Harhvick Ihorpe 
 
 awl ihi Sfoty of 
 
 "Curfew Stall NotRm* 
 J Tonirfkt^ 
 
 T hA H\ 
 
 
 aM 
 
 **'*■ 
 
 
 GEORGE WHARTON JAMES 
 
ROSE HARTWICK THORPE 
 
 AND THE STORY OF 
 
 "CURFEW SHALL NOT RING 
 TONIGHT" 
 
The Souvenir Bell of porcelain, an exact fac-simile of the Curfew- 
 bell, with wood erf clapper made from the old oaken beams 
 that for 700 years supported the bell in the tower of Chertsey 
 Abbey, -near London, England. 
 
 Rose Hartwick at 16 years of age, just before 
 she wrote "Curfew Shall Not Ring To- 
 night." 
 
 Rose Hartwick at 19 years of age, about the 
 time when "Curfew" was first published in 
 the Detroit Commercial Advertiser. 
 
ROSE HARTWICK THORPE 
 
ROSE HARTWICK THORPE 
 
 AND THE STORY OF 
 
 "CURFEW MUST NOT RING 
 TO-NIGHT" 
 
 BY 
 
 GEORGE WHARTON JAMES 
 
 With the Poem 
 
 and Its Original Illustrations and Music for 
 
 Public Recitation. 
 
 THE RADIANT LIFE PRESS 
 
 ioq8 N. Raymond A^e. 
 Pasadena, Cal. 
 
"ft ' 
 
 Copyright iqi6 
 By" EDITH E. FARNSWORTH 
 
 Entered also at 
 Stationer's Hall, London, Eng. 
 
 'tjtl 
 
 ICI.A457332 
 
 FEB 19 1917 
 
 "Uo / ■ 
 
ROSE HARTWICK THORPE 
 
 AND THE STORY OF 
 
 "CURFEW MUST NOT RING 
 TO-NIGHT" 
 
 HO is there that has not read "Curfew Must Not Ring 
 Tonight"? Or if he has not read it, has not heard it quoted or 
 referred to as familiarly as household words? It has been trans- 
 lated into scores of tongues. It has been recited in every school, 
 lyceum, and pulpit throughout the English-speaking world. It 
 has been parodied a score of times, by as many different humor- 
 ists ; and nothing is parodied that is not already familiarly 
 known. 
 
 And, strange to say, this world-popular ballad was not writ- 
 ten by a master of English verse, one who had already won his laurels, but by 
 a sixteen-year-old schoolgirl, devoid of any education save that afforded by 
 the "little red schoolhouse" of the American country side, and gained in a 
 home where books were as rare, scarce, and precious as jewels and diamonds, 
 and far more treasured. 
 
 As far as I know, the full story of this ballad has never been told, so I 
 am glad to have the opportunity of presenting the account as it was recently 
 given to me by its author, Rose Hartwick Thorpe, at her present home in 
 San Diego, California. 
 
 Her father was one of the pioneers in the new country of Northern 
 Indiana and there, at Mishawka, Rose was born. She had two brothers and 
 two sisters, her place being second in the list. She can trace her ancestry back 
 many, many generations to that merry king, celebrated in song and story : 
 
 Old King Cole was a merry old soul; 
 And a merry old soul was he. 
 
 The name originally was Coil, but in time became known as Cole. Her 
 father's mother was Elinor, whose parents early brought her to Canada, and 
 one of the treasured possessions of the family to this day is the Coat of Arms 
 of the Coles, which clearly indicates the kingly descent claimed. 
 
 Yet far prouder than of her distinguished and more remote ancestry is 
 her feeling of pride in her grandfather, who united with the noble patriots 
 who fought against the tyranny of England and demanded freedom for them- 
 selves and their sons. 
 
 The first ten years of Rose's life were happily spent at Mishawka. Her 
 father must have been fairly well-to-do, for her remembrances are that every 
 reasonable wish was gratified, and there were no severe hardships to encounter. 
 Then came disaster. Her father became security for some one who failed, 
 and he was called upon to make good the deficiency. It completely ruined 
 him. Disheartened and discouraged, he sought a new field of labor and enter- 
 prise in the new country of Kansas, where his wife's brother had already 
 
6 Rosa Hartwick Thorpe and the Story of 
 
 located. This move merely added misfortune to disaster. It was the year 
 of the great drought. Other States were called upon to assist the starving 
 people and Rose well recalls the beans and corn-meal that were sent in, and 
 that formed the chief articles of their diet. To this day she has no relish for 
 either food, so distasteful did they become in their monotonous regularity in 
 those weeks of wretchedness and hardship. 
 
 At last her father felt anything was better than the bare existence they 
 were eking out in Kansas, and as there were other brothers and sisters in 
 Michigan, he decided to go there. How he got there has always been a mys- 
 tery to Mrs. Thorpe, for she is perfectly sure he had no money to go with, 
 but in a very short time, she, her mother, brothers and sisters were cheered 
 and delighted by the presence of one of her uncles, who had come to "pack 
 them up" and earn' them away back to Michigan. Here a house was found 
 by one, furniture by another, clothing and groceries by another, until the needy 
 ones could find themselves once more, and thus began Rose's life at Litchfield, 
 Michigan, which she was soon to make famous in history. Her father was a 
 first-class tailor, unafraid and unashamed to work, yet it was a pretty hard 
 struggle to keep things going by the activity of his needle. Hence it can well be 
 imagined there were no unnecessary luxuries provided for Rose and her brothers 
 and sisters in the Litchfield days. Neither did any one know or care what their 
 ancestry was. The deeds of today are what win respect and the friendliness 
 of neighbors. The Hartwicks were good neighbors, and so had good neigh- 
 bors in return ; hence, when Rose, a growing girl, desired to expand her 
 reading, she was allowed to borrow the few scant books and magazines they 
 possessed. Her only books in those days were the Bible, a small school diction- 
 ary, and her school reader. There was a frame schoolhouse, of course, and 
 thither Rose went daily with her brothers and sisters and companions. But, 
 while a genuine youngster, enjoying all the sports of her fellows, there was 
 something in her a little different from the others. Her mother noticed it, 
 for she often spoke of Rose's habit of "making up" poetry about her dolls, 
 which she would recite to them. 
 
 When Rose was about eleven years of age, a niece of her mother came to 
 live with them so that she might attend their high school, which had a great 
 local reputation. Rose was then in the primary grade. One evening as she 
 sat by the fire, writing diligently on her slate, her cousin bent over it and 
 inquired: "What are you doing." "Writing poems," was the reply. "The 
 idea!" was the scornful response from the young miss, more advanced in years 
 and scholarship. "You can't write poems. Let me see!" After she had satis- 
 fied herself, she exclaimed: "Rosie, you never wrote that. You copied it. 
 Listen, Aunt Mary, Rosie says she wrote this." And she read the lines aloud 
 to her aunt. Then turning to her half-scared, half-defiant cousin, she chal- 
 lenged: "If you really wrote that, write a poem about me." This was just 
 what Rose wanted, and she proceeded to write some rhymed lines about her 
 cousin, which, when completed, she triumphantly read. "And," said Mrs. 
 Thorpe, in telling the story years after to the friend who told me, "I don't 
 know that I evoked more satisfaction in any of my later work than that which 
 I felt when Cousie Abbie turned to my mother and said: 'Well, Aunt Mary, 
 I guess she wrote that other poem.' " 
 
 The result of this triumph was soon to prove to the young versifier the 
 truth of the aphorism that the reward of good work is the opportunity to do 
 more work, for the students of the high school were in the habit of having a 
 "speaking" each month, and one of the expected "pieces" was a "pome'' con- 
 
Curfew Must Not Ring To-night 
 
 taining local hits, puns and the like. Abbie called upon Rosie to exercise her 
 gifts for this paper, and thereafter every month, for quite a time, she was the 
 real, though generally uncredited, poet of these occasions. 
 
 When I think of the many pleasures, recreations, and amusements pro- 
 vided for the young people of our day, whether in city or country, I ask myself 
 what would they do were they suddenly thrust back into the life of the youths 
 and maidens of fifty years ago in the pioneer country settlements. Homes far 
 apart, books few, newspapers rare, magazines rarer still, few musical instru- 
 ments of any kind, few concerts, lectures, or other forms of amusement most 
 common nowadays, how would they fill up their spare time, how pass the 
 hours, how endure the tedium of the daily task. 
 
 In Rose Hartwick's home the children grew up under the prevalent 
 restricted and restricting conditions. But Rose herself lived largely in a world 
 of her own. Impressionable, with an intense nature, feeling every- emotion 
 keenly and deeply, easily stirred, every book or magazine she could get hold of 
 stimulated her imagination and peopled her world with the creations of her 
 brain. About the time of her fifteenth birthday some one gave her a copy of 
 Byron's poems. This opened up a wealth of new associations. She traveled 
 in that intense world of the imagination all the countries visited by Childe 
 Harold: she associated with the scores of strange and hitherto unknown 
 people pictured by the poet's genius. Possessing the dramatic instinct, the 
 growing girl, the feelings of dawning womanhood stirring within her, became 
 the characters of which she read. Books were so rare, and especially books 
 of poetry, that she read and re-read every poem until their every line was 
 familiar to her. She knew every thought of every actor in every poem. She 
 saw each scene as distinctly as though it were her father's back-yard. What 
 though she pictured incorrectly? That she saw things through the glamour 
 of romance? It was the glorification of her life, the enlargement of her 
 world, the making of a cosmopolite out of the little country girl. 
 
 In those days periodical literature was much more restricted than it is 
 today, there being but few magazines in the field. One of these was Peterson's. 
 It had the usual pages devoted to women's fashions and matters supposed to 
 be dear to the woman's heart; had a fair sprinkling of tolerable poetry and 
 enough fiction to make it interesting, with occasional essays, political, social, 
 historical and otherwise. 
 
 Their neighbor, Dr. Coston, who lived directly across the dusty road of 
 the country town, in a house glorified with a row of maple trees, was a regu- 
 lar subscriber and Rose was privileged to borrow each month's issue as soon 
 as the family had finished reading it. But she was a voracious reader, and 
 soon the current issues were not enough to supply her needs. Back numbers 
 were just as good as current ones. They fed the imagination just as well one 
 month as another. So, one day, when all her regular tasks were done, she 
 asked her mother if she might go over to Dr. Coston's for another magazine. 
 The consent was readily given and Rose tripped out on what was the most 
 memorable call of her life. How great events hang on seemingly trivial 
 actions. Who could have dreamed that this merry, happy, dancing, yet far- 
 eyed, thoughtful child, skipping over the dusty road, receiving the gray- 
 covered magazine with a sparkle of gratitude in each eye, and a careful hand- 
 ling of it that was almost a reverence, was stepping through the doorway of 
 a fame accorded to few even of the great writers of our English tongue ? Yet 
 it was so, for in the pages of that magazine was the story that was to stir 
 maiden Rose's heart to the writing of "Curfew Must Not Ring Tonight." 
 
8 Rose Hartwick Thorpe and the Story of 
 
 I hold this magazine in my hands as I write. Its cover is plain almost 
 to ugliness, and compared with the gaudy, many-colored "artistic" magazine 
 covers of today would be esteemed "positively hideous." Yet in those days 
 people were not so much influenced by exterior prepossessiveness as by the 
 worth of the contents. This issue is dated, September, 1865. On page 185 is 
 the beginning of a story headed "Love and Loyalty," and it is "By a new Con- 
 tributor," so we do not know — and perhaps never will know — by whom it was 
 written. It is a story of ten pages in length, and had it not been for the effect 
 of the poem that was soon to be born from its perusal, would perhaps never 
 have been heard of again in the world. It is a fairly well written story 
 in somewhat of the style of a bye-gone age, such a story as few editors of 
 modern magazines would be likely to accept and publish. Yet so satisfied am I 
 that many persons would like to read it that I have had the pages photo- 
 graphed and reproduced in exact facsimile of the original, with Mrs. Thorpe's 
 annotation on the first page that this is the story that led to the writing of her 
 memorable poem. 
 
 The effect of this story upon the young school girl was marvelous. That 
 night the various scenes in the drama were enacted again and again in her 
 dreams. She saw the child Bessie, living at Underwood Hall, the pet and 
 plaything of all the family, educated almost as one of the baron's own children. 
 She gasped in a spasm of loyalty as she imagined the feelings of the grown-up 
 maiden, Bessie, when King Charles appeared at the Hall and smiled upon 
 her. She let her heart go out in love to the old baron and his lady, that they 
 allowed their son Basil to make honorable love to Bessie, with the hope that 
 one day she would be the mistress of the Hall, and the mother of their son's 
 children. Then she shivered with terror as she imagined the country overrun 
 with the Puritan soldiers, the hall deserted, and Basil, her lover, in camp with 
 the Cavaliers. Civil war in all its horrors visaged itself before her. Then 
 she thrilled (child in body though she was), as her imagination pictured for 
 her the tenderness of the meetings of Basil and Bessie, in her forester father's 
 home in the woods, where, in spite of the active Puritans, he often found him- 
 self. And anon she cried in her sleep when the old forester died, and in 
 dying commended his sweet child to the care and keeping of her lover. 
 
 Then, ah then, she saw Basil, leaving Bessie, overtaken by a horseman 
 who insisted upon riding with him ; saw them arrested as spies ; taken before 
 the stern commander; tried by the Puritan Council, and placed in jeopardy of 
 their lives. And how she cried in sympathy and felt her heart beat high in 
 response to the daring and courage of Bessie, who went before the Council and 
 pleaded for the life of her lover, clearly showing that he could not have been 
 a spy, and corroborating his story as to not having seen the real spy until very 
 shortly before their arrest. And sobs again came from her as she slept and 
 heard in her vivid dream the judgment of the stern Council that, in spite 
 of Bessie's testimony, Basil should die that night when Curfew sent its doleful 
 sound over the land. 
 
 Then how her heart leaped with Bessie's when she saw her hastening 
 toward the camp of Cromwell, to whom she was going to appeal for the sake 
 of his old friendship for her father, to believe her story and save her lover. 
 And her heart sank with Bessie's as she heard the stern sentinel tell the eager 
 maiden that Cromwell would not return until long after the hour of Curfew's 
 tolling. Now she felt all the agony of despair, until a fresh leap of hope came 
 when Bessie thought of going to the sexton of the Abbey, where hung the 
 Curfew bell, and pleading with him not to ring Curfew until Cromwell had 
 
Curfew Must Not Ring To-night 9 
 
 returned and given her the opportunity to plead for her lover's life. And 
 again she felt the griping pangs of hopelessness as the stern old sexton responded 
 to Bessie's pleading with the harsh reply: "Child, take your gold and jewels. 
 All my life of service Curfew has rung as surely as the sun has set. Not even 
 to save your lover's life dare I set aside this ancient custom!" 
 
 Ah ! then she felt the heart-questionings of Bessie. Was she to see her 
 lover die? Was there no hope?. Was there no possible way of averting his 
 fate? And as the answer came it produced a joy that was twin sister to pain 
 in its suffocating ecstasy. As the sexton swung open the door and turned 
 towards the belfrv rope she saw Bessie spring in, and dashing up the slimy 
 and foul steps of the tower, hasten with breathless speed towards the belfry 
 above. Just as she saw her on the platform over which the bell swung, the 
 sexton began to pull the rope. Slowly the wheel revolved, and in another 
 moment the clapper would have tolled out the first note of Curfew, when 
 Bessie grasped it, and, her lover's life depending upon the firmness of her 
 hold, she saw her swing out into space as she sobbed out: "Curfew must not, 
 shall not, ring tonight." And how she rejoiced with Bessie, even in her thrill- 
 ing danger, as she swung to and fro, that the old sexton's deaf ears could not 
 warn him that no sound was coming from the bell as the result of his labor. 
 When the swinging of the bell had ceased she saw, with streaming eyes, poor 
 Bessie, faint and white with pain, look at her bruised and bleeding hands and 
 arms where they had been cruelly dashed upon the brazen circle of the bell. 
 Then she saw the loving maiden, tottering and uncertain of step, find her way 
 down the belfry stairs, and again wend her way to Cromwell's camp, meet 
 the great general, tell her story, show her bruised and injured hands, and plead 
 with him for her lover's life. And what joy soothed her sympathetic little 
 soul, even though it was all in her dreams, when she saw Cromwell write 
 and sign the mandate that bade his soldiers let Basil Underwood go free. 
 
 Think of a maiden's slumber haunted by visions like these; try to realize 
 the emotions that chased each other through her tender heart. Recall that 
 she was naturally prone to express her thoughts in verse. Yet remember also, 
 that she was but a child, scarce budded into maidenhood, and that her parents 
 were so poor that the slate was the only means they could provide her with 
 for writing down the lines that clamored for expression within her. 
 
 When morning came her mother saw that her eyes were still heavy, as 
 though she had either slept little, or her sleep had been disturbed with haunt- 
 ing dreams. Knowing her child's tendency to write in preference to study- 
 ing her lessons she cautioned her to give special heed to the commands of her 
 teacher, hence, when she came back home at night and told her mother that 
 the teacher had had to rebuke her for her inattention, she was not surprised 
 that her mother urged her, with more than usual fervor, to leave all reading 
 that night; forbade her writing any "poetry," and insisted that all the evening 
 be spent on mastering the neglected arithmetic lessons. 
 
 Remorsefully and perfectly in accord with her mother's commands — for 
 Rose knew that the rebukes of teacher and mother were justified — she promised 
 obedience, and sat down by the fireside, earnestly and sincerely desirous of 
 doing only what she had promised. 
 
 But there are times when the Godhood within us is more powerful than 
 our wills and more compelling than our promises to parents, teachers, kings 
 and potentates. Poor Rose was to learn this now. For, in spite of everything, 
 her pencil began to move across the slate with a greater speed than it had ever 
 moved before, and than arithmetic, spelling, history, grammar, or composition 
 
10 Rosa Hartwick Thorpe and the Story of 
 
 had ever been able to bring about. It seemed like magic. Rose forgot prom- 
 ises, lessons, the house in which she lived, the Indiana of her birth. She was 
 transplanted to England, and as the pictures of the night before came back 
 to her excited brain she wrote in her childish and unformed, yet legible hand: 
 
 BESSIE AND THE CURFEW 
 
 England's sun was setting, behind the hills so far away, 
 
 Filled the land with mystic beauty, at the close of that sad day. 
 
 Mrs. Thorpe's own account of the way Bessie intruded upon her mathe- 
 matical endeavors was thus related in the Chicago Inter-Ocean of June 5, 1887. 
 
 The figures became a confused unintelligible jumble of meaningless characters; 
 but clearly and distinctly before my mental vision arose these words: "Curfew must 
 not ring tonight." Again and again I resolutely banished them, but they returned 
 persistently, until in sheer desperation I swept the exasperating figures from my slate 
 and wrote "England's sun was slowly setting." Rapidly flew my pencil, with sharp, 
 regular clicks, down the surface of my slate, but faster the thoughts came, crowding 
 into my throbbing brain, while all my being seemed on fire with the triumph of 
 impulse over duty. Which was duty? The unlearned lesson or the completed poem? 
 I was conscience-smitten when my mother looked in at the door to inform me that 
 a young friend had called. "Oh mother," I cried, "please excuse me for a few 
 moments. I must finish this," and she, thinking I desired to complete my lesson (for 
 I still held the arithmetic in my hand), excused me to my friend for a few minutes. 
 
 Again she returned to her poem and when it was finished, her mind 
 slowly came back to her Michigan home. Looking around, she saw she was 
 by her own fireside, and the slate in her hands was supposed to bear the 
 evidence of her finished lessons. 
 
 These, alas, were untouched. Again she recalled the promise she had 
 made to her mother. Alas! She had broken her word; the lessons were not 
 done, and it was nearly bedtime. Repentant and appalled at her naughtiness 
 Rose rushed, with tears, to her mother: "Oh! mother dear, I can hardly 
 believe it, but I could not help it. I didn't intend to deceive you. I did 
 just what I promised you I would not do. I sat down with the full inten- 
 tion of writing nothing but my lessons, and before I knew it, these verses 
 came and I had to write them. Just let me read them to you, then I will 
 wash them off my slate, forget them and do my lessons." 
 
 Seeing her child so full of repentance, the wise mother uttered no rebuke, 
 but listened as Rose read what she had written. When she had read it all the 
 young author, in her abasement at having forgotten her promise, was about to 
 erase the lines, but her mother stayed her hand. "Wait awhile, child, let them 
 stay on your slate until morning. Never mind your lessons. I think I would 
 like you to write those verses on paper tomorrow so that we may keep them." 
 
 Happy that her mother did not chide her Rose went to bed. In the 
 morning the poem was transcribed and thus saved for the pleasure and delight 
 of the world. 
 
 There is a little question here as to whether this first transcription on 
 paper was made in a small blank book which, either at this time or later, her 
 mother bought for her, or on a strip of the long white paper ribbon is rolled 
 on. Rose's story of this book and the white ribbon paper is as follows: 
 
 When I was about sixteen years of age I persuaded my mother to invest fifty 
 cents in a blank book for the preservation of my poetic fancies. It was a great 
 favor to ask. I fully realized the magnitude of my request, also that fifty cents 
 was a vast amount of money in a family of seven, where a tailor's needle must supply ' 
 the needs of all. It may be that she recalled the record of my childhood days, when, 
 
Curfew Must Not Ring To-mght 11 
 
 as sometimes happened at rare intervals, a cent apiece would be distributed among 
 the children to be expended as our inclination dictated. Oh, wondrous event of those 
 early times, when, with clean, stiff-starched sunbonnets, bright, sunshiny faces fairly 
 bubbling over with joyous anticipations, with each respective cent treasured carefully 
 in a closed, brown palm, we tiled demurely into the village store, and with conse- 
 quential importance purchased — for the rest — a cent's worth of candy, a cent's worth 
 of chewing-gum, a cent's worth of peanuts. But never such trivial things for me. 
 Invariably my cent purchased a sheet of foolscap writing paper. I do not remember 
 that my precious cent was ever squandered in any other way, even in those earlier 
 years, before I had learned to write and could only print my little rhymes and stories 
 in conspicuous and painstaking capitals. The cents did not find their way into my 
 possession often enough to supply the ever-increasing demand for paper, consequently 
 I was obliged to write in the white sand and in the pure, new-fallen snow. I haunted 
 the milliners' stores for the paper in which ribbon had been rolled. My writings 
 were finely illustrated and elaborately colored with the petals of flowers and the 
 green of leaves. I undertook at one time to publish an illustrated magazine, issued 
 weekly, which was a gratuitous contribution to some of my school friends who appre- 
 ciated my talent as a story-teller. The paper supply "falling short" after the blank 
 leaves from our school books had all been utilized, the enterprise, so enthusiastically 
 begun, was sorrowfully abandoned, but the continued stories were completed orally. 
 
 I am inclined to believe that the verses were first transcribed on the 
 milliners' ribbon paper, and later into the book. This precious little book i^ 
 before me as I write. It is only a common blank book, bound in leather with 
 paper board sides, the paper of a pale blue tint, and in it is "Curfew," sand- 
 wiched between many other of the poetic effusions of Rose's girl days. The 
 two pages that contain "Curfew" however, are of chief interest. The poem 
 is dated April 5, 1867, and one can see the child in the spelling. We have 
 "mistic," "tryed," "sollam," "murmer," "gased," "whare," "too and frow," 
 "lader," "awfle," "beneth," "tounge," "stoped," "swang," "too and froe," 
 "funearel," "beeting," "siezed" for ceased, "sweiping," "steped," "siers," 
 "cryed," "twords," "geathered," "seigned." 
 
 Here, too, is a stanza, the last one, which was never published as written. 
 Yet it is interesting to see this first impulse of the young poet, and now, with 
 her permission, I publish it. And, as the original hand writing of the poem's 
 author will surely prove interesting to many, it is reproduced in exact facsimile, 
 with the extra and unused stanza attached. 
 
 When I asked Mrs. Thorpe to allow me to republish this facsimile of 
 her famous poem she hesitated awhile. There were several reasons why, one 
 of which was the poor spelling. I have noticed this spelling purposely, for 
 there are critics today even, who would condemn a poem submitted to them 
 were the spelling no better than this. "They strain at a gnat and swallow 
 a camel." Of course, it is well that one, young or old, should know how to 
 spell properly, but let us never forget that spelling is a mere mechanical thing, 
 and of secondary or tertiary importance, while the ability to write, to think, to 
 compose is the thing, the matter of primary importance. 
 
 There is now an interesting hiatus in the story. "Curfew" was written 
 and transcribed in the book. Doubtless Rose and her mother once in awhile 
 read it over, and it is easy to conceive that now and again its blushing young 
 author was called upon to read or recite it to adoring, envying or jealous 
 neighbors when they came to call. But no one dreamed of the fame the poem 
 was to bring. Greater and more famous writers have been equally unaware. 
 Rudyard Kipling threw his "Recessional" into the waste-basket, from whence 
 it was rescued by his more discerning wife, and Elbert Hubbard never dreamed 
 that his "Message to Garcia" was to carry his name to the ends of the 
 earth. Joaquin Miller little conceived of the worth of his poem, "Columbus." 
 
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14 Rosa Hartwick Thorpe and the Story of 
 
 until Tennyson declared it was the greatest poem, expressive of a nation's 
 destiny, ever penned. 
 
 Rose's poem remained in the little blank book until fate forced its publi- 
 cation in the year 1870, in the Detroit Commercial Advertiser, and it hap- 
 pened in this wise. A year or more before the poem was written Rose had 
 had the great delight of sending one of her early efforts to this paper, having 
 it accepted, and seeing it in print. The editor wrote, saying he was unable to 
 pay her for more of her verses, but, if she would continue to send them, he 
 would gladly send her the paper — subscription price, $1.50 per year. Rose 
 was happy enough to fly. A newspaper worth $1.50 a year for her verses! 
 How proud she was! For, let it not be forgotten, she was but a child. The 
 accompanying picture, made from a daguerrotype, shows her appearance at 
 this time. Mobile mouth, the eyes of a dreamer, lofty and broad forehead, 
 yet who would have guessed that this unformed maiden had dashed off, while 
 she should have been "doing her lessons," a ballad that should ring throughout 
 the English-speaking world more, perhaps, than any other ever written, should 
 be translated into many tongues, and thrill more hearts, cause more tears of 
 sympathy to be shed, and be used to illustrate more sermons than history could 
 ever record ? 
 
 The idea seems never to have entered her mind to send the poem to a 
 publisher. It was not the kind of verse the Commercial had asked for. These, 
 she wrote as a pleasing task. But she was taken ill with typhoid fever. Her 
 poem for that week was already written, so it was sent and appeared in due 
 time. The following week, however, she was too ill to write one, so she copied 
 out "Curfew," and sent it with an apology, explaining that her illness pre- 
 vented her from writing the expected poem, but she sent this instead. 
 
 It is doubtful whether the editor grasped the significance of his act when 
 he published it. Anyhow he "accepted the apology" and the poem, and it 
 occupied Rose's usual corner. But the world soon knew what Rose and the 
 editor had done. Paper after paper copied the ballad, until all the Eastern 
 States, all Canada, had read it, and boys and girls were reciting it, preachers, 
 teachers, elocutionists, and platform orators were quoting it in part or entire, 
 with such dramatic fire and gesture as they deemed most appropriate. 
 
 It was in this first publication that Rose was instinctively led to leave off 
 the extra stanza reproduced above. The poem was longer than those she 
 generally sent to the Commercial, so, to keep these lines a little nearer the 
 required shortness, she cut off the extra stanza and let the poem end with 
 Cromwell's declaration: 
 
 Go, your lover lives; Curfew shall not ring tonight. 
 
 Even yet, however, the young poet did not know what Fate had done for 
 her. Quietly the poem was winning its own way, and in 1874, Rossiter John- 
 son, then living in Rochester, New York, decided to publish a volume entitled 
 Waifs and Their Authors, to consist of poems of popularity and power, that, 
 however, had only appeared hitherto as fugitive verse in the columns of current 
 and, some of them, little-known, newspapers. 
 
 By this time Rose had married and had become Mrs. E. C. Thorpe, and 
 a baby girl had come to her. Yet she was the same child-hearted creature, 
 still a dreamer, still unfamiliar with the doing of business, and still totally 
 unaware of the commercial value of her work. So, when Mr. Johnson, struck 
 by "Curfew's" power and beauty, wrote and asked for particulars as to the 
 writing of the poem, and expressed a wish to publish it, Mrs. Thorpe gave 
 
Curfew Must Not Ring To-mght 15 
 
 him the required information and permission. But in telling her story she 
 raised a grave doubt in the mind of the man who afterwards was to become 
 noted as a critic and editor. She, when a sixteen-year-old school girl write 
 that famous ballad? It seemed impossible, and he refused to believe it until 
 she sent to him the new stanza which she had decided should take the place of 
 the one which she had rejected. This reads as follows: 
 
 Wide they flung the massive portals, led the prisoner forth to die, 
 
 All his bright young life before him, 'neath the darkening English sky; 
 
 Bessie came with flying footsteps, ayes aglow with lovelight sweet, 
 
 Kneeling on the turf beside him, laid his pardon at his feet. 
 
 In his brave, strong arms he elapsed her, kissed the face upturned and white, 
 
 Whispered, "Darling, you have saved me, Curfew will not ring tonight!" 
 
 Nor was this the only experience of the kind. At a later date the bold 
 claim was made of English authorship for the poem, several persons asserting 
 they had seen it in an old English reader before Mrs. Thorpe claimed to have 
 written it. But, though repeatedly challenged to produce the book, or find its 
 professed author, neither one nor the other has ever appeared. Needless to 
 say they never will. 
 
 This publication, by Mr. Johnson, was but one of many. Every book 
 of Popular Recitations contained it, and it grew in public favor, the more it 
 was heard and read, the mere echoes of which scarcely reached the ears of its 
 author, who was having her own struggles and difficulties to overcome, and 
 hard problems to solve, to which I shall refer later. 
 
 Now I come to one of the less pleasing features of this interesting story. 
 It deals with man's duplicity, cupidity, selfishness and greed. The law pro- 
 vides for the protection of literary property the same as any other, but what 
 could a young country girl, even though a married woman, know of such 
 things. Her father and husband were equally ignorant. What should a 
 country tailor or a carriage builder know of how to copyright a poem? None 
 of them knew, and no one told them. Not even the Boston publishers, who, 
 in 1881 realizing the popularity of the poem, wrote and asked if they might 
 publish it. They wanted permission, they said, because they intended to have 
 certain noted artists illustrate it, at considerable expense, and without such 
 permission they did not care to proceed. The unsophisticated country woman, 
 never dreaming of the property value of her poem, felt proud and honored by 
 this distinguishing mark of the consideration and condescension of the great 
 Boston publishers, and in writing a ready permission suggested that they use 
 the additional and last verse which she herewith enclosed. Not a word was 
 said by either party about copyright, for, as I have already fully explained, 
 Rose and her family were absolutely ignorant of such matters. 
 
 On receipt of this reply, the gentlemanly and honorable publishers pro- 
 ceeded to get out the poem, with its illustrations, but before issuing it coolly 
 copyrighted, not alone their illustration (which they certainly had a right to 
 copyright), but the whole poem, to which they had no more right than they 
 had to the crown jewels of England. Knowing its probable value in this 
 handsomely illustrated form, these men deliberately appropriated it. They 
 knew it was likely to bring them thousands of dollars, possibly hundreds ot 
 thousands. 
 
 One would have thought that even cold-blooded business men would 
 have had their consciences touched when they saw the swelling of their coffers 
 by this act of theirs, and that they would have offered, of their own initiative, 
 some small recompense to the author. But no! Instead, she assures me that 
 
16 Rose Hartwick Thorpe and the Story of 
 
 she was made to pay — wholesale rates, of course — for every copy she received 
 from them, even though she bought them by the hundred. 
 
 Nor is this all ! Not content with this act, these "keen business men" 
 went further. An English firm, Caruthers Brothers, announced through their 
 American agent that they were about to put on the English and American 
 markets a very handsomely illustrated edition of the poem, superior in every 
 way to anything yet produced. 
 
 Immediately Lee & Shepard, the Boston publishers, through their lawyer, 
 wrote to the English firm, asserting they had purchased the copyright from the 
 author and threatening legal proceedings if the book was issued. Caruthers 
 Brothers, by return mail, sent this letter to Mrs. Thorpe, asking if this was so. 
 Here was the first intimation the innocent woman had ever received that the 
 word "copyright" in the books meant that the Boston publishers had done 
 more than she expected them to do, viz., copyright their own property, — the 
 illustrations. Had she even now consulted a lawyer some redress might have 
 been obtained, but she was too ignorant of law to understand this. At the 
 same time, too, the situation was made harder by her receiving another letter 
 from Lee & Shepard's lawyer, stating that as they had purchased the copyright 
 from her. they positively refused to allow Caruthers Bros, to publish the poem, 
 and would appeal to 'the law to protect their rights. The wolf appealing to 
 the law to protect it in its right to the fleece of the lamb it had shorn. For it 
 must be remembered they were yearly shipping numbers of copies of the 
 poem for sale in England, and did not want an edition to be issued on the 
 other side of the Atlantic, as that would materially reduce their own profits, 
 and yet not one cent of these gains was ever turned over to Mrs. Thorpe. 
 
 Naturally the English firm dropped the matter, and any royalties Mrs. 
 Thorpe might have received from them were lost. In a lawyer's hands it is 
 possible something might have been done, but there were too many other 
 pressing demands being made upon Mrs. Thorpe's time, health, and scant purse 
 to allow this thought any lodgement in her mind. 
 
 How different from the treatment that should have been accorded her. 
 The Boston publishers, seeing her innocent childlikeness, should have protected 
 her in her rights; have given her the information needed for her protection, 
 and, as honorable gentlemen, shared the proceeds with her. 
 
 This is what one English publisher did. Some friends, who had been 
 to England, brought her an exquisitely gotten-up copy of her poem, bearing 
 the imprint of John Walker, of London, who, doubtless, had gained his right 
 to publish from Lee & Shepard Mrs. Thorpe was so delighted with it that 
 she sent a $5 bill to Mr. Walker, saying she had no idea of the price, but 
 would he kindly send her as many copies as this amount would buy. By return 
 mail came a letter, returning her money and saying that he was sending her, 
 with his compliments, two hundred copies, and that if she desired more she 
 was to write at once and let him know. These were copies ranging in price 
 from $1.25 to $4 each. 
 
 Many honors have come to the poet as the result of her easily-gained 
 fame, none, however, pleasing her more than the honorary degree of Master 
 of Arts, conferred upon her by one of the fine old educational institutions of 
 Michigan, her home state for so many years. The degree was accompanied 
 by the following letter : 
 
Curfew Must Not Ring To-NlGHl 17 
 
 "Hillsdale College, 
 "Hillsdale, Mich., June 22, 188.?. 
 "Mrs. Rose Hartwick Thorpe, 
 
 "Grand Rapids, Mich. 
 
 "Dear Madam : 
 
 "Allow me to announce to you that upon the recommendation of the fac- 
 ulty, the trustees of this college voted unanimously to confer upon you the 
 honorary degree of Master of Arts. Hoping that the author of "Curfew- 
 Must Not Ring Tonight" — a poem which will never allow the name of its 
 author to die — will accept this kindly token of recognition, I am, 
 
 "Sincerely yours, 
 
 "D. W. C. Durgin, President." 
 
 Like all other popular writers, Mrs. Thorpe has had the experience ot 
 learning many things from the newspapers about herself that were not so. 
 For instance, she says: 
 
 A very interesting and flowery article on my school life at Hillsdale College, 
 and success as a writer at the time, was once published in a leading Chicago paper, 
 with so vivid and realistic a description of my beautiful home and home-life of 
 luxury and indulgence, that the reading of the article brought tears of regret into 
 my eyes; regret that the enchanting, delightful life depicted as mine, was mine only 
 in imagination. I was never a student at Hillsdale College. 
 
 Year by year added to the fame and popularity of the poem, and about 
 two years before the great World's Fair in Chicago, say in 1891, a man 
 appeared at Litchfield who seemed to have plenty of leisure and money, and 
 nothing much to do. He chatted with everybody he met, but didn't seem to 
 be much interested in anything until the names of the Hartwicks, or Thorpes, 
 or Rose, was mentioned. Then he was wide-awake, alert and intent. He 
 "said nothing to nobody" about what he was there for, but on several occasions 
 sought out Rose's teacher and got her to tell him all she could recall of her 
 pupil's life. Soon afterwards he disappeared, and a week or two later there 
 appeared in the New York Sun several columns of stories of the life of the 
 girlish author of "Curfew." Thus her fame spread. 
 
 This also led to another honor being conferred upon her which Mrs. 
 Thorpe highly prized. The women of Litchfield were much elated and 
 delighted at the notice their city had received through the Sun articles. It was 
 also good for business, as many people came to see the place where the memor- 
 able poem was born. So they decided to be represented at the World's Fair, 
 and they chose for that purpose to make a banner representing "Curfew" and 
 its author. When Miss Turrell, the secretary of the Litchfield committee, 
 informed Mre. Thorpe of this fact, she received a letter from which I extract 
 the following: 
 
 I cannot tell you how this graceful recognition from my dear old home touches 
 me. Of the many honors conferred upon me during the past twelve years, there is 
 nothing I appreciate more than this, coming as it does from the friends and acquaint- 
 ances of my girlhood and early womanhood. 
 
 The banner decided upon was quite an expensive affair, made of silk and 
 gold bullion, etc. It was to cost $300. To raise this money the women of 
 the town pinched and saved, sold now a dozen eggs, now a pound of butter, yet 
 when the time for placing the banner arrived they were still $30 short of the 
 $300 needed. A friend advanced the money, the banner was made, and before 
 the fair was over the $30 was raised and paid back. 
 
 At the close of the fair this banner was sent to San Diego, and the 
 Woman's Club was deputed to present it to Mrs. Thorpe. This interesting 
 
18 Rose Hartwick Thorpe and the Story of 
 
 ceremony took place in her home in the presence of a large number of friends. 
 The president of the club, Mrs. Riddell, made the presentation speech, as 
 follows: 
 
 Never in all the history of the world has more honor been given to woman than in 
 this Columbian year, 1893. In every part of the great Exposition woman was duly 
 recognized. From the ingenious little woman artist who skillfully molded butter into 
 artistic form up through every phase of highest art woman has had her representa- 
 tion and received her meed of praise. From the highest platform a "reform" calling 
 for the noblest efforts of heart and brain down to the mere accident of birth, she 
 has had her representation and received her meed of praise. In short, women are 
 making history, and the future generations will scarcely be able to say that the women 
 of this year were honored for any one characteristic, but rather that the world was 
 broad enough to honor all women and each for the best effort she ever made, no matter 
 in what direction. In the closing of this historical year, in the hallowed Christmas 
 month when mothers are telling the precious story of the Christ child, it is well for 
 women to honor their own sex. 
 
 Some years ago, a slender dark-eyed girl in Litchfield, Mich., wrote upon her 
 slate the story of an English girl saving her lover's life. The story, told in rhyme, 
 has lived, and many a loyal impulse has been stirred to life by the pathos of its lines. 
 
 When the good people of Litchfield looked about them for something to repre- 
 sent them at the great world's fair nothing seemed to them so great as the poem of 
 that little girl. They made them a banner, with loving hands, and draped in their 
 Michigan Building at the world's fair it told its story of loyalty, earnestness and truth. 
 They forward that banner to us, for the girl is to a woman grown and lives with us. 
 O, poet soul ! 
 
 Small wonder is it that you should drift to this sunny Southland, and on one 
 of its sunniest slopes build you a home. Warm as the sun shining on your lemon and 
 vine is the good cheer you dispense to neighbor and friend. Gentle as the tempered 
 wind from the bay is the influence of the literature that flows from your pen. The 
 Women's Club of San Diego, in presenting to Rose Hartwick Thorpe the banner from 
 the women of Michigan, wish to add this tribute to her fame: No word she has ever 
 spoken, no line she has ever written, has influenced a soul for ill. 
 
 The question is often asked as to whether there is any foundation in 
 history for the poem. Its great circulation in England ultimately brought it 
 to the attention of Queen Victoria, with whom it became a favorite. This 
 fact, in itself, was enough to lead important and learned historians to desire 
 to investigate and find out whether there was any foundation for the story. I 
 do not recall the name of the eminent historian whose researches were'success- 
 ful. He found that the main events actually occurred at Chertsey, some 
 twenty miles from London ; the church still standing with its tower and bell as 
 it had been for hundreds of years. The son of the Lord of the Manor was 
 arrested as a spy, was actually condemned to death, and was saved by the 
 action of his brave affianced who, by hanging on the clapper of the bell, pre- 
 vented Curfew from tolling out its usual evening knell. 
 
 What matter that in the poem the youthful author followed errors of the 
 writer of the story and made the steps of the ladder slimy when most probably 
 the tower had its own stone steps and they were dry and musty rather than 
 wet and slimy? What though Bessie did not "swing far out" over the city so 
 that it "seemed a tiny speck below"? The girlish writer did instinctively what 
 many a great and famous author has done with conscious intent, viz., violated 
 the facts in order to produce the mental effect. 
 
 What though the critics say the sexton, even though deaf, would certainly 
 have known that no sound was coming from the bell ? What though we openly 
 confess, "Of course he would, had he been thinking anything about it, and on 
 the alert, listening, to see ivhether anything teas the matter!" But he was 
 so accustomed to the ringing of the bell that it had become a habit to which he 
 paid absolutely no attention. 
 
Curfew Must Not Ring To-night 19 
 
 Then, too, the critics say it is absurd to suppose that the military authori- 
 ties would have meant anything other than that Basil should die at the hour 
 of Curfew, and that, therefore, the ringing of the bell could have had nothing 
 whatever to do with the carrying out of the order of execution. Such criticism 
 reflects the psychology of the critic, in that he applies to the old Puritan mili- 
 tary authorities the workings of his own mind. To him "Curfew" would 
 mean the hour of Curfew, whereas to them it meant actually what it said, 
 "When Curfew rings Underwood dies!" They would have waited until 
 doomsday, ere they would have carried out their order, unless the bell had 
 actually rung. Furthermore, here again poetic license might be the plea 
 offered in justification, and what Milton, Shakespeare, Dante, Goethe, Brown- 
 ing, and a score of other poets had done without apology, may well be allowed 
 to a tyro in the art. 
 
 It is interesting to note that until about seven years ago the tower and bell 
 of Chertsey Abbey remained as they had been for centuries. The bell is dated 
 "East Circum, A. D. 1310," so for seven hundred years it has given forth of 
 its warning sounds. Seven years ago, however, it was found that the oaken 
 timbers which supported the bell were giving way, and it was decided to 
 replace them. An enterprising manufacturer of the neighborhood purchased 
 the decaying timbers, had a great number of porcelain bells made, imitative 
 of the original bell and bearing the inscription "The Chertsey Abbey or 
 Curfew Bell," and the date line above given, had the oak made into clappers, 
 and then sold them as souvenirs. Thousands of them have been sold, possibly 
 hundreds of thousands, for the poem is as popular as household words, and — 
 here is the irony of fate — this maker and vendor of a mere souvenir, for which 
 there never would have been the slightest demand had the poem not been 
 written, has made more money out of its sale than Mrs. Thorpe has done from 
 all the writing of her active and busy lifetime, including all returns from the 
 Curfew poem itself, for these, as I have explained elsewhere, have been purely 
 nominal. 
 
 From the parodies written upon the poem one might quote enough to fill 
 a book. But the one that amused Mrs. Thorpe more than any other came as 
 the result of a local quarrel over crowing roosters. More cities than one have 
 had fights over the question of allowing people to keep crowing roosters in 
 residence sections, but it is not every city that had so clever a parodist as this 
 one. He wrote verse after verse recounting the irritations caused by the 
 crowing roosters, winding up each stanza with the emphatic line: 
 
 "Rooster must not crow tonight!" 
 
 It was so witty and forceful that, it is well to add, it won the day for the 
 advocates of quietness. 
 
 Then it was used in other "skits." For instance, the following appeared 
 in the New York Press and was copied all over the country: 
 
 HER HAPPY RUSE 
 She eyed the clock, but like a rock 
 
 He stayed and did not take his hat. 
 Till half past ten he sat, and then 
 Still sat and sat and sat and sat. 
 
 At last she stepped upon a chair, 
 
 And said: "Attend, while I recite 
 To you, while you are sitting there, 
 
 'The Curfew Must Not Ring Tonight.'" 
 
20 Rosa Hartwick Thorpe and the Story of 
 
 He shrank as if before a blow ; 
 
 "Excuse me, please," he tremblingly said; 
 "It's getting late — I've got to go — " 
 
 And then he fled. 
 
 As before related, Rose Hartwick was married September 11, 1871, to 
 Edmund Carson Thorpe, at Litchfield, Mich., where they spent the first years 
 of their wedded life. Three children were born to them, two, a girl and a 
 boy, dying in infancy, and another daughter, Lulo, who grew up into healthy, 
 happy womanhood. She is now Mrs. E. Y. Barnes, and lives in San Diego, 
 the mother of three children who are the darlings of their grandmother's 
 heart. 
 
 Those Litchfield years were years of great struggles, hardships, and priva- 
 tions to the young couple. Mr. Thorpe was a carriage-maker, and it was just 
 at the time when firms like the Studebakers, and the makers of the Columbus 
 buggies, were taking all the business in this line by their new methods of 
 cooperative workmanship. This fact will help make clear what follows later 
 in my narrative. 
 
 The question is often asked whether Mrs. Thorpe has written anything 
 more than "Curfew." This question, in itself, demonstrates how fickle and 
 transient a thing is fame. Because of its popular and universal appeal "Cur- 
 few" made friends all over the world. It happened to strike the responsive 
 chords of the human heart. Had it not been for this one poem all the rest of 
 her work would have passed as that of most writers do, unnoticed and 
 unknown. Had she possessed the commercial instinct this one poem would 
 have made her a rich woman. She would have copyrighted it ; secured large 
 royalties from its sale in this country and England, and in every country else- 
 where into whose language it was translated. Then, when moving picture 
 companies wished to use it she would have demanded — and secured — royalties 
 there, and finally, she would have commercialized her fame as a writer, and 
 secured other commissions for poems at a high price. Yet not one of these 
 things did she do. Here is her own story as to how she "broke into" the 
 general literary field. She begins it with a "confession" and an "apology," 
 which show how she was influenced by the thought of the people around her: 
 
 The resolve to conquer my troublesome inheritance was not confined to my 
 girlhood days; after I became a wife and mother the old battle was fought over many 
 times, while the cravings of intellectual hunger remained unsatisfied or feasted at 
 rare intervals, that I might vie with my neighbors as an exemplary housekeeper. I 
 made few calls, consequently the time that others spent in social intercourse was my 
 opportunity to become acquainted with both authors and their works. It was not 
 accounted an unpardonable sin for a woman to read in that little country town; but 
 writing savored of the "blue-stocking." Not altogether inexcusable in a girl, but the 
 wife and mother who took her pen, except in letter correspondence, received severe 
 condemnation from her acquaintances. Sometimes when I had accomplished an 
 unusual amount of housework during the day, when the little ones were "tucked in 
 bed" at night, I felt that I had earned an hour's companionship with my pen, but think 
 how the weary body must have influenced the brain, and is it a wonder that I did so 
 little really acceptable work during those long years? Once during that time of 
 unsatisfactory struggle of duty against inclination, a little woman having ascertained 
 where to find me, came to me from the great world beyond ; the world that admired 
 my poem extravagantly, it seemed to me. She was the first literary person I had ever 
 met. She brought into my quiet life busy whiffs of my own enchanted dreams. She 
 held the door of "my paradise" ajar, and revealed to me possibilities of the future; 
 how I might assist my dear husband more effectually than by doing a servant's 
 drudgery. The week after she left me I sent a poem to the Youth's Companion, and 
 received my first check from the publishers. With all of her persuasions to the con- 
 trary, I considered it presumptuous for me to expect remuneration for my rhymes, 
 
Curfew Must Not Ring To-night 21 
 
 though "Curfew" had been popular for more than ten years and in two continents. 
 I had written gratuitously for years, but not until then had I received any reward 
 for my labors. 
 
 My first successful venture encouraged me to try again, and in a short time 
 I had received checks from St. Nicholas, Wide Aia-ake, the Detroit Free Press, and 
 several other publications that found my poems available. They seemed like little 
 fortunes to us, those "fives" and "tens" dropped into our tired, hard-working lives. 
 
 The full story of the sending out of that first poem has never yet been 
 told. Here it is. Their residence was above the carriage factory. Her 
 daughter was then about six years old and Mrs. Thorpe had her to care for, 
 and a husband who was far from well, overworked and poor, and she herself 
 was a wreck physically. Then came a catastrophe. Though her husband was 
 working every day until late into the night, a stroke of ill fortune, coming atop 
 of the business depression referred to, made them lose even the little they had. 
 The agony of mind rendered Mrs. Thorpe so sick that she became an invalid 
 and for long, weary months was confined to her bed. During most of this 
 time their food was prepared and the house cared for as well as it could be by 
 the loving faithfulness and brave cheerfulness of the six-year-old daughter. 
 For, although her husband was far from well, he kept resolutely at work, doing 
 the best he could to preserve a little business from the wreck that seemed 
 inevitable. 
 
 As the mother lay there, helpless, upon her couch, the thought came: "I 
 have given the world a poem it has enjoyed and delighted in. Never a cent 
 has come to me from it. Now I am in need. Never has my mind been clearer 
 than it is today. I'll send a poem to an editor, then put it up to God as to 
 whether we are to be forgotten, and wait for the answer." 
 
 Mrs. Thorpe's best recollection is that this "test poem" was sent to The 
 Interior, a religious weekly, published in Chicago. Then she sent another to 
 St. Nicholas, and still another to The Youth's Companion, and she fully 
 decided in her own mind that any return from any one of these three poems 
 she would regard as God's voice of cheer, comfort and encouragement. The 
 days and weeks passed. One day, as she lay upon her couch, in pain of both 
 body and mind, wondering why no reply came from the editors, yet still hoping 
 that God had not forsaken them, she heard the downstairs door slam, and 
 someone coming tearing up the stairs at great speed. It was her husband. He 
 dropped down beside her and said: "I have something that will make you 
 happy," at the same time handing her an opened envelope from the Chicago 
 editor, containing a check for $2.00. 
 
 "Thank God!" Mrs. Thorpe exclaimed. "He has spoken. We can get 
 someone to help us for two weeks with this two dollars. 
 
 The same day came another check for $5.00, from New York, and another 
 from Boston for $10.00. Thus her prayers were answered, and courage given 
 to work ahead in the literary field. More poems were sent out, and at one 
 time there was sixty dollars in the treasury that came all at once, but never, 
 not even with her largest check, was there the satisfaction and delight that she 
 felt with that first check for two dollars. 
 
 But while she was doing a little with her literary work, things were 
 growing daily worse with her husband's business, and in 1881 they decided to 
 give it up and turn the whole thing over to their creditors. 
 
 Just at this time a lady writer and newspaper reporter from Chicago 
 called upon Mrs. Thorpe for a story, and learning her need, urged her to go 
 to that city, where she would introduce her to Fleming H. Revell, a rising 
 bookseller and publisher. 
 
22 Rose Hartwick Thorpe and the Story of 
 
 She went, and when the two were leaving the office Mr. Revell asked her 
 to leave some of the stories and poems she had brought and call upon him the 
 following day. Then, having maneuvered to get the reporter out of hearing, 
 he whispered to Mrs. Thorpe: "Come alone!" 
 
 The following day when she entered the store (alone, of course), the 
 chief clerk met her, and said: "We sat in the office until ever so late last night 
 reading your stories and crying over them like a lot of children!" 
 
 This sounded pleasing to Mrs. Thorpe's ears, and prepared her for the 
 kind words Mr. Revell poured forth upon her work. He engaged her then 
 and there as editor and writer on work of a rather unique character. Mr. 
 Revell was a young man then, but had already begun to show the genius that 
 has since enabled him to build up so large a business as he now controls. It 
 was in the days before photo-engraving had come into use, and to have illustra- 
 tions drawn and then made into cuts to use for magazines and papers was an 
 expensive process, impossible to any publisher unless he had a large and paying 
 circulation. In England, however, several popular monthlies were able to 
 afford these luxuries. Mr. Revell saw in these an opportunity for himself. 
 He succeeded in persuading the English publishers to sell him electrotypes of 
 their illustrations and send them over to him each month. Many of the 
 stories, however, were altogether unsuited to the American public. He decided, 
 therefore, to seek an author and editor who had imagination enough to take 
 these illustrations and write poems and stories to fit them, and for this work 
 his choice fell upon Mrs. Thorpe. The proposition was made to her and she 
 accepted it. 
 
 Not a high literary ideal, perhaps, the critic may exclaim, and I may 
 candidly agree with him. Yet that does not imply that the work was not 
 worth doing, and worth doing well. It called for a high order of ability to 
 enable one to do it at all. So Mrs. Thorpe became the editor and chief 
 author of Temperance Tales, Well-Spring, and Words of Life, all of them 
 monthly publications devoted to the causes of temperance, the home, and 
 Sunday School. In her case it was "Needs must where Necessity drives." 
 Necessity in the form of a sick husband, a growing child, and the cares of a 
 household were ever driving her. Her own health was frail, yet she had to 
 buckle to, take the reins in her own hands and keep the household buggy from 
 disaster. Day after day, month after month, after caring for her baby, and 
 her sick husband, preparing the food and doing the housework, she turned to 
 her writing. Under these adverse conditions she did her editorial work, and 
 later wrote twelve serials for Golden Days, a periodical for young people 
 published in Philadelphia. 
 
 While she was living in Chicago she had an interesting experience. At 
 this time Judge Albion W. Tourgee, who wrote the famous book, Bricks 
 Without Straus was publishing a monthly periodical called Our Continent. 
 Mrs. Thorpe and Tourgee were good friends, and she was a regular contribu- 
 tor to his magazine. One day she sent him a poem entitled "Wrecked." 
 Immediately there came a letter in return, to the effect that her poem had 
 given him the strangest experience of his whole literary life. Said he: "I 
 have now, in type, a poem entitled "Wrecked," by the well-known author, 
 Rose Hawthorne Lathrop. Your titles are alike, your names are alike, and 
 the poems are somewhat alike." 
 
 He then suggested that she forward her poem immediately to some other 
 editor and he would hold back the publication of the Lathrop poem for a 
 
Curfew Must Not Ring To-night 23 
 
 while. This Mrs. Thorpe did, and in due time received a check from the 
 Youth's Companion for her poem. 
 
 This story was later the means of materially aiding a struggling writer. 
 Mrs. Thorpe happened to tell the incidents to a friend, who lived in the East, 
 and with whom she was visiting. Some time later, the Saturday Evening 
 Post offered a prize for the story of the most interesting literary- experience. 
 Seeing this announcement, Mrs. Thorpe's friend wrote her, asking if she might 
 use the story and begging her kindly to write it correctly for her. This was 
 done, the story entered in the competition, and in due time won the prize. 
 
 For two years Mrs. Thorpe remained in Chicago doing her editorial work. 
 Then her husband decided to remove to Grand Rapids, Mich., where a busi- 
 ness opening appeared. She then gave up the editorial work, but still con- 
 tinued to write stories and poems for the illustrations sent to her. While this 
 work was not highly remunerative, it was certain, and this meant a great deal 
 to a shrinking, timid person. For, in speaking of her non-success as an author 
 from the financial side, she says: 
 
 My financial success as an author has not been great, due, perhaps, in a measure, 
 to ray lack of confidence in my ability to write for the best paying publications. My 
 pen brought me several hundred dollars yearly before my health failed, but very little 
 of the work was purchased by the most popular publications, owing to my extreme 
 sensitiveness in submitting my articles to them. I knew where the work would be 
 available, though poorly remunerated, and to such publications it was sent. There 
 was a time when a returned manuscript found its way immediately into the grate, as 
 unworthy of further consideration, but I have learned better than that these later 
 years. Often the rejected manuscript of one publication has been the most available 
 at another, and gained the greatest popularity afterwards. 
 
 To illustrate this point, Mrs. Thorpe told me the following occurrence. 
 She said: "I sent a short story once to a Philadelphia publisher. He returned 
 it with a curt note in his own handwriting. (There were no typewriters in 
 those days, and I knew his penmanship.) I felt it was a good story and could 
 not understand his curt rejection, and I am free to confess it hurt me, for he 
 had published several of my stories and had earnestly asked for more. Under 
 the lash of my indignation I sent the story to a publisher across the street. In 
 due time there came a letter of acceptance, but no check. When the check did 
 come it was from the publisher who had rejected the story, and not from the 
 one who had accepted it. A letter that followed the check explained that they 
 had bought out the firm across the street, and finding an accepted story from 
 her, not yet paid for, they had read it, found it most charming, and were glad 
 to forward payment for it." 
 
 In writing of this experience, Mrs. Thorpe remarked: 
 
 This was something of a surprise to me. It is only one of the many peculiar 
 experiences of any author's life proving conclusively that one person's judgment of 
 an article has little to do with its literary merit (and Mrs. Thorpe might have said, 
 its popular appeal). The same may be said of critics. One condemns what another 
 approves. The song which captivates most hearts is not the scholar's studied produc- 
 tion, crammed with superior wisdom, burdened with immense words, the language of 
 which does not portray immensity of thought, but those simple heart touches, like the 
 spontaneous warble of birds, which stoop to kiss away our tears; which join hands 
 with us in our wanderings, and echo our every joy and sorrow. To accomplish the 
 most acceptable public work, one must not be "swayed about" by censure or praise, 
 other than "to see oursels as ithers see us," may assist in the correction of our acknowl- 
 edged faults. 
 
 The Thorpes did not stay long in Michigan, for tuberculosis seized Mr. 
 Thorpe and his physician urged an immediate move to San Antonio, Texas. 
 Here they resided for about four years, and they both rejoiced in the perfect 
 
24 Rosa Hartwick Thorpe and the Story of 
 
 and complete recovery of Mr. Thorpe's health. He secured a position on the 
 railroad that kept him out of doors almost the entire day, and this hastened 
 his recovery. 
 
 An interviewer, during her residence in Texas, thus describes Mrs. 
 Thorpe : I 
 
 In person she is very tall, straight and slender, of a decided brunette type, and 
 while the pallor of her complexion betrays delicate health, increased probably by 
 literary toil, the bright glance of her large dark eyes expresses a high degree of 
 intellectual activity. Her manners are genial to a marked degree, and not even the 
 oft-repeated infliction of the too-inquisitive interviewer affects the equanimity of her 
 temper. 
 
 Unfortunately, while the San Antonio climate had restored Mr. Thorpe 
 to health, the moist heat of the Texas summers was unsuited to Mrs. Thorpe. 
 Yet she wrote many interesting poems during her sojourn here, one of them, 
 "Remember the Alamo," often being recited and quoted, and another beauti- 
 fully setting forth the floral treasures of the State: 
 
 TEXAS FLOWERS 
 
 These are the flowers of Texas, 
 
 When Spring, of fabled renown, 
 
 Shakes her golden tresses down, 
 And lavishly scatters her treasures 
 
 Over fields and meadows brown. 
 Sweet little Poppies in pink and white, 
 Flapping their wide rimmed caps; 
 Demure mother Lark-Spurs, holding tight 
 
 The wee bud Spurs in their laps; 
 Shy faced Verbenas in lavender; 
 
 Rain Lilies, so grim and fair; 
 The blossom fairies are all astir, 
 
 And Roses bloom everywhere. 
 These are the Texas blossoms, 
 
 When Nature's heart throbs and beats 
 
 With her glad pulsating sweets, 
 That burst into bloom by the wayside, 
 
 And crowd in the city streets ; 
 Pretty post-oak Pinks in scarlet gowns, 
 
 Tall Yucca, a waxen tower; 
 Primroses casting their yellow crowns 
 
 At the feet of the Passion Flower ; 
 Blue Bonnets stand in the Pomegranate lane, 
 
 While the mountains, stern and bare, 
 With Cactus blossoms are all aflame, 
 
 For the flowers are everywhere. 
 
 Again they were compelled to move, and this time it was to San Diego, 
 California. From a letter written to a San Antonio paper, dated September 
 4, 1887, we learn some interesting impressions of the City of the Silver Gate. 
 Mrs. Thorpe said: 
 
 We feel confident that we shall regain our lost health here. We were favored 
 with a most delightful journey, the previous rains had cooled the atmosphere and at 
 no place, not even while crossing the great desert after leaving Yuma, did we suffer 
 with the heat as at San Antonio. We were informed by the train conductor that we 
 had an unusually cool and pleasant day for the journey across the desert. At Colton, 
 California, we were obliged to put on heavy merino underwear and thicker clothes 
 generally. We are now dressed as we would dress for winter there. The air is 
 soft, balmy, and cool. The days are all like the loveliest of the whole San Antonio 
 year, and we are told by old residents that they are a fair sample of the three hundred 
 and sixty-five days which make up the San Diego year. De were favored with 
 many solemn prophetic warnings against the health-destroying fogs of this coast city 
 before coming here. We have sun and fogs. We dread them no longer. They 
 
Curfew Must Not Ring To-night 25 
 
 will not injure the weakest lungs. A thin, gray mist in the early morning through 
 which one may see the hills three miles away, and which lifts from eight to nine 
 o'clock. This morning at seven o'clock the sun kissed the distant hill tops, and in a 
 quarter of an hour the whole country and rich blue water beyond was bathed in its 
 genial warmth. When the sun's rays pierce the hazy fog-curtains the atmosphere is 
 as dry as even San Antonio can boast of. The beauty of scenery and advantages 
 of the city have been fully explained by the real estate men, and we will not attempt 
 to compete with them in this respect. Their statements, according to our judgment, 
 have not been overdrawn. Men of ambition and energy may find abundant employ- 
 ments here. Gold does not lie in the streets for indigent and unworthy hands to gather, 
 but there is work for those who are willing to accept of it. Labor is even solicited, 
 as our own experience can prove. Every one is busy, there are no street loungers. 
 The sparkling eye, the elastic step, the brisk tone, the hurried movements, all speak 
 of business activity. The rush and bustle are bewildering to one accustomed to a 
 climate of siestas. Have seen no Mexicans or Indians or Negroes since our arrival. 
 They may be here, but they are not on the streets. Judging from the appearance of 
 things here one might venture to say that Americans take the lead in all things pertain- 
 ing to San Diego. No foreign element can crowd them out or supersede them. There 
 may be saloons; there certainly is real estate. It is the latter and not the former 
 which thrusts itself upon one's notice. There is no room or place for indolence here; 
 enterprise and energy soon crowd it out, when it is at liberty to return to other places 
 and circulate damaging stories of the place which did not support it. Whoever can 
 use a hammer need not go hungry in San Diego. Its busy ring sounds on all sides 
 of us as we write. It echoes from hillside and valley, and elegant homes and majestic 
 business blocks and warehouses and depots and vast hotels spring up beneath its 
 sturdy blows. A little more than two years ago San Diego numbered three thousand 
 inhabitants; there are not less than fifteen thousand today, and every train and ocean 
 steamer coming into the depot or the harbor come loaded with new arrivals. Rents 
 are very high. Dry goods and groceries about the same as San Antonio. Fruits and 
 vegetables exceedingly cheap and fine. 
 
 To another Eastern paper she wrote more impressions of San Diego, in 
 1887, and these are worth preserving: 
 
 We have seen the snow in all its sparkling beauty on the hills of Michigan; have 
 sweltered under the tropical skies of Southern Texas; have experienced the blizzards 
 of the North and the "red-bugs" of the South; have been parched and frozen by turns, 
 and we now conclude that when God placed Adam upon the earth in its most favored 
 spot, that spot was San Diego, California. Not for its beauty of scenery, especially 
 though where in all the earth has Nature unveiled such glorious panoramic views as 
 spread out before the delighted gaze from Coronado Beach, Florence Heights, or any 
 of the numerous elevations about the city, lying as it does between the mountains 
 and the ocean. Not for its wealth of scenic display would this seem to have been 
 the chosen location for that "earthly paradise," but for its perfection of climate. No 
 cold-breathed "northers" sweep across its hills, no frost blights its tender plants, no 
 fervid heat. One glad perpetual Spring expanding and perfecting into Summer, 
 wearing the somber tints of Autumn, but never the icy winding sheet of Winter. Such 
 is the climate that is luring all peoples to seek a home in this "Eden of America." 
 Lying on the sparkling, sunlit bay, with the grand old ocean just beyond, with a 
 harbor of unrivalled excellence, San Diego is destined to become a metropolis in the 
 near future. With all the grandeur of its ocean views it escapes much of the annoy- 
 ance of those dense fogs which visit other coast cities. With bold Point Loma on 
 the West and North, like a gigantic arm thrust out in to the ocean, a wall of protection 
 and defense for the city at its base, shielding it from the fierce north winds and 
 holding the fogs at bay. Beyond those highlands the fogs may be seen rising in dense 
 clouds and darkening the far-off sky, while the city basks in the warmth of genial 
 sunshine. To be sure some of the fogs reach us, but, at most, they are only a thin 
 mist soon pierced and lifted by the warm sun rays. 
 
 Mrs. Thorpe has lived long enough in San Diego to see many of her 
 prophecies and hopes come true. This enterprising City of the Silver Gate, 
 whose Harbor of the Sun is the first port of call on the United States' western 
 coast for vessels coming through the Panama Canal, has just concluded its 
 successful run of a great International Exposition for two years — a feat never 
 before attempted, I believe, by any city in the world. She has seen its popu- 
 
26 Rose Hartwick Thorpe and the Story of 
 
 lation increase to over a hundred thousand ; a railroad almost completed, giving 
 it direct Eastern railway communication ; the desert region of its "back coun- 
 try" converted by means of the waters of the Colorado River into the agricul- 
 tural marvel of the world — the Imperial Valley; its equable climate so 
 recognized that both the Government and the Curtiss Aviation Schools are 
 firmly and permanently established there. She has seen the great and beautiful 
 buildings of the Headquarters of the Universal Brotherhood and Theosophical 
 Society, under the guidance of Katherine Tingley, rise into oriental glory, and 
 surrounded by a flower garden and planted forest scarce equalled in the world. 
 Here, too, Madame Tingley built the first open-air California Theater, rival- 
 ing in native attractions any one of the open-air theaters of Ancient Greece. 
 She has seen one of the colossal hotels of modern civilization — Hotel Del 
 Coronado — rise above the sands, facing the Pacific ; an open-air stadium built 
 for the people of San Diego, capable of seating nearly forty thousand people ; 
 and the only open-air organ of the world donated to its people by one of its 
 most enterprising citizens, John D. Spreckles. And she has loved the city the 
 while, — as why should she not? Her own health perfectly restored, her hus- 
 band in good health, and a fair degree of business prosperity given to them. 
 Her husband's years of training and experience as a carriage-maker had made 
 him skillful in the use of tools, and as the "boom" was on when he arrived in 
 San Diego, he found good-paying work from the start. His practice in design- 
 ing carriages made him almost a natural architect from the beginning of his 
 attempts, and with the aid of his wife he planned some of the finest houses 
 of the earlier modern San Diego. He then contracted and built them. Pacific 
 Beach, a suburb of San Diego, was their residence for several years, and also 
 the charming La Jolla-by-the-Sea, and in both of these places there are many 
 houses of his planning and erection. He was elected to the City Council, 
 which position he held for five years, and could have remained in office almost 
 at will, so highly was he esteemed by his fellow-citizens. 
 
 After many years of happiness together, the call for separation came quite 
 suddenly. On Thursday, November 16, 1916, Mrs. Thorpe left her husband 
 on the street, in his automobile, to go to the Joaquin Miller Day celebration at 
 the Exposition, in order to meet Miss Juanita Miller, the daughter of the poet. 
 Less than half an hour afterwards she was called home to find her beloved 
 companion had already "crossed the bar" and had met his Pilot "face to face." 
 It was one of his great joys that the Exposition had honored his wife b\ 
 naming a Day for her, and he was anticipating its ceremonies with pleasure. 
 
 He, personally, had considerable literary ability, which, had he cared to 
 cultivate it, would have made him famous. He had a special penchant for 
 writing the broken English of a Dutchman, and some of his lubrications are 
 decidedly clever. For instance, here are his lines on 
 
 DOT BACIFIC PEACH FLEA 
 
 Oh, dot flea, dot flea, 
 Dot schump-buggery flea, 
 
 Vot schumps und viggles und bites, 
 He skips von side oop, 
 Und der under side down, 
 
 Und keepen me avake effry nights. 
 
Curfew Must Not Ring To-night 27 
 
 He climbs on der ped, 
 Und stands on hees head, 
 
 Und cuts oop all manner ouf pranks, 
 Und ven I got oop, 
 Dot pooger to schoop, 
 
 Mine vrow, she calls me some cranks. 
 
 Right avay, pooty qvick, 
 I vas schleeping so schlick, 
 
 As schoost never vas, maypee, 
 Und mine vrow she schump oud, 
 Und vent schlappin apoud, 
 
 Und I dinks her vas gotten dot flea. 
 
 After her arrival in California, for a while Mrs. Thorpe did little writing, 
 until a burden came upon her. Her father became very ill, indeed lost his 
 mind for a time; at the same time a friend died and left her young daughter in 
 Mrs. Thorpe's care. The child had been almost untrained, and the duty of 
 disciplining her and at the same time raising enough money to give her beloved 
 father the care he needed, while attending to her own household and still not 
 too strong husband, were not aids to great literary endeavor. Yet she bravely 
 started in and wrote a story of California life, which was published in the 
 Happy Days of Philadelphia. 
 
 In addition she wrote several descriptive poems, setting forth the charms 
 of the region, several of which are herewith reproduced: 
 
 MISSION' BAY 
 
 Beyond the bay the city lies, 
 
 White-walled beneath the azure skies, 
 
 So far remote, no sounds of it 
 
 Across the peaceful waters flit. 
 
 I watch its gleaming lights flash out, 
 
 When twiJight girds herself about 
 
 With ocean damps. When her dusk hair 
 
 Wide-spread fills all the salt sea air, 
 
 And her slow feet, 
 Among the fragrant hillside shrubs, 
 
 Stirs odors sweet. 
 
 Fair Mission Bay, 
 
 Now blue, now gray, 
 Now flushed bv sunset's after glow, 
 Thy rose hues take the tint of fawn 
 At dawn of dusk and dusk of da nn. 
 
 On another occasion she wrote of the same bay : 
 
 MISSION' BAY 
 
 God's placid mirror, Heaven crowned, 
 
 Framed in the brown hills circling round 
 
 Not envious that thy sister can 
 
 More fully meet the needs of man, 
 
 Nor jealous that her broader breast 
 
 Is sacrificed at man's request, 
 
 While in the shelter of her arm 
 
 The storm-tossed resteth safe from harm. 
 
28 Rosa Hartwick Thorpe and the Story of 
 
 This thy grand mission, Mission Bay — 
 To smile serene through blue or gray; 
 To take whatever God has sent, 
 And teach mankind full content. 
 Low swaying pepper boughs; blooms of magnolia; 
 Summer and sunshine, and roses galore; 
 Song of the mocking bird, 
 Morning and evening heard; 
 Murmurous waves breaking white on the shore. 
 
 Fogs marching up from the breast of the ocean; 
 Languorous moons sailing into the west; 
 
 Fruitage of tree and vine, 
 
 All the year summer time; 
 Harbor of safety, and haven of rest. 
 
 The glorious flowers of California, with their wonderful profusion, could 
 not fail to stimulate such an imagination as hers, and here is her poem entitled: 
 
 THE CALIFORNIA POPPY 
 
 Flowers of the West-land with calyx of gold, 
 
 Swung in the breeze over lace-woven sod ; 
 
 Filled to the brim with the glory of God, 
 All that its wax-petaled chalices can hold. 
 This was the birth of it. On the brown plain, 
 The sun dropped a kiss in the foot-prints of rain. 
 
 In addition to this she wrote one on the flowers as a whole : 
 
 HOW THE FLOWERS CAME 
 
 'Twas seed time in Heaven, the angel whose care 
 Is for Eden's blossoms: that angel more fair 
 Than all her fair sisters, twin spirits of air, 
 
 That angel whose footsteps wherever they tread, 
 
 Spring up into blossoms, blue, yellow and red; 
 That angel whose teardrops, wherever they fall, 
 Give birth to white lilies, the fairest of all; 
 
 That angel whose -breath is the perfume of flowers, 
 
 Had spent all the jewel-gemmed, paradise hours 
 Of the roseate morn where beauties unfold 
 In calyx of crimson and purple and gold. 
 Beside the great portals she paused and looked through, 
 Down, down the vast distance, of star-lighted blue, 
 
 Beheld the gray rocks, without beauty or bloom, 
 
 And sighed for earth's children away in the gloom. 
 "No beauty or bloom hath the children of woe; 
 No brightness; no sweetness; my hand will bestow 
 One heaven-born seed for their garden below," 
 
 She said as she loosened her girdle to find 
 
 One seed which was fairest, and best of its kind. 
 Her eager hand trembled, the girdle slipped through 
 Her rosy-tipped fingers, and down through the blue, 
 Down, down the vast distance, her golden seeds flew. 
 
 Some caught in the crevice of rocks, others fell 
 
 In lone desert places, by wayside and dell; 
 On hills and in valleys; in forest and glen, 
 To gladden and brighten the journeys of men. 
 
 At the portals of heaven, with sorrowful face, 
 
 The little flow'r angel looks out into space, 
 In search of her treasures. Her tears, as they fall, 
 Find all her lost seedlings, and water them all. 
 
Curfew Must Not Ring To-night 29 
 
 Here is her trustful easter song: 
 
 Awaken, sweet flowers! 
 The snow in the valley has melted at last, 
 And the desolate sights of the year is past; 
 The ice chains are broken, and robins are singing — 
 Awake to the call of the Easter bells ringing; 
 
 Awaken, O heart! 
 In bondage of sin thou hast slumbered so long, 
 Arise in the beauty and rapture of song, 
 Arise in the gladness of nature's adorning — 
 Come forth in thy strength on this glad 
 
 Easter morning. 
 
 Though a member of one of the so-calleil old orthodox churches, she has a 
 broad outlook upon life. As I have shown, she is a strong and ardent advocate 
 for prohibition and woman's suffrage, and her religious views are broad and 
 tolerant. She has a growing and enlarging faith in the goodness of God. She 
 feels that life's problems all disappear as we lose fear and are able to rest abso- 
 lutely upon the promises of God. One of the poems that expresses her relig- 
 ious feeling she entitled "His Second Coming." This was written long before 
 she had heard of Mrs. Mary Baker G. Eddy or Christian Science. Long 
 afterwards a Scientist desired a copy, which was given, and it was published in 
 the Christian Science Journal. Soon afterwards a friend attended a Christian 
 Science lecture in Chicago, where an audience of many thousands was assem- 
 bled. After delivering a soul-stirring and eloquent address the lecturer closed 
 with the last stanza of this poem : 
 
 And all the world over, the people 
 
 Are spreading the blessing abroad, 
 Are cleansing the depth of the fountain, 
 Are climbing the heights of the mountain, 
 
 Are waiting the coming of God! 
 
 In 1912 all her poems were gathered together in one handsome volume, 
 and issued by the Neale Publishing Co. of New York. 
 
 Since then she has written but little, though on occasion a poem has come 
 from, her pen, as, for instance, when, at the Michigan Day exercises at the 
 Panama-Pacific Exposition, held in Festival Hall, Mrs. Thorpe was one of 
 the most honored of the great State's guests. At that time she read the 
 following: 
 
 With face looking full in the face of the sun ; 
 
 With breath of the pines, and the lilac new blown, 
 
 Our Michigan sits like a queen on the throne 
 
 Where true worth has placed her. Her laurels all won 
 
 By patient endeavor through wearisome years; 
 
 By slow, but sure progress; hope conquering fears. 
 
 No indolent child of the tropics is she, 
 
 But strong as the North winds that sweep o'er her breast, 
 
 She garners new strength through ambitious unrest. 
 
 With muscles firm-fashioried, heart loyal and free, 
 
 She sits in her daisy-decked mantle of state, 
 
 A sea at her Eastern and Wester'most gate. 
 
 Where Pontiac fought for his people's birthright, 
 Grand forests have bowed, mighty waters have spanned; 
 The elk, beaver and deer deserted the land 
 When Civilization advanced in her might. 
 The Wigwam has vanished and Temples of Art, 
 Like blossoms have grown out of Michigan's heart. 
 
30 Rose Hartwick Thorpe and the Story of 
 
 Long past are her venturesome days of romance; 
 Her cowslip-grown marshes are meadows of grain; 
 Her orchards are countless on hillside and plain. 
 From log hut to mansion her dwellings advance, 
 With churches magnificent, schools at the van; 
 Abreast of the times is our own Michigan. 
 
 To the needs of the world she opens her breast, 
 
 At its call she yields the rich ore of her mines. 
 
 She has wealth in factories, orchards and pines; 
 
 In manifold blessings, abundantly blest, 
 
 Successively crowned with snow-garlands and flowers, 
 
 What State can excel her, this mother of ours? 
 
 We have come to the land where the sun goes down ; 
 Where a continent bends to the kiss of the sea; 
 Where Winters are verdant and Summers are brown, 
 We bask in its sunshine; but loyal are we 
 To Michigan, home of our childhood afar, 
 All honor to her for the best that we are. 
 
 One has but to look at her face to see that she is essentially a dreamer. 
 Though a grandmother, there is the same preoccupation often revealed in her 
 eyes that led her to write Curfew rather than her lessons. Indeed she often 
 laughingly comments upon this feature of her character. She says: "I know 
 I'm a dreamer. I am sure to forget the most important dish whenever I have 
 company to dinner, and then I get so embarrassed that I do worse things." 
 
 It is interesting here to record some of the history of the little book in 
 which "Curfew" was transcribed with the pen. For many years it was lost 
 and practically forgotten. Then one day some friends of Mrs. Thorpe sent 
 her a copy of the Chicago Interocean in which was the account of the finding, 
 in an old house that was being renovated, of a trunk-full of children's treas- 
 ures and old yellow papers, among them a book full of written verses, one of 
 which was "Curfew," doubtless in the handwriting of its author. It was 
 evident to Mrs. Thorpe that this was her long-lost manuscript book. Immedi- 
 ately she wrote to the lady in whose possession the book was said to be, offering 
 to buy it at any reasonable price, as it contained the treasures of her girlhood. 
 With the sweetest spirit imaginable the holder of the book sent it by return 
 mail, saying that she had no desire to receive any financial emolument from 
 the returning of a treasured book to its original owner; so today Mrs. Thorpe 
 is happy in its possession. 
 
 This book is now before me. I am free to confess I should like to quote 
 many little things from it, but its owner is rather sensitive about her early 
 poetic effusions. It ought to be stated, however, that this book was supposed 
 to be a diary which Rose was to write, rather than a repository for her verses. 
 The diary, however, soon proved to be a hollow mockery, and the book was 
 openly given up to nothing but verses and an, occasional prose composition. 
 One of these is full of tender thoughts about her mother, and another, written 
 on her sixteenth birthday, is full of that vague, unsatisfied something that 
 young girls so often feel. She looks back, too, through the "long bright years 
 of her childhood," and also forward to the possible joys of the "dark and uncer- 
 tain future." Then, a little later, she tells of a visit made to the place of her 
 birth, which she had not seen for six years. That she had the poetic tempera- 
 ment none can deny who reads this tender effusion, though he may not keep 
 back the smile as he reads of the "jentle brease" that moved the tall grass "too 
 and froe" in the churchyard where sleep "many who sported with her in the 
 long ago." One composition, dated Sunday, July the 13th, 1866, must have 
 
Curfew Must Not Ring To-night 31 
 
 been written after she had been to church, where the preacher drew vivid pic- 
 tures of an innocent child yielding, as he grew older, to temptation and finallv 
 coming to a sad and tragic end. It is entitled "The Two Pictures," and would 
 outshine many a young cub reporter's first attempts. 
 
 The effect of the Civil War also is seen in warlike poems: One entitled 
 ''Brothers' Meeting," possessing some strong lines, as, for instance: 
 
 Not as they parted met they now, 
 
 No! Stamped upon each marble brow, 
 
 Bloodless as yet, 
 Hate shone, and in their angry eyes 
 Was mingled scorn, disdain, surprise, 
 As there, beneath the broad blue skies, 
 
 Those brothers met. 
 
 Another tells of a maiden who seeks her lover upon the battlefield. One 
 stanza reads : 
 
 He, too, was there! the leader and his band, 
 And their blood had moistened sod and sand, 
 He was there! but the light from his eye had fled, 
 And the one she had sought was cold and dead: 
 With the bloody sword in his hand still grasp'd 
 And the flag of the free to his bosom clasp'd. 
 
 The tragic denouement is told in the last stanza, as follows: 
 
 Down by the side of the dead she lay, 
 The living cheek to the cheek of clay. 
 The living cheek? No! anguish and pain, 
 Can never trouble her bosom again. 
 She is there at rest by her warrior's side, 
 In death how lovely — his beautiful bride. 
 
 There is much of interest and illumination in these pages to the psycholo- 
 gist, for they were written without the slightest self-consciousness behind them. 
 They are the perfect outpourings of a maiden's mind and reveal her as she 
 actually was. 
 
 Now, after long years of a life made rich and beautiful by many and 
 varied experiences, she rests by the Harbor of the Sun. Her home is on a 
 hillside, near the top, its large four-windowed sun-porch overlooking one of 
 the superlative views of the world. Here Mrs. Thorpe sits and reads, medi- 
 tates, writes and greets her friends. Immediately in front, shutting out the 
 view of the Pacific Ocean, is the irregular but bold line of Point Loma. To 
 its right a tiny glimpse of Mission Bay is had, while Loma Portal, with its 
 wealth of new and elegant residences, followed by Rosedale, La Playa, Fort 
 Rosecranz, and the glistening domes of the magnificent temples of the head- 
 quarters of the Theosophical Society and Universal Brotherhood, the towers 
 of the Federal Wireless Station, and the old Lighthouse line the top of 
 the Point. 
 
 Then, as the eye sweeps eastward, there follow North Island, Coronado, 
 with its pinnacled hotel and groups of trees, beyond which is a point in Mexico 
 on the lower side of the Tia Juana River. In the foreground is the slope 
 leading the eye down to the shallow waters of this part of the bay, the appear- 
 ance reminding Mrs. Thorpe of the marshes of her Michigan home. Then 
 comes the wide sweep of the bay to right and left, the narrow outlet to the 
 Pacific, past Ballast Point and the Quarantine Station, while on the left lie 
 the wharves, the municipal pier and many of the big business blocks of the new, 
 thriving and progressive San Diego, beyond which is more of the bay, hemmed 
 
31! Rosa Hartwick Thorpe and the Story of 
 
 in by the Silver Strand, and the Mexican Mountains to the south. Even then 
 the picture is not complete. Far out at sea, where the sun kisses the ocean in 
 pearly irridescence, lie the Coronados Islands, the two principal ones looking 
 for all the world like giant monuments of old European Crusaders found in 
 the dim aisles of quiet cathedrals. Here they suggest Nature's monuments to 
 the old Spanish Conquistadores — Coronado himself and Juan de Onate, per- 
 haps, lying a few miles apart, with feet pointing almost in the same direction. 
 
 Imagine this glorious scene at night-time, when Point Loma from end to 
 end is lit up with vivid electric lights, the few lights of the Government Avia- 
 tion Station setting forth North Island, while its sister island of Coronado 
 glistens and shines in the corruscations of a thousand electric bulbs and arcs 
 on the hotel, in homes, and on streets, while San Diego itself is ablaze until 
 long after midnight with the wealth of lights our modern cities feel to be a 
 necessity. 
 
 The sight is an inspiration either night or day, but by day busy, bustling. 
 active life adds its own peculiar charm. Fussy motor boats dart to and fro; 
 vessels with sails, yachts and schooners attract the eye with their spreading 
 white canvas glistening in the sun, while stately ocean steamers and the pon- 
 derous steel-clad armored cruisers of the navy add solemn and majestic dignity 
 to the scene. Aeroplanes and hydroplanes, like gigantic dragon-flies, skim over 
 the water, shoot up into the air, or dart down in skillfully directed volplane 
 back to earth or water, suggesting giant condors soaring from the earth. 
 
 Then, too, these same vessel movements on the bay often serve to enhance 
 the glory of the night scene, for when battleships, passenger steamers, and 
 vessels of all kinds are lit up, and their white, green and red lights dance in 
 noiseless measure on the surface of the waves, there is a new beauty, an alluring 
 attraction of the night that thrills with its suggestions. The stately ferry- 
 boats, brilliantly lighted, silently glide back and forth between Coronado and 
 San Diego, or across to Fort Rosecranz, while now and again, like an elephant 
 among burros, a great passenger steamer, all aglow with electrically-lit state- 
 rooms, each port-hole sending forth a vivid bull's-eye of light, comes in from 
 the ocean and silently moves to its appointed pier. 
 
 It surely is a place for poet's fancies and writer's dreams, and there need 
 be no surprise that Mrs. Thorpe finds great delight in what it so generously 
 affords her. 
 
PtJu* 
 
 lOtV\y<J 
 
 erf ^<fe ^/^^^^^/^^7 
 
 t ^ ir ,, . vr t. t n -ir » T T V <S ArUm4/t?/~- 
 
 L V E AND LOYALTY 
 
 BT A NEW CONTRIBUTOR. 
 
 /JfUW /< &C74 '■ 
 
 The story I mean to tell you is one of love's 
 heroism. It has come down to me through 
 many generations, accompanying a picture of 
 a fair young girl, aljout whose brow cluster 
 masses of waving brown hair; whose face is elo- 
 quent with the sublime faith and beauty of the 
 old legend. She looks down upon me, from the 
 canvas, out of sad, brown eyes. Her hands are 
 nervously clutching a bit of parchment which 
 she holds from her. One can see the deep, 
 rough ways she has gone through for that 
 scrawl. It is all told in the earnest grasp, in 
 the fixed brow, and the straightened lines of 
 the face. She seizes it as one might clutch 
 from death a precious life. Looking up at her 
 pure Saxon face, one knows why that staunch 
 Cavalier, Basil Underwood, loved her — that he 
 was worthy to be loved by her. 
 
 She was only a forester's child; the only one 
 of the head keeper at Underwood Hall, down in 
 the south country, but a pet and plaything up 
 at the hall during her babyhood; educated, and 
 almost adopted there as one' of the baron's 
 family in her girlhood. In that way she was 
 lifted out of the forester's cottage in the world 
 of the then fashion; and it is told that once, at 
 £^ney_fe,te, or assembly, she was graciously 
 'jmilea upon, by that first Charles, for whose 
 grace and beauty we have great sympathy even 
 unto this day. One thing she learned that day, 
 as, leaning on the arm of the baron's son, she 
 courtesied lowly to the courtly Charles, that was 
 not in her book at homef love for king before 
 her, and love for Cavalier heside her. That 
 which she gave the king, she called loyalty, and 
 quite a different thing it was from that which 
 she meted out to the comely Basil. How could 
 it have been otherwise? She and he so long 
 playmates and friends at the hall? They fell 
 into Cupid's snare as one might walk over a 
 bank in sleep. The old baron and his wife 
 were of the simpler sort, and seeing which way 
 love ran, consented to let it run smoothly, and 
 for that a blessing on their old hearts, which 
 have been dust these twojjundred years, and 
 more. 
 
 But the dark days h»d come to "Merrie Eng- 
 land" now. There were a goodly majority in 
 that little island who objected that royal Charles, 
 and royal Charles' Cavaliers should wear their 
 
 hair as Absalom wore his. So these objectors, 
 as a suggestive method of expressing their dis- 
 pleasure, shaved their own off close to 'their 
 crowns; yet, with less than no effect on contu- 
 macious Charles, for king and Cavalier still wore 
 their flowing curls, and, in derision of their ob- 
 jectors, called them Roundheads. But these 
 Roundheads were men of terrible earnestness 
 and meaning. They fancied, in their earnest 
 way, that England was going wrong, and that 
 it was their work to stop her on her fatal way. 
 I am afraid they had no very strong opinion of 
 expediency; but when (hey saw a lie and wrong 
 they smote it down, not stopping to bless it, 
 cither, as they smote. There were certain truths 
 they held, which they thought the world should 
 learn, and, with Bible and sword in hand, they 
 went forth to teacli them. Revolutions seldom 
 lack leaders — this one did not. A man, pano- 
 plied like a god for the hour, ita' surged up 
 from the depths of the people to set right old 
 -England's wrong. Looking at this Cromwell, 
 .now, through some old portraits of the libraries, 
 one sees not a cruel face- It always seemed to 
 me to express the sorrows of a race gone wrong, 
 a sublime face pregnant with the stern meaning 
 of the time. I know of those hard lines about 
 the mouth, the square jaw, and the tiger glare 
 of the eyes. But under it all the man's heart 
 pulsed finely as a woman's. It was full of an 
 infinite tenderness — majestic with a purpose that 
 looked down the ages. Kent's loyalty to poor 
 old Lear is one of those stories that always touch 
 me to tears through its beauty and pathos; but' 
 Cromwell's loyalty to his God and to England 
 is a spectacle sublime and beautiful forever. It 
 has made the sou of a brewer walk side by sido 
 with kings and queens, crowned lordlier than 
 them all through two hundred years of history. 
 But this is history, which you know better than 
 I,' and not the story I meant to tell you.. 
 
 The hall was deserted now, and tenantless; 
 the baron's family had fled before the approach 
 of the army of the Puritans. Basil was some- 
 where in the ranks of. Charles; Bessie, m her 
 glory of youth and- loveliness, had again gone 
 home to the cottage, not a very suitable place 
 for her now after the luxury and indulgence of 
 the hall. But her true heart bowed loyally to 
 life's duties; sad, too, were the long wintry 
 
 185 
 

 186 t-OVE AND LOYALTY. 
 
 days, and longer evenings, when 6he no longer 5 mond panes into the clear blue of the sky. The 
 saw the face of her lover. But to the heart's : refrain of an old Puritan hymn from the camp, 
 core he was loyal to her as to his king. More j sweet, tender, and mournful, was wafted to 
 than once had the neighing of his horse been • them on the wind. "It is for me, Bessie, girl. 
 heard outside the 'cottage on these long nights, :. It beckons me away, dear." 
 even though between him and his love stretched f The girl, pale and trembing, started to her 
 the, long line of the opposing army. : ; feet, lie had been ill all day, she knew, but 
 
 She loved him as most young maidens love,'.- not ill like this; his mind Wandered now, and 
 with an entire abnegation of self; so that though J the new thought that drove out the old one was 
 her happiness was only full when he was with \ of fields beyond the confines of the hall — beyond 
 her, yet she would have banished him forever ;■ human ken. The dog, roused from his slumber 
 rather than he should run such risk of death in < by the girl's cry, dragged himself slowly over 
 seeking her. Her tears and pleadings that he •! to his master's side, and laid his head upon his 
 would consider his own safety were laughingly 5 knee, with a look of unutterable affection and 
 thrust aside, and set at naught. "He bore a J, yearning, as if he knew. Bessie held her 
 charmed life," he said, "against the Round- ji father's head upon her breast, sobbing softly 
 head's bullets; he knew the secret ways, the ; under her breath, and brushed the white hair 
 hidden paths familiar to him from his boyhood, 5 from his temples. The old dog whined now and 
 which they could not know. There was no J again, asking, in his poor way, for a parting 
 danger," he would say, tenderly shaking the ; word. It came at last — to him, not to the child, 
 rich masses of her brown hair; "and if there \ "Old True! we know the forest nooks! The 
 were, I must brave them for the sake of some- ; secret places where the hare and pheasant hide; 
 times seeing this dear face." He was so strong, ; for so many days we have known them together. 
 and brave, and wise, this Cavalier of the olden ; Old True — old True!" 
 
 time, that he could not sec or fear danger; and ; Sobbing loudly now, the girl bent over him, 
 death was for old men, not for lovers and sol- i begging him to speak to her; softly the mooh- 
 diers of the good King Charlie. So hepushe'd < light, crept up his feet, and breast, and lay lil»e 
 danger and death aside, and by the old secret J a glory of peace and beauty on his fair and sil- 
 ways- came once too often to visit his fconnie I vered hair. There were sounds of horses' hoofs 
 forest blossom. 5 without;" the door swung open, and Basil stood 
 
 A still, starlit night settled down upon hall, > there, one of a silent group, one of which was 
 and church, and cottage. The moon, rising 5 as yet invisible. The opening door disturbed 
 slowly above the hills, revealed afar-off the ;. the old forester out of his dream; it may have 
 ■white tents of the Roundheads;-. In the old J been of one of the bright days gone; or his in- 
 church-tower beyond, the bell tolled the hour of s troverted gaze may have been fixed, «pon~fAt.'^ 
 
 i^urfew. In the cottage the lights were out, and s fairer than any Ids feet yet had passed; or, who 
 by the ombers of the fire, where, dreamed and 5 knows, it may. have dwelt upon the presence, 
 dozed a dog, sat the forester. Too old and J whose voice he seemed to hear in that mind 
 ■weather-worn for a soldier, he feebly wended his 5 awhile ago. He' looked up, recognizing Basil, 
 way, until late days, through the forest, accom- ij "You will take care of Bessie, and of old True?" 
 panied by his old, dog, True, unmolested by i; The invisible presence in the room became visi- 
 
 ' Cavalier or Roundhead. When the baron came • ble, and in that chill hour the soul of fhc old 
 back to the hall, he should find nothing amiss i forester was required of him. 
 there, the old'man thought. But to-night, with i . From the neighboring hamlets came the sim- 
 Bessie nestled at his knee, a new thought re- >, pie foresters; and from the tented village came 
 placed the old. All the days he had lived came < the bronzed soldiers by one or two's, or larger 
 back to bim to-night; they passed before him $ groups, to do reverence to the memory of then- 
 like a splendid pr.geant. There was a tree over- ? old friend of the forest. So, with life-long 
 hanging the low gabled roof, one of its branches 5 friends about her, they took her precious dead 
 swayed in a gentle wind against the gothic win- i and laid him under the shadow of the tower, bc- 
 dow, through which the moonlight fell in a J side the true old wife who had gone thither be- 
 wonderful radiance. It stretched across the $ fore him.' 
 
 room to the old man's feet, resting there, a; Basil would nofleave her until the last duty 
 golden path to the heavens above him. The ■: was done, and meanwhile was in hiding in one 
 noise against the window startled him from this $ of the numerous forest fastnesses of which ha 
 new thought into which his mind had fallen, ; so well knew. When night had come again, he 
 and he turned and looked out through the dia- '. was standing there beside her in the sombre 
 
LOVE AND LOYALTY. 187 
 
 tf//J*/^f^fr*fssr**-'-' 
 
 glimmer of the cottage fire. "I will remain ;; that the old father nor Basil were no longer 
 here," she said; "the Roundheads never are !; there. They would not come again — never 
 rude to me." In the forest's walks ihey often > again, never! That was her loss; she knew it 
 met her, doing homage roughly out of their man- 1; all now. Father and Basil could not come 
 hood's loyalty to a pure and saintly presence, s again — saying it over to herself. But God's 
 A sort of chivalric loyalty that men imbibe I- love, and father's and Basil's love were with 
 as they lie in babyhood upon the breasts of.": her yet. She "Snew that. Her soul was strong 
 mothers. She clung to him now with love's •; in that; but the poor, weak heart sobbed itself 
 nerce tenacity, and besought him-to incur dan- 5 to sleep; and the man who had cared for her, 
 ger no more, by absenting himself from the ^ laid down upon the rug before the fire, loyally 
 forest unftl the happier time had come when \ watching over her, loyally praying for good 
 they could meet in peaceful, undisturbed loving, s King Charles and Master Basil. "God forefend 
 Her tears fell fast upon the hand she held ; and J them both by forest-path and open field ; in court 
 while her pleading voice made a music in his s and camp, in life and death, God find them with 
 heart, sweet as song of birds, he gave her the \ their Christly armor ffa\" A goodly prayer, 
 promise to cross the stern old Roundhead's lines ; to which let all true hearts echo, Amen! 
 no more. For a long moment he held her close J The young Cavalier, pursuing his saddened' 
 to his great, wide breast, stroking tenderly her ; thought, had never slackened pace until the 
 shining hair and tear-wet cheek. A trusty 5 forest and its lengthened shadows were lying, 
 forest friend was bringing his horses up to the J ghost-like, behind him. But now, striking the 
 <cotta"ge, his steps was heard outside. Much pain * hard, open road, more caution was necessary, 
 and sorrow had exhausted the girl's natural j though the enemy's lines had been passed, and 
 strength: and when he pressed his lips to her $ the tread of the far out-lying pickets tvas no 
 cheek, she was unconscious that he did so. . A ; longer distinguishable. He rode carefully, look- 
 low, warning word from outside, gaye him j ing ithead into the gloom of the night, watchful 
 notice that he must not linger longer. He'Iaid s of any horseman in advance of him. No one 
 the girl tenderly down upon a rude settle by- 5 in advance, but behind the reverberation of 
 the fire, and leaping to the saddle, commended" 5 iron-shod feet in the road. A single horseman. 
 Tier to the care of the man who stood there with Jj too. It might be a foeman, but it was not yet 
 his horse. The forester, giving him the bridle, 5 time for flight; time enough for that -when 
 said, "Ride fast to-night, your hand upon your s challenged, and the odds against him. He 
 sword. Bear no man company; there is mount- ; slackened his speed, and drew the rein closer 
 ing in hastein the camp yonder, as if in pursuit. > to the foot-path. 
 
 -Ty^ff, i^4*B£er in the forest to-night; whispers I "Who goes there?" This challenge from the 
 of spies from the royal forces abroad. Take > rider, who had now come up with him. "A 
 heed that no man bear you company." \ friend, if friendly provrn," replied theCavalier, 
 
 "Fear not for me, good Luke; they have no > laying his hand quietly on the sword's hilt. 
 Euch mettle in their steeds as this one boasts. 5 "A fair night, friend." "A fair night, friend," 
 He and my sword Will be safeguards enough > answered Basil. "What of the cause, ."riend?" 
 against any single foeman." ■: Basil leaned forward, that he might see the face 
 
 He rode swiftly away over the yielding sward, $ of the new-found friend, and answered the last 
 and soon became undistinguishable amid the !: challenge, "For God and King Charles, the- 
 low-hanging foliage. 5 cause prospers." "We will ride in company, 
 
 "A venturesome youth is Basil," said Luke, 5 and so it please jiou; two swords being better 
 as he went within the cottage; and seeing the 5 than one." "An it please you, we will," was 
 slight form of the beautiful girl upon the settle, J Basil's reply. The man was no foeman. The 
 added, "So would I have been in my hot day $ questions he gave showed him to be of the camp 
 of youth for maiden fair as this." v of the Cavaliers. A face little seen under the 
 
 Not the best nurse for a delicate girl, but as; slouched beaver he' wore; but that little seen 
 true, delicate, tender a one as any woman. ] had nothing prepossessing in it, to our young 
 The fine, sweet instinct of loyalty to woman- \ friend Basil; a face to shun when met by the 
 hood'was in his heart, filling each drop of warm J road-side, on a dark night, when one's sword 
 blood e»ursing£bere. J rested in its sheath at home. A scowling, 
 
 He chafed her nands, and threw some water >, mean face, full of subtility and cunning; a face 
 in her face, when the soft, brown, eyes opened s for foul deeds and b,lack work. A spy— the man 
 wide on him in a gaze of wonder and inquiry. $ against whom he had been warned. To be cap- 
 Then Ihoy slowly closed again — for she saw 1 tured in his company was death — worse than 
 
 Voi.. XLVIII.— 11 
 
188 
 
 LOVE AND LOYALTY. 
 
 death ignominy. How was lie to shake him off? 
 They were both enlisted in the same good cause, 
 one for love and one for hire. How did he 
 know that? This fellow beside him might have 
 as fine instincts of loyalty as any that warmed 
 his own heart, and fired it to heroic deeds. This 
 vile, low face, might be only a mask, hiding a 
 right loyal soul. Yet against this man the 
 warning had been spoken. What matter? He 
 would take the risk; was not the danger all 
 left behind in the camp of the Roundheads? 
 But. in the solemn hush of the night, he raised 
 his hat and prayed- for King Charles, the lady 
 of his love, and his own safety. 
 
 Rashly, madly resolved, young Cavalier i The 
 enemy was upon them. From a bit of forest 
 lying adjacent to the road-side the Roundheads 
 swarmed down upon them. Stern work was 
 there. Twenty stern old soldiers setting to 
 ■work to capture two men who defiantly faced 
 them with swords out, and death in their eyes. 
 It lasted but a moment. There was a sharp 
 clash of steel, a resounding blow from the 
 sword of Basil upon a Roundhead's steel cuirass, 
 which sent the trooper reeling from his seat, 
 and shattered -the young Catalier's weapon. 
 That was the end of it. Basil, unarmed, was 
 easily made prisoner now. The spy was already 
 captured and bound. They searched them on 
 the ground where they had fought. From the 
 dress of the spy they took convincing evidence 
 of his guilt — plans and drawings of their 
 works — specifications of their numbers — and 
 descriptions of their arms. 
 
 What will poor Bessie say when she hears of 
 this? Poor Bessie! with the dead face of the 
 father lying there only yesterday, and his dead 
 face to-morrow! His! God help poor Bessie! 
 And God help them all!. Amen. 
 
 They carried them to the foot of the hill, 
 where quietly rested a few hamlets and the 
 gray old church, with its ivy-covered tower 
 looming up hundreds of feet into the night. 
 The prisoners were taken to a low-gabled 
 building on the outskirts of the hamlet — a thick, 
 stone-walled house, with hcavily-mullioned win- 
 dows, looking out into the dark street and fields. 
 About the door stood a group of grim-visaged 
 soldiers, silent and stern, looking keenly into 
 the face of the young Cavalier, but speaking no 
 word. They passed through a long, low room, 
 wainscotted half-way to the ceiling. In the 
 rear of that was the guard-room, low-ceiled, 
 red-tiled, and cleanly enough. There spy and 
 Cavalier laid down together. When to-morrow 
 •came, where would they be lying then? They 
 slept on the tiled floor the refreshing sleep of 
 
 tired, healthy men. Whatever dream came to 
 thein gave no token of to-morrow's doom. The 
 Cavalier, waking in the chill gray of the morn- 
 ing, saw the face .of the man he had left at the 
 cottage last night. "Do not tell her, old friend," 
 he said; hut he was too late — the man was gone. 
 
 The sun rose that morning over that little 
 world of England, looking upon no sadder sight, 
 I think, than that of the fair young Bessie listen- 
 ing to the story of Basil's capture. No tears 
 were in her eyes ; dark linefe came underneath 
 them; her mouth grew fixed and rigid; her 
 hands were buried with a nervous clutch in the 
 lapels of the forester's coat. She clung to him. 
 desperately, as if he could help her, as ii"'" some 
 way he could save Basil. He was to be tt-i$j' 
 with the spy at high noon. Cromwell would be 
 at the camp to-day— maybe, at the trial. He 
 had been an old friend of her father's in that 
 earlier, better time. Since then he had sat at 
 their homely board — was friendly still, she 
 knew. Why, this stern old Puritan had, caress- 
 ingly, held her orf his knee, when she was a 
 little child. If she plead for this Basil's life, 
 would the grim old soldier remember her, and 
 what had gone before? Let us hope he would 
 for the day when memories of a better, quietci 
 life could sway him were fast fading. In that 
 after-time, when Naseby was to bo fought and 
 won; when a king was to be dethroned — im- 
 prisoned; when a scaffold was to grow in a 
 night in the street opposite to AVhiteball, and 
 the Royal Charles to lie there, with his fair neck 
 upon the block; a man, with a nms't hnlHiiw 
 the kingly head before the multitude, saying, 
 "This is the head of a traitor!" it would be 
 too late for memories then. Let us be glad, for 
 Bessie's sake, that these days had not yet come. 
 
 At noon the prisoners was led into the court, 
 held in the long room through which they passed 
 to their prison last night. A dark room, set 
 round by dark, earnest faces. They were there 
 for serious cause. The painful stillness was 
 only broken by the clang against the oaken 
 floor of a gaunt old soldier's sword, as he strodo 
 to his place at a deal table, about which sat a, 
 dozen warriors— grim men of iron, in leathern- 
 jerkins, used to the din and smoke of battle, 
 and loving its carnage better, in their Puritan 
 hearts, than this quiet way of sending men down 
 to their death. Relentless men, where duty 
 was to be done; hardened by long years of civil 
 war, and through believing that God hjj*l sent 
 the 3word in their hands, to the end that they 
 might restore the olive-branch; full of a strange 
 superstition and religious enthusiasm, which 
 made them bad judges and irresistible soldiers. 
 
LOVE AND LOYALTY. I8i) 
 
 Crowding about the room were the people of ! leaving me a precious trust to his care. He 
 the hamlets, all in eager sympathy with at least ; was with me through my long days of suffering 
 one of the prisoners — Basil had played and ! and sorrow. He was no spy." " But a 
 grown up with many of them. Between hall ! Royalist?" "Yes! loyal to his king and K> 
 and hamlet there was little difference in those ! his manhood, which would not let him be a 
 day. They loved him, every one, for his frank ) spy. Upon my soul, brave gentlemen, not a 
 and manly ways; for his hardy, healthful youth -spy!" 
 
 and comeliness; for all that he had been to ; Bravely spoken, little maiden! Yet these 
 them in their some time want and pain. They 5 are stern, duty-loving men you address. They 
 
 spoke low and excitedly together. "He, 
 spy! Our Basil, of the hall, a spy!" and the 
 speaker's voice rose high with indignation. A 
 woman timidly touched his arm, and asked if 
 she might stand beside him during the trial. 
 
 see heroic faith and simple truth shining through 
 your eyes; and they also see a maideu battling 
 for her lover's life. The blush alone told them 
 so much. The prisoner has looked up but once 
 while she speaks. He sees the fine crimson 
 
 She could see Basil from there, and he could 'mantling the cheek, and, with life gliding from 
 not sec her. It was best he should not. But -him, be takes farewell of its sweetest hope and- 
 hc would know all the same she was there. .': fairest dream. She has gone back to her place, 
 After awhile she asked the man if ho would hold ':and the man gives her his arm to-lean upon — 
 her hand the while. "I'm not strong to-day," J not so strong as when he gave her his hand 
 she added, apologetically. He took her hand, .' awhile ago, She never looked away now from 
 and held it in his strong, horny fingers, tenderly Ltho faces of the court. She will see their verdict 
 as a woman. ^written in their iron visages before they have 
 
 .Silence now, terrible in its intensity, reigned (spoken it. They confer together. Silence, awful 
 throughout the room. The prisoners were to > and profound, reigns throughout the sombre 
 be tried together, and were arraigned and called s old room. The grotesque faces in the wain- 
 upon to answer to the specifications of the > scoting, stare forward, waiting for their verdict. 
 charge of being spies of one Charles, against > Men breathe fast and heavily. They love this 
 the honor and dignity of the commonwealth. Jyoungman; from his boyhood up he has been 
 "How say you, Robert Sherwood and Basil > so noble, brave, and unselfish in his instincts; 
 Underwood, guilty or not guilty?" J so true to them ; so observant ever of their rights. 
 
 The spy, desisting for a moment from gnaw- { Something out of their own lives will be lost 
 ing the nails of a dirty hand, slowly lifted his \ when his is forfeited. In dreadful stillness 
 head, and looking toward the court, made an- 1 they await the verdict, and from all hearts an 
 swot "Guiltjr!" ! unspoken prayer ascends for the prisoner. If 
 
 '■SfM gtulty!"' Clear, earnest, and deep as J he would only speak it might not yet be too 
 an organ-tone, fell upon the court — the answer Slate. 
 of Basil Underwood. ; He rises slowly from his seat. Life is so 
 
 The court proceeded to the evidence. Only ; sweet to him to-day. He will not lose it without 
 this it was. This, a confessed adherent of him ; one poor effort. He craves the indulgence of 
 called King Charles I., v.-as found at night, in jthe court — a moment only he will detain them, 
 unfrequented ways, bearing company with his ; Permission to speak is, granted him. "You 
 fellow prisoner, upon whose person were found ! know," he said, in a clear, musical voice, "that 
 conclusive proofs of guilt. Nothing more. For ; what this maiden has just spoken is truth. 
 
 the commonwealth, the case was closed. "Had 
 the prisoner any witnesses to call in his de- 
 fence?" Basil bowed his head on his hands, 
 
 Where she left oft' I will begin. I had crossed 
 your lines by paths unknown to your troops, 
 and coming upon the high road, and being on 
 
 and answered, "Nonel" Hope slipped the J my way to join the forces of the king," my master, 
 leash in that moment, and was gone. At this ; was accosted by my fellow-prisoner here. From 
 instant a girl made her way through the crowd, $ signs he gave me, I recognized him as being of 
 
 and took her place beside the table of the court. 
 Quietly, modestly she said, "I wish to be sworn 
 on behalf of the prisoner." She was sworn. 
 In a few simple words she accounted for Basil's 
 
 the king's forces, but in what capacity I only 
 guessed. Of what he knew, I nothing knew — 
 he having communicated nothing to me. A 
 moment after he found me, your troops were 
 
 presence near the enemy's camp. "Such an : upon us. I therefore claim the rights and kos- 
 old friend of father's and mine," she said, with ; pitality of a prisoner of rank taken in honor- 
 woinnnly crimson covering cheek and brow. 5 able warfare, and as such, my life is not forfeit 
 "My father died in his arms the night he came, < to the commonwealth." 
 
100 LOVE AND LOYALTYi 
 
 A stir of pleasure, rising out of a hope that J to him amid the clash of steel, and the snort of 
 
 the simple earnestness ofhis speech would save > bat tie-steeds; with sword in hand, leading heroic 
 
 him, swayed the multitude. § legions to victory for good King Charles. But 
 
 Again the court conferred together; then the ■: this death, away from the contested field, was 
 
 prisoners were bidden to stand and look upon J a death a dog might die — not a man. Thus he 
 
 the court. They did so. The hands of the i thought and wondered in bis mind, as he looked 
 
 spy tremblingly wandered about his mouth; j: out over the hills and fields to where the old 
 
 his eyes were bent upon the ground, and an ; church-tower rose, covered with its eternal 
 
 awful pallor overspread his face. Doomed, and J verdure, brightened by greit masses of sunlight. 
 
 afraid to die. There was a record of dark deeds ; Slowiy the day wor» en. An hour or more 
 
 lying behind him, in those years gone. Death j before curfew Ee5Sie had one hope — she would 
 
 touched him, and he trembled. His fellow- ; see Cromwell. fl.e :aust and would save Basil. 
 
 prisoner was paler than since the trial began ; ! It was miles away to the camp. Then she 
 
 but his face was the face of a man who had ; would seek him. Basil was not guilty; Crom- 
 
 looked upon death often, and knew it was only \ well was just — it was his pride and boast that 
 
 sleep. He knew of the pleasant vales of Eden — ! he was that. He should do justice — Basil should 
 
 cf the better country beyond. The hand which J live. He could not die, for his life was hers; 
 
 firmly held the chair before him was clear of J hers until the good God demanded it of her. It 
 
 guilt; behind him no dark record lay open; 5 was not to be forfeit now. She knew that the 
 
 immortality glowed within him. He stood upon ; stern old soldier should be just; ay, that was 
 
 the shining shore, and the waves of death surging 5 the word — just. He" would be! 
 
 toward him, gave him no terror. '< Just? There was yet to come the solemn, 
 
 A war-begrimed soldier rises from his place ; awful spectacle of the scaffold in front of White- 
 
 as spokesman, and reads in slow, dead tones, J hall, and royal Charles' head laying thereon. 
 
 the finding and sentence of the court. "The s Yet this was to be when the grim soldier, Crom- 
 
 prisoners at the bar are found guilty as to all J well, grew to his greatness. 
 
 the charges and specifications upon which they ^ Through line after line of pickets she passed 
 
 were arraigned, and the sentence of the court? on her way to the tent of the general; hig 1 
 
 is, that they be taken from this place to a 5 resolve and noble purpose nerved her hear. 
 
 place of confinement, and from thence to the 5 She would be strong to-day; steel-hearted, at 
 
 square, in view of the quarters of the general j these bronzed warriors; steel-nerved, clear 
 
 commanding, and there to be shot to death, at > brained to execute her purpose. 
 
 the ringing of the curfew next ensuing; and 5 "It is for Basil," she said, as she stood before 
 
 may God have mercy on their souls'!" i the spacious tent of the soldier, GEomwe"^ X> 
 
 Bessie heard. A sharp cry of pain, as if a < either side stood the guard, as if but half o£t 
 heart had broken, rang through the room. I; duty. "I would have speech with General 
 Women wept, and wrung their hands; and men J Cromwell." "He is absent from the camp," 
 went tearfully out into the air. They could > said a guard. "Yet he will be here before t lit 
 not breathe there where death came so close to X curfew?" "He will come to-night; but no 
 them. A few women gathered about the girl, •: before curfew." This from a grim-visageu 
 and bore her to her home. Tho prisoners were 5 Roundhead, who, leaning on his halberd, re- 
 led back to their prison — between them and ? gards the girl curiously. Her head was sunk 
 death a few brief hours lay. To die at curfew! •: to her breast; her hands grope darkly on the 
 Oh, God! how dear life had suddenly grown to 5 folds of her dress. That was the last hope, 
 this young Cavalier. He did not think that his ? Only for an instant she feels the keen pain of 
 heart could ever so tremble. His old mother J its loss, and then the sickening blindness of 
 and father, when they knew? Why, he would 5 despair, arising out of her weakness to save 
 never see them again, here— nor Bessie. Youth's ! the life dearer than her own, fills her brain and 
 hopes were his then; he meant that she should J eyes. Slowly raising her head, she sees the 
 one day be mistress of the hall and the broad ij guard yet regarding her with a look as nearly 
 acres. They were to live their, lovers forever, >, akin to pity as any that ever visited his face, 
 helping, nourishing Christ's poor, and little 5 She sees him; the other guards standing idly 
 ones. A thousand times he had planned that. $ about; the long rows of tents; the standards; 
 Last night only he had held her in his arms — i the glistening arms; and beyond them, to the 
 had heard her voice in loving music. To-night — \ westward, the sun, sinking down in crimson 
 to die! This death he had never dreamed of. ; glory behind the old tower, where swung the 
 He might sometimes have fancied it would come f curfew-bell. It has been so many voiced to 
 
LOVE AND LOYALTY. 191 
 
 her in all those years gone; from earliest child- < tower, for his step was slow, and it was a good 
 hood 6ho and it have been such true friends. S mile off, and ere they reached it, it would be 
 Only she, she fancies, knows all its tones, and J time for the curfew." Thus saying, he took up 
 all their deep and solemn meaning. She recalls ; his hat and the keys, and walked beside her, 
 how sad-voiced it was tkat day when its shadow ij along the path she had come. Slowly he began 
 first fell above her mother's grave; how full of 1 lo understand what it was she required of him. 
 comfort, too, seeming to blend pity in its tones s "There must bono curfew to-night! Here were 
 for her loss, as if it knew and cared. She \ jewels and gold — a fortune for such as he; it 
 remembers other days, when anger and strife 5 would make his old age bright, and free from 
 were in her heart, how its mellow music softened $ thought and care. Besides, a dear life would 
 away the bitter feeling. So often, in that hap- ? be saved to her. He would do it! He would 
 pier time, it has summoned her to hear words 5 not sound Basil's death-knell! For the love of 
 of helping grace and faith — words that cheered J the good God he would not do that! He roughly 
 her life, and blessed the hours she lived. A1U pushed her bribe away; he assumed a stem 
 this feebly passing through her mind as she v manner, and gruffly refused. What else coitfd 
 watches the sun fading, slowly, surely fading, v he do? To the good cause of Christ, whom. he 
 falling beyond the town. It is to be endowed 5 served under the great Cromwell, Basil was 
 with a new voice to-night; to swing out from ^ a traitor and enemy. Not his enemy, else he 
 its height in the gloom of the sky solemner J would have saved him. The old heart was 
 words than it spoke ever before — words of ; tender, but Cromwell and his times cased tender 
 death to the heart of the young Cavalier. v hearts in iron shells; and he refused her, even 
 
 ■She repeats slowly to herself the words of $ as they reached the foot of the great tower, 
 the stern old guard, "He will be here to-night, } wherein, above them, hung the great bell, 
 but' not till after curfew." Then, fires must J shrouded in the darkening sky. His hand 
 blaze, and tapers burn with the stars to-nieht. ; was on the latch, and the oaken-door was 
 The curfew shall not ring. She has jewels and 5 pushed open, when he turned to say some final 
 coin with which the old verger may be bribed ' word to her, but she was gone, 
 from his duty. If she plead with him, offered 5 As the door swung back from the old man's 
 him these bribes, Basil might be saved — for s hand, an impulse, springing„out of defeated 
 Cromwell would conic to-night; and Cromwell, ; purpose and hope beaten down, seized the mind 
 for the sake of the old love he bore her father, ! of the girl. She looked upward within the 
 would pardon Basil, if she asked it. She would s tower; but a few of the crumbling stairs could 
 fall at his knees, and not be torn away till ho J be distinguished above, darkness covered them 
 (Nk< pardoned Basil— and he would do it, hard 5 like a pall. With an awful shudder vibrating 
 and"SSeM-as he seemed. She had passed the $ through every nerve, and the strength of her 
 guard, and quickly, by the old mill-path, ap- 5 mind, heart, and soul, bent to a single thought, 
 proached the verger's cottage. An old man, 5 she dashed past the old verger, and her feet 
 quite deaf to sound of his own bell, or voice of 5 pressed the stairway into murky space, where 
 priest, and almost blind now, his years had i before, for three centuries, no feet but hers had 
 been so many; with only strength enough to ij trod. With her soul sickening within her, sus- 
 ring the old bell on the tower, and build the i tained only by the hope that would not die, 
 church fires, he was retained in his place more 5 she went upon her fearful flight, cheating death 
 for past services than for present ones. He sat i of its victim, irresistible in her lovonnd daring, 
 now on the broad stone at his door, smoking i as a fate standing between the comely Cavalier 
 his pipe, his hat and the church-keys lying 5 and the grave that yawned to claim him. 
 beside him. He had stood by the quaintly- $ A single line of blood-red was in the sky yet, 
 carved font when she was held there in the i and the hour of curfew had come. About the 
 priest's arms to be christened — such a wee tiny 5 door of Basil's prison stood a guard of solemn, 
 thing then, a grand and graceful lady now, but $ earnest faces. They looked away silently to- 
 mindful of him in her advancement. He had i ward the tower rising still and sombre against 
 many things within the old cottage to remind ! the sky. They waited for the curfew as one 
 him of her kindness since those first days of!: within, prayerfully kneeling on the tiled floor 
 her babyhood. Too feeble-sighted to sec the >! of his cell, waited. They leaned upon their 
 agony of her face, or to notice the excitement • fire-locks, liking not this shooting of a man in 
 of her manner, the old man rose and bowed to $ cold blood. They wished in their hearts it was 
 her quaintly as a cavalier. " She wanted speech 5 over, 
 with him? Then she must follow him to the; As the verger touches (he dangling rope. 
 
102 LOVE AND LOYALTY. 
 
 something falls to bis feet from the steps above. < its red fires gleam out in crimson belts of light 
 •• A bit of the oaken stair," he says, picking it ; and warmth over the hills and low-lying vallies; 
 up "Crumbling away together, we are; church S voices of men shout out a battle-by ran of the 
 and verger alike growing old together." The ; Lord they serve. It is borne to her upon the 
 ciil man forgets that the tower was a gray- i; winds in tones of unutterable sweetness, for 
 beard of hundreds of years when he was yet a distance has robbed the thousand voices of all 
 puling babe. "Not ring the curfew'" he mut- J coarseness. They read a fiery gospel, and en- 
 tered. "Falso to-night in what I never once !; forced it with burnished steel, 
 failed in before? Vet, she's a comely lass; and \ Her feet must not yet fail her, for her work 
 he a good youth, and not a spy, either; but he > is not yet done. A few rods more, and the tent 
 dies for the good cause." J of the warrior Cromwell will be reached. At 
 
 Had his eyes been less dim, and the gloom s last she is there; the guards send the challenge, 
 within the tower less dense, he might have \ and receive for reply, "A friend, who craves 
 seen, far above him on the oaken stair, a woman 5 speech with the general, Cromwell." They make 
 slowly ascending; upward, upward, over quick \ way for her, let her pass into the presence of 
 and dead, her delicate hands pressing for sup- J the man she seeks. Let the day and the hour 
 port, with horrible disgust and loathing, the $ be responsible for %vhatei(er was hard or cruel 
 reeking, slimy walls; her strength almost gone; s in this man's career. A hard and cruel hour of 
 but upward through paths of vermin-life, by $ anarchy and blood moulding the man into the 
 which swarm noisome, poisonous reptiles, and s shape he was. What freer, fairer, more gener- 
 uncouth shapes unknown to her, she toils on.-; ous youth than he once was in all England? 
 Above her darkly hangs the bell; below, the 5 History sends back the answer — none. In her 
 old verger stands ready to give it speech and s hour of greatest peril, Rome gave up her vested 
 meaning, new and terrible. At last, she stands j! rights and sacred liberties into.tho hands of one 
 on the narrow platform beneath it — can touch | man, and let him act the tyrant as he willec, 
 its sides. It shall not speak those words of? so saved they the republic. It was England's 
 death. Slowly it begins to move, her hands 5 day of sorest need when she recognized this 
 seize, with the grasp of death, its ponderous i Cromwell as her saviour, and gave up to him 
 tongue, and as the rope descends, she is swung i her rights and privileges — a soldier sworn for 
 out into the black sky, hundreds of feet above { God and England. Great, masterful »blows he 
 the undistinguished earth. Again, and again, s struck for them ; great wrongs^iie did in their 
 and yet many times she sways to and fro with J names. But, let us believe- he did the best he 
 the motion of the bell above the earth, and yet 5 knew; as'may others believe it of us, when our 
 her hands are strong as iron, stronger than ? turn comes to be adjudged. Not that we pfi-H 
 mortal hands, unnerved with love, could ever ? stride down the ages with kings and queens for 
 be. To and fro, for the allotted time, the ver- s company, but that the least of us shall have an. 
 ger swung the bell, and yet was the curfew s audience of critics one day coming, 
 silent of its new voice and meaning, for love- $ He did not notice her, nor rise as she ap- 
 nerved bands held fast its tongue, and made it i proached, as any cavalier would have done, 
 dumb. Cromwell would come to-night, and, : ; An orderly stood in waiting, whom Cromwell 
 bless God! the hour of curfew had gone by, and ; thus commanded: "Get you quickly to the cot- 
 Basil lived. "He shall die at the ringing of \ tage of the old verger by the mill; tell him the 
 the curfew, ' said the stern soldier judge; and, 5 hour of curfew is long since gone, and bring me 
 in the solemn meaning of the sentence, till (hen $ answer why he has .not tolled the bell; weighty 
 be cannot die. \ matters depend upon his duty being done" 
 
 To the camp again, and there to wait and 5 She did not longer wait for him to give her 
 wait till Cromwell comes. Dark shapes and j greeting, but said quickly, " You will not send 
 fearful noises fill the air as she descends, but s this soldier on bis errand till I have speech with 
 the lowermost stair is reached, the wide door J you? To me more weighty is the matter that 
 grates again upon its hinges. She looks back $ I bring than can concern the tolling of that bell 
 upon the hamlet and sees lights burning in \ to you. I come for justice, noble Cromwell; 
 every window. There, too, is the prison, and ; yon hold in vile duress a prisoner of war, con- 
 there, also, burn the tapers, though the stars 5 demned to death upon a charge of which be is 
 fill the world with brightness. A dull, numb * not guilty. Hear from me the truth before you 
 pain fills her limbs; her bands are dead; her J let that soldier go upon bis way." 
 feet wander from the path, and her brain whirls i- "I'll hear you, maiden; soldier, wait without." 
 in a dizzy trance. But yonder lies the camp, < The man withdrew; and the story, as she knew 
 
LOVE AND LOYALTY. 193 
 
 it from Basil's defence, and of her own infor- t me, and you will link two hearts to you, by lies 
 mation, she related to ihe chief. With what j of love, stronger than links of steel. Your vic- 
 grace of speech it. sprang from her lips, till it j torious legions count their slain by thousands; 
 seemed alive with heroic truth and beauty, I 1 ask but one poor life, it is dearer than my 
 
 fain would attempt to portray, but dare not. own. You relent! You will pardon for the 
 
 The soldier knew that what she spoke was dead father's sake, you will. You have eaten 
 truth; that the man she loved could not lie. \ of his bread, and you dare not kill his child. 
 Yet this Basil Underwood was one to fear; the { For the sense of justice that is eternal within 
 peasantry around shout out a cause, whose holi- j you, you will give me back the life I crave." 
 ness they could not see, for love of him. It ': Not a stern line of the war-worn face that 
 would be well to have him removed; God accom- \ was not melted away. "If God's work were 
 plished His good purposes by allowing evil to j only done; if it were work less bard and cruel 
 triumph; so might he do this seemingly evil 
 act that good to the cause might come. "He 
 is a Royalist; if he dies not, maiden, (he good 
 cause must suffer; so — he dies." Slowly he said 
 it, like one making up his mind to a deed from 
 which his soul revolted. But a great pity was 
 on his face now. He remembered this girl, and 
 her old father, too. Years and "years ago, be- 
 fore the cause bad wakened him from peaceful 
 ways, he and the girl's father had been friends; 
 and he remembered he had permission given 
 hi.. i, once from the baron, to shoot upon his 
 preserves, and for many days he was the old 
 forester's guest. How generous in their humble 
 hospitality they were to him then! Let him re- 
 member this, for upon him, too, is the shadow 
 
 to do," he thought, as memories of that olden, 
 happier time poured, like an avalanche, through 
 his mind, moved by the force of the girl's words. 
 A sad, old man even; weary of the leathern 
 jerkin and the weighty sword. To redeem old 
 England, yet not to see Ihe day ; He was not to 
 pass over into that promised land. But his 
 people did, and let us trust that from the heaven 
 above us the grim old saint looks down and sees 
 his work completed. 
 
 He raised the girl to lWr feet, and placed his 
 hands upon her head caressingly. In that far- 
 off city of London he had a daughter, too, 
 maybe he thought of her, and fancied he had 
 done his work, and by his own hearth caressed 
 her as "in that earlier day. It was to be. a long 
 of death stealing, and ere long it will help his ; white before he saw her again; and when he 
 soul upward that he forgot not these things. ■ did see her, he was a p/isouer, and in prison 
 The girl came close to him. Either hand she ! she visited and ministered unto him. In these 
 placed upon his wide breast. Low, steady- ; prison hours to come, it will bo good for him to 
 voiced, calm as a star, she stood above him, i remember what he did this night. He sat down, 
 r.;..d said, "You dare not do this thing. The I and on a bit of parchment wrote out a pardon 
 good JTiiAteE whom we both serve, will not let \ for "one Basil Underwood, unrighteously held 
 you do it. This man is innocent; upon my soul, ; under sentence of death as a spy; to be re- 
 he is not guilty! Look through my eyes, down ': leased upon his parole of honor, not to absent 
 into my heart's depths, and tell me if a spy \ himself, without leave of the oommanding gene- 
 could there be throned and crowned. I do love % ral, from beyond the ancient landmarks and 
 him; I love him for his noble soul, which knows : surveys of the hamlet of Underwood." He 
 no taint of sin or shame; I love him for the :| placed it in her hands, only saying, "Take this, 
 pure truth that dwells within his heart; I love ; that justice may be dene. You shall bear it to 
 him that he is loyal to his king — the king that, [ his prison." 
 
 in his mother's arms, he learned to say his ; She thanked him in only such words as full, 
 nightly prayers for. Sec, ferave Cromwell! men > love-burning hearts can utter, and quickly 
 fear but love you not. I'm here at your feet, i turned to the tent-door. He had not moved 
 the whilom child you nursed upon your knee. \ since he gave her the parchment, but stood 
 I kneel to you and ask for simple justice, and': with folded hands wistfully regarding her. He 
 you deny me. I can recall the day and hour i- 6eemed not to hear her grateful words; nor to 
 you held me to your breast, and whilst you; notice that, even as she thanked him, her gaze 
 pressed a kiss upon my cheek, you said, 'God; was fixed upon the pardon, which she clutched 
 be ever with you, little bairn, tenderly keeping \ with a grip of death-like tenacity ; that her eyes 
 you and all your loves.' Oh, Cromwell! they ; seemed to devour it, not to see him at all. If 
 are all dead but this one! Yesternight I saw > in that hour the awful shadow came near him, 
 my father laid in his grave; my mother lay be- j it should have touched him then, for it was his 
 side him there these many years dead. Brother > royal hour of life, the one in which his soul 
 or sister have I none. Give this one back to; stood nearest to its Master. Her hand was 
 
*194 LOVE AND LOYALTY. 
 
 raised to push aside the curtain at the door, : ; again fair as any lily of her native valley ; and 
 when, in a voice, gentle as her own, he caUed ; health and beauty crowned her with their peren- 
 hcr name. She turned toward him, and, as if! nial blossoms, and she grew in grace and come- 
 their souls stood, for the moment, on the same ; liness. 
 
 broad platform of eternal truth and humanity's S The happy, peaceful days had come again to 
 love made perfect, she stretched out, her two : merry England. In the revolving years, the old 
 bands toward him. J baron and his wife passed away to their long 
 
 With painful slowness he spoke, and his man- : heme ; and the new baron, Basil, held, his court 
 ner was that of a man gone blind in all the J in the hall of his ancestors, 
 tenets of his faith, like one lost in a monstrous S Cromwell, too, has passed the day in which 
 sea of doubts. "This is God's jvork?" ques- ; all his deeds were to be accounted for. They 
 tioningly he said this, and then added, "I fear, < have been. His record is open only to his 
 sometimes. Oh, God! if I have erred, show my \ Master, whom, let us believe, he served with 
 feet the right way; I meant to be the servant < all the light there was within him. And let us 
 of Thy will; lead me, thy servant." He bowed ; try to remember him as he stood that day 
 lis head lowly before her, as if he saw in this | within the Parliament-House, his f3oe aglow 
 child one nearer to his Christ than he, and said, i with fiery zeal, his drawn sword reflecting God% 
 "Lay your hands upon me, child, and say, God t red sunshine, as he uttered these memorable 
 save and bless thee, Cromwell." - Withj3tartled ; : words: "I have sought the Lord night and day, 
 thought she looked up into his face, and- what ! that he would.rathcr slay me, than put me upoa 
 .she saw there filled her heart with a great pity ! this work." Solemn words, these. Let us be- 
 and tenderness for this man. She saw a great > Heve that this man felt them down to the depths 
 and. god-like soul tossed and torn in a mael- 5 of his. soul;' that they were tho key-note to all 
 strom , of' doubts and misgivings — a soul sick \ that jangled music, out of tune, that went before 
 unto death, crying out with unutterable pathos j and after in his life. 
 
 and yearning for light — light — light! > As the years went on, tiny feet and childish 
 
 She laid her hands upon the bowed head, and \ voices echoed through the oaken corridors, 
 slowly, reverentially repeated the words; then j These little ones added a new grace and radi- 
 she sped away through the tented streets, and j ance to the' hall; among, them, was a kingly 
 the picketed fields toward the prison, -where, J Charlie, and a Cromwell, too. In the loug 
 beyond the tower and the bell, her lover was j gallery, where hung the family pictures, Basil 
 held. She would be in time; the ground seemed 5 was wont to linger most over the latest portrait 
 to fly beneath her feet; but at last the prison !• there. The little Cromwell of the hall, by 
 was reached. She would not give the pardon J times observing this fancy of his father's, ques- 
 to the old guard; she held it tightly clasped fn % tioned him regarding it. Then Ik.- toljl*iiim the 
 her poor, bruised hands, while with a grim $ story of the picture, and the old bell in the 
 smile he read it. He humored her whim, as 5 tower. For two hundred years, generation have 
 who would not? So fair, and true, and brave » told it to generation, as the picture was handed 
 she "was, the glamour of an heroic deed per- < down from one to the other. I have now told 
 formed shone like a halo about her face. He ■ it to you, thus giving away our family story, 
 led her to the room where, in the morning, Basil ) audit is ours no longer. But the picture is a 
 had been tried, then released his prisoner, and > sweet poem to me forever. Its colors glow with 
 brought him to her. "Now, maiden, you will; autumnal warmth, and have the depth of Faler- 
 yield me up the parchment? The prisoner is * nian wine in antique vase. In the face above 
 free." She placed it in the hands of Basil, J me, framed in its wealth of waving hair, there 
 saying, "Give it you to the soldier. I have ^ are no sweet possibilities of love, of which it 
 snatched it from the skies." J does not give assurance ; there is no home which 
 
 Without understanding, he did as she bade \ it would not bless. Adorn your homes with pic- 
 hiin, and' the soldier was gone. And now Basil i tures — they are civilizers. A picture on your 
 held an unconscious form in his arms. When i walls, commemorating a loving, heroic deed, if 
 its work was done, the tired body gave way; it J it is mellowed into immortal tones and tints of 
 bad been sorely tried. She loved much, and for i beauty, as mine is, will be found an ezhaustless 
 her love had dared 'and done much. To such i store of pleasure. But better than picture, 
 much love is given. It was to her. A free man \ marble, or bronze, or aught else with which 
 now, Basil carried her to an old dame's house, J to make beautiful your, home, is a wife, who, 
 and there watched over her for many days. But j if she has not swung from curfew-tower to save 
 when the weary watch was over, she bloomed J your life, would do it, if occasion required.. 
 
"CURFEW MUST NOT RING 
 TO-NIGHT" 
 
 BY 
 
 ROSE HARTWICK THORPE 
 
 Eras 
 
 
 %*C 
 
Rose Hartvvick Thorpe and the Story of 
 
 "CURFEW MUST NOT RING TO-NIGHT" 
 
 England's sun was slowly setting o'er the hill-tops 
 
 far away, 
 Filling all the land with beauty at the close of one 
 
 sad day; 
 And its last rays kissed the forehead of a man and 
 
 maiden fair, — 
 
 He with steps so slow and weary ; she with sunny, 
 
 floating hair; 
 He with bowed head, sad and thoughtful ; she, with 
 
 lips so cold and white, 
 Struggled to keep back the murmur, "Curfew must not 
 
 ring to-night." 
 
Curfew Must Not Ring To-night 
 
 "'Sexton," Bessie's white lips faltered, pointing to the 
 
 prison old, 
 With its walls so tall and gloomy, moss-grown walls 
 
 dark, damp and cold, — 
 
 45 
 
 "I've a lover in that prison, doomed this very night 
 
 to die 
 At the ringing of the curfew; and no earthly help is 
 
 nigh. 
 Cromwell will not come till sunset ;" and her lips grew 
 
 strangely white. 
 As she spoke in husky whispers, "Curfew must not 
 
 ring to-night." 
 
46 
 
 Rose Hartwick Thorpe and the Story of 
 
 "Bessie." calmly spoke the sexton (every word pierced 
 her young heart 
 
 Like a gleaming death-winged arrow, like a deadly 
 poisoned dart), 
 
 "Long, long years I've rung the curfew from that 
 gloomy, shadowed tower ; 
 
 Every evening, just at sunset, it has tolled the twi- 
 light hour. 
 
 I have done my duty ever, tried to do it just and 
 right : 
 
 Now I'm old, I will not miss it. Curfew bell must 
 rin» to-night !" 
 
Curfew Must Not Rise To-mcht 
 
 47 
 
 Wild her eyes and pale her features, stern and white 
 
 her thoughtful brow ; 
 And within her heart's deep centre Bessie made a 
 
 solemn vow. 
 She had listened while the judges read, without a tear 
 
 or sigh, — 
 "At the ringing of the curfew Basil Underwood must 
 
 die." 
 
48 
 
 Rose Hartwick Thorpe and the Story of 
 
 And her breath came fast and faster, and her eyes grew 
 
 large and bright ; 
 One low murmur, faintly spoken, "Curfew must not 
 
 ring to-night !" 
 She with quick step bounded forward, sprang within 
 
 the old church-door, 
 Left the old man coming slowly, paths he'd trod so 
 
 oft before. 
 
 ' ""tts 
 
 • ■ : / ,, " , :."J 
 
 k ; ' ; W 
 
Curfew Must Not Ring T<>-\u;ht 
 
 49 
 
 Not one moment paused the maiden, 
 
 But, with check and brow aglow, 
 Staggered up the gloomy tower, 
 
 Where the hell swung to and fro; 
 As she climbed the ^.liiny ladder, 
 
 On which fell no ray of light, 
 Upward still, her pale lips saying, 
 
 "Curfew shall not ring to-night 1 " 
 
 She has reached the topmost ladder ; o'er her hangs 
 
 the great, dark bell ; 
 Awful is the gloom beneath her, like the pathway 
 
 down to hell. 
 See! the ponderous tongue is swinging: 'tis the hour 
 
 of curfew now, 
 
50 
 
 Rose Hartwick Thorpe and the Story of 
 
 And the sight has chilled her bosom, stopped her breath, 
 
 and paled her brow. 
 Shall she let it ring? No, never! Her eyes flash with 
 
 sudden light. 
 As she springs, and grasps it firmly: "Curfew shall 
 
 not ring to-night !" 
 
Curfew Must Not Ring To-night 
 
 51 
 
 And the sexton at the bell-rope, old and deaf, heard 
 
 not the bell, 
 Sadly thought that twilight curfew rang young Basil's 
 
 funeral knell. 
 Still the maiden, clinging firmly, quivering lip and fair 
 
 face white, 
 Stilled her frightened heart's wild beating: "Curfeiv 
 
 shall not ring to-night!" 
 
 It was o'er, the bell ceased swaying; and the maiden 
 
 stepped once more 
 Firmly on the damp old ladder, where, for hundred 
 
 years before, 
 Human foot had not been planted. The brave deed that 
 
 she had done 
 Should be told long ages after. 
 
52 
 
 Rose Hartwick Thorpe and the Story of 
 
 As the rays of setting sun 
 Light the sky with golden beauty, aged sires, with 
 
 heads of white, 
 Tell the children why the curfew did not ring that one 
 
 sad night. 
 
Curfew Must Not Ring To-night 
 
 53 
 
 O'er the distant hills comes Cromwell. Bessie sees him; 
 
 and her brow, 
 Lately .white with sickening horror, has no anxious 
 
 traces now. 
 At his feet she tells her story, shows her hands all 
 
 bruised and torn ; 
 
 And her sweet young face, still haggard, with the 
 
 anguish it had worn. 
 Touched his heart with sudden pity, lit his eyes with 
 
 misty light. 
 "Go! vour lover lives," cried Cromwell. "Curfew 
 
 shall not ring to-night !" 
 
54 
 
 Rose Hartwick Thorpe and the Story of 
 
 Wide they flung the massive portals, led the prisoner 
 
 forth to die. 
 All his bright young life before him. 'Neath the 
 
 darkening English sky, 
 
 
Curfew Must Not Ring To-night 
 
 55 
 
 Bessie came, with flying footsteps, eyes aglow with 
 lovelight sweet ; 
 
 Kneeling on the tnrf beside him, laid his pardon at 
 his feet. 
 
 In his brave, strong arms he clasped her, kissed the 
 
 face upturned and white, 
 Whispered, "Darling you have saved me, Curfew will 
 
 not rin? to-night." 
 
M U S IC CO PY I N G. 
 
 NOTICE IS HEREBY GIVEN 7W /;,• i;rt,<r „f the 5 &6 Vic. Cap.46. Sic 3. 
 
 £"»'''"''•! ™l«mrl<lrr/v>,fi„,A/,y,„„,„,.rr,/S 
 1,1 unyot/vrprrm,, ,„„A;,«, ,, r h r„p,n „,H„.„I /!„■,*„„„.„„„ „/>/„. „„;/ mmr *CNK* niHSCLVES UABIE TOHUV, PCHAmtSOIt IUI1MCI 
 
 llie ptau/mafum ol nymijlil smy* intofriurkya uilhmtprrmitnon n ** uhiawm comm. 
 TO MISS OLIVE KENNETT. 
 
 CURFEW MUST NOT R1NC Tn-NIHHT 
 
 Words by 
 
 ROSA HARTWICK THORPE. 
 
 Music by 
 
 STANLEY HAWLEY. 
 
 l liJ SllltltV. I 
 
 last rays kissed the forehead of a 
 
 man and maiden fair,-Hewith steps so slow and weary;she with 
 
 N. B. This poem is publish-! by arrangement with the Authoress. For musical adaptation it has been slightly altered. 
 N°«. Re.itilion-Mnsic Series. 
 
 Copyright MDCCCXCV by Robert Cocks &. C? 
 
 so«ot» 
 
 
bowed head, sad and thoughtful* she with 
 
 canlabile. 
 
 lips so cold and 'white, [Struggled to keep back the murmur, Curfew must not ring to_ 
 
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 liexton,her white lips falteied, pointing to the prison old, With its 
 
 walls so tall and gloomy, mossgrown 
 
 
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 lover in that pri son, doomed this 
 
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 word pierced her young heart Like a 
 
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evening,just at sunset,ithas 
 
 tolled 1 the twilight hour. I have 
 
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 done my duty ever, tried to 
 
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 do it just and right: Now I'm old, I will not miss it. Curfew 
 
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 night. She with 
 
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 quick, steps bounded_forward^prangwith in the old church door, Left the 
 
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 S?e. Recitation -Music Scries. 
 
up the gloomy tower, Where the 
 
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hour of curfew now, And the sighthas chilled her bosorn,stoppcl her breath,and paled her brow-Shall she 
 
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sexton at the b* rope, old and 
 
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 thought that t wilight curfew r ang her 
 
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 N*?6. Recitation -Music Series. 
 
 20,309. 
 
Ji'er the hills came Cromwell, the maiden saw him; and her brow, Lately 
 
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 to _ night! 
 
 N?6. Recitation -Mnsic Series 
 
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LIBRPRY OF CONGRESS 
 
 MHHHM 
 
 015 871 TOsS 1