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■Standard Selections From Best Authors (2),
by Various
The Project Gutenberg EBook of Standard Selections, by Various
Methinks I see it now, that one solitary, adventurous vessel, the Mayflower of a forlorn hope, freighted with the prospects of a future state, and bound across the unknown sea. I behold it pursuing, with a thousand misgivings, the uncertain, the tedious voyage. Suns rise and set, and weeks and months pass, and winter surprises them on the deep, but brings them not the sight of the wished-for shore. I see them now, scantily supplied with provisions, crowded almost to suffocation in their ill-stored prison, delayed by calms, pursuing a circuitous route; and now driven in fury before the raging tempest, on the high and giddy wave. The awful voice of the storm howls through the rigging; the laboring masts seem straining from their base; the dismal sound of the pumps is heard; the ship leaps, as it were, madly, from billow to billow; the ocean breaks and settles with ingulfing floods over the floating deck, and beats with deadening, shivering weight against the staggered vessel. I[Pg 313] see them, escaped from these perils, pursuing their all but desperate undertaking, and landed, at last, after a few months' passage, on the ice-clad rocks of Plymouth,—weak and weary from the voyage, poorly armed, scantily provisioned, without shelter, without means, surrounded by hostile tribes.
Shut now the volume of history and tell me, on any principle of human probability, what shall be the fate of this handful of adventurers? Tell me, man of military science, in how many months were they all swept off by the thirty savage tribes enumerated within the early limits of New England? Tell me, politician, how long did this shadow of a colony, on which your conventions and treaties had not smiled, languish on the distant coast? Student of history, compare for me the baffled projects, the deserted settlements, the abandoned adventures, of other times, and find the parallel of this! Was it the winter's storm, beating upon the houseless heads of women and children? was it hard labor and spare meals? was it disease? was it the tomahawk? was it the deep malady of a blighted hope, a ruined enterprise, and a broken heart, aching, in its last moments, at the recollection of the loved and left, beyond the sea?—was it some or all of these united, that hurried this forsaken company to their melancholy fate? And is it possible that neither of these causes, that not all combined, were able to blast this bud of hope? Is it possible that from a beginning so feeble, so frail, so worthy, not so much of admiration as of pity, there has gone forth a progress so steady, a growth so wonderful, an expansion so ample, a reality so important, a promise, yet to be fulfilled, so glorious?
Our fatherland is in danger. Citizens, to arms! to arms! Unless the whole nation rise up as one man to defend itself all[Pg 314] the noble blood already shed is in vain. People of Hungary, will you die under the exterminating sword of the Russians? If not, defend yourselves. Will you look on while the Kossacks of the far north tread under foot the bodies of your fathers, mothers, wives and children? If not, defend yourselves. Will you see a part of your fellow-citizens sent to the wilds of Siberia, made to serve in the wars of tyrants, or bleed under the murderous knout? If not, defend yourselves. Will you behold your villages in flames, and your harvests destroyed? Will you die of hunger on the land which your sweat has made fertile? If not, defend yourselves.
The American patriot is the soldier of civilization. One hundred years ago the republic was first born, but the roots from which it sprung grew and flourished for centuries. The beginning of republicanism is not of American origin nor of any one country or nation of the world. The beginning of republicanism was not upon this soil but upon the soil trodden by the Lord. It was not first announced by the booming of the cannon and the pealing of the liberty bell, but when the star of Bethlehem shone over the place where the new-born babe was in the manger and the songs of the angels told of "Peace on earth, good will toward men."
This right is the crowning glory of man's progress. It is the natural attitude of Christian civilization. A government based upon the equality of all men before the law is based upon the principle of equality of all men in the sight of God. Democracy is Christianity applied to civilization. From the very moment the Savior of mankind told his disciples to go forth and preach his word it became unavoidable that the triumphs of[Pg 315] Christianity would mean the destruction of every form of government based upon inequality of man. The first champions of freedom were the apostles who preached the word of Christ. The advent of feudalism in Europe seemed as if a dark night had set over the face of the world. Man had conquered territory by the sword and was forced to defend it by the torch. In the face of that condition of civilization Christianity proceeded to teach the doctrine that the weak and strong were equal in the sight of heaven.
Columbus was the natural outcome of conditions which had been in course of preparation for years. The Old World, with its prejudices and barbarism, was unfit for the planting of the germ of freedom, and so Providence guided the bark of Columbus to the shores of America. Here the tree of liberty was planted under circumstances which encouraged its growth and insured its life. Nowhere is the providence of God more visible. Here was the virgin soil to be conquered. Here were forests to be felled; a strong arm was of more use in cutting down a tree than the lineage of a thousand years. The value of the settler was not the blood which flowed in his veins, but the power of his muscles and the strength of his will. Then the dignity of labor was raised to a pitch unknown to this world. They did not come here to enrich themselves with gold. They did not come here to plunder the soil and return to Spain to spend the proceeds in riot. They were men in whose hearts liberty never died. They sought this continent that they might create liberty, and they did it. Their labor was fruitful.
[58] Auditorium, Chicago, April 30, 1894. By permission of the author.
The past rises before me like a dream. Again we are in the great struggle for national life. We hear the sounds of[Pg 316] preparation, the music of boisterous drums, the silver voices of heroic bugles. We see thousands of assemblages, and hear the appeals of orators. We see the pale cheeks of women, and the flushed faces of men; and in those assemblages we see all the dead whose dust we have covered with flowers. We lose sight of them no more. We are with them when they enlist in the great army of freedom. We see them part with those they love. Some are walking for the last time in quiet, woody places, with the maidens they adore. We hear the whisperings and the sweet vows of eternal love as they lingeringly part forever. Others are bending over cradles, kissing babes that are asleep. Some are receiving the blessings of old men. Some are parting with mothers who hold them and press them to their hearts again and again, and say nothing. Kisses and tears, tears and kisses—divine mingling of agony and love! And some are talking with wives, and endeavoring with brave words, spoken in the old tones, to drive from their hearts the awful fear. We see them part. We see the wife standing in the door with the babe in her arms—standing in the sunlight sobbing. At the turn of the road a hand waves; she answers by holding high in her loving arms the child. He is gone, and forever.
We see them all as they march proudly away under the flaunting flags, keeping time to the grand, wild music of war; marching down the streets of the great cities, through the towns and across the prairies, down to the fields of glory, to do and to die for the eternal right. We go with them, one and all. We are by their side on all the gory fields, in all the hospitals of pain, on all the weary marches. We stand guard with them in the wild storm and under the quiet stars. We are with them in ravines running with blood, in the furrows of old fields. We are with them between contending hosts, unable to move, wild with thirst, the life ebbing slowly away among the withered leaves. We see them pierced by balls and torn[Pg 317] with shells, in the trenches, by forts, and in the whirlwind of the charge, where men become iron, with nerves of steel. We are with them in the prisons of hatred and famine; but human speech can never tell what they endured. We are at home when the news comes that they are dead. We see the maiden in the shadow of her first sorrow. We see the silvered head of the old man bowed with the last grief.
The past rises before us, and we see four millions of human beings governed by the lash; we see them bound hand and foot; we hear the strokes of cruel whips; we see the hounds tracking women through tangled swamps. We see babes sold from the breasts of mothers. Cruelty unspeakable! Outrage infinite! Four million bodies in chains—four million souls in fetters. All the sacred relations of wife, mother, father and child trampled beneath the brutal feet of might. And all this was done under our own beautiful banner of the free. The past rises before us. We hear the roar and shriek of the bursting shell. The broken fetters fall. These heroes die. We look. Instead of slaves we see men and women and children. The wand of progress touches the auction-block, the slave-pen, the whipping-post, and we see homes and firesides and schoolhouses and books, and where all was want and crime and cruelty and fear, we see the faces of the free.
These heroes are dead. They died for liberty; they died for us. They are at rest. They sleep in the land they made free, under the flag they rendered stainless, under the solemn pines, the sad hemlocks, the tearful willows, and the embracing vines. They sleep beneath the shadows of the clouds, careless alike of sunshine or of storm, each in the windowless palace of rest. Earth may run red with other wars; they are at peace. In the midst of battle, in the roar of conflict, they found the serenity of death. I have one sentiment for the soldiers living and dead: Cheers for the living and tears for the dead.
[59] By permission of the publisher, C. P. Farrell.
It is a great mistake to think, as many are apt to do when some terrible war overwhelms some part of the world, that war is on the increase among men and that we are probably on the eve of a portentous new era of it. The temptation to think so is strong when two or three such wars come at the same time, waged by enlightened nations which we had fondly trusted had got beyond such wickedness and folly. But there is no warrant for the belief. There is seldom real warrant for any fear that the world generally is going backward, although it would be stupid not to see that there come many days which are far behind many yesterdays in insight, in ideals, and in conduct. The long view is the encouraging view, the view of progress.
We have entered a new century. As one looks back over the nineteenth century, which has closed, as one reads perhaps some brief historical survey of the century, it is worth while to ask oneself whether one would rather live in 1800 or in 1900, in the world pictured in the first pages of the book or that pictured in the last pages. The serious man can give but one answer. The England and France and Germany and Italy and Spain of the end of the century were, when every deduction has been made on particular points, vastly more habitable, better places to live in, than the same countries at the beginning of the century. The brilliant historian of the administration of Jefferson paints a masterly picture of the life of our own people in 1800. Every aspect of the social and intellectual life of the time is treated with marvelous fullness of detail and in the most graphic and impressive way; and there is an element of hope and buoyancy, of prophecy and promise, pervading the pages, which is at once inspiring and sobering.[Pg 319] Yes, surely one would rather live in the United States at the beginning of the twentieth century than at the beginning of the nineteenth. The century has been on the whole emphatically a period of progress. The same was true of the century before, and of the century before that.
What has been true concerning progress in general during the last few centuries has been especially true of progress out of the habit of war toward the habit of peace. Events at the close of the nineteenth century have been indeed deplorable; they were also deplored—and this is the significant thing—more than such events were ever deplored before. The body of protest against unnecessary and unrighteous wars becomes steadily larger, bolder, and more outspoken; the public conscience is more troubled by them; more and more men perceive their wastefulness and wrong, and discern the more excellent way; and to-morrow the total of protesting insight and morality shall be great enough to tip the balance and hold the tempted, ruffling nation to self-restraint, respect for others, and respect for civilization. There was much less war in Christendom during the nineteenth century than during the eighteenth, and there will be less during the twentieth century than during the nineteenth. The steady and sure progress of the world is toward the supplanting of the ways of greed and violence among nations by the methods of reason, legality, and mutual regard. As one travels over Europe, one is never far from some great battle-field. In Scotland one remembers how half a dozen centuries ago one clan was continually fighting with another, this group of clans warring with that, or all were leagued together against one Edward or another advancing with his archers from beyond the Tweed. The English armies fighting at Falkirk and Bannockburn and Halidon were straightway—they or their successors—in France fighting at Crécy and Poitiers and Agincourt. The wars between England and France were interminable; and so were the wars between France and[Pg 320] other nations. There were civil wars and religious wars and wars of succession; seven-years wars and thirty-years wars and hundred-years wars. War was the regular vocation of nations, the profession of arms the chief profession, peace merely an occasional respite, in no sense to be reckoned on or presumed to endure as the natural condition of things.
All this has been fundamentally changed. Europe bends under the burden of her great armies and multiplies her costly battleships, and we say that it is wasteful and barbarous; but the soldiers and ships are almost never used. We grieve and blush at the shameful wars of subjugation in our own time; but these wars were anachronisms, sporadic survivals of courses common and universally approved three hundred years ago, when men did not blush for them, but not typical of the tendencies and civilization of the present age. The true exponent of the world's best judgment and increasing purpose and policy, as the twentieth century begins, is not the warring in Luzon and the Transvaal, but the Hague Tribunal. For a century the states in the United States, because we have had a Supreme Court, have settled there, and not by combat, their boundary disputes and other quarrels, graver often than many which have plunged European nations into war, while most of us have not known even of the fact of litigation. To-day, because an International Tribunal exists, the Venezuelan imbroglio is referred to it, which else might have gone on to the dread arbitrament of arms. Such references will multiply; the legal way instead of the fighting way will become easy, will become common, will become instinctive, will become universal; war will hasten after the duel, to be loathed and to be laughed at, and to cease to be at all; the cannon will follow the rack to the chamber of horrors; and nations when they disagree will not go into battle, but into court. This is the sure end of the process which the broad survey of history reveals. The critical student of war becomes the sure prophet of peace.
[60] By permission of the author.
It matters very little what immediate spot may be the birth-place of such a man as Washington. No people can claim, no country can appropriate him; the boon of providence to the human race, his fame is eternity and his residence creation. Though it was the defeat of our arms and the disgrace of our policy, I almost bless the convulsion in which he had his origin. If the heavens thundered and the earth rocked, yet when the storm passed how pure was the climate that it cleared; how bright in the brow of the firmament was the planet which it revealed to us!
In the production of Washington, it does really appear as if nature were endeavoring to improve upon herself, and that all the virtues of the ancient world were but so many studies preparatory to the patriot of the new. Individual instances no doubt there were; splendid exemplifications of some single qualification. Cæsar was merciful, Scipio was continent, Hannibal was patient; but it was reserved for Washington to blend them all in one, and like the lovely chef d'œuvre of the Grecian artist, to exhibit in one glow of associated beauty the pride of every model and the perfection of every master. As a general he marshaled the peasant into a veteran, and supplied by discipline the absence of experience; as a statesman he enlarged the policy of the cabinet into the most comprehensive system of general advantage; and such was the wisdom of his views and the philosophy of his counsels that to the soldier and the statesman he almost added the character of the sage. A conqueror, he was untainted with the crime of blood; a revolutionist, he was free from any stain of treason; for aggression commenced the contest, and his country called him to the[Pg 322] command. Liberty unsheathed his sword, necessity stained it, victory returned it.
If he had paused here, history might have doubted what station to assign him, whether at the head of her citizens or her soldiers, her heroes or her patriots. But the last glorious act crowns his career and banishes all hesitation. Who, like Washington, after having emancipated a hemisphere, resigned his crown and preferred the retirement of domestic life to the adoration of a land he might be almost said to have created?
Such, sir, is the testimony of one not to be accused of partiality in his estimate of America. Happy, proud America! the lightnings of heaven yielded to your philosophy! The temptations of earth could not seduce your patriotism!
I have the honor, sir, of proposing to you as a toast,
[61] Delivered at a dinner on Dinas Island, Lake Killarney, Ireland, given in honor of Mr. O. H. Payne (afterward Senator Payne) of Ohio.
[62] Used by special permission of the publishers, The Bobbs-Merrill Company. From "Rhymes of Childhood," copyright, 1900.
[63] Used by special permission of the publishers, the Bobbs-Merrill Company. From "His Pa's Romance," copyright, 1903.
[64] By permission of Dodd, Mead & Co.
[65] By permission of Dodd, Mead & Co., publishers. From "Lyrics of Lowly Life," 1896.
I am thirteen years old and Jill is eleven and a quarter. Jill is my brother. That isn't his name, you know; his name is Timothy and mine is George Zacharias; but they call us Jack and Jill.
Well, Jill and I had an invitation to Aunt John's this summer, and that was how we happened to be there.
I'd rather go to Aunt John's than any place in the world. When I was a little fellow I used to think I'd rather go to Aunt John's than to Heaven. But I never dared to tell.
She invited us to come on the twelfth of August. It takes all day to get there. She lives at Little River in New Hampshire, way up. You have to wait at South Lawrence in a poky little depot, and you get some played out—at least I don't, but Jill does. So we bought a paper and Jill sat up and read it. When he'd sat a minute and read along—
"Look here!" said he.
"Look where?" said I.
"Why, there's going to be a comet," said Jill.
"Who cares?" said I.
Jill laid down the paper, and crunched a pop-corn all up before he answered that, then said he, "I don't see why father didn't tell us. I suppose he thought we'd be frightened, or something. Why, s'posing the world did come to an end? That's what this paper says. 'It is pre—' where is my place? Oh! I see—'predicted by learned men that a comet will come into con-conjunction with our plant'—no—'our planet this night. Whether we shall be plunged into a wild vortex of angry space, or suffocated with n-o-x—noxious gases, or scorched to a helpless crisp, or blasted at once, eternal an-ni-hi—'" A[Pg 331] gust of wind grabbed the paper out of Jill's hand just then, and took it out of the window; so I never heard the rest.
"Father isn't a goose," said I. "He didn't think it worth while mentioning. He isn't going to be afraid of a comet at his time of life." So we didn't think any more about the comet till we got to Aunt John's, where we found company. It wasn't a relation, only an old school friend, and her name was Miss Togy; she had come without an invitation, but had to have the spare room because she was a lady. That was how Jill and I came to be put in the little chimney bedroom.
That little chimney bedroom is the funniest place you ever slept in. There had been a chimney once, and it ran up by the window, and grandfather had it taken away. It was a big, old-fashioned chimney, and it left the funniest little gouge in the room, so the bed went in as nice as could be. We couldn't see much but the ceiling when we got to bed.
"It's pretty dark," said Jill; "I shouldn't wonder if it did blow up a storm a little—wouldn't it scare—Miss—Bogy!"
"Togy," said I.
"Well, T-o—" said Jill; and right in the middle of it he went off as sound as a weasel.
The next thing I can remember is a horrible noise. I can't think of but one thing in this world it was like, and that isn't in this world so much. I mean the last trumpet, with the angel blowing as he blows in my old primer. The next thing I remember is hearing Jill sit up in bed—for I couldn't see him, it was so dark—and his piping out the other half of Miss Togy's name just as he had left it when he went to sleep.
"Gy—Bogy!—Fogy!—Soaky!—Oh," said Jill, coming to at last, "I thought—why, what's up?"
I was up, but I couldn't tell what else was for a little while. I went to the window. It was as dark as a great rat-hole out-of-doors, all but a streak of lightning and an awful thunder, as if the world was cracking all to pieces.
[Pg 332]"Come to bed!" shouted Jill, "you'll get struck, and then that will kill me."
I went back to bed, for I didn't know what else to do, and we crawled down under the clothes and covered ourselves all up.
"W-would—you—call—Aunt—John?" asked Jill. He was most choked. I came up for air.
"No," said I, "I don't think I'd call Aunt John." I should have liked to call her by that time, but then I should have felt ashamed.
"I s'pose she has got her hands full with Miss Croaky, anyway," chattered Jill, bobbing up and under again. By that time the storm was the worst storm I had ever seen in my life. It grew worse and worse—thunder, lightning, and wind—wind, lightning, and thunder; rain and roar and awfulness. I don't know how to tell how awful it was.
In the middle of the biggest peal we'd had yet, up jumped Jill. "Jack!" said he, "that comet!" I'd never thought of the comet till that minute; I felt an ugly feeling and cold all over. "It is the comet!" said Jill. "It is the day of judgment, Jack."
Then it happened. It happened so fast I didn't even have time to get my head under the clothes. First there was a creak, then a crash, then we felt a shake as if a giant pushed his shoulder up through the floor and shoved us. Then we doubled up. And then we began to fall. The floor opened, and we went through. I heard the bed-post hit as we went by. Then I felt another crash; then we began to fall again; then we bumped down hard. After that we stopped falling. I lay still. My heels were doubled up over my head. I thought my neck would break. But I never dared to stir, for I thought I was dead. By and by I wondered if Jill were dead too, so I undoubled my neck a little and found some air. It seemed just as uncomfortable to breathe without air when you were dead as when you weren't.
[Pg 333]I called out softly, "Jill!" no answer. "Jill!" not a sound. "O—Jill!" But he did not speak, so then I knew Jill must be dead, at any rate. I couldn't help wondering why he was so much deader than I that he couldn't answer a fellow. Pretty soon I heard a rustling noise under my feet, then a weak, sick kind of a voice, just the kind of a noise I always supposed ghosts would make if they could talk.
"Jack?"
"Is that you, Jill?"
"I—suppose—so. Is it you, Jack?"
"Yes. Are you dead?"
"I don't know. Are you?"
"I guess I must be if you are. How awfully dark it is."
"Awfully dark! It must have been the comet."
"Yes; did you get much hurt?"
"Not much—I say, Jack?"
"What?"
"It is the judgment day."
Jill broke up, so did I; we lay as still as we could. If it were the judgment day—"Jill!" said I.
"Oh, dear me!" sobbed Jill.
We were both crying by that time, and I don't feel ashamed to own up, either.
"If I'd known," said I, "that the day of judgment was coming on the twelfth of August, I wouldn't have been so mean about that jack-knife of yours with the notch in it."
"And I wouldn't have eaten your luncheon that day last winter when I got mad at you," said Jill.
"Nor we wouldn't have cheated mother about smoking, vacations," said I.
"I'd never have played with the Bailey boys out behind the barn," said Jill.
"I wonder where the comet went to?" said I.
"'Whether we shall be plunged into,'" quoted Jill, in a[Pg 334] horrible whisper, from that dreadful newspaper, "'shall be plunged into a wild vortex of angry space—or suffocated with noxious gases—or scorched to a helpless crisp—or blasted—'"
"When do you think they will come after us?" I interrupted Jill.
That very minute somebody came. We heard a step and then another, then a heavy bang. Jill howled out a little. I didn't, for I was thinking how the cellar door banged like that. Then came a voice, an awful hoarse and trembling voice as ever you heard.
"George Zacharias!"
Then I knew it must be the judgment day and that the angel had me in court to answer him, for you couldn't expect an angel to call you Jack after you was dead.
"George Zacharias!" said the awful voice again. I didn't know what else to do, I was so frightened, so I just hollered out "Here!" as I do at school.
"Timothy!" came the voice once more.
Now Jill had a bright idea. Up he shouted, "Absent!" at the top of his lungs.
"George! Jack! Jill! where are you? Are you killed? Oh, wait a minute and I'll bring a light."
This did not sound so much like judgment day as it did like Aunt John. I began to feel better. So did Jill. I sat up. So did he. It wasn't a minute till the light came into sight, and something that looked like a cellar door, the cellar steps, and Aunt John's spotted wrapper, and Miss Togy in a night-gown, away behind as white as a ghost. Aunt John held the light above her head and looked down. I don't believe I shall ever see an angel that will make me feel any better to look at than Aunt John did that night.
"O you blessed boys!" said Aunt John—she was laughing and crying together. "To think that you should have fallen[Pg 335] through the old chimney to the cellar floor and be sitting there alive in such a funny heap as that!"
And that was just what we had done. The old flooring (not very secure) had given away in the storm; and we'd gone down through two stories, where the chimney ought to have been, jam! into the cellar on the coal heap, and all as good as ever excepting the bedstead.
[66] From "Trot's Wedding Journey."
[67] By permission of D. Appleton & Co.
Mr. Dooley was discovered making a seasonable beverage consisting of one part syrup, two parts quinine and fifteen parts strong waters.
"What's the matter?" asked Mr. McKenna.
"I have th' lah gr-rip," said Mr. Dooley, blowing his nose and wiping his eyes. "Bad cess to it! Oh, me poor back! It feels as if a dhray had r-run over it. Did ye iver have it? Ye did not. Well, ye'er lucky. Ye'er a lucky man.
"I wint to McGuire's wake las' week. They give him a dacent sind-off. No porther. An' himsilf looked natural—as fine a corpse as iver Gavin laid out. Gavin tould me so himsilf. He was as pr-roud iv McGuire as if he ownded him;[Pg 338] fetched half th' town in to look at him an' give ivery wan iv thim his ca-ards. He near frightened ol' man Dugan into a faint. 'Misther Dugan, how old a-are ye?' 'Sivinty-five, thanks be,' says Dugan. 'Thin,' says Gavin, 'take wan iv me ca-ards,' he says. 'I hope ye'll not forget me,' he says.
"'Twas there I got th' lah grip. Lasteways 'tis me opinion iv it, though th' docther says I swallowed a bug. It don't seem right, Jawn, f'r th' McGuires is a clane fam'ly, but th' docther says a bug got into me system. 'What sort iv bug?' says I. 'A lah grip bug,' he says. 'Yez have Mickrobes in ye'er lung,'he says. 'What's thim?' says I. 'Thims th' lah grip bugs,' says he. 'Ye took wan in an' warmed it,' he says, 'an' it has growed an' multiplied till ye'er system does be full iv thim,' he says, 'millions iv thim,' he says, 'ma-archin' an' counthermarchin' through ye.' 'Glory be to th' saints,' says I. 'Had I betther swallow some insect powdher?' I says. 'Some iv thim in me head has had a fallin' out an' is throwin' bricks.' 'Foolish man,' says he. 'Go to bed,' he says, 'an lave thim alone,' he says. 'Whin they find who they're in,' he says, 'they'll quit ye.'
"So I wint to bed an' waited, while th' Mickrobes had fun with me. Monday all iv thim was quiet but thim in me stummick. They stayed up late dhrinkin' an' carousin' an' dancin' jigs till wur-ruds come up bechune th' Kerry Mickrobes an' thim fr'm Wixford an' th' whole pa-arty wint over to me lift lung, where they could get th' air, an' had it out. Th' nex' day th' little Mickrobes made a toboggan slide iv me spine an' manetime some Mickrobes that was wur-r-kin' f'r th' tiliphone comp'ny got it in their heads that me legs was poles, an' put on their spikes an' climbed all night long.
"They was tired out th' nex' day till about 5 o'clock, whin thim that was in me head begin flushin' out th' rooms an' I knew they're was goin' to be doings in th' top flat. What did thim Mickrobes in me head do but invite all th' other Mick[Pg 339]robes in f'r th' avnin'. They all come. Oh, by gar, they was not wan iv thim stayed away. At 6 o'clock they begun to move fr'm me shins to me thrawt. They come in platoons an' squads an' dhroves. Some iv thim brought along brass bands an' more thin wan hundred thousand iv thim dhruv through me pipes in dhrays. A throlley line was started up me back an ivry car r-run into a wagon load iv scrap iron at th' base iv me skull.
"Th' Mickrobes in me head must've done thimsilves proud. Ivery few minutes some wan iv th' kids 'd be sint out with th' can an' I'd say to mesilf: 'There they go, carryin' th' trade to Schwartzmeister's because I'm sick an' can't wait on thim.' I was daffy, Jawn, d'ye mind? Th' likes iv me fillin' a pitcher f'r a little boy-bug! Ho, ho! Such dhreams. An' they had a game iv forty-fives, an' there was wan Mickrobe there that larned to play th' game in th' County Tipp'rary, where 'tis played on stone, an' iv'ry time he led thrumps he'd like to knock me head off. 'Who's thrick is that?' says th' Tipp'rary Mickrobe. 'Tis mine,' says a little red-headed Mickrobe fr'm th' County Roscommon. They tipped over th' chairs an' tables, an' in less time thin it takes to tell th' whole pa-arty was at it. They'd been a hurlin' game in th' back iv me skull an' th' young folks was dancin' breakdowns an' havin' leppin' matches in me forehead, but they all stopped to mix in. Oh, 'twas a grand shindig—tin millions iv thim min, women an' childher rowlin' on th' flure, hands an' feet goin', icepicks an' hurlin' sticks, clubs, brickbats an' beer kags flyin' in th' air. How manny iv thim was kilt I'll niver know, f'r I wint as daft as a hen an' dhreamt iv organizin' a Mickrobe Campaign club, that'd sweep th' prim'ries an' maybe go acrost an' free Ireland. Whin I woke up me legs was as weak as a day-old babby's an' me poor head impty as a cobbler's purse. I want no more iv thim. Give me anny bug fr'm a cockroach to an aygle save an' excipt thim wist iv Ireland fenians—th' Mickrobes."
Looking wearily over the far-stretching fields of corn, the leaves twisting in the heat, and contemplating the discouraging cotton prospect, old Uncle Henry, the plantation carpenter, said, half jestingly to a negro passing, "Uncle Ben, why don't you pray for rain?"
"Ef I had faith enough, I could fetch er rain, for don't de Book say, ef you have faith as er mustard seed you can move mountains? I say you done parted from de faith, Unc' Henry. Ef you was still en de faith, an' ask anythin', you goin' ter git it."
"Why don't you ask fer er million dollars; what you hoein' out dah en de sun fer, when all you got ter do is ter ask de Lord fer money?"
"Dat ain't de question, dat ain't hit. You dodgin' now!"
"No, I ain't dodgin'—"
"Yes, you is. De Lord don't sen' ter people what dey axes fer deyse'ves. He only sen' blessin's. Ef I ax fer er million er money, hit 'u'd be 'cause I'd natch'ly want ter quit work, an' dat's erg'in' his law. By de sweat er de brow de Book says, dat's how hit's got ter come ef hit come lawful."
"Well, why don't you git rain, then? Hyah's Mr. Ed'ards waitin' an' waitin' fer rain, payin' you ter hoe, an' one good rain 'd do more fer him 'n all the hoein' in the worl'."
"I didn't say I could fetch rain, Unc' Henry, I didn't say hit!"
"What did you say then?"
"I said, ef I had faith."
"You b'lieve ef you had faith you could fetch er rain?"
"Yes, I do!"
"Well, ain't dat faith? Ef you b'lieve hit, hit's faith. Trouble is, you don't b'lieve hit yo'se'f."
[Pg 341]"Yes I do. You done parted from de faith, Unc' Henry, dat's what ails you."
"No, I ain't parted from no faith, but I got too much sense ter b'lieve any man can git rain by asking fer hit."
"Don't de Book say, 'Ask, an' you shall receive'?"
"Not rain. Hit mean grace. When hit comes ter rain, de Lord don't let nobody fool wid him; he look atter de rain, 'specially hisse'f. Why, man, look at hit right! S'pose two men side by side pray diffunt—an' wid faith—what happen? Yonder's Mr. Ed'ards's oats ter be cut nex' week, an' on 'tother side de fence Unc' Jim's gyarden burnin' up. Mr. Ed'ards wants dry weather, an' Jim want rain, an' dey bofe pray deir own way! Bofe got faith, now, bofe got faith, an' one pray fer rain while t'other pray fer dry weather; what de Lord goin' do? Is he goin' ter split er rain on dat fence? Answer me! Don't turn yo' back ter me; answer me, Ben!"
"You want my answer?"
"Yes, I want hit. Don't stan' dah a stammerin'! What de Lord goin' do?"
"You want my answer? Well, hyah 'tis. De Lord 'u'd sen' 'nough rain to help de gyarden, but not 'nough ter hurt de oats. Dat's my answer!"
"You don't know what you all talkin' bout! Send 'nough rain ter help de gyarden, an' not 'nough to hurt de oats! You reckon Mr. Ed'ards let er nigger stay on dis place an' pray fer rain when he cuttin' oats? You reckon er nigger goin' ter come hyah an' run er market-gyarden wid 'im on sheers, an' him er prayin' fer dry wedder when cabbage oughter be headin' up? No, sah! You c'n pray fer grace, an' when you gits grace you're all right, rain er no rain; but you better not resk yo'se'f on rain. Folks got ter have somebody ter settle when hit shall rain, an' when hit sha'n't rain. Faith ain' got nothin' ter do 'ith hit. It takes horse sense. Why, ef de Lord was ter tie er rope to de flood-gates, an' let hit down hyah ter be pulled[Pg 342] when dey need rain, somebody'd git killed ev'y time dey pulled hit. Folks wid oats ter cut 'u'd lie out wid dey guns an' gyard dat rope, an' folks wid cabbages 'd be sneakin' up in de dyark tryin' ter git hold er hit. Fus' thing you know, er cem'tery grow up roun' dyah an' nobody lef' ter pull de rope!"
"Faith 'u'd fetch it. Yes, sah, hit'll fetch hit."
"You got any?"
"Not 'nough ter fetch rain."
"Yo' fam'bly got any?"
"Not 'nough fer rain."
"Well den it look like faith es 'bout as scyarce an' hard ter git as rain. Has Macedony Church got any?"
"Plenty."
"Got 'nough fer rain?"
"Plenty."
"Well den you go down dyah to prayer-meeting ter-night; an' take yo' fambly, an' all de niggers in de settlement what' got faith,—don't get none but faith niggers,—an' see ef you git er rain. You git rain, an' I'll give up. I hyah you all been prayin' fer me ter come in chu'ch—cause de ole roof wants patchin' I reckon. Git de rain an' you gits me too. Go on, an' try hit. I ain't got no time ter waste. Fus' thing you know, rain'll be pourin' down, an' dat dah chu'ch'll be leakin' faster'n a sieve. You goin' ter git rain, Ben?"
"Yes, I'm going' ter try. An' ef we have faith we'll git hit. Hit's a dry moon; ain't narry drop of water dyah, but faith c'n do hit."
The next morning a thin little cloud floated out of the brazen east, a mere ghost of a cloud, and from it was sifted down for about two minutes the poorest apology that nature ever made to injured verdure. Soon it passed into nothingness, and the full sun blazed over the parched land once more. A triumphant laugh was heard out where the hands were hoeing, and Ben's voice was recognized above all the others. They were congratu[Pg 343]lating him upon his success, when up came old Henry, his sack of carpenter's tools on his back. Ben shouted,
"Hello, Unc' Henry. I told you we'd fetch hit."
"Ben, did you say hit only taks faith as er grain er mustard seed ter move er mountain?"
"Yes, sah."
"Well now, hyah's de whole of Macedony Church, full of faith niggers, a prayin' for rain, an' de whole pack o' 'em can't lay de dust!"
[68] By permission of the author.
[A story of how Gavroche, a street gamin of Paris, uses for a home the monument built in the form of a huge elephant, which Napoleon Bonaparte erected in 1823.]
The forest has a bird. Paris a child. The bird is called a sparrow. The child—a gamin. This little being is joyous; he has not food every day; no shoes on his feet; not much clothing on his body. He runs, he swears like a convict, he haunts all the wine shops, knows all the thieves—but he has no evil in his heart. Little Gavroche was one of these. He had been dispatched into life with a kick and had simply taken flight. The pavements were less hard to him than his mother's heart.
One evening, little Gavroche was skipping along an alley, hands in his pockets and singing merrily, when he came upon a young man who had a wild, happy look in his eye, but no hat on his head.
"Whoa there, monsieur, where's your roof? You've got enough light in them blinkers of yours to light up my apartments—say, monsieur, you're either crazy or you've had an awful good time!"
"Be off with you, imp."
"Say, did you know there wus a goin' ter be war in this town in a few days and I'm goin' to enlist as general of the army—Forward—March—Say, monsieur, I believe I know you, yes, sir, I've seen you down in that Napoleon meetin' way down there in that cellar—"
"Oh, be off with you, imp!"
"Yes, sir, I'm goin' now. Sorry I can't walk with you further, but business calls me in the other direction.
"Good evenin', monsieur—Watch out there. Can't ye[Pg 346] see where yer goin'? Little more an' ye'd been eatin' the dandelions! Good evenin', monsieur!"
A little further down the street, Gavroche was standing scrutinizing a shop window, when two little children came up to him crying.
"What's the matter with you, brats?"
"Boo-hoo—we—ain't got no place to sleep."
"The idea a bawlin' about that. Come along with me, I'll give ye a place to sleep. Say, hev ye got any shiners?"
"Boo-hoo—no—sir!"
"Well, come along with me. I'm rich. Ye can't hear 'em rattle, but all is not gold that rattles."
"Monsieur, we—boo-hoo—we asked that barber man over there to let us get warm in his store and—and—he wouldn't do—it—boo-hoo!"
"Well, now, don't bawl about that. He don't know no better. He's an Englishman. But I'll jes' take a note of that insult. [Takes paper from his pocket and writes.]—Get even with Barber at 63 Rue Saint Antoine. Too mean to occupy space here below. There now! that'll fix 'em. Hurry along here now or my hotel will be closed.—Say, brats, you stay here a minute. There is a poor little girl what's cold and she ain't got nothin' around her. You stay here till I gits back.
"There, little girl, take my scarf and put around you. This kind of life is alright fer boys but it's pretty tough on girls. Brr! it's rather chilly. And I'll eat a piece out o' Hades if it ain't re-raining again."
"Monsieur, boo-hoo—we—ain't had nothin' to eat—since—morning."
"Well, now don't bawl about that. Let me see—oh, here's a shop. Shovel in here.
"Boy, give us five centimes worth o' bread."
"For how many?"
"Well, there seem to be two uv 'em.
[Pg 347]"Here—now take that—brat senior, and you take that, brat junior—now grub away. Ram that into your muzzle. Don't you understand? Well, classically speaking—eat. Well, I thought ye knew how to do that. [Whistles Marseillaise until they have finished, then stops suddenly and says to the boy behind the counter.]—Say, ain't them two nice specimens to be bawlin' jes' 'cause they ain't got no home?
"Hey there, are ye through? Well, shovel out, then. We've got to hurry or the elephant will have closed down his ears. Hey there, Montparnasse! See my two kids?"
"Well, where did you get them, Gavroche?"
"Oh, a gentleman made me a present of 'em, down the street—say, they've got hides like linseed plasters, hain't they?"
"Where are you taking them, Gavroche?"
"To my lodging—the Elephant."
"The Elephant!"
"Yes—the El-e-phant. Any complaints?"
"You don't mean Napoleon's monument?"
"I mean Napoleon's monument—You see when Napoleon left for Elba, he put me in charge of the Elephant. Forward, march, there, brats! Good evenin', Montparnasse."
On arriving at the Elephant, Gavroche climbed up and then invited his friends to come up.
"Hey, there, brat senior—see that ladder? Well, put your foot on—Now ye ain't agoin' ter be afraid are ye? Here, give me your hands—Now—up—There, you stand still now, till I git yer little brother up—Here, brat junior. Oh, can't you reach that ladder? Well, step on the Elephant's corn then—That's the way—Now—up—There! Now, gentlemen, you're on the inside of the Elephant. Don't ye feel something like Jonah? But stop yer talkin' now fer we're goin' straight ter bed. This way to yer sleepin' apartments—Here, brat junior, we'll wrap you up in this blanket."
"O, thank you, sir. It's so nice and warm."
[Pg 348]"Well, that's what the monkeys thought. Here, senior, you take this mattress. Ye see, I stole these from the Jardin de Plants. But I told the animals over there that they were fer the Elephant and they said that was all right. Are ye in bed? Now I am goin' ter suppress de candelabra. [Blows out candle.] Whew! listen to it rain. How the rain do be runnin' down the legs of this here house. That's first class thunder too. Whew! that's no slouch uv a streak uv lightnin' nuther. Here, calm down there, gentlemen, or ye'll topple over this edifice. Time ter sleep now, good-night. Shut yer peepers!"
"Oh, sir?"
"Hey?"
"What's that noise?"
"Why—it's—rats."
"Oh, sir."
"Hey?"
"What is rats?"
"Oh—rats—is—mice."
"Sir?"
"Hey?"
"Why don't you get a cat?"
"Oh—I—I did have—a cat and—and the rats eat 'er up."
"Boo-hoo. Will they eat us up too?"
"Ah—no—they won't eat you. You ain't got enough meat on you. Besides I got 'em all screened off with a wire. They can't get at ye. See here—Ef yer goin' ter be afraid, take hold er my hand an' I'll lay down long side o' yer and go ter sleep—Now I fergot ter tell you gentlemen that when ye wake up—I'll be gone, fer business calls me early, but ye're to make this yer home jes' as long as yer wants ter and come here jes' whenever yer wants ter. Now fer the last time—good-night!"
[69] A dramatization from "Les Misérables," by Lucy Dean Jenkins.
She was a small girl, but her sense of the ridiculous was tremendous. All summer long she sat on the sand and was nice to two boys, a sub-freshman and a sophomore. The sub-freshman's name was Valiant; he had a complexion that women envied, he was small and dainty and smelled sweet. The other, whose name was Buckley, was bigger and much more self-assertive.
One day the girl decided it would be fun to make them hate each other, and after that, when they were all three together, the sophomore would tell her how hard his class would haze the freshman in the Fall, while the sub-freshman only gazed out over the water and smiled. But one day the sophomore made a remark about "pretty pink-cheeked boys," which had better been left unsaid. Then arose the younger one and shaking impressively a slender pink-nailed finger he spoke, "You had better not try to haze me, Will Buckley."
In the good old days you had only to casually drop a word to a freshman on the way to recitation to wait for you when evening came, and he would turn up promptly, take his little dose meekly and go back to bed a better boy for it. But all that is changed now.
Twice had Buckley waited near the house where Valiant ate his dinner. He had tried several ways of getting into the house where Valiant lived, but without success; then for three successive nights he waited in an alley near by; on the third night Valiant came, but with him an upper classman friend. Buckley kept in the shadow but Valiant called out, "Oh, is that you, Mr. Buckley? How do you do? Aren't you coming in to see me?" Which was decidedly fresh.
"Not now, I'll drop in later. Which is your room?"
"That room up there, see?"
[Pg 350]The next night Buckley got his gang together. They decided that a dip in the canal would be excellent for Valiant's health; if he felt cold after that he could climb a telephone pole for exercise. It was nearly two o'clock when they carried a ladder into the alley way. This was a particularly nervy go. A young professor and his young wife had a suite of rooms in this house; it was moonlight, and a certain owl-eyed proctor was pretty sure to pass not far away; but if they hurried they thought they could send a man up and get away without being caught.
Buckley was to get in the window, which was open, it being a warm night, the others were to hustle away with the ladder, and wait for him at a street several blocks distant. There was no doubt but that Valiant would have to come with him.
Buckley climbed up, got one foot over the sill, and was in the room. He leaned out and raised his hand. Silently the ladder disappeared. He turned and started across the room; when a soft voice said, "Is that you, dear?"
Then before all the blood in his body had time to freeze, he stepped out of the moonlight into the shadow and whispered, "Shsss!" Instinct made him do this.
Across the silence the soft voice came again, "Oh, I'm not asleep. But why did you stay so long, Guy dear?"
Buckley heard the squeaking of a bed-spring and as his knees stiffened he spied coming toward him something white with two black streaks hanging half way down, which as the thing came into the moonlight, he saw to be long braids of dark hair. It was a tall, slender figure clothed in a white garment. The face was young and beautiful. Buckley closed his eyes. But it came nearer and nearer. He stood up perfectly rigid in the darkness as two soft arms reached up and met about his neck.
Buckley did not budge and the soft voice began, "You have not forgiven me yet." It began to sob. "You know I did not mean it. Won't you forgive me? Tell me you do forgive[Pg 351] me. Say it with your own lips, Guy dear. Speak to me, my husband!" Buckley didn't. A soft, fragrant hand came up along his cheek, which tingled, and over his eyes, which quivered. For fully a half minute he tried to think what to do, then he gritted his teeth and placed one arm about her waist and threw the other around her neck in such a way that he could draw it tight if necessary. Suddenly she raised her head, gave one startled look into his face, and with a shuddering gasp, she recoiled.
"For Heaven's sake, don't scream—I can explain!"
"Ugh, oh, let go! Who—let me go, or I'll screa-ch-ch-ch!"
Buckley pressed on the windpipe, feeling like three or four murderers as he did so. "Oh, please, if you scream it'll only make things awfully awkward. I got in here by mistake. Oh, please keep quiet. Promise me you'll not cry out, and I'll let you go."
"Yes, yes, I promise," said the scared voice. Buckley released his grasp. She fled across the room. He thought she was making for the door and sprang to stop her, but she only snatched up an afghan or something from the sofa, and holding it about her, retreated to the dark part of the room, moaning, "Oh, dear! oh, dear!"
"I don't know who you are, but I wish you wouldn't cry. Please be calm. It's all a big mistake, I thought I was coming to my own room—"
"Your own room!"
"I mean my classmate's room,—I mean I thought a freshman roomed here. You aren't half so sorry as I am—oh, yes, you are—I mean I'm awfully sorry, and wish to apologize. I didn't mean anything."
"Mean anything!"
"Really I didn't. If you'll only let me go down and promise not to wake the house before I get out, why no one will ever know anything about it and I'll promise not to do it again."
[Pg 352]"Just as soon as I get my breath I mean to wake up the whole house, and the whole town if I can." Buckley started across the room.
"Stop!"
"You promised not to scream."
"You forced me to promise. I am going to scream."
The bold, bad sophomore went down on his knees with his hands clasped toward the dark where the voice came from. "Oh, don't, please don't. Have pity on me."
"You stay right there in the moonlight."
"Right here?"
"Right there, and if you dare to move I'll scream with all my might." Buckley shivered and froze stiff.
And then he began to plead. "Please, oh, please, whoever you are, won't you forgive me and let me go? I wouldn't harm a girl for the world. I'll be fired—I mean expelled from college—I'll be disgraced for life. I'll—"
"Stop! While it may be true that you did not break into my room with intent to rob or injure a defenseless woman, yet, by your own confession you came to torment a weaker person. You came to haze a freshman. And when my husband—"
"Have mercy, have mercy. If I'm fired from college I'll be disgraced for life. All my prospects will be blighted; my life will be ruined, and my mother's heart broken."
She gave a little hysterical sob:—
"For your poor mother's sake, go!"
"Oh, thank you with all my heart. My mother would too if she could know. I don't deserve to be treated so well. I shall always think of you as my merciful benefactress. I can never forgive myself for causing you pain. Oh, thank you," and Buckley the proud sophomore groveled out of the room.
Next morning he received a letter, which read as follows:[Pg 353]
"Just as a tall woman looks short in a man's make-up, so does a short man look tall in a woman's make-up, and you should know that blondes are hard to recognize in brunette wigs. You ought to know that a real girl wouldn't have behaved quite that way. You see you still have a number of things to learn, even though you are a soph. Hoping that you will learn to forgive yourself, I am,
"Your merciful benefactress,
"H. G. Valiant."
I remember going to the British Museum one day to read up the treatment for some slight ailment of which I had a touch—hay fever, I fancy it was. I got down the book, and read all I came to read; and then, in an unthinking moment, I[Pg 355] idly turned the leaves, and began to indolently study diseases generally. I forget which was the first distemper I plunged into—some fearful, devastating scourge I know—and, before I had glanced half down the list of "premonitory symptoms," it was borne in upon me that I had fairly got it.
I sat for a while, frozen with horror; and then, in the listlessness of despair, I again turned over the pages. I came to typhoid fever—read the symptoms—discovered that I had typhoid fever, must have had it for months without knowing it—wondered what else I had got; turned up St. Vitus's Dance—found, as I expected, that I had that too,—began to get interested in my case, and determined to sift it to the bottom and so started alphabetically—read up ague, and learned that I was sickening for it, and that the acute stage would commence in about another fortnight. Bright's disease, I was relieved to find, I had only in a modified form, and, so far as that was concerned, I might live for years. Cholera I had, with severe complications; and diphtheria I seemed to have been born with. I plodded conscientiously through the twenty-six letters, and the only malady I could conclude I had not got was housemaid's knee.
I felt rather hurt about this at first; it seemed somehow to be a sort of slight. Why hadn't I got housemaid's knee? Why this invidious reservation? After a while, however, less grasping feelings prevailed. I reflected that I had every other known malady in the pharmacology, and grew less selfish, and determined to do without housemaid's knee. Gout, in its most malignant stage, it would appear, had seized me without my being aware of it; and zymosis I had evidently been suffering with from boyhood. There were no more diseases after zymosis, so I concluded there was nothing else the matter with me.
I sat and pondered. I thought what an interesting case I must be from a medical point of view, what an acquisition I[Pg 356] should be to a class! Students would have no need to "walk the hospitals," if they had me. I was a hospital in myself. All they need do would be to walk around me, and, after that, take their diploma.
Then I wondered how long I had to live. I tried to examine myself. I felt my pulse. I could not at first feel any pulse at all. Then, all of a sudden, it seemed to start off. I pulled out my watch and timed it. I made a hundred and forty-seven to the minute. I tried to feel my heart. I could not feel my heart. It had stopped beating. I have since been induced to come to the opinion that it must have been there all the time, and must have been beating, but I cannot account for it. I patted myself all over my front, from what I call my waist up to my head, and I went a bit round each side, and a little way up the back. But I could not feel or hear anything. I tried to look at my tongue. I stuck it out as far as ever it would go, and I shut one eye, and tried to examine it with the other. I could only see the tip, and the only thing that I could gain from that was to feel more certain than before that I had scarlet fever.
I went to my medical man. He is an old chum of mine, and feels my pulse, and looks at my tongue, and talks about the weather, all for nothing, when I fancy I'm ill; so I thought I would do him a good turn by going to him now. "What a doctor wants," I said, "is practice. He shall have me. He will get more practice out of me than out of seventeen hundred of your ordinary, commonplace patients, with only one or two diseases each." So I went straight up and saw him, and he said:
"Well, what's the matter with you?"
I said:
"I will not take up your time, dear boy, with telling you what is the matter with me. Life is brief, and you might pass away before I had finished. But I will tell you what is not[Pg 357] the matter with me. I have not got housemaid's knee. Why I have not got housemaid's knee, I cannot tell you; but the fact remains that I have not got it. Everything else, however, I have got."
And I told him how I came to discover it all.
Then he opened me and looked down me, and clutched hold of my wrist, and then he hit me over the chest when I wasn't expecting it—a cowardly thing to do, I call it—and immediately afterward butted me with the side of his head. After that, he sat down and wrote out a prescription, and folded it up and gave it me, and I put it in my pocket and went out.
I did not open it. I took it to the nearest chemist's and handed it in. The man read it and then handed it back. He said he didn't keep it.
I said:
"You are a chemist?"
"I am a chemist. If I was a coöperative store and family hotel combined I might be able to oblige you. Being only a chemist hampers me."
I read the prescription. It ran:
[70] From "Three Men in a Boat," published by Henry Holt & Co.
[71] By permission of the author and Forbes & Co., publishers.
[72] From "Afterwhiles," published by the Bobbs-Merrill Co., Indianapolis, Ind.
[73] By permission of Mrs. Hay.
Well one time Mr. Rabbit an' Mr. Coon live close ter one anudder in de same neighborhoods. How dey does now I ain't a-tellin' you, but in dem days dey wa'n't no hard feelin's 'twixt um. Dey jest went along like two ole cronies. Mr. Rabbit he was a fisherman an' Mr. Coon he was a fisherman. But Mr. Rabbit he kotch fish, an' Mr. Coon he fished for frogs. Mr. Rabbit he had mighty good luck, and Mr. Coon he had mighty bad luck. Mr. Rabbit he got fat an' slick an' Mr. Coon he got po' an' sick. Hit went on dis-a-way tell one day Mr. Coon met Mr. Rabbit in de big road. Dey shook han's dey did, an' den Mr. Coon he 'low: "Brer Rabbit, whar you git sech a fine chance er fish?" Mr. Rabbit laugh an' say, "I kotch 'em outen de river, Brer Coon. All I got to do is to bait my hook," sezee.
[Pg 371]Den Mr. Coon he shake his head an' 'low, "Den how come I ain't ketch no frogs?" Mr. Rabbit sat down in de road an' scratched fer fleas an' den he 'low, "It's kaze you done make um all mad, Brer Coon. One time in de dark er de moon, you slipped down ter de branch an' kotch de ole king frog, an' ever sence dat time, w'enever you er passin' by, you kin year um sing out, fus' one an' den anudder, 'Yer he come! Dar he goes! Hit 'im in de eye! Hit 'im in de eye! Mash 'im an' smash 'im! Mash 'im an' smash 'im!' Yasser, dat w'at dey say. I year um constant, Brer Coon, an' dat des w'at dey say."
Den Mr. Coon up an' say, "Ef dat de way dey gwine on, how de name er goodness kin I ketch um, Brer Rabbit. I bleege ter have sumfin ter eat fer me an' my fambly connection."
Mr. Rabbit sorter grin in de corner ob de mouf an' den he say, "Well, Brer Coon, bein' ez you bin so sociable 'long wid me, an' ain't never showed your toofies w'en I pull yo' tail, I'll des whirl in an' hep you out."
Mr. Coon he say, "Thanky, thanky, Brer Rabbit!"
Mr. Rabbit hang his fish on a tree lim an' say, "Now, Brer Coon, you bleege ter do dis lik' I tell you." Mr. Coon 'lowed dat he would ef de good Lawd spared 'im.
Den Mr. Rabbit say, "Now, Brer Coon, you des rack down yonder an' git on de big san-bar 'twix' de river an' de branch. Wen you git dar you mus' stagger like you sick, an' den you mus' whirl roun' an' roun' an' drap down lak you dead. Arter you drap down, you mus' sorter jerk yo' legs once er twice an' den you mus' lay right still. If fly light on yo' nose let 'im stay dar. Don't move; don't wink yo' eye; don't switch yo' tail. Des lay right dar an' 'twont' be long for yo' hear from me. Yit don't yo' move till I give de word."
Mr. Coon he paced off he did, an' done des like Mr. Rabbit told him. He staggered roun' on de san'-bank, an' den he drapped down dead. Atter so long a time, Mr. Rabbit come[Pg 372] lopin' 'long, an' soon's he got dar he squall out, "Coon dead!" Dis rousted de frogs, an' dey stuck dey heads up fer ter see w'at all de rippet was about. One great big green frog up an' holler, "W'at de matter? W'at de matter?" He talk like he got bad cold. Mr. Rabbit he 'low, "Coon dead!" Frog say, "Don't believe it! Don't believe it!" N'er frog say, "Yes, he is! Yes, he is!" Little bit er one say, "No, he ain't! No, he ain't!"
Dey keep on sputin till bimeby hit look like all de frogs in de neighborhood wuz dar. Mr. Rabbit look like he ain't a-kearin' what dey do er say. He sot down dar in de san' like he gwine in moanin' fer Mr. Coon. De frogs kep' gittin' closer and closer. Mr. Coon he ain't move. W'en a fly'd git on 'im, Mr. Rabbit he'd bresh 'im off.
Bimeby he 'low, "Ef you want ter git 'im outin de way, now's you time, cousin frogs. Des whirl in an' bury 'im, deep in de san'."
Big old frog say, "How we gwine ter do it? How we gwine ter do it?"
Mr. Rabbit 'low, "Dig de san' out from under 'im an' let 'im down in de hole." Den de frogs dey went ter work sure enough. Dey mus' 'a' been a hundred un um, an' dey make dat san' fly.
Mr. Coon he ain't move. De frogs dey dig an' scratch in de san' tell atter while dey had a right smaht hole an' Mr. Coon wuz down in dar.
Bimeby Big Frog holler, "Dis deep nuff? Dis deep nuff?"
Mr. Rabbit' low, "Kin you jump out?"
Big Frog say, "Yes, I kin! Yes, I kin!"
Mr. Rabbit say, "Den 'tain't deep nuff."
Den de frogs dey dig an' dey dig tell bimeby Big Frog say, "Dis deep nuff? Dis deep nuff?" Mr. Rabbit 'low, "Kin you jump out?" Big Frog say, "I des kin! I des kin!" Mr. Rabbit say, "Dig it deeper." All de frogs keep on diggin' tell[Pg 373] bimeby Big Frog holler out, "Dis deep nuff? Dis deep nuff?"
Mr. Rabbit 'low, "Kin you jump out?" Big Frog say, "No, I can't! No, I can't! Come he'p me! Come he'p me!"
Den Mr. Rabbit bust out laffin' an' holler out, "Rise up, sandy, an' git yo' meat." An' Mr. Coon riz.
[74] By permission of D. Appleton & Co.
The Colonel had been detained at his office, but had sent word that I was to wait for him. Chad was serving the coffee. "My Marsa John," he remarked, filling the cup with the smok[Pg 376]ing beverage, "never drank nuffin' but tea, eben at de big dinners when all de gemmen had coffee in de little cups—dat's one ob 'em you's drinkin' out ob now; dey ain't mo' 'an fo' on 'em left. Old marsa would have his pot of tea. Henny useter make it for him; makes it now for Miss Nancy.
"Henny was a young gal den, long 'fo' we was married. Henny b'longed to Colonel Lloyd Barbour, on de next plantation to ourn.
"Mo' coffee, Major?" I handed Chad the empty cup. He refilled it, and went straight on without drawing breath.
"Wust scrape I eber got into wid old Marsa John was ober Henny. I tell ye she was a harricane in dem days. She come into de kitchen one time where I was helpin' git de dinner ready an' de cook had gone to de spring-house, an' she says:
"'Chad, what ye cookin' dat smells so nice?'
"'Dat's a goose,' I says, 'cookin' for Marsa John's dinner. We got quality,' says I, pintin' to de dinin'-room do'.
"'Quality!' she says. 'Spec' I know what de quality is. Dat's for you and de cook.'
"Wid dat she grabs a caarvin' knife from de table, opens de do' ob de big oven, cuts off a leg ob de goose, an' dis'pears round de kitchen corner wid de leg in her mouf.
"'Fo' I knowed whar I was Marsa John come to de kitchen do' an' says, 'Gittin' late, Chad; bring in de dinner.' You see, Major, dey ain't no up an' down-stairs in de big house, like it is yer; kitchen an' dinin'-room all on de same flo'.
"Well, sah, I was scared to def, but I tuk dat goose an' laid him wid de cut side down on de bottom of de pan 'fo' de cook got back, put some dressin' an' stuffin' ober him, an' shet de stove do'. Den I tuk de sweet potatoes an' de hominy an' put 'em on de table, an' den I went back in de kitchen to git de baked ham. I put on de ham an' some mo' dishes, an' marsa says, lookin' up:
"'I t'ought dere was a roast goose, Chad?'
[Pg 377]"'I ain't yerd nothin' 'bout no goose,' I says. 'I'll ask de cook.'
"Next minute I hyerd old marsa a-hollerin:
"'Mammy Jane, ain't we got a goose?'
"'Lord-a-massy! yes, marsa. Chad, you wu'thless nigger, ain't you tuk dat goose out yit?'
"'Is we got a goose?' said I.
"'Is we got a goose? Didn't you help pick it?'
"I see whar my hair was short, an' I snatched up a hot dish from de hearth, opened de oven do', an' slide de goose in jes as he was, an' lay him down befo' Marsa John.
"'Now see what de ladies 'll have for dinner,' says ole marsa, pickin' up his carvin' knife.
"'What'll you take for dinner, Miss?' says I. 'Baked ham?'
"'No,' says she, lookin' up to whar Marsa John sat. 'I think I'll take a leg ob dat goose.'
"Well, marsa cut off de leg an' put a little stuffin' an' gravy on wid a spoon, an' says to me, 'Chad, see what dat gemman 'll have.'
"'What'll you take for dinner, sah?' says I. 'Nice breast o' goose, or slice o' ham?'
"'No; I think I'll take a leg ob dat goose.'
"I didn't say nuffin', but I knowed bery well he wa'n't a-gwine to git it. But you oughter seen ole marsa lookin' for de udder leg ob dat goose! He rolled him ober on de dish, dis way an' dat way, an' den he jabbed dat ole bone-handled carvin' fork in him an' hel' him up ober de dish, an' looked under him an' on top ob him, an' den he says, kinder sad like:
"'Chad, whar is de udder leg ob dat goose?'
"'It didn't hab none,' says I.
"'You mean to say dat de gooses on my plantation on'y got one leg?'
"'Some ob 'em has an' some ob 'em ain't. You see, marsa,[Pg 378] we got two kinds in de pond, an' we was a little hurried to-day, so Mammy Jane cooked dis one 'cause I cotched it fust.'
"'Well,' said he, 'I'll settle wid ye after dinner.'
"Well, dar I was shiverin' an' shakin' in my shoes, an' droppin' gravy, an' spillin' de wine on de table-cloth, I was dat shuck up; an' when de dinner was ober he calls all de ladies an' gemmen, an' says, 'Now come down to de duck-pond. I'm gwine ter show dis nigger dat all de gooses on my plantation got mo' den one leg.'
"I followed 'long, trapesin' after de whole kit an' b'ilin', an' when we got to de pond"—here Chad nearly went into a convulsion with suppressed laughter—"dar was de gooses sittin' on a log in de middle of dat ole green goose-pond wid one leg stuck down—so—an' de udder tucked under de wing."
Chad was now on one leg, balancing himself by my chair, the tears running down his cheeks.
"'Dar, marsa,' says I, 'don't ye see? Look at dat ole gray goose! Dat's de berry match ob de one we had to-day.'
"Den de ladies all hollered an' de gemmen laughed so loud dey hyerd 'em at de big house.
"'Stop, you black scoun'rel!' Marsa John says, his face gittin' white an' he a-jerkin' his handkerchief from his pocket. 'Shoo!'
"Major, I hope to have my brains kicked out by a lame grasshopper if ebery one ob dem gooses didn't put down de udder leg!
"'Now, you lyin' nigger,' he says, raisin' his cane ober my head, 'I'll show you.'
"'Stop, Marsa John!' I hollered; ''tain't fair, 'tain't fair.'
"'Why ain't it fair?' says he.
"''Cause,' says I, 'you didn't say "Shoo!" to de goose what was on de table.'"
"And did he thrash you?"
[Pg 379]"Marsa John? No, sah! He laughed loud as anybody; an' den dat night he says to me as I was puttin' some wood on de fire, 'Chad, where did dat leg go?' An' so I ups an' tells him all about Henny, an' how I was 'fraid the gal would git whipped, an' how she was on'y a-foolin', thinkin' it was my goose; an' den old marsa look in de fire a long time, an' den he says: 'Dat's Colonel Barbour's Henny, ain't it, Chad?'
"'Yes, marsa,' says I.
"Well, de nex' mawnin' Marse John had his black hoss saddled, an' I held de stir'up fur him to git on, an' he rode ober to de Barbour plantation an' didn't come back till plumb black night. When he come up I held de lantern so I could see his face, for I wa'n't easy in my mind all day; but it was all bright an' shinin' same as a' angel's.
"'Chad,' he says, handin' me de bridle reins, 'I bought yo' Henny dis evenin' from Colonel Barbour, she's comin' ober to-morrow, an' you can bofe git married next Sunday.'"
[75] Used by permission of and arrangement with Messrs. Houghton, Mifflin & Co., Boston, Mass., publishers of the works of F. Hopkinson Smith.
[76] By permission of the author and Forbes & Co., publishers.
I vant to dold you vat it is, dot's a putty nice play. De first dime dot you see Leah, she runs cross a pridge, mit some fellers chasin' her mit putty big shticks. Dey ketch her right in de middle of der edge, und der leader (dot's de villen), he sez of her, "Dot it's better ven she dies, und dot he coodent allow it dot she can lif." Und de oder fellers hollers out, "So ve vill;" "Gife her some deth;" "Kill her putty quick;" "Shmack her of der jaw," und such dings; und chust as dey vill kill her, de priest says of dem, "Don'd you do dot," und dey shtop dot putty quick. In der nexd seen, dot Leah meets Rudolph (dot's her feller) in de voods. Before dot he comes in, she sits of de bottom of a cross, und she don'd look pooty lifely, und she says, "Rudolph, how is dot, dot you don'd come und see[Pg 381] about me? You didn't shpeak of me for tree days long. I vant to dold you vot it is, dot ain't some luf. I don'd like dot." Vell, Rudolph he don'd was dere, so he coodent sed something. But ven he comes in, she dells of him dot she lufs him orful, und he says dot he guess he lufs her orful too, und vants to know vood she leef dot place, and go oud in some oder country mit him. Und she says, "I told you, I vill;" und he says, "Dot's all right," und he tells her he vill meet her soon, und dey vill go vay dogedder. Den he kisses her und goes oud, und she feels honkey dory bout dot.
Vell, in der nexd seen, Rudolph's old man finds oud all about dot, und he don'd feel putty goot; und he says of Rudolph, "Vood you leef me, und go mit dot gal?" und Rudolph feels putty bad. He don'd know vot he shall do. Und der old man he says, "I dold you vot I'll do. De skoolmaster (dot's de villen) says dot she might dook some money to go vay. Now, Rudolph, my poy, I'll gif de skoolmaster sum money to gif do her, und if she don'd dook dot money, I'll let you marry dot gal." Ven Rudolph hears dis, he chumps mit joyness, und says, "Fader, fader, dot's all righd. Dot's pully. I baed you anydings she voodent dook dot money." Vell, de old man gif de skoolmaster de money, und dells him dot he shall offer dot of her. Vell, dot pluddy skoolmaster comes back und says dot Leah dook dot gold right avay, ven she didn't do dot. Den de old man says, "Didn't I told you so?" und Rudolph gits so vild dot he svears dot she can't haf someding more to do mit him. So ven Leah vill meet him in de voods, he don'd vas dere, und she feels orful, und goes avay. Bime-by she comes up to Rudolph's house. She feels putty bad, und she knocks of de door. De old man comes oud, und says, "Got out of dot, you orful vooman. Don'd you come round after my boy again, else I put you in de dooms." Und she says, "Chust let me see Rudolph vonce, und I vill vander avay." So den Rudolph comes oud, und she vants to rush of his arms, but dot[Pg 382] pluddy fool voodent allow dot. He chucks her avay, und says, "Don'd you touch me, uf you please, you deceitfulness gal." I dold you vot it is, dot looks ruff for dot poor gal. Und she is extonished, und says, "Vot is dis aboud dot?" Und Rudolph, orful mad, says, "Got oudsiedt, you ignomonous vooman." Und she feels so orful she coodent said a vord, und she goes oud.
Afterwards, Rudolph gits married to anoder gal in a shurch. Vell, Leah, who is vandering eferyveres, happens to go in dot shurchyard to cry, chust at de same dime of Rudolph's marriage, vich she don'd know someding aboud. Putty soon she hears de organ, und she says dere is some beeples gitten married, und dot it vill do her unhappiness goot if she sees dot. So she looks in de vinder, und ven she sees who dot is, my graciousness, don'd she holler, und shvears vengeance. Putty soon Rudolph chumps oud indo der shurchyard to got some air. He says he don't feel putty good. Putty soon dey see each oder, und dey had a orful dime. He says of her, "Leah, how is dot you been here?" Und she says mit big scornfulness, "God oud of dot, you beat. How is dot, you got cheek to talk of me afder dot vitch you hafe done?" Den he says, "Vell, vot for you dook dot gold, you false-hearded leetle gal?" und she says, "Vot gold is dot? I didn't dook some gold." Und he says, "Don'd you dold a lie about dot!" She says slowfully, "I told you I didn't dook some gold. Vot gold is dot?" Und den Rudolph tells her all aboud dot, und she says, "Dot is a orful lie. I didn't seen some gold;" und she adds mit much sarkasmness, "Und you beliefed I dook dot gold. Dot's de vorst I efer heered. Now, on accound of dot, I vill gif you a few gurses." Und den she swears mit orful voices dot Mister Kain's gurse should git on him, und dot he coodent never git any happiness eferyvere, no matter vere he is. Den she valks off. Vell, den a long dime passes avay, und den you see Rudolph's farm. He has got a nice vife, und a putiful leetle child. Putty soon Leah[Pg 383] comes in, being shased, as ushual, by fellers mit shticks. She looks like she didn't ead someding for two monds. Rudolph's vife sends off dot mop, und Leah gits avay again. Den dat nice leedle child comes oud, und Leah comes back; und ven she sees dot child, don'd she feel orful aboud dot, und she says mit affectfulness, "Come here, leedle child, I voodn'd harm you;" und dot nice leedle child goes righd up, and Leah chumps on her, und grabs her in her arms, und gries, and kisses her. Oh! my graciousness don'd she gry aboud dot. You got to blow your noses righd avay. I vant to dold you vat it is, dot looks pully.
Und den she says vile she gries, "Leedle childs, don'd you got some names?" Und dot leedle child shpeaks oud so nice, pless her leedle hard, und says, "Oh! yes. My name dot's Leah, und my papa tells me dot I shall pray for you efery nighd." Oh! my goodnessness, don'd Leah gry orful ven she hears dot. I dold you vat it is, dot's a shplaindid ding. Und quick come dem tears in your eyes und you look up ad de vall, so dot nobody can'd see dot, und you make oud you don'd care aboud it. But your eyes gits fulled up so quick dot you couldn'd keep dem in, und de tears comes down of your face like a shnow storm, und den you don'd care a tarn if efery body sees dot. Und Leah kisses her und gries like dot her heart's broke, und she dooks off dot gurse from Rudolph und goes avay. De child den dell her fader and muder aboud dot, und dey pring her back. Den dot mop comes back und vill kill her again, but she exposes dot skoolmaster, dot villen, und dot fixes him. Den she falls down in Rudolph's arms, und your eyes gits fulled up again, und you can'd see someding more. I like to haf as many glasses of beer as dere is gryin' chust now. You couldn't help dot any vay. Und if I see a gal vot don'd gry in dot piece, I voodn't marry dot gal, efen if her fader owned a pig prewery. Und if I see a feller vot don'd gry, I voodn't dook a trink of lager bier mit him. Vell, afder de piece is oud, you[Pg 384] feel so bad, und so goot, dot you must ead a few pieces of hot stuff do drife avay der plues. But I told you vat it is, dot's a pully piece, I baed you, don'd it?
[77] By permission of Dodd, Mead & Co., publishers. From "Lyrics of the Hearthside," 1899.
Early in the month of October, 1815, about an hour before sunset, a man who was traveling on foot, entered the little town of Digne, France.
It would be difficult to encounter a wayfarer of more wretched appearance. He was a man of medium stature, thick-set and robust. He might have been forty-six or forty-eight years old. A cap with a drooping leather visor partly concealed his face,[Pg 401] which, burned and tanned by the sun and wind, was dripping with perspiration. He wore a cravat which was twisted into a long string; trousers of blue drilling worn and threadbare, and an old gray tattered blouse, patched on one of the elbows with a bit of green cotton cloth, sewed on with a twine string. On his back, a soldier's knapsack, well buckled and perfectly new; in his hand, an enormous knotty stick. Iron-shod shoes enveloped his stockingless feet.
No one knew him. He was evidently a chance passer-by, but nevertheless he directed his footsteps toward the village inn (the best in the country-side), and entered the kitchen. The host, on hearing the door open, addressed him without lifting his eyes from the stove.
"What is it this morning?"
"Food and lodging."
"Nothing easier—by paying for it."
"I have money, I can pay."
"In that case we are at your service."
"When will dinner be ready?"
"Immediately."
While the newcomer was depositing his knapsack upon the floor, the host tore off the corner of an old newspaper, wrote a line or two on the margin and handed it to a lad standing near. After whispering a few words in his ear, the lad set off at a run toward the town hall. In a few moments he returned, bringing the paper. The host read it attentively, remained silent a moment and then took a step in the direction of the traveler.
"I cannot receive you, sir!"
"What! Are you afraid I won't pay you? I have money—I can pay."
"You have money, but I have no room."
"Well, put me in the stable."
"The horses occupy all the space there."
"In the loft then—But come, we can settle that after dinner."
[Pg 402]"I cannot give you your dinner."
"Bah! I'm hungry. I have been on foot since sunrise and I wish to eat."
"Well, I have nothing."
"Nothing—and all that?"
"All that is engaged by messieurs and wagoners,—twelve of them."
"There's enough food there for twenty."
"I tell you, it is all engaged and paid for in advance."
"Well, I'm at a public inn and hungry. I shall remain."
"Stop! Do you want me to tell you who you are—you are Jean Valjean—Go!"
The man dropped his head, picked up his knapsack and took his departure.... That evening the Bishop of the little town of Digne was sitting with his sister and housekeeper, talking over his day's work among his parishioners, when there came a violent knock at the door.
"Come in—"
The door opened; a man entered and without waiting for the Bishop to speak, he cried out—"See here—My name is Jean Valjean. I have been nineteen years in the galleys. Four days ago I was released and am now on my way to Pontarlier. This evening when I came into these parts, I went to an inn and they turned me out. I went to another and they said "Be gone." I went to the prison; the jailer would not take me in. I went to a dog's kennel; the dog bit me and drove me off as though he had been a man. I went to the fields to sleep beneath the stars; there were no stars. I returned to the city. Yonder, in the square, a good woman tapped me on the shoulder and told me to knock here, and I have knocked. What is this place? Do you keep an inn? Are you willing that I should remain?"
"Ah, Madam Magloire," said the Bishop, "you will set another place."
[Pg 403]"No, that's not it. I'm a galley-slave—a convict—Here's my yellow passport, read that, but no—I can read, I learned in the galleys. [Reads.] 'Jean Valjean, discharged convict, has been nineteen years in the galleys. Five years for burglary and theft and fourteen years for having attempted to escape on four different occasions. He—is—a very—dangerous—man'—There, that's what bars me out. Will you give me something to eat and a bed? Have you a stable?"
"Madam Magloire, you will put white sheets on the bed in the alcove—Now sit down, sir, and warm yourself. We will sup in a few moments and your bed will be prepared while we are supping."
"What, you call me sir—You do not drive me out? A bed, with sheets, like the rest of the world? It has been nineteen years since I slept in a bed. Pardon me, monsieur inn-keeper,—what is your name?"
"I am only an old priest who lives here."
"Then you will not demand my money of me?"
"No—keep your money. How much have you?"
"One hundred and nine francs and fifteen sous."
"How long did it take you to earn that?"
"Nineteen years."
"Nineteen years! Madam Magloire, you will place the silver fork and spoon as near the fire as possible. The north wind blows harsh on the Alps to-night. You must be cold, sir."
"Ah, Monsieur le Cure, you do not despise me? You receive me into your house? You light your candles for me? Yet I have not concealed from you who I am."
"You need not tell me who you are. This is not my house. This is the house of Jesus Christ. That door does not ask of him who enters, whether he has a name, but whether he has a grief. You suffer, you are hungry, you are welcome. But do not thank me; do not say that I receive you into my house. You are more at home here than I am. Everything in this house[Pg 404] belongs to you. Besides, what need have I to know your name, for I knew that before you told me."
"What! You knew what I was called?"
"Yes, you are called 'my brother.'"
"Oh—stop! I—was very hungry when I came in here, but now—my—my hunger is all gone. Oh—you are—so—good—to me."
"You have suffered much. You have come from a very sad place—but listen! There will be more joy in heaven over the tear-bathed face of one repentant sinner than over the white robes of a hundred just men. If you emerge from that place with thoughts of evil and wrath against mankind, you are to be pitied; but if you emerge with thoughts of peace and good will, you are more deserving than any of us. But now, Monsieur, since you have supped, I will conduct you to your room. This is your room, sir. May you pass a good night, and to-morrow before you leave us you must drink a cup of warm milk."
"Ah, is this true? Do you lodge me close to yourself like this? How do you know that I am not a murderer?"
"That is the concern of the good God. Good night, brother. Good night."
[78] An adaptation from "Les Misérables," by Lucy Dean Jenkins.
Russia was threatened by a Tartar invasion. The commander of the Russian troops was the Czar's brother, the Grand Duke, now stationed at Irkutsk. Suddenly all communication between him and the Czar was cut off by the enemy, under the leadership of Ivan Ogareff, a traitor, who had sworn to betray Russia and to kill the Grand Duke. It became necessary to send a messenger to the Grand Duke to warn him of his danger, and Michael Strogoff was chosen for that purpose. He was brought before the Czar, who looked this magnificent specimen of manhood full in the face. Then: "Thy name?"
"Michael Strogoff, sire."
"Thy rank?"
"Captain in the Corps of Couriers to the Czar."
"Thou dost know Siberia?"
"I am a Siberian."
"A native of—?"
"Omsk, sire."
"Hast thou relations there?"
"Yes, sire, my aged mother."
The Czar suspended his questions for a moment; then pointed to a letter which he held in his hand: "Here is a letter which I charge thee, Michael Strogoff, to deliver into the hands of the Grand Duke, and to no one but him."
"I will deliver it, sire."
"The Grand Duke is at Irkutsk. Thou wilt have to traverse a rebellious country, invaded by Tartars, whose interest it will be to intercept this letter."
"I will traverse it."
"Above all, beware of the traitor, Ivan Ogareff, who will perhaps meet thee on the way."
"I will beware of him."
[Pg 409]"Michael Strogoff, take this letter. On it depends the safety of all Siberia, and perhaps the life of my brother, the Grand Duke." (Hands him letter.)
"This letter shall be delivered to His Highness, the Grand Duke."
"Go, thou, for God, for the Czar, and for your native land."
That very night Michael Strogoff started on his perilous journey. His path was constantly beset with dangers, but not until he reached Omsk did his greatest trial come. He had feared that he might see his mother in passing through the town. They stopped only for dinner and the danger was almost past, when, just as they were leaving the posting-house to renew their journey, suddenly a cry made him tremble—a cry which penetrated to the depths of his soul—and these two words rushed into his ear, "My son!" His mother, the old woman Marfa, was before him! Trembling she smiled upon him and stretched forth her arms to him. Michael Strogoff stepped forward; he was about to throw himself—when the thought of duty, the serious danger to himself and mother, in this unfortunate meeting, stopped him, and so great was his self-command that not a muscle of his face moved. There were twenty people in the public room, and among them were perhaps spies, and was it not known that the son of Marfa Strogoff belonged to the Corps of Couriers to the Czar? Michael Strogoff did not move.
"Michael!" cried his mother.
"Who are you, my good woman?"
"Who am I? Dost thou no longer know thy mother?"
"You are mistaken; a resemblance deceives you."
Marfa went up to him, and looking straight into his eyes, said, "Art thou not the son of Peter and Marfa Strogoff?"
Michael would have given his life to have locked his mother in his arms. But if he yielded now, it was all over with him, with her, with his mission, with his oath! Completely master[Pg 410] of himself, he closed his eyes that he might not see the inexpressible anguish of his mother.
"I do not know, in truth, what it is you say, my good woman."
"Michael!"
"My name is not Michael. I never was your son! I am Nicholas Horparoff, a merchant of Irkutsk," and suddenly he left the room, while for the last time the words echoed in his ears.
"My son! My son!"
Michael Strogoff remembered—"For God, for the Czar, and for my native land," and he had by a desperate effort gone. He did not see his old mother, who had fallen back almost inanimate on a bench. But when the Postmaster hastened to assist her, the aged woman raised herself. Suddenly the thought occurred to her: She denied by her own son! It was impossible! As for being herself deceived, it was equally impossible. It was certainly her son whom she had just seen; and if he had not recognized her, it was because he would not, because he ought not, because he had some strong reason for acting thus. And then, her mother feelings arising within her, she had only one thought: Can I unwittingly have ruined him?
"I am mad," she said to her interrogators. "This young man was not my son; he had not his voice. Let us think no more of it. If we do, I shall end in finding him everywhere."
This occurrence, however, came to the knowledge of Ivan Ogareff, who was stationed in the town. To obtain possession of any official message, which, if delivered, would frustrate his plans, and to detain the courier was his great desire. He succeeded in arresting Michael Strogoff, and then sent for Marfa to appear before him. Marfa, standing before Ivan Ogareff, drew herself up, crossed her arms on her breast, and waited.
"You are Marfa Strogoff?" asked Ogareff.
"Yes."
"Do you retract what you said a few hours ago?"
[Pg 411]"No."
"Then you do not know that your son, Michael Strogoff, Courier to the Czar, has passed through Omsk?"
"I do not know."
"And the man whom you thought you recognized as your son, was not your son?"
"He was not my son."
"And since then, have you seen him among the prisoners?"
"No."
"If he were pointed out to you, would you recognize him?"
"No."
"Listen! Your son is here, and you shall immediately point him out to me."
"No."
"All these men will file before you, and if you do not show me Michael Strogoff, you shall receive as many blows from the knout as men shall have passed before you."
On an order from Ogareff, the prisoners filed one by one past Marfa, who was immovable as a statue, and whose face expressed only perfect indifference. Michael was to all appearances unmoved, but the palms of his hands bled under the nails which were pressed into the flesh.
Marfa, seized by two soldiers, was forced on her knees on the ground. Her dress torn off, left her back bare. A saber was placed before her breast at a few inches' distance. If she bent beneath her sufferings, her breast would be pierced by the sharp steel. The Tartar drew himself up and waited.
"Begin," said Ogareff.
The whip whistled through the air, but, before it fell, a powerful hand stopped the Tartar's arm. Ivan Ogareff had succeeded.
"Michael Strogoff!"
"Ivan Ogareff!" and raising the knout, he struck Ogareff a blow across the face.
[Pg 412]"Blow for blow." Twenty soldiers threw themselves on Michael and in another instant he would have been slain, but Ogareff stopped them.
"This man is reserved for the Emir's judgment. Search him."
The letter bearing the imperial arms was bound in Michael's bosom; he had not had time to destroy it. It was handed to Ogareff.
"Your forehead to the ground!" exclaimed Ogareff.
"No!"
Two soldiers tried to make him bend, but were themselves laid on the ground by a blow from Michael's fist.
"Who is this prisoner?" asked the Emir.
"A Russian spy," answered Ogareff.
In asserting that Michael was a spy, he knew that the sentence would be terrible. The Emir made a sign, at which all bowed low their heads. Then he pointed to the Koran which was brought him. He opened the sacred book, and placing his finger on one of its pages, read in loud voice, a verse ending in these words: "And he shall no more see the things of this earth."
"Russian spy, you have come to see what is going on in the Tartar camp; then look while you may!"
Michael Strogoff's punishment was not death, but blindness. They drew a red-hot saber across his eyes, and the courier was blind! After the Emir's orders were executed, thinking they had robbed Michael Strogoff of all power to do further harm, the Emir retired with his train, and Michael was left alone. But his desire to reach the Grand Duke was not quenched by this terrible calamity. He understood that Ivan Ogareff, having obtained his seal and commission, would try to reach the Grand Duke before he, himself, could possibly get there, carrying a false message, which would betray all Siberia. Michael, after disheartening trials in finding a trusty companion, finally succeeded and pushed on towards Irkutsk, only hoping[Pg 413] he might reach the place before Ogareff should betray the city. At last, after a most painful fourteen days' journey, he is at the very gate of the Governor's palace. Entrance is easy, for confusion reigns everywhere. But Michael is in time. With his trusty companion he goes distractedly through the passages. No one heeds him. Michael opens one of the doors and enters a room flooded with light, and there he stands face to face with the one whose villainous hand would one instant later have betrayed all Siberia! "Ivan Ogareff!" he cries.
On hearing his name pronounced, the wretch starts. His real name known, all his plans will be frustrated. There is but one thing to be done; to kill the one who had just uttered it. Ogareff rises and sees the blind courier! Thinking he has an immense advantage over the blind man, he throws himself upon him. But with one hand Michael grasps the arm of his enemy and hurls him to the ground. Ogareff gathers himself together like a tiger about to spring, and utters not a word. The noise of his footsteps, his very breathing, he tries to conceal from the blind man. At last, with a spring, he drives his sword full blast at Michael's breast. An imperceptible movement of the blind man's knife turns aside the blow. Michael is not touched, and coolly waits a second attack. Cold drops stand on Ogareff's brow; he draws back a step and again leaps forward. But like the first, this attempt fails. Michael's knife has parried the blow from the traitor's useless sword. Mad with rage and terror, he gazes into the wide open eyes of the blind man. Those eyes which seemed to pierce to the bottom of his soul, and which did not, could not, see, exercise a sort of dreadful fascination over him.
Suddenly Ogareff utters a cry: "He sees! He sees!"
"Yes, I see. Thinking of my mother, the tears which sprang to my eyes saved my sight. I see the mark of the knout which I gave you, traitor and coward! I see the place where I am about to strike you! Defend your life! It is a duel I offer[Pg 414] you! My knife against your sword!" The tears, which his pride in vain endeavored to subdue, welling up from his heart, had gathered under his eyelids, and volatilized on the cornea, and the vapor formed by his tears interposing between the glowing saber and his eyeballs had been sufficient to annihilate the action of the heat and save his sight. Ogareff now feels that he is lost, but mustering up all his courage he springs forward. The two blades cross, but at a touch from Michael's knife the sword flies in splinters, and the wretch, stabbed to the heart, falls lifeless to the ground. The crash of the steel attracting the attention of the ducal train, the door is thrown open, and the Grand Duke, accompanied by some of his officers, enters. The Grand Duke advances. In the body lying on the ground he recognizes the man whom he believes to be the Czar's courier. Then in threatening voice, "Who killed this man."
"I," answered Michael.
"Thy name? I know him! He is the Czar's courier."
"That man, your highness, is not a courier of the Czar! He is Ivan Ogareff!"
"Ivan, the traitor?"
"Yes."
"But who are you, then?"
"Michael Strogoff."
"And you come?"
"For God, for the Czar, and for my native land!"
Mrs. Tree was over seventy, but apart from an amazing reticulation of wrinkles netted close and fine like a woven veil, she showed little sign of her great age. As she herself said, she[Pg 415] had her wits and her teeth, and she didn't see what any one wanted with more. In her afternoon gown of plum-colored satin she was a pleasing and picturesque figure. On this particular afternoon it was with very little ceremony that "Direxia Hawkes," her life-long servitor, burst into the room. Direxia had been to market and had brought all the news with her marketing.
"Ithuriel Butters is a singular man, Mis' Tree—he give me a turn just now, he did so. I says, 'How's Miss Butters now, Ithuriel?' I knew she'd been real poorly, but I hadn't heard for a considerable time.
"'I ain't no notion,' says he.
"'What do you mean, Ithuriel Butters?' I says.
"'Just what I say,' says he.
"'Why, where is she?' I says. I thought she might be visitin', you know. She has consid'able kin 'round here.
"'I ain't no idee,' says he. 'I lef her in the burying ground, that's all I know.'
"Mis' Tree, that woman has been dead a month and I never knew a single word about it. They're all singular people, them Butterses."
Just then there was a ring at the door bell and Direxia shuffled away to answer it; then a man's voice was heard asking some questions. Mrs. Tree sat alive and alert and called:
"Direxia!"
"Yes'm. Jest a minit. I'm seein' to something."
"Direxia Hawkes!"
"How you do pester me, Mis' Tree; there's a man at the door and I don't want to let him stay there alone."
"What does he look like?"
"I don't know, he's a tramp, if he's nothing worse. Most likely he's stealing the umbrellas while here I stand!"
"Show him in here!"
"What say?"
[Pg 416]"Show him in here and don't pretend to be deaf when you hear as well as I do."
"You don't want him in here, Mis' Tree—he's a tramp, I tell ye, and the toughest looking"—
"Will you show him in here or shall I come and fetch him?"
"Well! of all the cantankerous,—here! come in, you! She wants to see you," and a man appeared in the doorway—he was shabbily dressed, but it was noticeable that the threadbare clothes were clean. Mrs. Tree looked at him and then looked again.
"What do you want here?"
"I ask for food, I'm hungry."
"Are you a tramp?"
"Yes, Madam!"
"Anything else?"
Just here Direxia burst in with "That'll be enough—you come out in the kitchen and I'll give you something to eat in a paper bag and you can take it away with you."
"I shall be pleased to have you take supper with me, sir! Direxia, set a place for this gentleman."
"I—cannot, Madam!—I thank you, but you must excuse me."
"Why can't you?"
"You must excuse me! If your woman will give me a morsel to eat in the kitchen, or perhaps I had better go at once."
"Stop! Direxia, go and set another place for supper! Shut the door! Come here and sit down! No, not on that cheer. Take the ottoman with the bead puppy on it. There! I get crumpled up, sitting here alone. Some day I shall turn to wood. I like a new face and a new notion. I had a grandson who used to live with me, and I'm lonesome since he died. How do you like tramping, now?"
"Pretty well; it's all right in the summer, or when a man has his health."
[Pg 417]"See things, hey, new folks, new faces, get ideas, is that it?"
"That begins it, but after a while,—I really think I must go. Madam, you are very kind but I prefer to go."
"Cat's foot!"
The shabby man laughed helplessly and just then Direxia stuck her head in at the door and snapped out, "Supper's ready!"
The shabby man seemed in a kind of dream—half unconsciously he put the old lady into her chair—then at a sign from her he took the seat opposite—he laid the damask napkin across his knees and winced at the touch of it as at the touch of a long-forgotten hand. Mrs. Tree talked on easily, asking questions about the roads he traveled and the people he met. He answered briefly. Suddenly close at hand a voice spoke.
"Old friends!"
The man started to his feet, white as the napkin he held.
"It's only a parrot! Sit down again. There he is at your elbow. Jocko is his name. He does my swearing for me. My grandson and a friend of his taught him that, and I have taught him a few other things besides. Good Jocko! Speak up, boy!"
"Old friends to talk; old books to read; old wine to drink! Zooks! Hooray for Arthur and Will! they're the boys!"
"That was my grandson and his friend. What's the matter? Feel faint, hey?"
"Yes, I am—faint. I must get out into the air."
"Nothing of the sort! You'll come upstairs and lie down."
"No! no! not in this house. Never! never!"
"Cat's foot! Don't talk to me! Here! give me your arm! Do as I say! There!"
And as they passed up the stairway the parrot cried, "Old friends!" And Direxia said, "I'm going to loose the bulldog,[Pg 418] Mis' Tree, and Deacon Weight says he'll be over in two minutes."
"There isn't any dog in the house, and Deacon Weight is at Conference, and won't be back till the last of the week. That will do, Direxia; you mean well, but you are a ninny-hammer. This way! This is my grandson's room—he died here—what's the matter—feel faint—hey?"
"Yes!—I do—"
"Come, Willie—come lie down and rest on Arthur's bed—you are tired, boy."
"Mrs. Tree, if you would not be so kind it would not be so hard—I came—to—rob—you."
"Why, so I supposed, or thought it likely. You can have all you want, without that—there's plenty for you and me. Folks call me close, and I like to do what I like with my own money. There's plenty, I tell you, for you and me and the bird. Do you think he knew you, Willie? I believe he did."
"God knows! When—how did you know me, Mrs. Tree?"
"Get up, Willie Jaquith, and I'll tell you. Sit down; there's the chair you made together, when you were fifteen. Remember, hey? I knew your voice at the door, or I thought I did. Then when you wouldn't look at the bead puppy, I hadn't much doubt; and when I said 'Cat's foot!' and you laughed, I knew for sure. You've had a hard time, Willie, but you are the same boy."
"If you would not be kind, I think it would be easier. You ought to give me up, you know, and let me go to jail. I'm a drunkard and a vagrant, and worse—but—you won't—do that—you won't do that."
"No! I won't. Hark, there's some one at the door—it's 'Malviny Weight.' Now you lie down and rest—yes, you will—that press there is full of Arthur's clothes—then you come down and talk to me—You do as I tell you, Willie Jaquith, or I'll set the parrot on you; remember when he bit[Pg 419] you for stealing his apple,—there's the scar still on your cheek. Greatest wonder in the world he didn't put your eye out. Served you right if he had, too—Yes, Malviny, I'm coming!"
And as Mrs. Tree descended the stairs she was met by Mrs. Weight, who broke out saying:
"I've waited most an hour to see that tramp come out. Deacon's away, and I was scairt to death, but I'm a mother and I had to come. How I had the courage I don't know, when I thought you and Mis' Tree might meet my eyes both layin' dead in this entry. Where is he? Don't you help or harbor him now, Direxia Hawkes! I saw his evil eye as he stood on the doorstep, and I knew by the way he peeked and peered that he was after no good. Where is he? I know he didn't go out. Hush! Don't say a word! I'll slip out and round and get Hiram Sawyer. My boys is to singing-school, and it was a special ordering that I happened to look out at the window just that moment of time. Where did you say he—"
"Why, good evening, Malviny, what was it you were saying?"
"I'm sure, Mis' Tree, it's not on my own account I come. I'm the last to intrude, as any one in this village can tell you. But you are an ancient woman, and your neighbors are bound to protect you when need is. I see that tramp come in here with my own eyes, and he's here for no good."
"What tramp?"
"Good land, Mis' Tree, didn't you see him? He slipped right in past Direxia. I see him with these eyes."
"When?"
"'Most an hour ago. I've been watching ever since. Don't tell me you didn't know about him bein' here, Mis' Tree, now don't."
"I won't."
"He's hid away somewheres! Direxia Hawkes has hid him; he is an accomplish of hers. You've always trusted that woman, Mis' Tree, but I tell you I've had my eye on her these[Pg 420] ten years, and now I have found her out. She's hid him away somewheres, I tell you. There's cupboards and closets enough in this house to hide a whole gang of cutthroats in—and when you're abed and asleep they'll have your life, them two, and run off with your worldly goods that you thought so much of. Would have, that is, if I hadn't have had a special ordering to look out of the winder. Oh, how thankful should I be that I kept the use of my limbs, though I was scairt 'most to death, and am now."
"Yes, they might be useful to you, to get home with, for instance. There, that will do, Malvina Weight. There is no tramp here. Your eyesight is failing; there were always weak eyes in your family. There's no tramp here, and there has been none."
"Mis' Tree! I tell you I see him with these—"
"Bah! don't talk to me! There is no tramp here and there has been none—what you took for a tramp is a gentleman that's come to stay over night with me—he's upstairs now—did you lock your door, Malvina—There are tramps about and if Ephraim's away—well, good-night, Malvina, if you must go. [She goes out.] Now, Direxia, you shut that door and if that woman calls again to-night you set the parrot on her."
The next morning found Mrs. Tree an early riser and it was with eagerness she greeted her visitor.
"You are better this morning, Willie, yes, you are—now go on and tell me—after all your bad luck you took to drink. That wasn't very sensible, was it?"
"I didn't care," said William Jaquith. "It helped me to forget a bit at a time. I thought I could give it up any day, but I didn't. Then—I lost my place, of course, and started to come East, and had my pocket picked in Denver, of every cent I had. I tried for work there, but between sickness and drink I wasn't good for much. I started tramping. I thought I would tramp—it was last spring, and warm weather coming[Pg 421] on—till I'd got my health back, and then I'd steady down and get some work, and come back to mother when I was fit to look her in the face. Then—in some place, I forget—I came upon a King's County paper with mother's death in it."
"What!"
"O! I know I wasn't fit to see her—but I lost all hope then."
"Why don't you give up drink?"
"Where's the use? I would if there were any use, but mother is dead."
"Cat's foot—fiddlestick—folderol—fudge! She's no more dead than I am. Don't talk to me! Hold on to yourself now, Willie Jaquith, and don't make a scene; it is a thing I cannot abide. It was Maria Jaquith that died, over at East Corners. Small loss she was, too. None of that family was ever worth their salt. The fool who writes for the papers put her in 'Mary,' and gave out that she died here in Elmerton just because they brought her here to bury. They've always buried here in the family lot, as if they were of some account. I was afraid you might hear of it, Willie, and wrote to the last place I heard of you in, but of course it was of no use. Mary Jaquith is alive, I tell you. Now where are you going?"
"To mother!"
"Yes, I would! Sit down, Willie Jaquith; do as I tell you! There! feel pretty well, hey? Your mother is blind."
"Oh, mother! mother! I have left her alone all this time."
"Exactly! Now don't go into a caniption, because it won't do any good. Here comes Direxia with your breakfast—you eat it and then we'll go and see your mother."
Out of doors the morning was bright and clear. Mrs. Malvina Weight, sweeping her front chamber, with an anxious eye on the house opposite, saw the door open and Mrs. Tree come out, followed by a tall young man. The old lady wore the huge black velvet bonnet, surmounted by a bird of paradise, which[Pg 422] she had brought from Paris forty years before, and an India shawl which had pointed a moral to the pious of Elmerton for more than that length of time. Mrs. Weight's curiosity knew no bounds when she saw them turn into the old Jaquith place. She would have been more astounded if she could have heard Mrs. Tree begin at once with:
"Well, Mary Jaquith, here you sit!"
"Mrs. Tree! Is this you?" asked Mrs. Jaquith; "my dear soul, what brings you out so early in the morning? Come in! come in! who is with you?"
"I didn't say any one was with me! Don't you go to setting double-action ears like mine, Mary, because you are not old enough to. How are you? Obstinate as ever?"
"Take this chair, it's the one you always like. How am I obstinate, dear Mrs. Tree?"
"If I've asked you once to come and live with me, I've asked you fifty times," grumbled the old lady, sitting down with a good deal of flutter and rustle. "There I must stay, left alone at my age, with nobody but that old goose of a Direxia Hawkes to look after me. And all because you like to be independent. Set you up! Well, I shan't ask you again, and so I've come to tell you, Mary Jaquith."
"Dear old friend, you forgive me, I know. You never can have thought for a moment, seriously, that I could be a burden on your kind hands. There surely is some one with you, Mrs. Tree! Is it Direxia? Please be seated, whoever it is."
There was a slight sound, as of a sob checked in the outbreak. Mrs. Tree shook her head fiercely. The blind woman rose from her seat, very pale.
"Who is it? Be kind, please, and tell me."
"I'm going to tell you," said Mrs. Tree, "if you will have patience for two minutes, and not drive every idea out of my head with your talk. I had a visitor last night, Mary—some one came to see me—an old acquaintance—some one who[Pg 423] had seen Willie lately. Now Mary Jaquith, if you don't sit down,—well, of all the unreasonable women I ever saw!"
The blind woman had stretched out her arms with a heavenly gesture of appeal,—of welcome, of love unutterable,—and in a moment more her son's arms were about her and he was crying over and over again, "Mother, mother, mother!" as if he could not have enough of that word.
[79] An adaptation by Grace Arlington Owen.
True!—nervous—very, very dreadfully nervous I had been and am; but why will you say that I am mad? Hearken! and observe how healthily—how calmly I can tell you the whole story.
It is impossible to say how first the idea entered my brain; but once conceived, it haunted me day and night. Object, there was none. Passion, there was none. I loved the old man. He had never wronged me. He had never given me insult. For his gold I had no desire. I think it was his eye! yes, it was this! One of his eyes resembled that of a vulture—a pale-blue eye, with a film over it. Whenever it fell upon me, my blood ran cold; and so by degrees—very gradually—I[Pg 427] made up my mind to take the life of the old man, and thus rid my life of him forever.
Now, this is the point. You fancy me mad. Madmen know nothing. But you should have seen me. You should have seen how wisely I proceeded—with what caution—with what foresight—with what dissimulation I went to work! I was never kinder to the old man than during the whole week before I killed him. And every night, about midnight, I turned the latch of his door and opened it—oh, so gently! and then, when I had made an opening sufficient for my head, I put in a dark lantern, all closed, closed so that no light shone out, and then I thrust in my head. Oh, you would have laughed to see how cunningly I thrust it in! I moved it slowly—very, very slowly, so that I might not disturb the old man's sleep. It took me an hour to place my whole head within the opening so far that I could see him as he lay upon the bed. Ha!—would a madman have been so wise as this? And then, when my head was well in the room, I undid the lantern cautiously—oh, so cautiously—cautiously (for the hinges creaked) I undid it just so much that a single thin ray fell upon the vulture eye. And this I did for seven long nights—every night just at midnight—but I found the eye always closed; and so it was impossible to do the work; for it was not the old man who vexed me, but his evil eye.
Upon the eighth night I was more than usually cautious in opening the door. To think that there I was, opening the door, little by little, and he not even to dream of my secret deeds or thoughts. I fairly chuckled at the idea; and perhaps he heard me; for he moved on the bed suddenly, as if startled. Now you may think that I drew back—but no. His room was as black as pitch with the thick darkness (for the shutters were close fastened, through fear of robbers), and so I knew that he could not see the opening of the door, and I kept pushing it on steadily, steadily.
[Pg 428]I had my head in, and was about to open the lantern, when my thumb slipped upon the tin fastening, and the old man sprang up in the bed crying out—"Who's there?"
I kept quite still and said nothing. For a whole hour I did not move a muscle, and in the meantime I did not hear him lie down.
Presently I heard a slight groan, and I knew it was the groan of mortal terror. It was not a groan of pain or of grief—oh, no!—it was the low, stifled sound that arises from the bottom of the soul when overcharged with awe. I knew the sound well. I knew that he had been lying awake ever since the first slight noise, when he had turned in the bed. His fears had been ever since growing upon him. He had been trying to fancy them causeless, but could not.
When I had waited a long time, very patiently, without hearing him lie down, I resolved to open a little—a very, very little crevice in the lantern. So I opened it—you cannot imagine how stealthily, stealthily—until at length a single dim ray, like the thread of the spider, shot from out the crevice and fell upon the vulture eye.
It was open—wide, wide open—and I grew furious as I gazed upon it. I saw it with perfect distinctness—all a dull blue, with a hideous veil over it that chilled the very marrow in my bones; but I could see nothing else of the old man's face or person; for I had directed the ray as if by instinct, precisely upon the spot.
Now, there came to my ears a low, dull, quick sound, such as a watch makes when enveloped in cotton. I knew that sound well, too. It was the beating of the old man's heart. It increased my fury, as the beating of a drum stimulates the soldier into courage.
But even yet I refrained and kept still. I scarcely breathed; I held the lantern motionless. I tried how steadily I could maintain the ray upon the eye. Meantime the hellish tattoo of[Pg 429] the heart increased. It grew quicker and quicker, and louder and louder every instant. The old man's terror must have been extreme! It grew louder, I say, louder every moment! do you mark me well? I have told you that I am nervous; so I am. And now at the dead hour of the night, amid the dreadful silence of that old house, so strange a noise as this excited me to uncontrollable terror. Yet for some minutes longer I refrained and stood still. But the beating grew louder, louder! I thought the heart must burst.
And now a new anxiety seized me—the sound could be heard by a neighbor! The old man's hour had come! With a loud yell I threw open the lantern and leaped into the room. He shrieked once—once only. In an instant I dragged him to the floor, and pulled the heavy bed over him. I then smiled gayly to find the deed so far done. But for many minutes the heart beat on with a muffled sound. This, however, did not vex me; it would not be heard through the wall. At length it ceased. The old man was dead. I removed the bed and examined the corpse. I placed my hand upon the heart and held it there many minutes. There was no pulsation. He was stone dead. His eye would trouble me no more.
If you still think me mad, you will think so no longer when I describe the wise precautions I took for the concealment of the body. The night waned, and I worked hastily, but in silence. First of all I dismembered the corpse.
I then took up three planks from the flooring of the chamber and deposited all between the scantlings. I then replaced the boards so cleverly, so cunningly, that no human eye—not even his—could have detected anything wrong.
When I had made an end of these labors it was four o'clock—still dark as midnight. As the bell sounded the hour, there came a knocking at the street door. I went down to open it with a light heart—for what had I now to fear? Then entered three men who introduced themselves, with perfect suavity, as[Pg 430] officers of the police. A shriek had been heard by a neighbor during the night; suspicion of foul play had been aroused; information had been lodged at the police office, and the officers had been deputed to search the premises.
I smiled—for what had I to fear? I bade the gentlemen welcome. The shriek, I said, was my own in a dream. The old man, I mentioned, was absent in the country. I took my visitors all over the house. I bade them search—search well. I led them at length to his chamber. I showed them his treasures, secure, undisturbed. In the enthusiasm of my confidence I brought chairs into the room, and desired them here to rest from their fatigues, while I myself, in the wild audacity of my perfect triumph, placed my own seat upon the very spot beneath which reposed the corpse of the victim.
The officers were satisfied. My manner had convinced them. I was singularly at ease. But ere long I felt myself getting pale and wished them gone. My head ached, and I fancied a ringing in my ears; but still they sat and still chatted. The ringing became more distinct; it continued and gained definitiveness—until at length I found that the noise was not within my ears.
No doubt I grew very pale; but I talked more fluently and with a heightened voice. Yet the sound increased—and what could I do? It was a low, dull, quick sound—much such a sound as a watch makes when enveloped in cotton. I gasped for breath—and yet the officers heard it not. I talked more quickly—more vehemently; but the noise steadily increased. Why would they not be gone? I paced the floor to and fro with heavy strides, as if excited to fury by the observations of the men—but the noise steadily increased. O God! what could I do? I foamed—I raved—I swore! I swung the chair upon which I had been sitting, and grated it upon the boards, but the noise arose over all and continually increased. It grew louder—louder—louder. And still the men chatted pleasantly and smiled. Was it possible they heard not?
[Pg 431]They heard!—they suspected!—they knew!—they were making a mockery of my horror! this I thought, and this I think. But anything was better than this agony! Anything was more tolerable than this derision! I could bear those hypocritical smiles no longer! I felt that I must scream or die!—and now—again!—hark! louder! louder! louder! louder!
"Villains!" I shrieked, "dissemble no more! I admit the deed—tear up the planks! here! here! it is the beating of his hideous heart!"
The selections in this division are cut, condensed, and adapted for practical use as dramas or monologues. In some cases lines of the text as well as explanations are written in to connect the scenes for clearer unity. For scenes from Shakespeare and readings from the Bible, already universally printed and accessible, see the indexes and directions as to the omissions of lines in various cuttings in Fulton and Trueblood's "Choice Readings," published by Messrs. Ginn & Company.
CHARACTERS: Hans Matthis, keeper of "the Merry Andrew"; Dr. Frantz, the magnetizer; the Judge.
SCENE: Alsatia, in a hamlet at the foot of the mountains; Christmas, 1868; a room in an inn. Matthis, a prosperous burgomaster, recalls with friends the murder of a Polish Jew, fifteen years before. He wonders that the murderer has never been apprehended. The sound of sleigh bells is heard and the apparition of the Jew appears. Matthis is prostrated by the incident and consults a mesmerist, Dr. Frantz, who assures him that he has power to compel a criminal to divulge his secret thought. Matthis isolates himself and sleeps alone to avoid eavesdropping. On the night of his daughter's wedding he makes payment of her dowry, and as the money is laid on the table a sleigh bell falls from among the gold coins. He seeks his own room, falls asleep and dreams that he is before the court and that Dr. Frantz is mesmerizing him.
Enter Matthis
Mat. Happy fellow! happy fellows all of them! A man may play against fate if he only prepares his cards—I hold none but good ones in my hand. Ha, ha! They have their[Pg 438] skins full of my best wine, and go home happy as kings. Ha, ha! there'll be some funny flounderings in the snow before they reach home. It's singular what magic is melted into wine—one draught, and all the clouds are sunshine. It's dark! it's very dark—and, though the wind has fallen, the fine snow sweeps down the road like a train of phantoms. All is well! You may shake hands with yourself, Hans Matthis! you have triumphed over both the world and Heaven! I am so sleepy! If I rest here a—a moment? Ah! One is always drowsy in cold weather. No one can hear me if I speak—in a dream—no one—the Jew!—dreams, nonsense! [Sleeps.]
Enter Dr. Frantz and the Judge
Dr. F. My lord, it is the will of this tribunal which leads me here, not mine.
Judge. Can you place that man in the mesmeric sleep?
Dr. F. I can. But he is strong-willed, and the task may be hard.
Mat. No, no! I have no fear. [Shudders; aside.] Matthis, if you fall asleep you will be lost!
Dr. F. [to Matthis]. I will that you should sleep! [Makes magnetic passes while looking at Matthis.]
Mat. No, no!
Dr. F. It is my will. He sleeps. What must I ask?
Judge. What he did on Christmas Eve, fifteen years ago.
Dr. F. I command you to be on the night of December the four-and-twentieth, year 1853.
Mat. [softly]. Yes.
Dr. F. What is the hour?
Mat. It is half-past eleven o'clock.
Dr. F. Speak! It is my will!
Mat. The customers have left the inn. Catherine and little Annette have gone to bed. Kaspar comes in and says—the[Pg 439] fire in the lime-kiln is drawing well. I answer: "Very good. Go to bed. I'll go have a look at it." He goes up stairs. I am alone with the Polish Jew, who is warming himself at the stove. All are asleep in the village. All I heard was the sleigh-bell jingling on the Polander's horse in the shed. There was two feet of snow on the ground. I thought of my want of money. If I did not have three thousand francs by the end of the month, the inn would be taken from me. I thought—no one is on the road—'tis night, and the Polander will be all alone in the snow. He is well-built, and strong. [As if he saw the man before him.] I warrant he will hold out stoutly if any one touches him. Ah! he looks at me with his little gray eyes. I must do my work! Yes. I shall risk it! I go out. It is black as ink, except for the falling snow. There would be no footsteps in the road. I search his sledge—he might have had pistols! but there are none. I will do it! Hark! no—not a sound, save a child crying—a goat bleating—and the tramp overhead of the Polander in his chamber. I went in. He comes down, and puts six francs on the table. I give him change. He looks a long look at me, and asks how far to Mootzig? Four short leagues, say I—and wish him a merry journey! He answers: "God bless you!" [Pause.] Ho, ho! the belt! the money-belt! He goes—he has gone! [Matthis stooping, goes a few steps as if following a trail.] The axe—where is the axe? Ah! here—behind the door! How cold it is! Still falls the snow, and far above, I see the shooting stars. Haste, Matthis, for the prize—the money-belt! I follow—out of the village—to the open—how cold it is! [Shivers.] Yonder looms up the big bridge—there ripples the rivulet out of sight under the snow. How the dogs bayed, on Daniel's farm! and the blacksmith's forge glowed red on the hill-side like a setting sun. Matthis, slay not the man! You are mad! You will be rich, and your wife and child will want for nothing! The Polander had no business to flaunt his money-belt in your[Pg 440] face, when you owe money! The bridge! I am already at the bridge! And no one! how still it is! how cold! though I am warm—Hark! one o'clock by the village church! and the moon is rising! Oh! the Jew has passed, and I am right glad of it! No! what do I hear? the bell! the sleigh-bell. I shall be rich, I shall be rich, rich, rich! [The bell tinkles.] Down! I have you, dog of a Jew! He has his score settled! Not a finger stirs. All is over! Ah! Away rushes the horse with the sledge! but silently—the bell has been shaken off! Hark, hark—a step! No! only the wind and a fall of snow. Quick, quick, the money-belt! 'tis full! it bursts with my eager clutch! ah! the coins have fallen! here, here and there! And now for home! no, no—the body—it must not tell its story! [Rolls up the mantle and puts it on his shoulder.] Hush! the kiln, the lime-kiln. It is heavy! Into the fire. Jew! fire and flames for the Jew! Oh! what eyes! with what eyes does he regard me! Be a man, Matthis, look! look boldly! not even his bones are left! Now, away with the belt—pocket the gold—that's right! No one will ever know. The proofs are gone forever!
Dr. F. What more shall he be asked?
Judge. No more. Wake him and let him see himself. [Matthis sits in the chair as at first.]
Dr. F. Awake! I will it.
Mat. Where am I? Ah, yes—what have I done? Wretch! I have confessed it all! I am a lost man!
Judge. You stand self-condemned! Inasmuch as Hans Matthis, on the morning of the 25th of December, 1853, between the hours of midnight and one o'clock, committed the crime of murder and highway robbery upon the person of Baruch Koweski, with malice prepense, we condemn him to be hanged by the neck till death shall ensue. And may Heaven have mercy on his soul! Usher, let the executioner appear and take charge of the condemned.
[Curtain.
Characters: Pauline Deschappelles, the beautiful daughter and heiress of an aspiring merchant of Lyons, France; Claude Melnotte, the gardener's son, madly in love with Pauline.
Pauline aspires to an alliance with some prince or nobleman. Melnotte in the hope of winning her uses his small inheritance in educating himself and becomes an accomplished scholar, a skillful musician, a poet, and an artist. He pours forth his worship in a poem, but his suit is rejected and he is subjected to violent insult. Stung to remorse he enters into a plot to personate a prince, woo her in that guise, and take her as a bride to his mother's cottage on their wedding night. And, in the faint hope of winning her as a prince and keeping her love as an untitled man after he has revealed his identity, Melnotte enters into a binding compact.
Scene: The garden of M. Deschappelles' house at Lyons.
Enter Melnotte as the Prince of Como, leading Pauline
Mel. You can be proud of your connection with one who owes his position to merit—not birth.
Pauline. Why, yes; but still—
Mel. Still what, Pauline?
Pauline. There is something glorious in the heritage of command. A man who has ancestors is like a representative of the past.
Mel. True; but, like other representatives, nine times out of ten he is a silent member. Ah, Pauline! not to the past, but to the future, looks true nobility, and finds its blazon in posterity.
Pauline. You say this to please me, who have no ancestors; but you, prince, must be proud of so illustrious a race!
Mel. No, no! I would not, were I fifty times a prince, be a pensioner on the dead! I honor birth and ancestry when they are regarded as the incentives to exertion, not the title-deeds to sloth! I honor the laurels that overshadow the graves of our[Pg 442] fathers—it is our fathers I emulate, when I desire that beneath the evergreen I myself have planted my own ashes may repose! Dearest! couldst thou but see with my eyes!
Pauline. I cannot forego pride when I look on thee, and think that thou lovest me. Sweet Prince, tell me again of thy palace by the lake of Como; it is so pleasant to hear of thy splendors since thou didst swear to me that they would be desolate without Pauline; and when thou describest them, it is with a mocking lip and a noble scorn, as if custom had made thee disdain greatness.
Characters: Pauline, Claude, and the Widow Melnotte, the mother of Claude.
Scene: Melnotte's cottage, widow bustling about, a table spread for supper.
Widow. So, I think that looks very neat. He sent me a line, so blotted that I can scarcely read it, to say he would be here almost immediately. She must have loved him well indeed to have forgotten his birth; for though he was introduced to her in disguise, he is too honorable not to have revealed to her the artifice; which her love only could forgive. Well, I do not wonder at it; for though my son is not a prince, he ought to be one, and that's almost as good. [Knock at door.] Ah! here they are.
Enter Melnotte and Pauline
Widow. Oh, my boy—the pride of my heart!—welcome, welcome. I beg pardon, ma'am, but I do love him so!
Pauline. Good woman, I really—why, Prince, what is this?—does the old lady know you? Oh, I guess you have done her some service. Another proof of your kind heart; is it not?
Mel. Of my kind heart, ay!
Pauline. So you know the Prince?
Widow. Know him, madam? Ah, I begin to fear it is you who know him not!
Pauline. Can we stay here, my lord? I think there's something very wild about her.
Mel. Madam, I—no, I cannot tell her; what a coward is[Pg 445] a man who has lost his honor! Speak to her—speak to her—[to his mother] tell her that—O Heaven, that I were dead!
Pauline. How confused he looks!—this strange place!—this woman—what can it mean?—I half suspect—who are you, madam?—who are you? can't you speak? are you struck dumb?
Widow. Claude, you have not deceived her? Ah, shame upon you! I thought that, before you went to the altar, she was to have known all.
Pauline. All! what! My blood freezes in my veins!
Widow. Poor lady—dare I tell her, Claude? Know you not, then, madam, that this young man is of poor though honest parents? Know you not that you are wedded to my son, Claude Melnotte?
Pauline. Your son! hold—hold! do not speak to me. [Approaches Melnotte.] Is this a jest? is it? I know it is, only speak—one word—one look—one smile. I cannot believe—I who loved thee so—I cannot believe that thou art such a—no, I will not wrong thee by a harsh word! Speak.
Mel. Leave us. [To Widow.] Have pity on her, on me; leave us!
Widow. Oh, Claude, that I should live to see thee bowed by shame! thee of whom I was so proud!
[Exit.
Pauline. Her son—her son!
Enter Widow
[Exit Widow. Pauline follows, weeping—turns to look back.
Characters: Rip Van Winkle; Derrick Von Beekman, the villain of the play, who endeavors to get Rip drunk, in order to have him sign away his property; Nick Vedder, the village innkeeper.
Scene: The village inn; present, Von Beekman, alone.
Enter Rip, shaking off the children, who cling about him
Rip [to the children]. Say! hullo, dere, yu Yacob Stein! Let that dog Schneider alone, will you? Dere, I tole you dat all de time, if you don'd let him alone he's goin' to bide you! Why, hullo, Derrick! How you was? Ach, my! Did you[Pg 450] hear dem liddle fellers just now? Dey most plague me crazy. Ha, ha, ha! I like to laugh my outsides in every time I tink about it. Just now, as we was comin' along togedder, Schneider and me—I don'd know if you know Schneider myself? Well, he's my dog. Well, dem liddle fellers, dey took Schneider, und—ha, ha, ha!—dey—ha, ha, ha!—dey tied a tin kettle mit his tail! Ha, ha, ha! My gracious! Of you had seen dat dog run! My, how scared he was! Vell, he was a-runnin' an' de kettle was a-bangin' an'—ha, ha, ha! you believe it, dat dog, he run right betwixt me an' my legs! Ha, ha, ha! He spill me und all dem leddle fellers down in de mud togedder. Ha, ha, ha!
Von B. Ah, yes, that's all right, Rip, very funny, very funny; but what do you say to a glass of liquor, Rip?
Rip. Well, now, Derrick, what do I generally say to a glass? I generally say it's a good ting, don'd I? Und I generally say a good deal more to what is in it, dan to de glass.
Von B. Certainly, certainly! Say, hallo, there! Nick Vedder, bring out a bottle of your best!
Rip. Dat's right—fill 'em up. You wouldn't believe, Derrick, but dat is de first one I have had to-day. I guess maybe de reason is, I couldn't got it before. Ah, Derrick, my score is too big! Well, here is your good health und your family's—may dey all live long and prosper. [They drink.] Ach! you may well smack your lips, und go ah, ah! over dat liquor. You don'd give me such liquor like dat every day, Nick Vedder. Well, come on, fill 'em up again. Git out mit dat water, Nick Vedder, I don'd want no water in my liquor. Good liquor und water, Nick Vedder, is just like man and wife, dey don'd agree well togedder—dat's me und my wife, any way. Well, come on again. Here is your good health und your family's, und may dey all live long und prosper!
Nick Vedder. That's right, Rip; drink away, and "drown your sorrows in the flowing bowl."
[Pg 451]Rip. Drown my sorrows? Ya, dat's all very well, but she don'd drown. My wife is my sorrow und you can't drown her; she tried it once, but she couldn't do it. What, didn't you hear about dat, de day what Gretchen she like to got drownded? Ach, my; dat's de funniest ting in de world. I'll tell you all about it. It was de same day what we got married. I bet I don'd forget dat day so long what I live. You know dat Hudson River what dey git dem boats over—well, dat's de same place. Well, you know dat boat what Gretchen she was a-goin' to come over in, dat got upsetted—ya, just went righd by der boddom. But she wasn't in de boat. Oh, no; if she had been in de boat, well, den, maybe she might have got drownded. You can't tell anyting at all about a ting like dat!
Von B. Ah, no; but I'm sure, Rip, if Gretchen were to fall into the water now, you would risk your life to save her.
Rip. Would I? Well, I am not so sure about dat myself. When we was first got married? Oh, ya; I know I would have done it den, but I don'd know how it would be now. But it would be a good deal more my duty now as it was den. Don'd you know, Derrick, when a man gits married a long time—mit his wife, he gits a good deal attached mit her, und it would be a good deal more my duty now as it was den. But I don'd know, Derrick. I am afraid if Gretchen should fall in de water now und should say, "Rip, Rip! help me oud"—I should say, "Mrs. Van Winkle, I will just go home and tink about it." Oh, no, Derrick; if Gretchen fall in de water now she's got to swim, I told you dat—ha, ha, ha, ha! Hullo! dat's her a-comin' now; I guess it's bedder I go oud!
[Exit RIP.
Characters: Rip Van Winkle; Gretchen, his wife; Meenie, their little daughter.
Scene: The dimly lighted kitchen of Rip's cottage. Shortly after his conversation with Von Beekman, Rip's wife catches him carousing and dancing upon the village green. She drives him away in no [Pg 452]very gentle fashion, and he runs away from her only to carouse the more. Returning home after nightfall in a decidedly muddled condition, he puts his head through the open window at the rear, not observing his irate wife, who stands in ambush behind the clothes-bars with her ever-ready broomstick, to give him a warm reception, but seeing only his little daughter Meenie, of whom he is very fond, and who also loves him very tenderly.
Rip. Meenie! Meenie, my darlin'!
Meenie. Hush-sh-h. [Shaking finger, to indicate the presence of her mother.]
Rip. Eh! what's de matter? I don'd see not'ing, my darlin'.
Meenie. 'Sh-sh-sh!
Rip. Eh! what? Say, Meenie, is de ole wild cat home? [Gretchen catches him quickly by the hair.] Oh, oh! say, is dat you, Gretchen? Say, dere, my darlin', my angel, don'd do dat. Let go my head, won'd you? Well, den, hold on to it so long what you like. [Gretchen releases him.] Dere, now, look at dat, see what you done—you gone pull out a whole handful of hair. What you want to do a ting like dat for? You must want a bald-headed husband, don'd you?
Gretchen. Who was that you called a wild cat?
Rip. Who was dat I called a wild cat? Well, now, let me see, who was dat I called a wild cat? Dat must 'a' been de same time I come in de winder dere, wasn't it? Yes, I know, it was de same time. Well, now, let me see. [Suddenly.] It was de dog Schneider dat I call it.
Gretchen. The dog Schneider? That's a likely story.
Rip. Why, of course it is a likely story—ain't he my dog? Well, den, I call him a wild cat just so much what I like, so dere now. [Gretchen begins to weep.] Oh, well; dere, now, don'd you cry, don'd you cry, Gretchen; you hear what I said? Lisden now. If you don'd cry, I nefer drink anoder drop of liquor in my life.
Gretchen [crying]. Oh, Rip! you have said so many, many times, and you never kept your word yet.
Rip. Well, I say it dis time, and I mean it.
[Pg 453]Gretchen. Oh, Rip! if I could only trust you.
Rip. You mustn't suspect me. Can't you see repentance in my eye?
Gretchen. Rip, if you will only keep your word, I shall be the happiest woman in the world.
Rip. You can believe it. I nefer drink anoder drop so long what I live, if you don'd cry.
Gretchen. Oh, Rip, how happy we shall be! And you'll get back all the village, Rip, just as you used to have it; and you'll fix up our little house so nicely; and you and I, and our little darling Meenie, here—how happy we shall be!
Rip. Dere, now! you can be just so happy what you like. Go in de odder room, go along mit you; I come in dere pooty quick. [Exit Gretchen and Meenie.] My! I swore off from drinkin' so many, many times, and I never kept my word yet. [Taking out bottle.] I don'd believe dere is more as one good drink in dat bottle, anyway. It's a pity to waste it! You goin' to drink dat? Well, now, if you do, it is de last one, remember dat, old feller. Well, here is your goot held, und—
Enter Gretchen, suddenly, who snatches the bottle from him.
Gretchen. Oh, you brute! you paltry thief!
Rip. Hold on dere, my dear, you will spill de liquor.
Gretchen. Yes, I will spill it, you drunken scoundrel. [Throwing away the bottle.] That's the last drop you ever drink under this roof.
Rip [slowly, after a moment's silence, as if stunned by her severity]. Eh! what?
Gretchen. Out, I say! you drink no more here.
Rip. What? Gretchen, are you goin' to drive me away?
Gretchen. Yes! Acre by acre, foot by foot, you have sold everything that ever belonged to you for liquor. Thank Heaven, this house is mine, and you can't sell it.
Rip [rapidly sobering, as he begins to realize the gravity of the situation].[Pg 454] Yours? Yours? Ya, you are right—it is yours; I have got no home. [In broken tones, almost sobbing.] But where will I go?
Gretchen. Anywhere! out into the storm, to the mountains. There's the door—never let your face darken it again.
Rip. What, Gretchen! are you goin' to drive me away like a dog on a night like dis?
Gretchen. Yes; out with you! You have no longer a share in me or mine. [Breaking down and sobbing with the intensity of her passion.]
Rip [very slowly and quietly, but with great intensity]. Well, den, I will go; you have drive me away like a dog, Gretchen, and I will go. But remember, Gretchen, after what you have told me here to-night, I can never come back. You have open de door for me to go; you will never open it for me to return. But, Gretchen, you tell me dat I have no longer a chare here. [Points at the child, who kneels crying at his feet.] Good-by [with much emotion], my darlin'. God bless you! Don'd you nefer forgit your fader. Gretchen (with a great sob), I wipe de disgrace from your door. Good-by, good-by!
[Exit Rip into the storm.
[80] Adapted by Mr. A. P. Burbank.
Characters: Mrs. Malaprop, with her bad grammar and ludicrous diction; Lydia Languish, in love with Beverley; Sir Anthony Absolute, choleric, but kind-hearted.
Scene: A dressing room in Mrs. Malaprop's lodgings.
Enter Mrs. Malaprop, Lydia, and Sir Anthony
Mrs. Malaprop. There, Sir Anthony, there stands the deliberate simpleton, who wants to disgrace her family and lavish herself on a fellow not worth a shilling.
[Pg 455]Lydia. Madam, I thought you once—
Mrs. M. You thought, miss! I don't know any business you have to think at all: thought does not become a young woman. But the point we would request of you is, that you will promise to forget this fellow—to illiterate him, I say, from your memory.
Lyd. Ah, madam! our memories are independent of our wills. It is not so easy to forget.
Mrs. M. But I say it is, miss! there is nothing on earth so easy as to forget, if a person chooses to set about it. I'm sure I have as much forgot your poor dear uncle, as if he had never existed; and I thought it my duty so to do; and let me tell you, Lydia, these violent memories don't become a young woman.
Lyd. What crime, madam, have I committed, to be treated thus?
Mrs. M. Now don't attempt to extirpate yourself from the matter; you know I have proof controvertible of it. But tell me, will you promise me to do as you are bid? Will you take a husband of your friend's choosing?
Lyd. Madam, I must tell you plainly, that, had I no preference for any one else, the choice you have made would be my aversion.
Mrs. M. What business have you, miss, with preference and aversion? They don't become a young woman. But, suppose we were going to give you another choice, will you promise us to give up this Beverley?
Lyd. Could I belie my thoughts so far as to give that promise, my actions would certainly as far belie my words.
Mrs. M. Take yourself to your room! You are fit company for nothing but your own ill humors.
Lyd. Willingly, ma'am; I cannot change for the worse.
Mrs. M. There's a little intricate hussy for you! [Exit.
Sir A. It is not to be wondered at, ma'am; all that is the natural consequence of teaching girls to read. On my way[Pg 456] hither, Mrs. Malaprop, I observed your niece's maid coming forth from a circulating library: from that moment, I guessed how full of duty I should see her mistress!
Mrs. M. Those are vile places, indeed!
Sir A. Madam, a circulating library in a town is as an evergreen tree of diabolical knowledge!
Mrs. M. Fie, fie, Sir Anthony! you surely speak laconically.
Sir A. Why, Mrs. Malaprop, in moderation, now, what would you have a woman know?
Mrs. M. Observe me, Sir Anthony—I would by no means wish a daughter of mine to be a progeny of learning; I don't think so much learning becomes a young woman; for instance, I would never let her meddle with Greek, or Hebrew, or Algebra, or Simony, or Fluxions, or Paradoxes, or such inflammatory branches of learning; nor will it be necessary for her to handle any of your mathematical, astronomical, diabolical instruments; but, Sir Anthony, I would send her, at nine years old, to a boarding-school, in order to learn a little ingenuity and artifice. Then, sir, she should have a supercilious knowledge in accounts; and, as she grew up, I would have her instructed in geometry, that she might know something of the contagious countries; above all, she would be taught orthodoxy. This, Sir Anthony, is what I would have a woman know; and I don't think there is a superstitious article in it.
Sir A. Well, well, Mrs. Malaprop, I will dispute the point no further with you; though I must confess, that you are a truly moderate and polite arguer, for almost every third word you say is on my side of the question.—But to the more important point in debate—you say you have no objection to my proposal?
Mrs. M. None, I assure you. We have never seen your son, Sir Anthony; but I hope no objection on his side.
Sir A. Objection!—let him object, if he dare!—No, no, Mrs. Malaprop; Jack knows that the least demur puts[Pg 457] me in a frenzy directly. My process was always very simple—in his younger days, 'twas "Jack, do this,"—if he demurred, I knocked him down; and, if he grumbled at that, I always sent him out of the room.
Mrs. M. Aye, and the properest way, o' my conscience!—Nothing is so conciliating to young people as severity. Well, Sir Anthony, I shall give Mr. Acres his discharge, and prepare Lydia to receive your son's invocations; and I hope you will represent her to the Captain as an object not altogether illegible.
Sir A. Madam, I will handle the subject prudently. I must leave you; and let me beg you, Mrs. Malaprop, to enforce this matter roundly to the girl—take my advice, keep a tight hand—if she rejects this proposal, clap her under lock and key; and if you were just to let the servants forget to bring her dinner for three or four days, you can't conceive how she'd come about.
Mrs. M. Well, at any rate, I shall be glad to get her from under my jurisprudence.
[Exit.
Characters: Sir Anthony Absolute; Captain Absolute, his son.
Scene: Captain Absolute's lodgings.
Enter Sir Anthony and Captain Absolute
Captain Absolute. Sir, I am delighted to see you here, and looking so well! Your sudden arrival at Bath made me apprehensive for your health.
Sir Anthony. Very apprehensive, I dare say, Jack. What, you are recruiting here, hey?
Capt. A. Yes, sir; I am on duty.
Sir A. Well, Jack, I am glad to see you, though I did not expect it; for I was going to write to you on a little matter of business. Jack, I have been considering that I grow old and infirm, and shall probably not trouble you long.
[Pg 458]Capt. A. Pardon me, sir, I never saw you look more strong and hearty; and I pray fervently that you may continue so.
Sir A. I hope your prayers may be heard, with all my heart. Well, then, Jack, I have been considering that I am so strong and hearty, I may continue to plague you a long time. Now, Jack, I am sensible that the income of your commission, and what I have hitherto allowed you, is but a small pittance for a lad of your spirit.
Capt. A. Sir, you are very good.
Sir A. And it is my wish, while yet I live, to have my boy make some figure in the world. I have resolved, therefore, to fix you at once in a noble independence.
Capt. A. Sir, your kindness overpowers me. Such generosity makes the gratitude of reason more lively than the sensations even of filial affection.
Sir A. I am glad you are so sensible of my attention; and you shall be master of a large estate in a few weeks.
Capt. A. Let my future life, sir, speak my gratitude. I cannot express the sense I have of your munificence. Yet, sir, I presume you would not wish me to quit the army.
Sir A. Oh, that shall be as your wife chooses.
Capt. A. My wife, sir!
Sir A. Aye, aye, settle that between you—settle that between you.
Capt. A. A wife, sir, did you say?
Sir A. Aye, a wife—why, did not I mention her before?
Capt. A. Not a word of her, sir.
Sir A. Upon my word, I mustn't forget her, though! Yes, Jack, the independence I was talking of is by a marriage,—the fortune is saddled with a wife; but I suppose that makes no difference?
Capt. A. Sir, sir, you amaze me!
Sir A. What's the matter? Just now you were all gratitude and duty.
[Pg 459]Capt. A. I was, sir; you talked to me of independence and a fortune, but not one word of a wife.
Sir A. Why, what difference does that make? Sir, if you have the estate, you must take it with the live stock on it, as it stands.
Capt. A. If my happiness is to be the price, I must beg leave to decline the purchase. Pray, sir, who is the lady?
Sir A. What's that to you, sir? Come, give me your promise to love, and to marry her directly.
Capt. A. Sure, sir, that's not very reasonable, to summon my affections for a lady I know nothing of!
Sir A. I am sure, sir, 'tis more unreasonable in you to object to a lady you know nothing of.
Capt. A. You must excuse me, sir, if I tell you, once for all, that on this point I cannot obey you.
Sir A. Hark you, Jack! I have heard you for some time with patience; I have been cool—quite cool; but take care; you know I am compliance itself, when I am not thwarted; no one more easily led—when I have my own way; but don't put me in a frenzy.
Capt. A. Sir, I must repeat it; in this I cannot obey you.
Sir A. Now, shoot me, if ever I call you Jack again while I live!
Capt. A. Nay, sir, but hear me.
Sir A. Sir, I won't hear a word—not a word!—not one word! So, give me your promise by a nod; and I'll tell you what, Jack,—I mean, you dog,—if you don't—
Capt. A. What, sir, promise to link myself to some mass of ugliness; to—
Sir A. Sir, the lady shall be as ugly as I choose; she shall have a lump on each shoulder; she shall be as crooked as the crescent; her one eye shall roll like the bull's in Cox's mu-se-um; she shall have a skin like a mummy, and the[Pg 460] beard of a Jew; she shall be all this, sir! yet I'll make you ogle her all day, and sit up all night to write sonnets on her beauty!
Capt. A. This is reason and moderation, indeed!
Sir A. None of your sneering, puppy!—no grinning, jackanapes!
Capt. A. Indeed, sir, I never was in a worse humor for mirth in my life.
Sir A. 'Tis false, sir! I know you are laughing in your sleeve; I know you'll grin when I am gone, sir!
Capt. A. Sir, I hope I know my duty better.
Sir A. None of your passion, sir! none of your violence, if you please! It won't do with me, I promise you.
Capt. A. Indeed, sir, I never was cooler in my life.
Sir A. I know you are in a passion in your heart; I know you are, you hypocritical young dog! But it won't do!
Capt. A. Nay, sir, upon my word—
Sir A. So, you will fly out? Can't you be cool, like me? What good can passion do? Passion is of no service, you impudent, insolent, overbearing reprobate! There, you sneer again! Don't provoke me! But you rely upon the mildness of my temper, you do, you dog! You play upon the meekness of my disposition! Yet take care; the patience of a saint may be overcome at last! But, mark! I give you six hours and a half to consider of this: if you then agree, without any condition, to do everything on earth that I choose, why, I may, in time, forgive you. If not, don't enter the same hemisphere with me; don't dare to breathe the same air, or use the same light, with me; but get an atmosphere and a sun of your own! I'll strip you of your commission; I'll lodge a five-and-threepence in the hands of trustees, and you shall live on the interest! I'll disown you, I'll disinherit you! I'll never call you Jack again! [Exit.
Capt. A. Mild, gentle, considerate father! I kiss your hand.
Characters: Sir Anthony Absolute; Captain Absolute.
Scene: The North Parade. Captain Absolute has discovered that the lady whom his father so peremptorily commanded him to marry is none other than Lydia Languish with whom he, under the name of Beverley, was plotting an elopement.
Enter Captain Absolute
Capt. A. 'Tis just as Fag told me, indeed!—Whimsical enough, 'faith! My father wants to force me to marry the very girl I am plotting to run away with! He must not know of my connection with her yet awhile. He has too summary a method of proceeding in these matters; however, I'll read my recantation instantly. My conversion is something sudden, indeed; but I can assure him, it is very sincere.—So, so, here he comes. He looks plaguy gruff! [Steps aside.
Enter Sir Anthony
Sir A. No—I'll die sooner than forgive him! Die, did I say? I'll live these fifty years to plague him. At our last meeting, his impudence had almost put me out of temper—an obstinate, passionate, self-willed boy! This is my return for putting him, at twelve years old, into a marching regiment, and allowing him fifty pounds a year, besides his pay, ever since! But I have done with him—he's anybody's son for me—I never will see him more—never—never—never—never.
Capt. A. Now for a penitential face!
[Comes forward.
Sir A. Fellow, get out of my way!
Capt. A. Sir, you see a penitent before you.
Sir A. I see an impudent scoundrel before me.
Capt. A. A sincere penitent. I am come, sir, to acknowledge my error, and to submit entirely to your will.
Sir A. What's that?
Capt. A. I have been revolving, and reflecting, and con[Pg 462]sidering on your past goodness, and kindness, and condescension to me.
Sir A. Well, sir?
Capt. A. I have been likewise weighing and balancing, what you were pleased to mention concerning duty, and obedience, and authority.
Sir A. Why, now you talk sense, absolute sense; I never heard anything more sensible in my life. Confound you, you shall be Jack again!
Capt. A. I am happy in the appellation.
Sir A. Why then, Jack, my dear Jack, I will now inform you who the lady really is. Nothing but your passion and violence, you silly fellow, prevented me telling you at first. Prepare, Jack, for wonder and rapture—prepare! What think you of Miss Lydia Languish?
Capt. A. Languish! What, the Languishes of Worcestershire?
Sir A. Worcestershire! No! Did you never meet Mrs. Malaprop, and her niece, Miss Languish, who came into our country just before you were last ordered to your regiment?
Capt. A. Malaprop! Languish! I don't remember ever to have heard the name before. Yet, stay: I think I do recollect something. Languish, Languish! She squints, don't she? A little red-haired girl?
Sir A. Squints! A red-haired girl! Zounds, no!
Capt. A. Then I must have forgot; it can't be the same person.
Sir A. Jack, Jack! what think you of blooming, love-breathing seventeen?
Capt. A. As to that, sir, I am quite indifferent: if I can please you in the matter, 'tis all I desire.
Sir A. Nay, but, Jack, such eyes! such eyes! so innocently wild! so bashfully irresolute! Not a glance but speaks and[Pg 463] kindles some thought of love! Then, Jack, her cheeks! her cheeks, Jack! so deeply blushing at the insinuations of her tell-tale eyes! Then, Jack, her lips! Oh, Jack, lips, smiling at their own discretion! and, if not smiling, more sweetly pouting, more lovely in sullenness! Then, Jack, her neck! Oh! Jack! Jack!
Capt. A. And which is to be mine, sir; the niece, or the aunt?
Sir A. Why, you unfeeling, insensible puppy, I despise you! When I was of your age, such a description would have made me fly like a rocket! The aunt, indeed! Odds life! when I ran away with your mother, I would not have touched anything old or ugly to gain an empire.
Capt. A. Not to please your father, sir?
Sir A. To please my father—zounds! not to please—Oh! my father? Oddso! yes, yes! if my father, indeed, had desired—that's quite another matter. Though he wasn't the indulgent father that I am, Jack.
Capt. A. I dare say not, sir.
Sir A. But, Jack, you are not sorry to find your mistress is so beautiful?
Capt. A. Sir, I repeat it, if I please you in this affair, 'tis all I desire. Not that I think a woman the worse for being handsome; but, sir, if you please to recollect, you before hinted something about a hump or two, one eye, and a few more graces of that kind. Now, without being very nice, I own I should rather choose a wife of mine to have the usual number of limbs, and a limited quantity of back; and though one eye may be very agreeable, yet, as the prejudice has always run in favor of two, I would not wish to affect a singularity in that article.
Sir A. What a phlegmatic sot it is! Why, sirrah, you are an anchorite! a vile, insensible stock! You a soldier! you're a walking block, fit only to dust the company's regimentals on! Odds life, I've a great mind to marry the girl myself!
Capt. A. I am entirely at your disposal, sir; if you should[Pg 464] think of addressing Miss Languish yourself, I suppose you would have me marry the aunt; or if you should change your mind, and take the old lady, 'tis the same to me—I'll marry the niece.
Sir A. Upon my word, Jack, thou art either a very great hypocrite, or—but, come, I know your indifference on such a subject must be all a lie—I'm sure it must. Come, now, off with your demure face; come, confess, Jack, you have been lying, ha'nt you? You have been playing the hypocrite, hey? I'll never forgive you, if you ha'nt been lying and playing the hypocrite.
Capt. A. I am sorry, sir, that the respect and duty which I bear to you, should be so mistaken.
Sir A. Hang your respect and duty! But come along with me. I'll write a note to Mrs. Malaprop, and you shall visit the lady directly. Her eyes shall be the Promethean torch to you; come along, I'll never forgive you, if you don't come back stark mad with rapture and impatience; if you don't, 'egad, I'll marry the girl myself!
[Exeunt.
Characters: Mrs. Malaprop; Lydia; Captain Absolute known to Lydia as "Beverley"; Sir Anthony; Servant.
Enter Mrs. Malaprop and Lydia
Mrs M. Why, thou perverse one!—tell me what you can object to in him?—Isn't he a handsome man?—tell me that. A genteel man? a pretty figure of a man?
Lyd. She little thinks whom she is praising. [Aside.] So is Beverley, ma'am.
Mrs. M. No caparisons, miss, if you please. Caparisons don't become a young woman. No! Captain Absolute is indeed a fine gentleman.
Lyd. Ay, the Captain Absolute you have seen. [Aside.
Mrs. M. Then he's so well bred;—so full of alacrity and adulation!—He has so much to say for himself, in such good[Pg 465] language, too. His physiognomy so grammatical; then his presence so noble! I protest, when I saw him, I thought of what Hamlet says in the play:—"Hesperian curls—the front of Job himself! an eye, like March, to threaten at command! a station, like Harry Mercury, new"—Something about kissing—on a hill—however, the similitude struck me directly.
Lyd. How enraged she'll be presently, when she discovers her mistake! [Aside.
Enter Servant
Serv. Sir Anthony and Captain Absolute are below, ma'am.
Mrs. M. Show them up here. [Exit Servant.] Now, Lydia, I insist on your behaving as becomes a young woman. Show your good breeding, at least, though you have forgot your duty.
Lyd. Madam, I have told you my resolution; I shall not only give him no encouragement, but I won't even speak to, or look at him.
[Flings herself into a chair, with her face from the door.
Enter Sir Anthony and Captain Absolute
Sir A. Here we are, Mrs. Malaprop; come to mitigate the frowns of unrelenting beauty,—and difficulty enough I had to bring this fellow. I don't know what's the matter, but if I had not held him by force he'd have given me the slip.
Mrs. M. You have infinite trouble, Sir Anthony, in the affair. I am ashamed for the cause! Lydia, Lydia, rise, I beseech you!—pay your respects!
[Aside to her.
Sir A. I hope, madam, that Miss Languish has reflected on the worth of this gentleman, and the regard due to her aunt's choice, and my alliance. Now, Jack, speak to her.
[Aside to him.
Capt. A. What the devil shall I do? [Aside.]—You see, sir, she won't even look at me while you are here. I knew she[Pg 466] wouldn't!—I told you so.—Let me entreat you, sir, to leave us together!
Mrs. M. I am sorry to say, Sir Anthony, that my affluence over my niece is very small. Turn round, Lydia, I blush for you!
[Aside to her.
Sir A. Why don't you begin, Jack? Zounds! sirrah! why don't you speak?
[Aside to him.
Capt. A. Hem! hem! Madam—hem! [Captain Absolute attempts to speak, then returns to Sir Anthony.] 'Faith! sir, I am so confounded!—and so—so confused! I told you I should be so, sir,—I knew it. The—the tremor of my passion entirely takes away my presence of mind.
Sir A. But it don't take away your voice, does it? Go up, and speak to her directly!
Capt. A. [draws near Lydia]. [Aside.] Now heaven send she may be too sullen to look round! I must disguise my voice.—Will not Miss Languish lend an ear to the mild accents of true love? Will not—
Sir A. Why don't you speak out?—not stand croaking like a frog in a quinsey!
Capt. A. The—the—excess of my awe, and my—my modesty quite choke me!
Sir A. Ah! your modesty again! Mrs. Malaprop, I wish the lady would favor us with something more than a side-front.
[Mrs. Malaprop seems to chide Lydia.
Capt. A. So! all will out, I see! [Goes up to Lydia, speaks softly.] Be not surprised, my Lydia, suppress all surprise at present.
Lyd. [aside]. Heavens! 'tis Beverley's voice!—[Looks round by degrees, then starts up.] Is this possible!—my Beverley! how can this be?—my Beverley!
Capt. A. Ah! 'tis all over! [Aside.
Sir A. Beverley!—the devil—Beverley! What can the girl mean? This is my son, Jack Absolute.
[Pg 467]Mrs. M. For shame! for shame!—your head runs so on that fellow, that you have him always in your eyes! beg Captain Absolute's pardon, directly.
Lyd. I see no Captain Absolute, but my loved Beverley!
Sir A. Zounds, the girl's mad!—her brain's turned by reading!
Mrs. M. O' my conscience, I believe so!—what do you mean by Beverley?—you saw Captain Absolute before to-day, there he is: your husband that shall be.
Lyd. With all my soul, ma'am—when I refuse my Beverley—
Sir A. Oh! she's as mad as Bedlam!—or has this fellow been playing us a rogue's trick? Come here, sirrah, who the devil are you?
Capt. A. 'Faith, sir, I am not quite clear myself; but I'll endeavor to recollect.
Sir A. Are you my son, or not?—answer for your mother, you dog, if you won't for me.
Capt. A. Ye powers of impudence, befriend me!—[Aside.]—Sir Anthony, most assuredly I am your wife's son; Mrs. Malaprop, I am your most respectful admirer, and shall be proud to add affectionate nephew. I need not tell my Lydia that she sees her faithful Beverley, who, knowing the singular generosity of her temper, assumed that name, and a station, which has proved a test of the most disinterested love, which he now hopes to enjoy, in a more elevated character.
Lyd. So!—there will be no elopement after all!
Sir A. Upon my soul, Jack, thou art a very impudent fellow! To do you justice, I think I never saw a piece of more consummate assurance! Well, I am glad you are not the dull insensible varlet you pretend to be, however! I'm glad you have made a fool of your father, you dog—I am. So, this was your penitence, your duty, and obedience! Ah! you dissembling villain! Come, we must leave them[Pg 468] together, Mrs. Malaprop; they long to fly into each other's arms. I warrant! Come, Mrs. Malaprop, we'll not disturb their tenderness; theirs is the time of life for happiness! [Sings.] Youth's the season made for joy—hey! odds life! I'm in such spirits! Permit me, ma'am.
[Gives his hand to Mrs. Malaprop. Exit singing, and handing her off. Exit Captain Absolute with Lydia in the opposite direction.
Characters: Beau Brummell, a fastidious aristocrat with luxurious tastes and a depleted fortune; Isidore, his valet; Mr. Fotherby, his aspiring young protégé.
Scene: A handsome apartment in Brummell's house, Calais, France. Isidore discovered, in chair, looking over his master's toilette table.
Isidore. Twenty shirts a week, twenty-four pocket-handkerchiefs, to say nothing of thirty cravats and twelve waistcoats—indeed, for people that cannot pay their servants! Well, he owes me just six thousand three hundred and thirty-seven francs, ten sous. [Picks up paper.] Ah, I see, I'm in the list. It costs something to have the honor of serving Mr. Brummell—to be chamberlain to His Majesty, the King of Calais! But he is a wonderful man! People almost thank him for condescending to be in their debt; still, much as I esteem the honor, I can't afford it any longer, nor can the laundress, nor can the hairdresser. Eight hundred francs a year for washing! Three clean shirts a day, three cravats! Boots blacked, soles and all, and with such varnish! But then he has such exquisite taste! why, he blackballed a friend of his who wanted to enter his club, because the candidate's boots were polished with bad blacking. I wonder whether the king will do anything[Pg 469] for him? It is Mr. Brummell's dressing hour, and here he comes.
[Enter Brummell, letter in hand. Isidore busies himself piling cravats upon the side of dressing table, and wheels chair to the mirror. Brummell throws himself in the chair before the glass, examines the cravats and throws two or three of them away.
Brummell. Isidore, take those dusters away; the chambermaid has forgotten them. [Re-reads the letter.] Strange girl this; the only thing I know against her is that she takes soup twice. It's the old story. Her father wants her to marry a fellow who can keep her, and she wants to have a young fellow who can't. Well, the young fellow who can't is the more interesting of the two. I must ask the father to dinner I suppose—it's a deuced bore; but it will put him under a heavy obligation. I must make excuses to Ballarat and Gill. Isidore, when I'm dressed take my compliments to Mr. Davis, and tell him I shall be happy to see him at dinner to-day.
Isid. Very well, sir. [Aside.] To Davis, a retired fellow from the city! This is a tumble!—I am sorry to trouble you, sir, but——
Brum. I can't talk to you to-day, Isidore. Give me a cravat.
Isid. [handing one]. I am a poor man, and six thousand francs——
Brum. I understand, Isidore. We'll see—we'll see; don't disturb me. Zounds! man, haven't you been long enough with me to know that these are not moments when I can speak or listen? [Bell rings.] If that be Mr. Fotherby, show him in. [Exit Isidore.] I intend to form that young fellow—there's stuff in him. I've noticed that he uses my blacking. [Enter Fotherby followed by Isidore.] How d'e do, Fotherby?
Fotherby. This admittance is an honor, indeed, sir![Pg 470]
Brum. My dear fellow, why, what do you call those things upon your feet?
Fother. Things on my feet! Shoes, to be sure!
Brum. Shoes! I thought they were slippers!
Fother. You prefer boots then, sir, doubtless?
Brum. Well, let me see. Humph! Isidore, which do I prefer, boots or shoes?
Isid. The Hessian was always your favorite, sir, in London.
Brum. Right, Isidore—so it was. By-the-bye, I have asked Davis here to-day. It was a great sacrifice; but as you and the young lady want to have the old gentleman melted, I resigned myself. I hope he'll keep his knife out of his mouth.
Fother. We shall be eternally grateful to you, sir. He wanted Helen to become old Armand's wife next week.
Brum. I think he's right; and but for one circumstance, I should be on Armand's side of the question.
Fother. And this circumstance?
Brum. The brute has a toothpick in his waistcoat pocket, or in the thing that serves him for a waistcoat—an instrument that, he says, has been in his family the last fifty years. Conceive, my dear Fotherby, an hereditary toothpick! No, Mr. Davis does not deserve that fate. And now let me give you a bit of advice. Never wear perfumes, but fine linen, plenty of it, and country washing. Look at you now, my good fellow, you are dressed in execrable taste—all black and white, like a magpie. Still, never be remarkable. The severest mortification a gentleman can incur, is to attract observation in the street by his dress. Everything should fit without a fault. You can't tell what this has cost me—but then it is a coat—while that thing you wear—I really don't know what we can call it.
Fother. Still, sir, under your guidance I shall improve. By the way, my mother asked me to invite you to take tea with us in our humble way.
[Pg 471]Brum. Really, my good young friend, you surprise me. Don't you know that you take medicine—you take a walk—you take a liberty—but you drink tea! My dear Fotherby, never be bearer of such a dreadful message again. Isidore! has my Paris wig arrived? Any card or letter?
Isid. No cards, sir. The wig arrived by the diligence.
Brun. Is the wig fit to put on?
Isid. I have been examining it, and, as the times go, I think it will do. There is one of the side locks not quite to my taste.
Brum. Ah! a mat, no doubt—a door-mat! [Exit Isidore. To Fotherby.] You see what a gentleman may be reduced to! It's the most fortunate thing in the world that I never fell in love!
Fother. But were you never in love?—never engaged?
Brum. Engaged?—why, yes, something of the kind; but I discovered that the lady positively ate cabbage, and so I broke it off.
Fother. And so, sir, you will persuade the old gentleman to postpone Helen's marriage with Armand—while I——
Brum. My dear young friend, I will tell the old gentleman to do so—you must see that I could not possibly think of persuading a person who grows onions in his garden——
Fother. We shall be eternally grateful——
Brum. For three weeks exactly—from which time you, at all events, will begin to wish that I had confined my attention to my own particular affairs. But the world is ungrateful. I once waved my hand to a saddler's son from White's window. Well, sir, I owed him five hundred pounds, and he had afterwards the assurance to ask me for it.
Fother. You astonish me!
Brum. Positive fact. So be cautious, young man, and in your way through life—if you wave your hand to such a fellow, let it be over a stamped receipt.
Fother. I shall follow your counsel most scrupulously.[Pg 472]
Brum. There, sir, never let me see you again in those gloves! These, sir, [showing his] are the only gloves for a gentleman. Pray leave me—I can't bear the sight of them. Meantime, tell your betrothed that I shall do everything in my power to secure your unhappiness. I have already spoken to Lord Ballarat about you. I told him you were the laziest fellow and the best dresser in the town—in fact, cut out by nature to serve the government. Good-bye—I shall ask you to dine with me some of these days—but not yet awhile—you must work up to that. And now, Fotherby, to show you how deep an interest I take in your welfare, you shall give me your arm to the ramparts.
[Exeunt.
Characters: Brummell; Isidore; Fotherby; Nurse; another Old Woman; Landlord; Waiter.
Scene: Brummell's lodgings in a miserable apartment house at Caen, France. Eight years have elapsed. With no means of livelihood and pursued by creditors, Brummell is now reduced to abject poverty, broken health, and a deranged mind. He is thrown among people of low rank and is subjected to many indignities; but to the last he clings to his fastidious tastes and is a gentleman among imaginary aristocrats.
Old Nurse. in high Norman cap, discovered seated in arm chair, mending stockings; another Woman near her.
Nurse. Yes, my dear, clean out of his mind—that's what he's gone.
Old Woman. Deary me!
Nurse. Aye, and there be folks as says he was once as neat and tidy as a new sixpence. Now he's as dirty as a George the First halfpenny!
Old W. Deary me!
Nurse. Aye, child, and he knew lords and dooks—and such like—now it's anybody as'll give him a dinner. It's time they did something with him—for put up with his going's[Pg 473] on any longer, I cannot! A nuss's is a horrid life, ain't it, child?
Old W. 'Orrid—deary me! So this very afternoon that's comin', he's to go?
Nurse. Aye, child—the landlord's goin' to offer to take him for a walk, which'll please him—and then take him off to see if the nuns'll have charity upon him—if not, there's nothing but the street. He wouldn't go if he know'd it—still he hasn't a copper coin—he's as cunning as any fox. Have a little drop of somethin' comfortable, child!
Old W. Deary me!—at this time of day—but I do feel a sinking!
Nurse. It'll do you a world of good. [Getting bottle—a knock.] Lawk! what an awkward hour for people to call! [Knock again.]
Old W. Deary me! Perhaps it's Mr. Brummell.
Nurse. Not it! It's more than he dare do, to knock twice like that. It's his old man-servant, come to take off that there dirty screen. [Opens door.]
Enter Brummell—muddy—supported by Isidore
Brum. Isidore, give me my dressing gown!
Isid. Dressing gown! that's good—why I never put my own on nowadays!
Brum. [talking to himself]. That screen mustn't go—nor the duchess's armchair. [Turning to Nurse.] Mind that, nurse, whatever happens to me, this chair and the screen remain. Ha! ha! what would Ballarat say, if——
Nurse. There, never mind them folks. Pull your coat off, and put your dressing gown on, do!
Brum. Dear me! I hope the ices will be better—the punch I've seen to! The duchess shall sit here.
Nurse [to Old Woman]. That's how he goes on nearly every day. The high folks he knew have turned his head.[Pg 474] Sometimes he makes one of the waiters announce a lot of folks, as never come, while he, like an old fool, bows to nobody, and hands nothing to that old chair.
Old W. What work it must give you.
Nurse [to Brummell]. There, take that muddy coat off, nobody's coming to-day.
Brum. Leave the room and see that everything is ready.
Nurse. Drat it. [Rings the bell.] I must have the waiter up. He'll soon manage him.
Brum. [rising, totters forward, and arranges his shabby dress]. Well, now I'm ready! Hark! I think I hear the first carriage. Sir Harry, no doubt.
Enter Waiter
Nurse. Just see to this old man—make him change his coat, for I can't.
Waiter. Well, this is the last of it. Master says he may sleep in the streets, but he doesn't stay here another night if he knows it. They won't have him at the asylum without money, and he hasn't a rap.
Nurse. Nor a stick; for there's little enough left to pay my poor wages.
Waiter [to Brummell]. Come, off with the coat!
Brum. My good fellow, leave it me to-night. I've a few friends coming. Hush! there's the first arrival. Pray, my good sir, see to my guests.
Waiter. Well, let's humor the old blade once more—he'll be in the streets to-morrow.
Nurse [to Old Woman]. Just notice this tomfoolery, child.
Old W. Deary me! it almost frightens me. See how pleased he is.
Waiter. Sir Harry Gill!
Brum. [advancing ceremoniously, and holding out his hand, and coming down, as though talking to somebody at his side].[Pg 475] My dear Harry, I'm delighted to see you. Were you at the opera last night?
Nurse [to Old Woman]. Did you ever hear the like of it?
Waiter. Here goes again! [Goes as before to door, and throws it open.] Lord Ballarat!
Brum. [advancing as before, and receiving imaginary visitor]. My good fellow, I'm sorry I missed you at the club the other night; but I went into the duchess's box, and——
Waiter. I must stop this. The duchess always comes last, and then he's satisfied. [Throwing open the door, and calling pompously.] Her Highness the Duchess of Canterbury.
Brum. [totters to door, bowing very profoundly, and handing the imaginary duchess to his armchair—leans over the chair, and bows frequently as he talks]. Your highness is too good! This is indeed an honor. Permit me the satisfaction of handing you to your seat. And is the duke well? And little Nutmeg—is his ear better? Poor little fellow! I hope you will allow me to give him a charming little collar I have for him.
Waiter. There, that'll do! [To Brummell.] Come, now, they're all gone—take your coat off.
Brum. [starting, and falling into chair]. Yes, gone—gone—true—they're gone! [Waiter helps him to take his coat off.] Give me my cap! [Nurse puts his old velvet cap on.]
Waiter. [going]. Call me up again, nurse, if he won't mind you. Do you hear what I say, Mr. Brummell?
Brum. Yes—yes—I'll be very good, nurse—I'll be very good.
Waiter. Well, it will be a lucky day when we get rid of this business!
[Exit.
Old W. But think of the poor creature turned into the streets! He'd die upon the nighest door-step!
Nurse. Can't be helped—out he goes to-night and no mistake! I'll nuss him no longer—and the landlord wants the[Pg 476] room. The men are comin' to whitewash it at sunrise to-morrow.
Old W. Deary me! Well—good-day!
Nurse. Good-day, child. You'll find me at home to-morrow. Good-bye!
[Exit Old Woman.
Brum. [tottering to an old bureau, sits before it]. Dinner at four. Nurse, nurse! my glass and razors—come!
Nurse. Drat the old man! [Gives him glass, etc.]
Enter Landlord, followed by Waiter
Now he's completely done up!
Brum. [politely to Landlord]. Good morning, monsieur, delighted to see——
Landlord. Hang your compliments—I want no more of them.
Brum. My good sir, you surprise me!
Land. [to Waiter]. Get his rubbish together—for out he goes, and no mistake. [To Brummell.] Now, Mr. Brummell, can you pay me—or can't you—or won't you?
Brum. Dear, dear me! We'll talk about it.
Land. No, we won't. I'll have it—or out you bundle this minute.
Brum. [rising]. Sir, I am a gentleman—a poor one, it is true; and this hand, fleshless as it is—is strong enough to chastise a man who forgets it! [Brummell falls back in chair exhausted.]
Land. [to Waiter]. Now for it—out with him! [Landlord and Waiter rush forward, and are about to seize Brummell.]
Enter Fotherby
Fother. [pushing back Landlord and Waiter]. Put your hands on the old man at your peril.
Land. Do you know that you are in my house, sir?—stand back![Pg 477]
Fother. Do you know that you are in my rooms, sir? [Throws paper to him.] I think you will find that regular. Leave the room.
Nurse [aside]. Wonders'll never cease. But the old fool'll spile all again—you'll see.
Land. [aside to Waiter]. He's paid missus the rent—there's luck!
[Exit.
Waiter. A pretty bit of business I've done for myself. Not a sou for the waiter, I'll bet.
[Exit.
Fother. [advancing to Brummell]. My dear Mr. Brummell.
Brum. Really, you have the advantage of me.
Fother. You surely remember me, Mr. Brummell. [To Nurse.] The good sisters will take care of him for the rest of his days. I must take him to them. Is he always so, my good woman?
Nurse. Poor dear, good, kind old gentleman, not allays. He takes on so at times.
Brum. Don't know you in the least. [Imagines he sees Ballarat.] Ballarat! dear old boy! Tut! tut! Ballarat! Well, this is kind. But I can't be seen in this state.
Fother. No. Here you are among friends, my good sir. [Leading him out.] This way, Mr. Brummell, I come from Lord Ballarat.
Brum. Well—be it so. Ballarat—mind—when you return to England let them know that, even in this squalor—to his last hour in the world—Brummell—poor Brummell was a gentleman still. I am ready—I am ready.
[Exit Fotherby, leading Brummell, the Nurse following.[Pg 478]
Characters: Count of Lara, a poor nobleman; Beatrice, his wife Miriam, a maid, who personates a page.
Scene: Count of Lara's villa. A balcony overlooking the garden.
Scene: Beatrice's chamber. Beatrice sits on a fauteuil in the attitude of listening.
Characters: Hardcastle, hospitable and urbane, with a touch of humor in his nature; Marlow and Hastings who come from London to visit the Hardcastles; servants.
Scene: Hardcastle's house. Young Marlow and Hastings have journeyed from London to the home of Mr. Hardcastle, an old family friend whom they have never seen. They are deceived into believing they are many miles from their destination when they really have arrived. They are told that Mr. Hardcastle's house is a public inn. This leads to much confusion. The genial Hardcastle is drilling his servants.
Enter Hardcastle, followed by Diggory and three or four awkward Servants
Mr. H. Well, I hope you're perfect in the table exercise I have been teaching you these three days. You all know your posts and your places, and can show that you have been used to good company, without stirring from home?
All. Ay! ay!
Mr. H. When company comes, you are not to pop out and stare, and then run in again, like frightened rabbits in a warren.
All. No! no!
Mr. H. You, Diggory, whom I have taken from the barn, are to make a show at the side table; and you, Roger, whom I have advanced from the plough, are to place yourself behind my chair. But you're not to stand so, with your hands in your pockets. Take your hands from your pockets, Roger; and from your head, you blockhead you! See how Diggory carries his hands. They're a little too stiff, indeed, but that's no great matter.
Diggory. Ay, mind how I hold them. I learned to hold my hands this way, when I was upon drill for the militia. And so being upon drill——
Mr. H. You must not be so talkative, Diggory; you must be all attention to the guests. You must hear us talk, and not think of talking; you must see us drink, and not think of drinking; you must see us eat, and not think of eating.
Dig. By the laws, your worship, that's perfectly unpossible.
[Exeunt.
Enter Servants, showing in Marlow and Hastings
Serv. Welcome, gentlemen, very welcome. This way.
Hast. After the disappointments of the day, welcome once more, Charles, to the comforts of a clean room, and a good fire. Upon my word, a very well-looking house; antique, but creditable.
[Pg 488]Mar. The usual fate of a large mansion. Having first ruined the master by good housekeeping, it at last comes to levy contributions as an inn.
Hast. As you say, we passengers are to be taxed to pay all these fineries. I have often seen a good side-board, or a marble chimney-piece, though not actually put in the bill, inflame the bill confoundedly.
Mar. Travelers, George, must pay in all places. The only difference is, that in good inns you pay dearly for luxuries; in bad inns you are fleeced and starved.
Enter Hardcastle
Mr. H. Gentlemen, once more you are heartily welcome. Which is Mr. Marlow? Sir, you're heartily welcome. It's not my way, you see, to receive my friends with my back to the fire. I like to give them a hearty reception in the old style at my gate. I like to see their horses and trunks taken care of.
Mar. [aside]. He has got our names from the servants already. [To Hardcastle.] We approve your caution and hospitality. [To Hastings.] I have been thinking, George, of changing our traveling dresses in the morning, I am grown confoundedly ashamed of mine.
Mr. H. [putting chairs and tables in order in background]. I beg, Mr. Marlow, you'll use no ceremony in this house.
Hast. I fancy, George, you're right; the first blow is half the battle. I intend opening the campaign with the white and gold.
Mr. H. Mr. Marlow—Mr. Hastings—gentlemen—pray be under no restraint in this house. This is Liberty Hall, gentlemen. You may do just as you please here.
Mar. Yet, George, if we open the campaign too fiercely at first, we may want ammunition before it is over. I think to reserve the embroidery to secure a retreat.
[Pg 489]Mr. H. Your talking of a retreat, Mr. Marlow, puts me in mind of the Duke of Marlborough, when he went to besiege Denain. He first summoned the garrison—
Mar. Aye, and we'll summon your garrison, old boy.
Mr. H. He first summoned the garrison, which might consist of about five thousand men—
Hast. What a strange fellow is this!
Mr. H. I say, gentlemen, as I was telling you, he summoned the garrison, which might consist of about five thousand men—
Mar. Well, but suppose—
Mr. H. Which might consist of about five thousand men, well appointed with stores, ammunition, and other implements of war. Now, says the Duke of Marlborough to George Brooks, that stood next to him—you must have heard of George Brooks—I'll pawn my dukedom, says he, but I take that garrison without spilling a drop of blood. So—
Mar. What, my good friend, if you give us a glass of punch in the meantime, it would help us to carry on the siege with vigor.
Mr. H. Punch, sir?
Mar. Yes, sir, punch. A glass of warm punch, after our journey, will be comfortable. This is Liberty Hall, you know.
Mr. H. Here's a cup, sir.
Mar. [aside]. So this fellow, in his Liberty Hall, will only let us have just what he pleases.
Mr. H. I hope you'll find it to your mind. I have prepared it with my own hands, and I believe you'll own the ingredients are tolerable. Will you be so good as to pledge me, sir? Here, Mr. Marlow, here is to our better acquaintance. [Drinks.]
Mar. [aside]. A very impudent fellow, this! but he's a character, and I'll humor him a little. [Aloud.] Sir, my service to you. [Drinks.]
Hast. [aside]. I see this fellow wants to give us his company, and forgets that he's an inn-keeper before he has learned to be a gentleman.
[Pg 490]Mar. From the excellence of your cup, my old friend, I suppose you have a good deal of business in this part of the country. Warm work, now and then, at elections, I suppose?
Mr. H. No, sir; I have long given that work over.
Hast. So, then, you have no turn for politics, I find?
Mr. H. Why, no, sir; there was a time, indeed, when I fretted myself about the mistakes of government, like other people; but finding myself every day grow more angry, and the government no better, I left it to mend itself. Sir, my service to you. [Drinks.]
Hast. So that, with eating above stairs, and drinking below, with receiving your friends within, amusing them without, you lead a good, pleasant, bustling life of it.
Mr. H. I do stir about a great deal, that's certain. Half the differences of the parish are adjusted in this very parlor.
Mar. And you have an argument in your cup, old gentleman, better than any in Westminster Hall.
Mr. H. Aye, young gentleman, that, and a little philosophy.
Mar. [aside]. Well, this is the first time I ever heard of an inn-keeper's philosophy.
Hast. So, then, like an experienced general, you attack them on every quarter. If you find their reason manageable you attack it with your philosophy; if you find they have no reason, you attack them with this. Here's your health, my philosopher.
Mr. H. Good, very good, thank you; ha! ha! Your generalship puts me in mind of Prince Eugene, when he fought the Turks at the battle of Belgrade. You shall hear.
Mar. Instead of the battle of Belgrade, I think it's almost time to talk about supper. What has your philosophy got in the house for supper?
Mr. H. For supper, sir? Was ever such a request made to a man in his own house?
Mar. Yes, sir, supper, sir; I begin to feel an appetite. I shall make devilish work to-night in the larder, I promise you.
[Pg 491]Mr. H. Such a brazen dog sure never my eyes beheld. Why, really, sir, as for supper, I can't well tell. My Dorothy and the cook-maid settle these things between them. I leave these kind of things entirely to them.
Mar. You do, do you?
Mr. H. Entirely. By-the-bye, I believe they are in actual consultation upon what's for supper this moment in the kitchen.
Mar. Then I beg they'll admit me as one of their privy council. It's a way I have got. When I travel, I always choose to regulate my own supper. Let the cook be called. No offense, I hope, sir.
Mr. H. O, no, sir, none in the least; yet I don't know how; our Bridget, the cook-maid, is not very communicative upon these occasions. Should we send for her she might scold us all out of the house.
Hast. Let's see the list of the larder, then. I ask it as a favor. I always match my appetite to my bill of fare.
Mar. Sir, he's very right, and it's my way too.
Mr. H. Sir, you have a right to command here. Here, Roger, bring us the bill of fare for to-night's supper—I believe it's drawn out. Your manner, Mr. Hastings, puts me in mind of my uncle, Colonel Gunthorp. It was a saying of his, that no man was sure of his supper till he had eaten it.
Enter Roger, with a bill of fare
Hast. [aside]. All upon the high ropes! His uncle a colonel—we shall soon hear of his mother being a justice of the peace. But let's hear the bill of fare. [Exit Roger.
Mar. What's here? For the first course, for the second course, for the dessert! The devil, sir! do you think we have brought down the whole joiner's company, or the corporation of Bedford? two or three little things, clean and comfortable, will do.
Hast. But let's hear it.
[Pg 492]Mar. "For the first course at the top, a pig's face and prune sauce."
Hast. Out with your pig, I say.
Mar. Out with your prune sauce, say I.
Mr. H. And yet, gentlemen, to men that are hungry, pig, with prune sauce, is very good eating. But, gentlemen, you are my guests, make what alterations you please. Is there anything else you wish to retrench or alter, gentlemen?
Mar. Why, really, sir, your bill of fare is so exquisite, that any one part of it is full as good as another. Send us what you please. So much for supper. And now to see that our beds are aired, and luggage properly taken care of.
Mr. H. I entreat you'll leave all that to me. You shall not stir a step.
Mar. Leave that to you? I protest, sir. You must excuse me, I always look to these things myself.
Mr. H. I must insist, sir, you'll make yourself easy on that head.
Mar. You see I'm resolved on it. [Aside.] A very troublesome fellow this as ever I met with.
Mr. H. Well, sir, I'm resolved at least to attend you.
[Exeunt Marlow and Hastings.
[Aside.] This may be modern modesty, but I never saw anything look so like old-fashioned impudence. What could my old friend Sir Charles Marlow mean by recommending his son as the modestest young man in town! To me he appears the most impudent piece of brass that ever spoke with a tongue!
[Exit Hardcastle.
Characters: Pygmalion, an Athenian sculptor; Cynisca, his wife; Galatea, an animated statue.
Scene: Pygmalion's studio; several classical statues are placed about the room; at the back a cabinet containing a statue of Galatea, before which curtains are drawn concealing the statue.
[Pygmalion takes her in his arms, and embraces her passionately.]
Characters: Pygmalion; Myrine, his sister; Cynisca, his wife; Galatea.
Scene: Pygmalion's studio.
Enter Myrine
Enter Galatea
Enter Pygmalion, unobserved, led in by Myrine
[Pygmalion utters an exclamation of joy. She rushes to him and seizes his hand.
[Galatea, at first delighted, learns in the course of this speech that Pygmalion takes her for Cynisca, and expresses extreme horror.
Enter Cynisca, unobserved
[Takes Cynisca's hand and leads her to Pygmalion.]
[She substitutes Cynisca in her place, and retires, weeping. Cynisca takes him to her arms and kisses him. He recovers his sight.
Enter Galatea
[Cynisca comforts her.
[The curtains conceal her.
[Pygmalion tears away the curtain, discovering Galatea as a statue.
By Robert I. Fulton, late of Ohio Wesleyan University, and Thomas C. Trueblood, University of Michigan
(Second Edition)
This book shows the relation of intellect, feeling, and gesture to the elements of effective expression in oratorical and dramatic art. It treats the elements of expression in their simplest and most natural order, showing their application to the various sentiments and emotions, and provides exercises in the technic of voice and action. In illustration of the principles full selections as well as illustrative passages are given, together with the necessary explanation, xiv + 250 pages
Accounts of the lives and public careers of twenty-two noted British and American orators together with selections from their greatest speeches. The purpose is to point out by concrete example the abstract principles of public speaking which should guide the beginner. The book aims to select, adapt, and utilize in a single volume such helpful material as the student of public speaking can find elsewhere only in many separate volumes. 403 pages, illustrated
The number, variety, and interest of the selections are noteworthy. They include prose and verse from a wide range of writers. Selections are grouped in fourteen divisions, according to the nature of the subject matter, xix + 729 pages
Edited by Robert I. Fulton, Thomas C. Trueblood, and Edwin P. Trueblood
The purpose of the book is to provide material in poetry and oratory that has never before appeared in books of this character, and to stimulate interest in the authors represented. Nearly two hundred selections of varying character are included. 510 pages
GINN AND COMPANY Publishers
By Edwin Dubois Shurter, Associate Professor of Public Speaking in the University of Texas
12mo, cloth, 178 pages
This manual provides an analysis of the art of extempore speaking, together with specific examples and exercises. It is distinctly modern in treatment, although drawing also from the rich fund of material in classical and modern literature.
By Edwin Dubois Shurter
12mo, cloth, 369 pages
These fifteen orations, edited with introductions and notes, are intended to furnish models for students of oratory, argumentation, and debate. The orators represented are Burke, Webster, Lincoln, Phillips, Curtis, Grady, Watterson, Daniel, Porter, Reed, Beveridge, Cockran, Schurz, Spalding, and Van Dyke.
By Henry Evarts Gordon, late Professor of Public Speaking in the University of Iowa
12mo, cloth, viii + 315 pages
A fresh and stimulating treatise on the fundamentals of public speaking from its cultural side, intended primarily for college classes but easily adaptable to high-school use. A thorough program of study is provided for speech melody, speech quality, speech rhythm, and speech dynamics, accompanied by several hundred illustrative selections.
GINN AND COMPANY Publishers
By John Hays Gardiner, late of Harvard University
A brief course in argumentation to meet the needs of the future average citizen rather than of the few who go on to law or political life. The examples used throughout the book and the exercises and questions suggested for argument are drawn from matters in which young people from eighteen to twenty-two have a natural, lively interest and which they argue about in real life. The aim of the book is to develop habits of analysis and effective presentation of facts which will serve the student in the practical concerns of later life. 290 pages
(Revised and Enlarged Edition)
By George P. Baker, Harvard University, and H. B. Huntington, Brown University
This book holds an established place as one of the standard textbooks in the subject. Fundamental matters of analytical investigation, sifting of evidence, brief-drawing, and persuasive adaptation are clearly illustrated by numerous extracts and are made teachable by varied practical exercises. The book as a whole develops intellectual power and avoids that "predigested" argumentative material which enables a student easily to remember—and surely to forget—"how to argue." 677 pages
By John M. Brewer, Los Angeles State Normal School
This textbook treats oral English as a subject independent both of literature and of written composition. It furnishes the student brief directions, detailed exercises, and suggestive lists of topics of every-day interest which will provide material for doing with conscious direction of thought the things which unconsciously are done in the pursuit of every other study—arguing, explaining, and telling. It embodies the latest ideas in the teaching of this subject by substituting for imitation of masterpieces of eloquence a direct and effective way of speaking without unnecessary adornment, more fitted to be of practical use to men and women of to-day. 396 pages
GINN AND COMPANY Publishers
By Harry Garfield Houghton, University of Wisconsin xi + 333 pages
This textbook aims to teach the student,
First, how to organize his subject matter into clear and logical form for purposes of public utterance.
Second, how to cultivate his powers of expression so as to enable him to convey his ideas most effectively.
The book combines a definite amount of accurately expressed theory with a maximum of practice. Special emphasis has been laid upon clear and accurate thinking as the foundation for all expression, and each principle has been treated in its relation thereto.
The book, while intended primarily for college courses, will also prove valuable in classes in practical speaking in preparatory schools, as an aid in declamatory work (for this purpose Chapter II, The Conversational Mode, and Appendix II, Declamation, are particularly useful), and as a reference book.
By Warren C. Shaw, Dartmouth College vii + 240 pages, in Biflex Binder
"The Brief-Maker's Notebook" presents a logical system for analyzing debaters' propositions and supplies a blank form of brief based upon this system. It is devised to accomplish several aims:
1. To enable the debater to use a loose-leaf system of note-taking.
2. To help him to investigate details of his case without losing his grip upon the problem as a whole.
3. To enable him to write a brief directly from his notes without rearranging the material.
4. To crystallize his methods of analysis.
5. To apply the theory of argumentation in the preparation of a debate and to develop thoroughness and accuracy.
The material consists of sets of forty pages each. Each set is designed for the complete handling of one proposition.
GINN AND COMPANY Publishers
/ End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Standard Selections, by Various
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