ster Abbey, I have no doubt it will be received in 
 
POETS' CORNER. 3^5 
 
 the same spirit. I beg to offer to you, Mr. Sub- 
 Dean, the bust which has been subscribed for.'^ 
 The American Minister, Mr. Lowell, then said : 
 *'Mr. Sub-Dean, my lord, ladies and gentlemen, 
 I think I may take upon myself the responsi- 
 bility, in the name of the daughters of my beloved 
 friend, to express their gratitude to Lord Gran- 
 ville for having found time, amid the continuous 
 and arduous calls of his duty, to be present here 
 this morning. Having occasion to speak in this 
 place some two years ago, 1 remember that I 
 then expressed the hope that some day or other 
 the Abbey of Westminster wo-uld become the 
 Valhalla of the whole English-speaking race. I 
 little expected then that a beginning would be 
 made so soon, — a beginning at once painful and 
 gratifying in the highest degree to myself, — 
 with the bust of my friend. Though there be no 
 Academy in England which corresponds to that 
 of France, yet admission to Westminster Abbey 
 forms a sort of posthumous test of literary em- 
 inence perhaps as effectual. Every one of us 
 has his own private Valhalla, and it is not apt 
 to be populous. But the conditions of admis- 
 sion to the Abbey are very different. We ought 
 no longer to ask why is so-and-so here, and we 
 ought always to be able to answer the question 
 why such a one is not here. I think that on this 
 
366 WESTMINSTER ABBEY. 
 
 occasion I should express the united feeling of 
 the whole English-speaking race in confirming 
 the choice which has been made, — the choice of 
 one whose name is dear to them all, who has in- 
 spired their lives and consoled their hearts, and 
 who has been admitted to the fireside of all of 
 them as a familiar friend. Nearly forty years 
 ago I had occasion, in speaking of Mr. Long- 
 fellow, to suggest an analogy between him and 
 the EngHsh poet Gray; and I have never since 
 seen any reason to modify or change that opin- 
 ion. There are certain very marked analogies 
 between them, I think. In the first place, there 
 is the same love of a certain subdued splendor, 
 not inconsistent with transparency of diction; 
 there is the same power of absorbing and assim- 
 ilating the beauties of other literature without 
 loss of originality; and above all there is that 
 genius, that sympathy with universal sentiments 
 and the power of expressing them so that they 
 come home to everybody, both high and low, 
 which characterize both poets. There is some- 
 thing also in that simpHcity, — simplicity in itself 
 being a distinction. But in style, simplicity and 
 distinction must be combined in order to their 
 proper effect; and the only warrant perhaps of 
 permanence in literature is this distinction in 
 style. It is something quite indefinable; it is 
 
POETS' CORNER. 3^7 
 
 something like the distinction of good-breeding, 
 characterized^ perhaps more by the absence of 
 certain negative qualities than by the presence of 
 certain positive ones. But it seems to me that 
 distinction of style is eminently found in the poet 
 whom we are met here in some sense to celebrate 
 to-day. This is not the place, of course, for 
 criticism; still less is it the place for eulogy, for 
 eulogy is but too often disguised apology. But 
 I have been struck particularly — if I may bring 
 forward one instance — with some of my late 
 triend's sonnets, which seem to me to be some of 
 the most beautiful and perfect we have in the 
 language. His mind always moved straight to- 
 ward its object, and was always permeated with 
 the emotion that gave it frankness and sincerity, 
 and at the same time the most ample expression. 
 It seems that I should add a few words^ — in fact 
 I cannot refrain from adding a few words — with 
 regard to the personal character of a man whom 
 I knew for more than forty years, and whose 
 friend I was honored to call myself for thirty 
 years. Never was a private character more an- 
 swerable to public performance than that of 
 Longfellow. Never have I known a more beau- 
 tiful character. I was familiar with it daily, — 
 with the constant charity of his hand and of his 
 mind. His nature was consecrated ground, into 
 
368 WESTMINSTER ABBEY. 
 
 which no unclean spirit could ever enter. I feel 
 entirely how inadequate anything that I can say 
 is to the measure and proportion of an occasion 
 like this. But I think I am authorized to ac- 
 cept, in the name of the people of America, this 
 tribute to not the least distinguished of her sons, 
 to a man who, in every way, both in public and in 
 private, did honor to the country that gave him 
 birth. I cannot add anything more to what was 
 so well said in a few words by Lord Granville, 
 for I do not think that these occasions are pre- 
 cisely the times for set discourses, but rather for 
 a few words of feeling, of gratitude, and of ap- 
 preciation." 
 
 The Sub-Dean, in accepting the bust, re- 
 marked that it was impossible not to feel, in do- 
 ing so, that they were accepting a very great 
 honor to the country. He could conceive that if 
 the great poet were allowed to look down on the 
 transactions of that day he would not think it 
 unsatisfactory that his memorial had been placed 
 in that great Abbey among those of his brothers 
 in poetry. 
 
 The Chancellor of the Exchequer moved a 
 vote of thanks to the honorary secretary and the 
 honorary treasurer, and said he thought he had 
 been selected for the duty because he had spent 
 two or three years of his life in the United States, 
 
POETS' CORNER. 3^9 
 
 and a still longer time in some of the British 
 colonies. It gave him the greater pleasure to do 
 this, having known Mr. Longfellow in America, 
 and having from boyhood enjoyed his poetry, 
 which was quite as much appreciated in England 
 and her dependencies as in America. Wherever 
 he had been in America, and wherever he had 
 met Americans he had found there was one place 
 at least which they looked upon as being as 
 much theirs as it was England's, — that place 
 was the Abbey Church of Westminster. It 
 seemed, therefore, to, him that the present occa- 
 sion was an excellent beginning of the recogni- 
 tion of the Abbey as what it had been called, — 
 the Valhalla of the English-speaking people. He 
 trusted this beginning would not be the end of its 
 application in this respect. 
 
 The company then proceeded to Poets' Cor- 
 ner, where, taking his stand in front of the cov- 
 ered bust, the Sub-Dean said : 
 
 "I feel to-day that a double solemnity 
 attaches to this occasion which calls us to- 
 gether. There is first the familiar fact that 
 to-day we are adding another name to the 
 great roll of illustrious men whom we commem- 
 orate within these walls, that we are adding 
 something to that rich heritage which we have 
 received of national glory from our ancestors, and 
 
370 WESTMINSTER ABBEY. 
 
 which we feel bound to hand over to our suc- 
 cessors, not only unimpaired, but even increased. 
 There is then the novel and peculiar fact which 
 attaches to the erection of a monument here to 
 the memory of Henry Longfellow. In some 
 sense, poets — great poets like him — may be said 
 to be natives of all lands; but never before have 
 the great men of other countries, however bril- 
 liant and widespread their fame, been admitted 
 to a place in Westminster Abbey. A century 
 ago America was just commencing her perilous 
 path of independence and self-government. Who 
 then could have ventured to predict that within 
 the short space of one hundred years we in Eng- 
 land should be found to honor an American as 
 much as we could do so by giving his monument 
 a place within the sacred shrine which holds the 
 memories of our most illustrious sons? Is there 
 not in this a very significant fact; is it not an 
 emphatic proof of the oneness which belongs to 
 our common race, and of the community of our 
 national glories? May I not add, is it not a 
 pledge that we give to each other that nothing 
 can long and permanently sever nations which 
 are bound together by the eternal ties of lan- 
 guage, race, religion, and common feeling?" 
 
 The reverend gentleman then removed the 
 covering from the bust, and the ceremony ended. 
 
POETS' CORNER. 37^ 
 
 One of the strangest scenes ever enacted in 
 Westminster was in the summer of 1885. One 
 Sunday morning a mob from the street crowded 
 into the Chapel and took possession of the seats; 
 some leaned against the bases of statues while 
 others stood in uneasy attitudes awaiting the 
 time of morning service. In their mien was no 
 reverence of folded hands or downcast eyes, no 
 faces solemnized for prayer. Dark glances filled 
 the soft gloom, whispers hinting mysterious se- 
 crets answered- by nods and hoarse murmurs. 
 They were in working clothes, laboring men 
 iron-bound by Fate under the name of Capital. 
 Representatives of the modern industrial system 
 with its underflow of bitter feeling breaking into 
 occasional storms to which we give the name of 
 strikes. 
 
 As the hour passed the minister tried to touch 
 the strangers with kind speech and pacific words. 
 "We don't want preaching, we want work. We 
 want bread." were the tumultuous responses 
 which saluted him, and the hungry men would 
 not allow the service to proceed. It was a signifi- 
 cant sign of the times; the upheaval of seething 
 elements about us ready for destruction; for not 
 lightly do Englishmen enter a holy place with de- 
 fiant gesture and profane speech. 
 
 It is pleasant to know the shilling at the door 
 
372 WESTMINSTER ABBEY. 
 
 of the Abbey is no longer demanded. It always 
 grated on my feelings to pay for entering the old 
 cathedral. The late Dean Stanley, who was de- 
 voted to his work and the place of it, left the sum 
 of three thousand pounds in trust to the Dean 
 and Chapter for establishing a fund for the pur- 
 pose of remunerating the guides who conduct 
 strangers over the Abbey, with the sole purpose 
 of abolishing and putting an end to the payment 
 of fees made to such guides. In case Westmin- 
 ster Abbey shall cease to belong to the National 
 Church, as now by law established in England, 
 "which, however," the late Dean adds, "I think is 
 in the highest degree improbable," the fund thus 
 set aside is to go to the Westminster Hospital. 
 
 The funeral of the beloved and loving Dean 
 was one of the most remarkable that ever took 
 place in this holy shrine for pilgrims who have 
 ceased their wanderings and have entered into 
 their rest. Says one of his friends : Many pro- 
 cessions have been impressive; but the scene at 
 Dean Stanley's was unique. It was the most 
 representative assembly ever known; and there 
 were some grotesque points about it. The 
 names of Cardinals Newman and Manning were 
 called; but they had not intimated they would 
 be present. The newspapers announced the fun- 
 eral as one of the fashionable entertainments of 
 
POETS' CORNER. 373 
 
 the week, a forthcoming event of peculiar interest 
 to the London world. The Prince ^f Wales at- 
 tended, and left at once for Goodwood, and vari- 
 ous members of the House of Commons slipped 
 out before the sad service was concluded. The 
 splendor of the scene was overwhelming. The 
 majestic building, the solemn gathering, the 
 tranquil and beautiful service, familiar yet for- 
 ever new, made a fit conclusion to a career al- 
 most the very crown of intellectual success, of 
 a life fortunate and faultless, a life linked to many 
 lives, from the Queen on the throne to the poor 
 patient in the hospital. Let me conclude this 
 weak tribute to the Dean who loved Westmin- 
 ster with a reverent and ceaseless admiration by 
 quoting his own words regarding it. "It is more 
 and more a witness to that one Sovereign Good, 
 to that one Supreme Truth — a shadow of a great 
 rock in a weary land, a haven of rest in this tu- 
 multuous world, a breakwater for the waves upon 
 waves of human hearts and souls which beat un- 
 ceasingly around its island shores." 
 
 Sunday, September 25, 1881, there was a 
 wail of mourning such as rarely goes up from 
 earth to Heaven. The man of the people, from 
 the people, our king of men, lay dead. If Love 
 and Faith could conquer death he had been 
 saved. Through eighty days and nights, while 
 
374 WESTMINSTER ABBEY. 
 
 like a shattered column he lay, the spirit of prayer 
 brooded the world, almost a visible presence. 
 It stretched from sea to sea across the Conti- 
 nents, unto the ends of the earth, to hoary Egypt, 
 beyond the mystic cities of Africa, and even into 
 antique India. 
 
 His lofty presence drew us to him in life; his 
 gallant struggle and heroic agony endeared him 
 in death, and we refused to be comforted. In 
 the pleasant afternoon of that Sunday there were 
 extraordinary services in Westminster Abbey. 
 The crowd began to gather early — a crowd of 
 mourners mostly in black — till the immense 
 space was thronged. The body was not there; 
 but we had in mind and eye the towering person, 
 and beaming smile of the dead President. The 
 anthem written for the funeral of the Duke of 
 Wellington, introducing the magnificent Dead 
 March in Saul, really a recitative for one bass 
 voice, was given, and the vast assemblage bowed 
 as with one impulse under the rolling waves of 
 sound. 
 
 With deep emotion Canon Duckworth read 
 from the thirty-ninth psalm, *'0 spare me that I 
 may recover m}^ strength before I go hence, and 
 be no more seen." The Dean said: ''Can we 
 forget, to-day, that convalescence (for such it 
 seemed to be) on which millions of hearts in the 
 
POETS' CORNER. 375 
 
 new world and in the old have so long been set 
 with a yearning devotion? From how many lips 
 a fervent prayer has gone up day by day, to Him 
 in whose hands are the issues of life and death, 
 to spare him, that he might recover his strength 
 before he goes hence and is no more seen? 
 Morning and evening in this venerable Abbey, 
 round which, as almost the home of the race and 
 the shrine of its grandest memories, the thoughts 
 of the Western Republic twine as lovingly as our 
 own, and in which, within recent times, a rest- 
 ing-place has been found for two of its noblest 
 citizens, we have offered our public petitions for 
 a life so dear to our great kindred and so pre- 
 cious to the world. Never, perhaps, has the heart 
 of England thrilled with a deeper sympathy. 
 From the hour when the dastardly shot was fired 
 one interest has been paramount. Throughout 
 the length and breadth of the land one interest 
 has displaced every other. So eagerly did we 
 wait for every telegram, so nervously have we 
 scanned every message of hope or fear, that 
 when the struggle ended and all was over, the 
 news fell upon every English household, from 
 that of the monarch to that of her humblest sub- 
 ject, with the shock of a personal bereavement." 
 As the eloquent Dean proceeded, tears fell like 
 rain, and every American present felt a fresh 
 
376 WESTMINSTER ABBEY. 
 
 strengthening of the bond which binds all En- 
 glish-speaking people. 
 
 At the conclusion of the sermon, in harmoni- 
 ous contrast followed a' chorus, unspeakably 
 beautiful; and so in Westminster Abbey we held 
 the funeral service of our chief, James A. Gar- 
 field. His body is buried in peace and his name 
 liveth forevermore. 
 
XVI. 
 
 THE CHAIN OF THE LAST SLAVE OF 
 MARYLAND. 
 
 It was in the year of our Lord, 1864. War- 
 worn soldiers lay along the guns in forts and 
 trenches; warm life blood watered the wilderness 
 and reddened the sod of green fields; and in 
 hospital, camp, and wayside our boys were dying 
 by hundreds. Skeleton regiments marched 
 slowly home for recruit and reorganization. 
 They returned in piteous rags. Homesick eyes 
 were watching in the land from which sleep ap- 
 peared to have departed — watching for the first 
 glimmer of Hght in the East; eager ears were 
 listening for the coming of feet, beautiful upon 
 the mountains, that should bring good tidings 
 that publish peace. Through the darkness round 
 about us, the Dead March went waiHng for the 
 burial of the brave. 
 
 President Lincoln had issued the Emancipa- 
 tion Proclamation. A year and more the people 
 clamored for this measure; it was written early 
 as the June previous, but h^ thought the tim^ 
 
 25 377 
 
37^ THE CHAIN OF THE LAST SLAVE. 
 
 not ripe for its publication. We should wait till 
 some signal advantage in the field was gained; 
 we had met so many reverses, the enemy might 
 consider the act a cry of despair prompted by 
 desperation. The long-hoped-for victory was at 
 last won in the battle of Antietam. And so, New 
 Year's Day, 1863, — the happiest that ever rose 
 on the colored race in America, — it was pro- 
 claimed through the press, and read to the men 
 in arms. 
 
 The first regiment of negro troops for the na- 
 tional service was organized near Beaufort, S. C, 
 and there, in the shadows of a majestic live-oak 
 grove, within bugle call of the spot where the 
 early secession movements were planned, the 
 freedmen listened to the glad news. 
 
 Following the President's action, the 13th of 
 October, 1864, the voters of Maryland, by a ma- 
 jority of three hundred and seventy-nine, rati- 
 fied a new constitution for their State, making 
 provision for the liberation of those who were 
 held in bondage. But the veteran slaveholder 
 did not surrender without a stand worthy his 
 boasted chivalry. The Emancipation Proclama- 
 tion fired the Southern heart to such a pitch, 
 that ninety-six ministers of the Gospel, in Rich- 
 mond, Va., signed a remonstrance and an appeal 
 to the universal brotherhood of Christians. In 
 
THE CHAIN OF THE LAST SLAVE. 379 
 
 this remarkable document they asserted the 
 Union could not be restored, and declared that 
 the granting of freedom to slaves afforded a 
 suitable occasion for solemn protest on the part 
 of the people of God throughout the world. 
 
 The President, with unfaltering faith and 
 steady hand at the helm, held on his way and 
 wrote : 
 
 "The signs look better. The Father of Waters 
 again goes unvexed to the sea; thanks to the 
 great Northwest for it! * * * Thanks to 
 all ! for the great republic — for the principles by 
 which it lives, and keeps alive — for man's vast 
 future, thanks to all ! Peace does not appear so 
 distant as it did. I hope it will come soon, and 
 come to stay; and so come as to be worth the 
 keeping in all future time. It will then have 
 been proved that, among freemen, there can be 
 no successful appeal from the ballot to the bul- 
 let, and that they who take such appeal are sure 
 to lose their cause and pay the cost. * * * 
 Still, let us not be over-sanguine of a speedy final 
 triumph. Let us be quite sober. Let us 
 diligently apply the means, never doubting that a 
 just God will, in His own good time, give us the 
 rightful result." 
 
 In these troublous times, there lived in Anne 
 Arundel County, Maryland, a bright mulatto 
 
38o THE CHAIN OF THE LAST SLAVE. 
 
 girl named Margaret Toogood. Of her parent- 
 age nothing is recorded. She was born in slav- 
 ery, as were her ancestors, accustomed to begin 
 the morning's work at the sound of the over- 
 seer's horn, and pass her days in unpaid toil. 
 
 She was no stranger to the statute which al- 
 lowed owners of such as she, to cut notches, 
 with knives and pinchers, in the ears of their 
 property, lash their backs into scars, and with 
 pens of red-hot iron brand their initials into the 
 quivering flesh of their human chattels. She 
 must have been familiar with the fact, that if 
 caught in the street after a certain hour, any one 
 guilty of a black skin, unable to show a pass- 
 port, was liable to be bound in fetters and thrust 
 into jail, with as little consideration as a stray 
 horse would have. More than that, if such indi- 
 vidual happened to be free, the justice might 
 choose to think him a fugitive slave, advertise the 
 arrest in the newspapers, warning the owner to 
 come and redeem the prisoner; and if no claim- 
 ant appeared, he would be sold to pay the jail 
 fees. Such proceeding was frequent, and the 
 bondwoman knew this usage, which now seems 
 incredible. Forbidden by law to learn how to 
 read, the colored race, from the beginning, has 
 had an aptitude for "hearkening;" and exercis- 
 ing her native talent behind the chair of her pro- 
 
THE CHAIN OF THE LAST SLAVE. 381 
 
 prietor, she learned that under the Emancipa- 
 tion Proclamation she now belonged to herself. 
 Moved by the same impulse you or I would have 
 in like conditions, one day she stole softly out 
 the back door, across fields, along devious wind- 
 ings and byways, in dim wanderings toward the 
 lines of the Union army. She was missed, fol- 
 lowed, tracked — ^whether with the keen scent of 
 bloodhounds or of men more brutal than brutes, 
 I know not. When discovered she was accused 
 of theft, and on the plea brought to the planta- 
 tion with a show of justice. The master then 
 withdrew the charge, as he merely wanted pos- 
 session of Margaret's person and a return to the 
 house of bondage. Determined to secure the 
 prisoner, he ordered a chain to be made of such 
 material as was at hand, fastened it round her 
 neck, and locked it with a key, like a clock key, 
 which he carried. By this she was probably 
 hitched to a post, treated as a runaway animal. 
 
 Report of the outrage came to General Wal- 
 lace, then in command of the Middle Depart- 
 ment. He despatched a squad of cavalry for her 
 rescue, and she was brought to headquarters. 
 In the office of Reverdy Johnson, Monument 
 Square, Baltimore, the last chain of the slave 
 was literally broken, and the bond went free. 
 
 On my wall the strange necklace hangs, just 
 
Z^2 THE CHAIN OF THE LAST SLAVE. 
 
 is it came from the throat of a young girl not 
 yet twenty years of age, after it had been worn, 
 without removal, for several weeks. It is a for- 
 bidding thing, fashioned of coarsest metal, 
 wrought in the rudest manner. The rough iron 
 is a portion of log chain, once used by oxen in 
 dragging heavy weights, and is fastened by a 
 lock prepared by some neighboring blacksmith. 
 Examining the mechanism, we must admit it was 
 a safe thing to trust in securing merchandise such 
 as Margaret Toogood. The links are two inches 
 in length, and its entire weight is between three 
 and four pounds. 
 
 In the silent city of the sea — the sweet city of 
 Desdemona — the tourist finds, among antique 
 armor and historic weapons, inventions curious 
 as any contained in the Patent Office — ingenious 
 machines contrived to inflict extremest anguish, 
 without loss of life or consciousness; instruments 
 of torture, made to grind, twist, cramp living men 
 and women, all in the name of Christ, and under 
 direction of officers of the most Holy Inquisition. 
 Our relic of a bygone social system would be well 
 classed and properly placed in such a collection 
 as that which to-day excites the amazement of 
 tourists in Venice. I have chosen to hang it be- 
 side a victorious banner, furled, a rusty cavalry 
 sword, and near a medallion portrait of President 
 
I 
 
C'hain of the Last Slave. 
 
 Page 383. 
 
THE CHAIN OF THE LAST SLAVE. 383 
 
 Lin(x>ln. Around these symbolic mementos 
 cluster the history of one of the most terrible 
 ordeals a nation ever witnessed; an epoch whose 
 outcome was triumphant as the struggle had 
 been desperate. 
 
 Before long the chain will be transferred — a 
 perpetual inheritance — to the library of Oberlin 
 College, Ohio, where we hope it may be 
 touched by those who look back mournfully to 
 the time when on the side of the oppressors there 
 was power. 
 
 THE END. 
 
H 94 89 
 

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