CHAPTER XX.

LOVE AND ELECTIONEERING.

The soul of Keeton, as a local orator expressed it, was stirred to its

depths by the events which succeeded. The three estates of the town,

whereof we have already spoken, were alike concerned in the election.

Had it never occurred, there would have been enough in the death of

Mrs. Saulsbury and the rearrangement of Mr. Grey's property to keep

conversation up among the middle grade of Keeton folks. But business

like that would not interest the park, and of course it had no interest

for the working class of the town. The election, on the contrary, was

of equal concern to park, semi-detached villa, and cottage, or even

garret. A contest in Keeton was an absolute novelty, so far as the

memory of living man could go back.

It may perhaps be said that the opinion of the class who alone

concerned themselves about her affairs had been, on the whole,

decidedly unfavorable to Minola. She had gone as a sort of rebel

against legitimate authority out of Keeton, and had flung herself into

the giddy vortex of London life. No one well knew what had become of

her; and that with Keeton folks was another way of saying that she must

have rushed upon destruction. Some persons held that she must have gone

upon the stage. This idea became almost a certainty when a Keeton man,

being in London on business, brought back with him from town a

play-bill announcing a new opera bouffe in which one of the minor

performers was named "Miss Mattie Grey." If the good Keeton man had

only looked in a few other play-bills, he would have no doubt found

Greys in abundance--Matties, Minnies, Nellies, and such like, Grey

being rather a favorite name with young ladies in the profession. But

he made no such investigation, and it was at once assumed that Mattie

Grey was Minola Grey in disguise--a disguise as subtle as that of the

famous knight, Sir Tristam, who, when he wanted to conceal his identity

from all observers and place himself beyond all possibility of

detection, called himself Sir Tramtrist.

When, however, it was found that Minola was to have her father's

property after all, a certain change took place in the opinion of most

persons who concerned themselves about the matter. It was assumed

generally that Mr. Grey was far too good and Christian a man to have

left his property to a girl who could be capable of acting in an opera

bouffe. Then, when Miss Grey in person came to the town in the company

of so distinguished a man as Mr. Money, even gossip started repentant

at the sound itself had made, and began to deny that it had ever made

any sound at all. Mr. Money was a sort of hero among the middle class

everywhere. He was known to have fought his way up in life, and to be

now very rich; and when Miss Grey came into the town in the company of

Mr. Money and his daughter, the report went about forthwith that Minola

Grey had got into the very best society in London, and that she was

going to marry the eldest son of Mr. Money, and to be presented at

court.

Mr. Money had taken a couple of floors of the best hotel to begin with.

He had brought his carriage with him--a carriage in which he was hardly

ever known to take a seat when in town. He had brought a sort of

retinue of servants. He went deliberately about making what Mr. St.

Paul would have called "a splurge." Mr. Money knew his Pappenheimers.

He knew that he was well known to have sprung from nothing, but he also

knew that the middle and lower classes of Keeton would have given him

little thanks if he had tried to please them by exhibiting there a

modesty becoming of his modest origin. He knew well enough that the

more he put on display the more they would think of him and of his

clients. Therefore he put on display like a garment--a garment to which

he was little used, and in which he took no manner of delight. There

was generally a little group of persons round the hotel doors at all

hours of the day waiting to see Mr. Money and his friends go out or

come in. At first Minola positively declined to go out at all, except

at night; and the recent death of her father's widow gave her a fair

excuse for remaining quietly indoors. Lucy delighted in the whole

affair, and often declared that she felt as if she had been turned into

a princess. When Mr. Heron came down he too seemed rather to enjoy it.

At least he took it all as a matter of course. The experiences of

colonial days, when the ruler of a colony, however small it may be, is

a person of majestic proportions in his own sphere, enabled him to take

Mr. Money's pomp quite seriously.

Meanwhile Mr. Augustus Sheppard had got his committee-rooms and his

displays of various kinds, and was understood to be working hard. The

election contest, so long looked for, had taken every one a little by

surprise when it showed itself so near. It was natural that Mr.

Sheppard and his friends should feel confident of the result. The

retiring representative was now an old man. He had faithfully served

out his time; he had always voted as his patrons wished him to do; he

had never made a speech in the House of Commons; he had never, indeed,

risen to his feet there at all, except once or twice to present a

petition. The delights of a Parliamentary career were, therefore, this

long time beginning to pall upon him. He had been notoriously anxious

to get out of Parliament. He had been sent into the House of Commons by

the late duke to keep the seat warm until the present duke should come

of age. But the present duke succeeded to the peerage before he came of

age, and therefore never had a chance of sitting in the House of

Commons. The man in possession was allowed to remain there through

years and years, until the present duke could be induced to return from

abroad and take some interest in the political and other affairs of

Keeton. His own son was yet too young for Parliament, and as the

sitting member found himself getting too old and begged for release,

there was nothing better to do than to get some safe and docile person

to take on him the representation of the borough for some time to come.

Those who knew Keeton could recommend no one more fitting in every

desirable way than Mr. Augustus Sheppard.

The time was when Mr. Sheppard would only have had to present the

orders of the reigning duke to the constituency of Keeton and to take

his seat in the House of Commons accordingly as if by virtue of a

sovereign patent in ancient days. But times had changed even in sleepy

Keeton. The younger generation had almost forgotten their dukes, it was

so long since a chief of the house had been among them. Even the women

had grown comparatively indifferent to the influence of the name seeing

that it had so long been only a name for them. There had been for many

years no duchesses and their lady daughters to meet at flower-shows and

charitable bazaars, by the delight of whose face, and the sound of

whose feet, and the wind of whose tresses, as the poet has it, they

could be made to feel happy and exalted. There once were brighter days

when the coming and going of the ladies at the castle gave the women of

Keeton a perpetual subject of talk, of thought, of hope, and of

quarrel. Some of the readers of this story may perhaps have spent a

little time in small towns on the banks of foreign--say of

American--rivers which have a habit of freezing up as winter comes, and

becoming useless for navigation; in fact being converted from rivers

into great frozen roads, until spring unlocks the flowers and the

streams again. Such travellers must have noticed what an unfailing

topic of conversation such a river supplies to those who dwell on its

banks. How soon will it freeze this season? On what precise day was it

closed to navigation last year--the year before--the year before that?

In what year did it freeze soonest? Do you remember that particular

year when it froze so very soon, or did not freeze for such an

unprecedented length of time? That was the same year that--no, not that

year; it was the other year, don't you remember? Then follow

contradictions and disputes, and the elders always remember the river

having been regularly in the habit of performing some feat which now it

never cares to repeat. The time of the frost melting and the river

becoming really a river again is a matter just as fruitful of

discussion. The stranger is often tempted to wonder what the people of

that place would have to talk about at all if suddenly the river were

to give up its trick of freezing, and were to remain always as fluent

as our own monotonous Thames. There seems to him some reason to fear

that the tongues of the people would become frozen as the river ceased

to freeze.

Like the freezing and the melting of their river to those who lived on

its bank was the annual visit of the ladies of the ducal family to the

womankind of Keeton in Keeton's brighter days. Girls were growing up

there now who had never seen a duchess. The arrival, the length of

stay, the probable time of departure, the appearances in public whether

more or less frequent than this time last year, the dresses worn by the

gracious ladies, the persons spoken to by them, the persons only bowed

to, the unhappy creatures who got neither speech nor salutation--it is

a fact that there was a generation of women growing up in Keeton with

whom these and such questions had never formed any part of the interest

of their lives. They could not be expected to take much interest all at

once, and as it were by instinct, in the political cause of the ducal

family.

There was therefore a good deal of uncertainty about the conditions of

the problem. The followers of the ducal family were some of them full

of hope. The reappearance of a duke and duchess and their train might

do wonders in restoring the old order of things. In Keeton petticoat

influence counted for a great deal, and in other days those who had the

promises of the wives hardly thought it worth while to go through the

form of asking the husbands. But now there was a new condition of the

political problem even in that respect. The ballot, which had made the

voter independent of the influence of his landlord or his wealthy

customer, had converted the power of the petticoat into a sort of

unknown quantity. There could be little doubt that the moral influence

and the traditional control would still prevail with some; but he must

be a rash electioneering agent who would venture to say how many votes

could thus be counted on. It is a remarkable tribute to the moral

greatness of an aristocracy that the influence thus obtained in old

days over the wives and daughters of Keeton was absolutely unearned by

any overt acts of favor or conciliation. The later dukes and their

families had always been remarkable for never making any advances

toward the townspeople. None of the traders of the town, however

wealthy and respectable, found themselves or their wives invited to any

manner of festivity up at the ducal hall. All that the noble family

ever did for the townspeople was to come at certain seasons to Keeton

and allow themselves to be looked at. This was enough for the time. The

illustrious ladies could be seen, and, as has been said, they did

sometimes speak a word to favored and envied persons. They were loved

for being great personages, not for anything they did to win such

devotion. "Love is enough," says the poet.

All these considerations, however, rendered it hard to calculate the

exact chances of opposition in the borough of Keeton. Of course

revolutionary opinions were growing up, old people found, there as well

as elsewhere. There was a new class of Conservatives springing up whom

steady, old-fashioned politicians found it not easy to distinguish from

the Radicals of their younger days. On the other hand, keen-sighted

persons could not fail to perceive that, whereas in their youth almost

all young men had a tendency to be or to fancy themselves Radicals, it

was now growing rather the fashion for immature politicians to boast

themselves Tories, and to talk of a spirited foreign policy and the

dangers of Cosmopolitanism. It would be hard to say how things might

turn out, knowing people thought, as they shook their heads, and hoped

the expected contest might not come on for some time.

Now the contest was at hand. At least the sitting member had positively

declared that he would sit no longer, and it was announced that the

Duke was coming to Keeton, and that Mr. Augustus Sheppard was to be the

Duke's candidate. No more striking proof could be given of the recent

change in the political condition of Keeton than is found in the fact

that the adoption of Mr. Sheppard as a candidate by the ducal family

did not even to the most devoted and sanguine followers of the great

house make Mr. Sheppard's election seem by any means a matter of

absolute certainty. There was a tolerably strong conviction everywhere,

long before any opposition was announced, that the Duke's candidate

would not be allowed to walk over the course and right into the House

of Commons this time. Nobody in the town would oppose the Duke very

likely, but the man to oppose would come.

Now the man actually had come. Victor Heron had issued his address and

was in Keeton. His address was original; he had positively refused from

the first to make any grand professions of superior statesmanship or

patriotism. He would tell Englishmen, he said, that he was seeking a

seat in Parliament as a way of getting redress for a great wrong done

to him, and through him to some of the principles most dear to the

country. When he had fought his battle in Parliament and won or lost,

he promised that he would then place himself in the hands of his

constituents and resign the seat if they desired. The whole address was

frank, odd, original, and perhaps seemed a little self-conceited. The

author's absorption in his subject was mistaken by many people, as will

happen sometimes, for self-conceit.

Mr. Sheppard's address, on the contrary, talked only of the good old

Conservative principles which had made England the envy and admiration

of all surrounding States; of the local interests of Keeton and the

candidate's acquaintance therewith; and of the many splendid things

done for the town by the noble family who had done it the honor to have

a park there.

"I don't think Heron's address reads half badly," Mr. Money said, one

evening in the absence of Heron, to his two companions; "on the whole,

I shouldn't wonder if it took some people, the women particularly.

Anything personal, anything in the nature of a grievance, is likely to

have a good effect on many people, especially where the injured

personage is young, and good-looking, and plucky. I wish the women had

the votes here just for this once, for I think we should stand to win

if they had."

"Then, papa, do you think we shan't win now?" Lucy asked.

Minola looked up eagerly for his answer.

"Well, Lucelet, I don't like to say; I am not quite charmed with the

look of things. I find there are a good many very strong Radicals grown

up in this place since there was a contest here before; and Heron's

not wild enough for them by half. They are a little of the red-hot

social-revolution sort of thing--the _proletaire_ business, with a dash

of the brabbling atheist--the fellows who think one is not fit to live

if he even admits the possibility of another world. I am afraid these

fellows will hold aloof from us altogether, or even take some whim of

voting against us, and they may be strong enough to turn the scale."

Minola hoped that if her friend Mr. St. Paul had really any charm by

which to extort victory for Heron as he had promised, he would not

forget to use it in good time. But she began to have less faith, and

less, in the possibility of any such feat. She was a little in the

perplexed condition of some one of mediaeval times, who has entered into

a bargain for supernatural interference, and is not quite certain

whether to wish that the compact may be really carried out or that it

may prove to have been only the figment of a dream.

"I'm told we ought to have some poems done," Money went on to say. "Not

merely squibs, you know, but appeals about right and justice, and the

cause of oppressed humanity, and all that."

"I'm sure Minola could do some beautifully!" Lucy exclaimed, looking

beseechingly toward her friend.

"Oh, no; I couldn't indeed! My appeals would be dreadfully weak; they

could not rouse the spirits of any mortal creature. Now, if we only had

Mary Blanchet!"

This, it must be owned, was Minola's fun, but it gave an idea to Mr.

Money.

"Tell you what," he said; "we ought to have her brother--the bard you

used to call him, Lucelet."

"Oh, no, papa; indeed I never called him anything of the kind. I never

did, indeed, Nola."

"Well, whatever you called him, Lucelet, we can't do better than to

have him. We'll put Pegasus into harness, by Jove--a capital good use

to make of him too. I'll write to what's-his-name?--Blanchet--at once."

"But I don't think he would like it, papa; I think he would take

offence at the idea of your asking him to do poems for an election. I

don't think he would come."

"Oh, yes, he would come; we would make it worth his while. These young

fellows give themselves airs to make you girls admire them, that they

never think of trying on with men. It would be a rather telling thing

here too if it got about that we had brought a real poet specially down

from London. I'll write at once."

This seemed rather alarming to Minola.

"I doubt whether Mr. Heron would much like it," she pleaded. "I don't

know whether they are such very good friends just now. I am rather

afraid."

"Oh, yes; of course they must be good friends! Heron is not to have it

all his own way in everything anyhow. He must like the idea; he shall.

I'll write without telling him anything about it, and Heron couldn't

help being friendly to any fellow who came under his roof, as one might

say."

No one made any further objection.

"I wish Heron had not been so confoundedly particular about St. Paul,"

Mr. Money went on to say in a discontented tone. "That was absurd. St.

Paul's no worse than lots of other fellows, and in such a thing as this

we can't afford to throw away any offer of support. We have to fight

against the Duke and his lot anyhow, and the help of St. Paul couldn't

have done us any harm in that quarter, and it might have done us some

good in others. I shouldn't wonder if St. Paul had some friends and

admirers here still; and it is as likely as not that his being with us

might conciliate a few of the mad Radicals. They might like him just

because he is against his brother, the Duke."

"But Mr. Heron would not have such help as that," Lucy said, in tones

of pride.

"Oh, by Jove! if you want to carry an election--and now, I suppose, if

St. Paul has any influence at all, it will be given against us."

Minola thought of her unholy compact, and did not venture to say a word

on the subject.

THE "UNIFORMED MILITIA" SERVICE.

I spent seven years of my boyhood at school among the hills of old

Connecticut, about fifteen miles back of Bridgeport, in a region even

now in almost its primitive simplicity and pastoral beauty. It has been

left quiet and untouched between the iron ways of Housatonic and

Danbury, equidistant from both, and sufficiently far away from either

to be free from the impulse and incentive of that practical missionary

of modern progress, the railroad.

City born, but partly country bred, I understand well the sentiment of

the New Englander for his old home, and often live over again the days

in those familiar hills and valleys of Fairfield. I would revel in

enjoyment if it were possible for me to revisit them. It was there my

eyes were open to the delights of a "town muster," and my steps taught

rhythm by fife and drum.

In occasional musings I hear the old music as it used to reach me in

waves of sound, now faint, then loud, as the variable wind would waft

it, or as it escaped from obstructing hills. And I see the tall white

and red plume of the commandant, undulating with his stride, and

dipping salutes to the wind. Reader, if you have never realized the

excitement of a "general training day" in the country, you have missed

the freshest and most genuine pleasure of youth.

In the fall of 1842 occurred the Croton water celebration, a real city

holiday. The procession was long, interesting, and gorgeous, for all of

it except the military portion was profusely decorated with autumn

flowers, odorless but beautiful, rich in color and variety. It might

properly have been called the feast of dahlias.

The old fire department was out in all its glory, and richly arrayed.

It always took part in metropolitan rejoicings, heartily and

generously. But my interest was centred in the soldiers; fired then by

a longing to shoulder a musket. I waited impatiently for the freedom of

manhood and a fitting opportunity. When both came I enlisted in a city

regiment, and continued the connection till after the close of the late

civil war.

Twenty years of service with musket and sabre failed to dull my

enthusiasm. I left it, warned by the heaviness of approaching age and

the demands of business, convinced of the propriety, the usefulness,

and the value of a well regulated militia force.

Aware of how much has been said and written against such service, and

of the misapprehension of those who had never studied its organization,

its possibilities, and necessity, I propose to draw upon the practical

experience of the past twenty-five years for the purpose of correcting

wrong views without and suggesting new measures within. The service has

been charged with costliness, uselessness, and pretentious display;

with vain ambition, absence of organic purpose, and with being inimical

to the morality of the individual member. All the charges have some

foundation for their utterance, though the evils referred to are not

the legitimate results of the organization, but rather the baleful

fruit of irresponsible and ignorant commissions. The service is really

worthy of conscientious labor and the support of the people.

In the present relations of government and society, a disciplined

militia force is an essential part of the body politic, and an organism

with vitality if properly administered. The central idea of the

organization is a military body, directly from the people, for the

conservation of governmental integrity and a protection to the State.

Its collateral uses are an initial school for soldierly training, and

in cities especially a supplementary and occasional aid to the police

forces. In a general way the central idea is accepted, but in

particulars is not carried out in equity between governments and the

people. The theory is that the people are the State, and therefore must

provide their own protection, but under proper authority. The authority

exacts the service, at a great cost to the State, but denies reasonable

compensation and encouragement to the individual member; therefore the

people are not in sympathy with the organization. The service is

brought in conflict with the people, in fact with itself, and the

anomaly is presented of an organism in internal opposition. It is the

duty of legislation and constituted authority to harmonize such an

unnatural condition and change indifference into interest, ignorant

neglect into intelligent support. Only in times of strife, like our

late civil conflict, or the wars of 1812 and 1776, does the service

rise to the dignity of an establishment and a recognized power. In

times of peace it is permitted to exist, mainly in skeleton condition,

without organic discipline, because the people have a false idea of its

use and value. State military departments are not administered with

intelligence, and military codes are subject to yearly legislative

amendments without understanding; conditions of enlistment are altered,

generally to the injury of the enlisted soldier, while recruiting for

the uniformed corps languishes from lack of encouragement.

It is interesting to follow some of the changes of the New York State

code and their inconsistent applications. For instance, when the law

allowing relief from jury duty and the partial remission of assessment,

to continue during life, was amended to cover terms of enlistment only,

the Adjutant General of the State decided the amendments applied to

prior enlistments, thereby breaking a contract between the State and

enlisted men under the old law. But when the term of service was

reduced from seven to five years, enlistments under the former law were

held for the longer term. It is in such a spirit that all amendments

are interpreted in favor of the State and against the individual.

Fortunately the former provision has been reconsidered, and in a spirit

of compromise relief from jury duty is reinstated in the code for life,

but the abatement of assessments covers only terms of service. The

State considers exemption from jury duty for life a relief, the nominal

abatement of assessments during the service a benefit, and both

together ample compensation to the militiamen. They would be in part,

if immediately available, but the compensation is questionable, as the

duty is generally performed too early in life for those legislative

provisions to be of practical application. The abatement of an

assessment is of little benefit to those who, probably, are without

property till after their terms of service are completed, and the

measure fails by limitation. Fortunately the relief from jury duty is a

life provision, for it generally comes later in life, and after the

militia service is performed. One does not, however, repay the cost of

uniforms and other necessary expenses, nor the other compensate for the

time which the service requires.

The New York State code says: "All able-bodied male citizens, between

the ages of eighteen and forty-five, are subject to military duty," but

also says that minors must obtain the written consent of parents or

guardians to legalize an enlistment in a uniformed corps. Why such an

incongruous distinction between uniformed corps and ununiformed

militia? What right has the code to exact military service from a

person who is condemned by the law as incompetent for citizenship, and

is legally recognized by the law only as a child? And why exact

military service from those who are in the decline of life? There are

many who are physically able to do the duty under the age of twenty-one

and over the age of forty, but they should be regarded as exceptional.

Such service should be voluntary by the individual and optional with

the State.

Spiritual, natural, and physical laws have stamped twenty-one the

minimum age of manhood, and forty the culmination. Why should military

law assume the power to control more?

The young absorb the elements of the future, the old dispose of them;

within these life lines is practical manhood.

Patriotism enthusiastic becomes patriotism triumphant; during its

passage the sentiment hardens into use.

Fault has been found by tax-payers with State and city governments for

maintaining militia forces at such an expense. The censure is justified

by the yearly exhibit of military expenditures, which is due in part to

the unnecessary maintenance of skeleton regiments and battalions.

The prejudices of the people against soldiers in time of peace will

never be overcome till they are educated to the necessity of a military

establishment by intelligent administration of its affairs, proper

information, greater proficiency, and a more decided application of its

use. Satisfy the people of the necessity of the service, enlist their

pride in its support by its efficiency, and its maintenance may be

secured without opposition. People never grumble when they can see

their money's worth.

If States have treated their militia forces as an inferior part of

themselves, if military authorities have acted arbitrarily and

ungenerously, militiamen themselves are not blameless. They have

frittered away their opportunities, and belittled their profession, by

vain-glory and personal ambition, and invited censure by inefficient

service. Fortunately there are men and officers, companies and

regiments, who, recognizing their mission, have conscientiously

performed their duty and redeemed the service from greater obloquy.

Their work has acted like leaven to the whole body. All honor to them

for their intelligence, honest pride, and patriotic labor.

The "uniformed militia" system has a foundation of inherent strength

capable of being built upon and extended to a perfectness not at

present thought capable of. With its present incompleteness, its degree

of usefulness is positive, and even under all the adverse circumstances

referred to the condition of ably administered battalions bears upon

the side of success and prosperity. Singular as it may seem, part of

its weakness is from its own elements of apparent strength.

Recruits enlist with a very inadequate idea of its requirements. Many

go through their term of service, sometimes pleased, oftener bored, but

always with a sense of personal importance, and take their discharge

with feelings of relief.

Some members are guilty of license when in uniform that they would not

indulge in as citizens. Officers without capacity accept commissions

and occasionally intrigue for command, from ambition and vanity,

without a sense of their responsibility or a proper knowledge of their

duties. There are also elements of disorder within the lines of duty

which are hard to bear and difficult to control, because they arise

from personal animosities. The judgment of an officer is warped to his

hurt by his selfishness, wounded pride, and ambition, who will hold a

commission to the injury of his company or battalion, even with the

support of part of his command.

Is it to be wondered at that an organization with such elements of

disorder in it should be regarded with disfavor by those ignorant of

its trials, its duties, and its aims? And is it not an argument in its

favor that its discipline is able to control and surmount such

demoralizing tendencies?

It is not pleasant to deprecate a continuation of long services, but

under certain circumstances it may result in injury to a corps.

Officers of merit and distinction, with the personal veneration of

their men, have been known to outlive their usefulness by retention of

command after the freshness, activity, and judgment of their earlier

manhood have departed. The idiosyncrasies of age and confirmed habits

of authority do not readily accept advanced ideas, improvements in

methods, and the inevitable changes of time.

Recruiting for uniformed corps has been and is a process without a

system--a method without a principle; it is simply a necessity. As

conducted at present it is derogatory to the dignity of the service,

and in its practice humiliating and unpleasant to its members. The code

really offers no inducement to militiamen.

Its failure to provide proper encouragement for recruiting is a defect

which should have the serious consideration of military authorities and

legislators at the earliest opportunity. It is a matter of vital

importance to the service, and forces itself upon the attention of all

commandants to their great concern.

It seems as though battalions are expected to perpetuate themselves,

and they have to be, by force of circumstances, recruiting

organizations for the State.

Personal application and argument have to take the place of official

encouragement, and a service whose necessity, propriety, and benefits

should be patent to all is left in a measure to factitious

circumstances for a support. It is not, however, the sole purpose of

this paper to cavil at authority, to criticise military codes, or

condemn existing methods, but rather to show how the uniformed militia

forces can be better rewarded by proper recognition and acknowledgment,

and made more honorable by a higher standard of service. The

indifference of the world and the early hostility of the church to

amusements were fatal blunders which both have ascertained, and are now

atoning for generously, but too thoughtlessly. Opposition has become

permission without proper direction, and indiscriminate pleasure

anticipates regulated and orderly recreation. This is a question of as

great importance to the State as to society, of as vital interest to

the church, as of welfare to the individual. Every care should be taken

to recognize as orderly only those pleasures which have their

foundation in use.

In every community, between the extremes of the artisan, who is almost

precluded from the continuous and regular duties of a militiaman, by

his occupation and necessities, and the student, who is generally

unfitted for them by his intellectual preoccupation, is a numerous

class, for whom the service is eminently adapted. Their inclination for

occasional relief from business and clerical labors is a proper desire,

and should not be permitted to degenerate into undisciplined sport for

want of a legitimate pastime.

The militia service, on a peace footing, is really a recreation, with

an object and an organization of the most singular merit. Its system of

physical training is superior to the abnormal development of the

gymnasium, the fitful excitement of the ball-field, the constrained

pull and single purpose of the oar, and the violent termination of a

"shell" race. Its normal object, military training, is exacting,

methodical, and thorough, and moral force of character, self-reliance,

discipline of the mind, and knowledge of human nature are collateral

results of company and battalion associations. There is an element of

possible strength to the militia forces of the several States, which

may have been thought of, but never utilized. I refer to the youth in

every community who are old enough to be free from the constant

necessity of elementary study and relieved from the absorbing

application of higher educational branches, who are yet at school, but

with sufficient leisure to do well or ill--that age between the

watchful eye of maternal care and later parental authority: inchoate

manhood, rough, awkward, and susceptible; wild with their first taste

of liberty; full of anticipation and courageous in the future. The

struggle between them and society for a place is long and doubtful. The

State should adopt and help them by recognizing a cadet system to be

attached to the uniformed corps, whose officers could inaugurate no

wiser, more charitable, or more popular measure than to accept their

services. The measure of good to the boy and the measure of benefit to

the service would be reciprocal and incalculable. The cadet would take

to the "school of the soldier" with enthusiasm. It would give him

something proper to do, something right to think of; it would perfect

his growing physique with grace, and engraft on his system the elements

of manhood.

To all graduating classes in school, a membership in a cadet corps

would be an incentive, and school commissioners could make such

membership a reward of merit.

It would relieve the service from the present unpleasant feature of

recruiting by keeping behind it a subordinate corps of well-drilled

young soldiers from which its ranks could be kept full. It would

relieve officers from the drudgery of squad-drills, and give the

service the full time of their men instead of wasting six, perhaps

more, months in the present recruit classes. It would also perfect the

enlisted men and subordinate officers for their prospective duties by

detailing them for detached service in cadet corps, in grades next

higher than their own. Such detached service would be an honor and a

prime incentive for all subordinate officers.

The uniformed militia system has been the growth of years upon the

single theory of a military power direct from the people. Whatever

merit has been developed in its practice is intrinsic, and has been

brought to the surface by force of circumstances rather than by

encouragement or appreciation. Upon the minimum basis of inherent value

can be constructed a maximum power of State economy, by honoring the

service with an establishment of intelligence and efficiency. Make the

uniformed corps to the State and to the militia forces, in a

comparative, what the West Point Academy is to the United States and to

the regular army in a superlative degree.

I have treated militia service thus far as a recreation, because the

members of uniformed corps have made it so. I will now refer to it as a

duty, and endeavor to show how the service can be adjusted to the

greater benefit of the State and be made of greater use to the people.

Declare all male citizens between the ages of twenty-one and forty

subject to military duty as ununiformed militia, to be enrolled and

brigaded, but kept immobile except for emergencies, to be officered

when necessary from the subordinate officers of the uniformed corps.

The object of enrollment is twofold: to ascertain the available force

of the State, and for the purpose of special taxation, to reimburse the

State for military expenditures.

Eliminate all extrinsic material from the present force; disband

skeleton battalions; make supernumerary their officers; reduce the

force to the efficient corps now existing, or which may have to be

organized, in place of ineffective ones, for the purpose of creating

normal schools for military instruction. Never call out an ununiformed

battalion in time of peace, or put a uniformed corps in the field in

time of war; consider them component and interchangeable parts of one

system. In active service let the former be the lungs and the latter

the heart of a vital organism.

In no instance should a normal battalion be disbanded for the purpose

of officering ununiformed corps, but should be kept intact with its

field officers and company commandants--a kind of Gatling educational

battery for the propulsion of brains. It would be just as sensible to

put the West Point cadets in the field as a fighting corps as to put

some of our best regiments. Their heads are worth more to the country

than their bodies.

I have suggested special taxation of the enrolled militia to reimburse

the State for its military expenditures. It can probably be collected

more expeditiously and with less expense through a special department

of the Commissioner of Jurors than through any other channel. It is now

necessary for the Commissioner to keep lists of jurors and register all

exempts, and the plan would certainly aid him in those duties of his

department by giving him a fuller and more correct canvass of citizens.

The encouragement needed to induce men and officers to spend their

leisure hours for ten years in these normal battalions is to void the

present remission of assessment, as an inequitable provision--reimburse

them for clothing, relieve them from jury duty for life, and exempt

them from any possible future draft. With their discharges give the men

sergeants' warrants, non-commissioned officers lieutenants'

commissions, and advance officers' commissions one grade, waiting

papers for possible future services. Furnish comfortable and

substantial drill-rooms and armories, and reimburse battalions for

proper musical expenditures.

The State should hold itself responsible to the general Government for

its officers who may be touched by a draft and furnish the necessary

substitutes as compensation in part for their former and prospective

services.

Experience furnishes proof that well made, good-fitting clothing,

stylish, but not extravagant, is much better and cheaper than the

low-priced, ugly State uniforms, ground out by contract, allotted by

sizes, and fitting by chance. There is no economy in the joint

ownership of a uniform; the nominal owner is niggardly in purchase and

the wearer careless in use. Let the uniform be chosen by corps, made in

accordance with regimental bills of dress, by individual measure, and

let the State reimburse the corps by a liberal commutation. To

reimburse battalions for their music may seem a costly item--it

certainly is a great expense to the present uniformed corps--but as the

project is based upon the idea of a self-supporting establishment,

there is no injury to the State; a nominal tax paid by the enrolled

ununiformed militia should be sufficient to pay the entire expenditures

of the State military department.

To honor discharged men and officers with a kind of brevet commission

would be an incentive for ability and efficiency, and would be of

sufficient value to invite the best class of young men to the ranks.

Whatever may be questionable in the action of Congress for reducing the

force of the regular army, there can be none in the policy of the State

for reducing its force to the lowest possible point. Every man should

be released from the ranks that can be, both in justice to himself and

for general industrial effect. The cost of company drills, regimental

brigade and division parades in time and money is immense, and out of

all proportion to the doubtful value of such services, constituted as

the force is. But a compact, thoroughly disciplined, and perfectly

drilled force, of the highest obtainable military character, is

necessary and should be well maintained for contingent purposes.

I have thrown out these views as applicable to the city and State of

New York; but the ideas can be applied to the military department of

every State, with such modifications as may be found necessary.

It would be expensive, impolitic, and unnecessary for the general

Government to keep a regular army, through years of peace, of

sufficient numerical force to meet successfully internal outbreaks or

external pressure. The militia force should be trained to be the

supporting power of the army for such contingencies. The doubts and

fears and awful suspense of the people during the early days of the

late rebellion would have been greatly lessened, perhaps quite avoided,

had the regular and militia forces been in effective readiness for the

struggle, and met the necessity of the hour. The uniformed corps could

have been ordered to the front for temporary defence, as some were, and

time given for mobilizing the ununiformed troops.

As it was all was confusion, distrust, and almost despair; only for the

instinctive loyalty and inherent courage of the people, all would have

been lost. The men of the first levy, the rank and file, were

magnificent in material, confident in ability, honest in purpose, crude

in development, difficult to discipline--it was hard for them to come

under military law. Many of their officers were adventurers without

experience or qualifications for command. They obtained commissions

through personal influence rather than by merit. Militia officers, with

all their imperfections, would have been of much greater service.

Is the affair of Bull Run to be wondered at, with such material, and in

the light of later education? It was the incisive action of the war; it

punctured the conceit of both armies.

C. H. MEDAY.

THE YOSEMITE HERMIT.

The shadows were lying tolerably long on the green hillsides when the

lumbering yellow stage, somewhat the worse for wear, drawn by four

lean, dusty horses, also somewhat the worse for wear, drew up with a

grand flourish in front of the Grand Hotel, Mariposa.

It was a long, low building, with a broad piazza in front and along one

side; the facade was painted a dingy yellow to match the stage

apparently, but the rest of the edifice had been neglected, and the

superabundant rain and superabundant sunshine of Mariposa had left

marks of their handiwork on the bare boards.

The loungers rushed out of the bar-room as soon as the wheels were

heard, and stood grouped about the broad piazza exchanging jokes with

the driver, who was known as Scotty, and asking the news from Hornitos

and other way places.

Meanwhile the "Doctor," a stout, ruddy-complexioned man, whose

appearance spoke well for his profession, descended from his seat on

the box, and, opening the stage door with an air of pride and

satisfaction, he assisted the one lady passenger to alight with a grace

which would have done credit to Chesterfield. The loungers on the

piazza started and drew back. All ceased their gibes with Scotty, and

two or three removed their hats. She was not only a woman, but a very

pretty woman--she was even beautiful.

She thanked the Doctor with a pretty grace, and turned her clear, hazel

eyes upon the admiring group, scanning each face eagerly and wistfully.

The Doctor said, "Allow me," and was about to escort her into the small

den at one side known as the "Ladies' parlor," but she swept past him

and walked straight into the bar-room, the Doctor, the loafers, and

Scotty crowding in after her and regarding her movements with an

undisguised admiration, and as much reverential curiosity as though she

had been a visitant from another sphere.

The proprietor of the "Grand" was a podgy man, with an aggressively

bald head and scaley eyes like an alligator's--though for that matter I

may be libelling the alligator. His name was Sharpe, commonly corrupted

into "Cutey" by some mysterious process.

He was pouring whiskey from a bottle into a glass, preparatory to

serving himself, when the new comer walked--she walked like an

angel--straight up to him and said, "Is this the landlord?"

Cutey was so astonished by the apparition that he dropped the glass--he

called it a glass; it was in reality a stone-china cup about half an

inch thick--and wasted the whiskey; it was only by the greatest

presence of mind that he succeeded in saving the bottle.

"Ma-a-a'm?" he stammered, clutching at his bald head to see if there

was a hat there.

The woman repeated her question; the crowd by the doorway, headed by

the Doctor, strained their ears to listen. She had a low voice,

tolerably sweet. Such music had never before been heard within those

low walls, perhaps. They wished she would say more. Old "Punks"

muttered that she 'minded him of his Lyddy--"jest sech a voice!" which

remark brought down upon him much contumely afterward, and a threat

from the Doctor to "put daylight through him." After a helpless look

around him, Cutey admitted that he _was_ the landlord, with the air of

a cornered scoundrel confessing a crime.

"Then perhaps you can tell me what I wish to know," said the woman,

fixing her clear, sweet eyes upon him. "I want to find a man named

Wilmer--James Courtney Wilmer."

Cutey shook his head sorrowfully.

"Thar be so many names," said he: "skurce any man goes by his own name.

Be he livin' in Mariposa, ma'am?"

"I do not know," was the reply, with a suggestion of tears in the

voice, at which every heart in the crowd by the door was touched and

unhappy.

Punks nudged Scotty with his elbow.

"What's that fellow's name that wus partners with Circus Jack in the

Banderita?" he whispered.

Scotty rapped his forehead with his horny hand, and ran his fingers

into his bushy, tow-colored hair, with a clutch of desperation.

"Punks," he whispered, "I allers counted you a fool, but you ain't; you

air a shinin' light! His name _wus_ Jim Wilmer."

Then, coloring up to the roots of his hair, he advanced and said:

"If you please, ma'am."

The woman turned at this, meeting a whole battery of eyes without any

seeming consciousness of it.

"There wus a feller named Jim Wilmer here--wus partners in the

Banderita, with a feller named Circ--leastways, I don't know his name,

but we called him Circus Jack, ma'am."

The woman's face--her beautiful face--turned as white as the collar at

her throat; she leaned against the bar and tried to speak, but the

words died on her lips.

Finally, with an effort, she half whispered:

"Do you know where he is now?"

Then, as the men looked at each other, she cried in a clearer tone, "Is

he _dead_?"

"No, no, ma'am. He wus here, 'taint a month," said Scotty. "I think

he's off huntin' in the hills. I'll find Circus Jack, and bring him up

here. He'll be likely to know--him and Jim wus real good friends."

"Thank you," said the stranger softly, in a voice which smote Scotty's

heart exceedingly.

The Doctor, meanwhile, had gone for Mrs. Sharpe, who presently entered,

and invited the stranger to "hev a little tea."

She was a small fair woman, with a washed-out look, and a mouth not

innocent of _dipping_, but she looked and spoke kindly, and the

stranger was glad enough to answer, "Yes," and follow her into the

dining-room. The crowd fell back as she approached, but only enough to

give her room to pass. Some stealthily touched her dress as she swept

by them, and when she had disappeared, and the door had closed, forty

tongues were loosed at once, and a scene of excitement ensued only

equalled by the one which followed on the shooting of "the Judge" by

"Little Jack," over a game of poker, in that very bar-room of the Grand

Hotel.

"Mought I ax your name, ma'am?" inquired Mrs. Sharpe.

"Marian Kingsley," was the faint reply.

"Miss or Mrs., ma'am?" pursued Mrs. Sharpe, glancing at the shapely,

white, ringless hands.

The stranger gave a slight impatient twitch. "It doesn't matter," she

said. "Call me Marian. That will do as well as anything."

Mrs. Sharpe was a washed-out woman. Many of the natural and laudable

instincts remained, perhaps being fast colors; but a horror of the

class to which she now supposed Marian to belong was one which had

faded out of her nature. She gave a slightly supercilious look, which

fell upon the woman like moonlight on ice, and pursued her inquiries.

"Came from 'Frisco?"

"I came through there. I didn't see anything of the place."

"Whar _did_ yer come from?"

"Philadelphia." The tone was changed. She evidently felt the impalpable

rudeness of the faded woman, and knew how to resent it in the same way.

More conversation ensued, in the course of which Mrs. Sharpe discovered

that Marian had a little money--enough to pay her board for a few

months--and that she had come there to find "James Courtney Wilmer."

Mrs. Sharpe had information to give as well as to take, for she knew

something of Jim.

"_We_ called him _Jim_," she said, a little scornfully. "He didn't git

no 'Courting' from _we_."

Poor Marian gave a faint smile. "There might be other James Wilmers,"

she said. "I wanted to be sure."

Mrs. Sharpe didn't think this could be the one.

"He's a rough, ragged creeter," she said, "and 's had the snakes fur

weeks at a time."

Marian shrank and cowered at this, with a pitiful look of pain on her

beautiful face.

"Hed money left him?" asked Mrs. Sharpe.

Marian nodded.

"'Twon't do him no good. Soon as he hearns of it, he'll drink himself

into snakes. Allers did when they struck a good lead on the Banderita.

Circus Jack, he loses all hisn's at poker; so thar they go."

In the course of an hour Circus Jack, scrubbed and "fixed up" to a

degree which made him almost unrecognizable by his comrades, appeared,

escorted by Scotty, also prepared by a choice toilet to enter the

presence of "the ladies."

"'Scuse my not comin' afore," said Scotty. "Hosses must be 'tended to,

and them of mine wus about dead beat."

Marian smiled graciously, if absently, and turned her clear, hazel eyes

to Circus Jack, who, with many excuses, circumlocutions, and profane

epithets, most of which he apologized for instantly, and some of which

he was evidently unconscious of, gave her all the information in his

power in regard to the man she had come to find.

No one in Mariposa knew him better. As "Jim" he was almost an integral

part of the city of "Butterflies." The butterflies, by the by, for

which the town is named, are not those which soar in the air, but

"Mariposas," fastened by long, tough filaments to the ground.

Many a night had Jim Wilmer crushed his swollen face into them, and

slept a drunken sleep with their soft wings folded sorrowfully above

him.

There was something of a mystery hung about him, which the "boys" had

never been able to fathom. Some said that he belonged to a wealthy and

aristocratic family, and had left home and become a wanderer and an

outcast, because some beautiful woman had jilted him; others said that

he had had a wife and children, that he had broken his wedded faith and

his wife's heart at the same time, and that a grim phantom followed him

wherever he went, and gave him no peace. Others told yet another story:

that he had been engaged to a beautiful girl, and had loved her and

trusted her above all telling; that his wedding day was near, when he

had stumbled upon some miserable secret, which was dead and buried, but

could not rest in its grave; that there was no room left for doubt,

which is sometimes blessed, and he had fled without a word;

disappeared, and left to her own wretched heart the task of telling her

the reason why.

Circus Jack did not tell Marian these stories, though he had heard them

all; indeed, they had all been retold and discussed in the bar-room,

not half an hour since. An average woman would have repeated them to

her, and thus tempted her to reveal the truth; but a chivalrous heart

beat under Jack's flannel shirt, and he could no more bear to hurt her

than he could have crushed a little bird to death with his hand.

If any of the stories were true, and she yet loved poor Jim, he told

her enough to wring her heart and haunt her dreams for ever.

The winter that he spent in the hollow of a great pine tree, on the rim

of Yosemite valley, was perhaps his happiest and most peaceful. Every

Yosemite tourist stops to peep inside this tree, and to wonder if a man

really lived there. "It was comfortable enough," says the hale old

pioneer of the valley below. "He had plenty of room. We both slept in

it one night."

At which the tourist peeps in again, and wonders if the long-limbed

Texan was not a bit cramped by the footboard.

When Circus Jack told Marian the story it was fresher and less

wonderful than now.

"Was the snow very deep?" she said. "Was there no danger of his

freezing to death?"

"I never hearn much about it anyhow," said Circus Jack, "'cept thet he

lived thar alone cuttin' shingles. I 'spect the snow was 'bout four or

five foot deep up thar whar he lived. He's a close-mouthed one, I tell

yer. Never git nothin' outer him, an' when he's drunk he don't tell

nothin' whatsomd-ever!"

This, with a glance half pitying, half reassuring, as though he would

promise her that the secret, whatever it might be, was safe.

One comforting doubt beat at the woman's heart all the while that Jack

was talking. "Perhaps this man was not the one!"

She mentioned this at length, and asked Jack what his quandom "partner"

was like.

"He was a slight-built feller, rayther light-complected," was the

reply. "An' han'some! I called him han'some, didn't you, Scotty?"

Scotty, thus appealed to, gave a profane assent. He had scarcely moved

a muscle since he sat down, with his eyes fixed on Marian's fair,

ever-changing face. Mrs. Sharpe, after a vain attempt to engage him in

conversation, had quietly withdrawn, having no relish for being one of

a quartette where two did all the talking.

"Was he--an--educated man?" inquired Marian hesitatingly, feeling in a

vague way that the question might offend Jack.

"Yes, he war," replied that worthy in a contemplative tone. "When he

war drunk I hev hearn him talkin' a lot of stuff like po'try. Thar's a

pile of books in my cabin now that he used ter read consid'able. _I_

can't make head nor tail to 'em. P'r'aps you might."

"I would like to see them," said Marian eagerly.

Jack nodded, and a pause ensued. At length Scotty remarked that the

"old man," meaning Cutey, was "reyther late in lightin' up," at which

Jack arose and bade the stranger "good night."

Marian put out her hand, saying, "We will be good friends, I hope."

Circus Jack took it by the finger tips cautiously, careful not to hurt

it with his horny fingers.

"I'll do ary thing in the world fur yer, madam," he replied earnestly

and ingenuously.

"There was one thing I wished to ask," she said, "though it may be a

foolish question. Did you ever notice any--ring--that he wore

or--carried?"

"They _wus_ a ring, but I'm beat ef I kin tell what kind. Once when Jim

was turrible sick, an' his hand swelled up, I wanted to file it off,

but he fought so I couldn't. He said when he got well thet it never had

ben off, nor never shouldn't be while he had life to fight."

"Can't you tell me what it was like?" she asked.

"I ain't no hand," said Circus Jack, rubbing his head. "I'd know it ef

I seed it, but----"

"Was it like this?" She drew a dainty purse from her pocket, and took

from its safest corner a plain, flat band of gold, with a small disk on

it, shaped like the half of a heart placed horizontally.

"Prezactly!" exclaimed Circus Jack with emphasis.

She opened her purse to put it back, but it fell from her hand,

scattering her little stock of money over the floor, and a moment

after, when Mrs. Sharpe came in, in response to frantic halloos from

Scotty, she found Marian in a dead faint upon the floor, with Scotty

and Circus Jack, with hands clasped behind them, kneeling on either

side of her like uncouth angels, while scattered coins and escaping

masses of golden-brown hair formed a halo about her head.

She was ashamed of and provoked at her weakness afterward; said she was

fatigued with her long and wearisome ride, and that she never fainted

before; but if she had been an accomplished diplomatist, she could have

planned nothing better for her popularity.

As for the faded-out woman, her opinion, which had been tottering under

a severe reproof from Cutey, now underwent a complete revolution.

"_Them_ kind never faints!" she said to herself dogmatically, as she

assisted Marian to her room and begged her to "take things easy like."

She patiently answered one hundred and seven inquiries that evening,

varying from, "How's the sick lady?" to, "Jim Wilmer's gal perking up a

little arter her faint?" and for the rest of Marian's stay in Mariposa

she proved that kindliness of heart had been one of the "fast colors."

It was but natural that Cutey should feel a friendly interest, since he

dealt out at least two hundred extra drinks, at highly remunerative

prices, on her account that evening; and moreover, the Doctor "tipped"

him handsomely for extra care and attention. In a week after her

arrival, Marian had learned all that anybody in Mariposa knew regarding

"Jim." She wore that curious ring upon her finger now. There were two

letters upon the disk, but no one ever had the hardihood to ask what

they were.

Punks, whose eyes were keen, and whose curiosity was keener, declared

that they were "i l," with a "little quirl-like" between.

Punks also knew--a fact which did credit to his powers and habits of

observation--that on the disk of the ring which Jim wore on his little

finger were the letters "Fa."

Punks desired to know what "Fail" spelled but "fail." He further

inquired "what they wanted to hev sech a doggoned mis'able word as thet

on a ring fur?"

"'T'orter be 'love' or sunthin'," he added critically.

It was only after much questioning in divers places, and the exercise

of a deal of patience and some finesse, that Marian learned the present

whereabouts of the half-crazed hermit "all unblessed." When last seen,

something less than a week before her arrival, he had been wandering

through the neighboring mountains, half-clothed in wretched rags,

living on berries and roots, alternately muttering and shrieking the

vagaries of his unhinged mind.

They were loth to tell her, even those who knew it. Their rude

externals seemed to have made their hearts softer. It hurt them to see

the pink color fade from her cheeks, and the shadow of sharp pain creep

over her beautiful face; so she had to learn the lesson of smiling when

her heart ached worst. The two Mexicans, cattle herders, who had seen

him, were eagerly questioned; but they could tell nothing that she did

not know, save that they were quite sure that it was Jim, and not some

other unfortunate, whom they had seen.

They gave a stupid assent when asked by Marian to secure him and bring

him into town the next time that they saw him; and a "Si, Senor,"

considerably less stupid in a subsequent private interview with Jack,

who promised them "heap money" for their labor.

Marian had the books which Jim had left in the cabin: commonplace Greek

and Latin books, which might have belonged to anybody, save that on one

fly leaf was written in a scrawling hand, "J. C. Wilmer," and this

yellow page, and this faded ink, she covered with her kisses and

baptized with her tears. And another weary week crept by.

The Doctor noticed with disapprobation strongly expressed how pale and

worn-looking the pretty woman grew. Not professionally; indeed, his

title was merely honorary, bestowed in recognition of his services in

prescribing the "Golden Anti-bilious Pills" for Bob Jinks, which, or

nature in spite of them, had effected a cure, and restored to bereft

Mariposa society an efficient and valuable member.

The Doctor's interest afforded considerable amusement to the habitues

of the "Grand" bar-room, and they fairly roared with sympathy when he

profanely expressed his sorrow to see her wasting her beauty in tears

over "another feller."

One Saturday night, two weeks and a day since Marian's arrival, the

whole population of the town were at the Grand, either drinking,

gambling, or purchasing provisions of Cutey's deputy, who presided over

the tin can department with activity and grace; and all, whatever their

occupation, were swearing vigorously and unceasingly.

Marian sat up stairs in her tiny room burning with feverish anxiety.

Her long years of home-waiting, the comfortless journey, even the first

week of uncertainty, had been easier to bear than this anxious waiting.

The Mexicans had not hesitated to say that he must be dead by this

time; but _that_ she did not believe; he might be starving, crazed,

nearly dead, but surely she might see him once more and hear him say

that he forgave her; perhaps even nurse him back to reason and health

and hope again.

The brawling and laughter down stairs made her shudder. "If I was only

a man!" she whispered fiercely, clenching her little hands. "Can I do

_nothing_ but sit here and wait? Oh, God, be merciful!" she cried.

Then suddenly a thought flashed into her mind. She did not stop to

think of it; she acted upon it.

The Doctor's partner, profoundly studying his cards, was somewhat

disconcerted to see the table kicked over, and the Doctor's "hand" on

the floor. Without a question, he put his hand back for his pistol,

when the sudden stillness in the room caught his attention, and all

that followed caused him to forget the affront.

In the centre of the room, her disordered hair flying about her face,

her clear eyes flashing with excitement, her cheeks flaming with color,

more beautiful than they had ever seen her look before, Marian stood

waiting for silence. Men crowded up to the doorways and filled the

windows, certain from the sudden quiet that "something was up."

"Won't you _help_ me?" she cried out. "What can _I_ do to find him? He

may be starving to death! He would not have left you to starve!

You"--she gasped and drew her breath hard--"you--whom he was good

to--you remember--a hundred things, but you forget him! and let

him--rave his life away--and starve to death--alone." She choked. She

could not speak another word! but she stood with her lips parted, her

eyes flashing, looking eagerly, almost angrily, from one face to

another.

Circus Jack bounded on to a table; it was rickety, and reeled with his

weight; but Punks and Bob Jinks steadied it; they were friends of

Jack's; besides, they had just won from him at poker, and felt very

friendly. "Fellers!" said Jack, "to-morrow's Sunday. I'm going out ter

hunt fer poor Jim, and ain't comin' back till I find him. Them as wants

ter 'comp'ny me kin call at my cabin to-night."

"I will go with you, Jack," said the Doctor impressively.

"Me, too, you bet!" cried Scotty.

"Count me in," growled a bass voice from the window.

"Me too," squeaked Punks. "All as'll go say, 'Ay!'"

And an "Ay!" came from those rough voices with such a ringing burst of

good will as must have startled the very birds asleep in the distant

trees.

Nay! some faint echo of it may have been heard at the very gates of

heaven itself. The tears rolled down Marian's cheeks. She tried to say,

"God bless you!" but the tears had the right of way, and the words

broke into something unintelligible.

A sudden shame came over them that they had not thought of this before.

Memories of homes, of mothers, of wives, came knocking at their hearts,

and would not be denied. The sleeves of rough and not over clean

flannel shirts were drawn across eyes that had scorned tears, through

sickness, discomfort, and disappointment.

Cutey came to the rescue.

"Gentlemen!" he said, waving his hand over the bar, "help yourselves.

My j'ints are stiff, and I can't go; but I'll treat the crowd. Free

drinks, gentlemen!"

And leaving his bar to the tender mercies of his thirsty friends, Cutey

offered his arm to Marian, and escorted her to her own door, where he

took leave of her with a low bow.

Then he went down stairs four steps at a time, lest his choice liquors

should be annihilated in his absence.

It was Monday noon when they returned. Marian sat at the window in the

easiest chair the house afforded, sickening with fever. She watched

them coming into town with a restless, helpless anxiety. She watched

them scatter to their cabins, and saw Circus Jack coming on toward the

hotel alone.

She buried her face in her hands. He had said that he would never come

back until he found him. Had they become discouraged, or----

She could not believe that they had found him. Her heart seemed to cry

out, "No! no!" Jack came up, with little Mrs. Sharpe at his heels.

"Be keerful!" said the faded woman. "She mighty poorly."

Jack came in as lightly as his heavy boots would allow.

"The boys said fur me ter tell yer they wus all dretful sorry fur yer.

We buried him jist whar we found him. He'd a ben dead nigh on to a

couple of weeks, I reckon. Don't yer look so, lady. Poor Jim! he warn't

never happy, even when he was drunk. He's better off up thar. We flung

a few stones together to mark the place, and I'll guide you and Mrs.

Sharpe thar any time."

Then, lowering his voice to a whisper, he added tenderly, "And I tuk

the ring offen his finger. He couldn't fight fur it now; an I thought

as mebby you'd like it."

He took it from the corner of his handkerchief; she held up her finger

for it, and he slipped it on. Then he saw that the letters spelled

"Faith." "Thet Punks!" he thought to himself contemptuously.

She looked up into his face with a stony smile--no tears now.

"Thank you," she said.

Four weeks afterward the Doctor lifted Marian into the stage. She was

strong enough for her journey now, she said. Two days before she had

visited the lonely cairn. It was a tiresome horseback ride too. She

seemed to be getting well very fast. The Doctor told her so.

"People never die when they wish to," she answered sadly.

Circus Jack came to the stage-door to bid her "Good-by."

"What can I do for you to thank you?" she asked earnestly.

Jack hesitated.

"Ef you wouldn't mind, ma'am," he said, "I'd like--to--kiss your hand.

I've got a dear old mother home--ef you wouldn't mind!"

Without a blush or a change of countenance she put her arm around his

neck and kissed his lips.

"Good-by, dear old fellow," she said.

Then Scotty cracked his whip, the crowd on the piazza raised their

hats--even the poor, chagrined Doctor--a subdued cheer was given, and

the lumbering stage disappeared in a cloud of dust, the nodding

mariposas on the hillside looking curiously at it as it went by.

CLARA G. DOLLIVER.

THE PUNISHED.

Not they who know the awful gibbet's anguish,

Not they who, while sad years go by them, in

The sunless cells of lonely prisons languish,

Do suffer fullest penalty for sin.

'Tis they who walk the highways unsuspected,

Yet with grim fear for ever at their side,

Who clasp the corpse of some sin undetected,

A corpse no grave or coffin lid can hide.

'Tis they who are in their own chambers haunted

By thoughts that like unwelcome guests intrude,

And sit down uninvited and unwanted,

And make a nightmare of the solitude.

ELLA WHEELER.

ALFRED DE MUSSET.

It had been known for some time that M. Paul de Musset was preparing a

biography of his illustrious brother, and the knowledge had been

grateful to Alfred de Musset's many lovers; for the author of "Rolla"

and the "Lettre a Lamartine" has lovers. The book has at last

appeared--more than twenty years after the death of its hero.[1] It is

probably not unfair to suppose that a motive for delay has been removed

by the recent death of Mme. Sand. M. Paul de Musset's volume proves, we

confess, rather disappointing. It is a careful and graceful, but at the

same time a very slight performance, such as was to be expected from

the author of "Lui et Elle" and of the indignant refutation (in the

biographical notice which accompanies the octavo edition of Alfred de

Musset's works) of M. Taine's statement that the poet was addicted to

walking about the streets late at night. As regards this latter point,

M. Paul de Musset hastened to declare that his brother had no such

habits--that his customs were those of a _gentilhomme_; by which the

biographer would seem to mean that when the poet went abroad after dark

it was in his own carriage, or at least in a hired cab, summoned from

the nearest stand. M. Paul de Musset is a devoted brother and an

agreeable writer; but he is not, from the critic's point of view, the

ideal biographer. This, however, is not seriously to be regretted, for

it is little to be desired that the ideal biography of Alfred de Musset

should be written, or that he should be delivered over, bound hand and

foot, to the critics. Those who really care for him would prefer to

judge him with all kinds of allowances and indulgences--sentimentally

and imaginatively. Between him and his readers it is a matter of

affection, or it is nothing at all; and there is something very happy,

therefore, in M. Paul de Musset's fond, fraternal reticency and

extenuation. He has related his brother's life as if it were a pretty

"story"; and indeed there is enough that was pretty in it to justify

him. We should decline to profit by any information that might be

offered us in regard to its prosaic, its possibly shabby side. To make

the story complete, however, there appears simultaneously with M. Paul

de Musset's volume a publication of a quite different sort--a memoir of

the poet by a clever German writer, Herr Paul Lindau.[2] Herr Lindau is

highly appreciative, but he is also critical, and he says a great many

things which M. Paul de Musset leaves unsaid. As becomes a German

biographer, he is very minute and exhaustive, and a stranger who should

desire a "general idea" of the poet would probably get more instruction

from his pages than from the French memoir. Their fault is indeed that

they are apparently addressed to persons whose mind is supposed to be a

blank with regard to the author of "Rolla." The exactions of bookmaking

alone can explain the long analyses and prose paraphrases of Alfred de

Musset's comedies and tales to which Herr Lindau treats his readers--the

dreariest kind of reading when an author is not in himself essentially

inaccessible. Either one has not read Alfred de Musset's comedies or

not felt the charm of them--in which case one will not be likely to

resort to Herr Lindau's memoirs--or one _has_ read them, in the

charming original, and can therefore dispense with an elaborate German

_resume_.

[1] "_Biographie de Alfred de Musset: sa Vie et ses Oeuvres._"

Par PAUL DE MUSSET. Paris: Charpentier.

[2] "_Alfred de Musset._" Von PAUL LINDAU. Berlin: Hofmann.

In saying just now that M. Paul de Musset's biography of his brother is

disappointing, we meant more particularly to express our regret that he

has given us no letters--or given us at least but two or three. It is

probable, however, that he had no more in his hands. Alfred de Musset

lived in a very compact circle; he spent his whole life in Paris, and

his friends lived in Paris near him. He was little separated from his

brother, who appears to have been his best friend (M. Paul de Musset

was six years Alfred's senior), and much of his life was passed under

the same roof with the other members of his family. Seeing his friends

constantly, he had no occasion to write to them; and as he saw little

of the world (in the larger sense of the phrase), he would have had

probably but little to write about. He made but one attempt at

travelling--his journey to Italy, at the age of twenty-three, with

George Sand. "He made no important journeys," says Herr Lindau, "and if

one excepts his love affairs, he really had no experiences." But his

love affairs, as a general thing, could not properly be talked about.

M. de Musset shows good taste in not pretending to narrate them. He

mentions two or three of the more important episodes of this class, and

with regard to the others he says that when he does not mention them

they may always be taken for granted. It is perhaps indeed in a limited

sense that Alfred de Musset's love affairs may be said to have been in

some cases more important than in others. It was his own philosophy

that in this matter one thing is about as good as another--

Aimer est le grand point; qu'importe la maitresse?

Qu'importe le flacon pourvu qu'on ait l'ivresse?

Putting aside the "ivresse," which was constant, Musset's life certainly

offers little material for narration. He wrote a few poems, tales, and

comedies, and that is all. He _did_ nothing, in the sterner sense of

the word. He was inactive, indolent, idle; his record has very few

dates. Two or three times the occasion to do something was offered him,

but he shook his head and let it pass. It was proposed to him to accept

a place as attache to the French embassy at Madrid, a comfortable

salary being affixed to the post. But Musset found no inspiration in

the prospect. He had written about Spain in his earlier years--he had

sung in the most charming fashion about Juanas and Pepitas, about

senoras in mantillas stealing down palace staircases that look "blue"

in the starlight. But the desire to _see_ the picturesqueness that

he had fancied proved itself to have none of the force of a motive.

This is the fact in Musset's life which the writer of these lines finds

most regrettable--the fact of his contented smallness of horizon--the

fact that on his own line he should not have cared to go further. There

is something really exasperating in the sight of a picturesque poet

wantonly slighting an opportunity to go to Spain--the Spain of forty

years ago. It does violence even to that minimum of intellectual

eagerness which is the portion of a contemplative mind. It is annoying

to think that Alfred de Musset should have been meagrely contemplative.

This is the weakness that tells against him, more than the weakness of

what would be called his excesses. From the point of view of his own

peculiar genius, it was a good fortune for him to be susceptible and

tender, sensitive and passionate. The trouble was not that he was all

this, but that he was lax and soft; that he had too little energy and

curiosity. Shelley was at least equally tremulous and sensitive--equally

a victim of his impressions, and an echo, as it were, of his temperament.

But even Musset's fondest readers must feel that Shelley had within him

a firm, divinely-tempered spring against which his spirit might rebound

indefinitely. As regards intense sensibility--that fineness of feeling

which is the pleasure and pain of the poetic nature--M. Paul de Musset

tells two or three stories of his brother which remind one of the

anecdotes recorded of the author of the "Ode to the West Wind." "One of

the things which he loved best in the world was a certain exclamation

of Racine's 'Phaedra,' which expresses by its _bizarrerie_ the trouble

of her sickened heart:

Ariane, ma soeur, de quel amour blessee,

Vous mourutes aux bords ou vous futes laissee!

When Rachel used to murmur forth this strange, unexpected plaint,

Alfred always took his head in his two hands and turned pale with

emotion."

The author describes the poet's early years, and gives several very

pretty anecdotes of his childhood. Alfred de Musset was born in 1810,

in the middle of old Paris, on a spot familiar to those many American

visitors who wander across the Seine, better and better pleased as they

go, to the museum of the Hotel de Cluny. The house in which Musset's

parents lived was close to this beautiful monument--a happy birthplace

for a poet; but both the house and the street have now disappeared. M.

Paul de Musset does not relate that his brother began to versify in his

infancy; but Alfred was indeed hardly more than an infant when he

achieved his first success. The poems published under the title of

"Contes d'Espagne et d'Italie" were composed in his eighteenth and

nineteenth years; he had but just completed his nineteenth when the

volume into which they had been gathered was put forth. There are

certainly--if one considers the quality of the poems--few more striking

examples of literary precocity. The cases of Chatterton and Keats may

be equally remarkable, but they are not more so. These first boyish

verses of Musset have a vivacity, a brilliancy, a freedom of feeling

and of fancy which may well have charmed the little _cenacle_ to which

he read them aloud--the group of litterateurs and artists which

clustered about Victor Hugo, who, although at this time very young, was

already famous. M. Paul de Musset intimates that if his brother was at

this moment (and as we may suppose, indeed, always) one of the warmest

admirers of the great author of "Hernani" and those other splendid

productions which project their violet glow across the threshold of the

literary era of 1830, and if Victor Hugo gave kindly audience to "Don

Paez" and "Mardoche," this kindness declined in proportion as the fame

of the younger poet expanded. Alfred de Musset was certainly not

fortunate in his relations with his more distinguished contemporaries.

Victor Hugo "dropped" him; it would have been better for him if George

Sand had never taken him up; and Lamartine, to whom, in the shape of a

passionate epistle, he addressed the most beautiful of his own, and one

of the most beautiful of all poems, acknowledged the compliment only

many years after it was paid. The _cenacle_ was all for Spain, for

local color, for serenades, and daggers, and Gothic arches. It was

nothing if not audacious (it was in the van of the Romantic movement),

and it was partial to what is called in France the "humoristic" as well

as to the ferociously sentimental. Musset produced a certain "Ballade a

la Lune" which began--

C'etait dans la nuit brune

Sur le clocher jauni,

La lune

Comme un point sur un i!

This assimilation of the moon suspended above a church spire to a dot

upon an _i_ became among the young Romanticists a sort of symbol of

what they should do and dare; just as in the opposite camp it became a

by-word of horror. But this was only playing at poetry, and in his next

things, produced in the following year or two, Musset struck a graver

and more resonant chord. The pieces published under the title of "Un

Spectacle dans un Fauteuil" have all the youthful grace and gayety of

those that preceded them; but they have beyond this a suggestion of the

quality which gives so high a value to the author's later and best

verses--the accent of genuine passion. It is hard to see what, just

yet, Alfred de Musset had to be passionate about; but passion, with a

poet, even when it is most genuine, is very much of an affair of the

imagination and the personal temperament (independent, we mean, of

strong provoking causes), and the sensibilities of this young man were

already exquisitely active. His poems found a great many admirers, and

these admirers were often women. Hence for the young poet, says M. Paul

de Musset, a great many romantic and "_Boccaciennes_" adventures. "On

several occasions I was awaked in the middle of the night to give my

opinion on some question of high prudence. All these little stories

having been confided to me under the seal of secrecy, I have been

obliged to forget them; but I may affirm that more than one of them

would have aroused the envy of Bassompierre and Lauzun. Women at that

time were not wholly absorbed in their care for luxury and dress. To

hope to please, young men had no need to be rich; and it served a

purpose to have at nineteen years of age the prestige of talent and

glory." This is very pretty, as well as very Gallic; but it is rather

vague, and we may without offence suspect it to be, to a certain

extent, but that conventional _coup de chapeau_ which every

self-respecting Frenchman renders to actual or potential, past,

present, or future gallantry. Doubtless, however, Musset was, in the

native phrase, _lance_. He lived with his father and mother, his

brother and sister; his purse was empty; Seville and Granada were very

far away; and these "Andalusian passions," as M. Paul de Musset says,

were mere reveries and boyish visions. But they were the visions of a

boy who was all ready to compare reality with romance, and who, in

fact, very soon acceded to a proposal which appeared to offer a

peculiar combination of the two. It is noticeable, by the way, that

from our modest Anglo-Saxon point of view these same "Andalusian

passions," dealing chiefly with ladies tumbling about on disordered

couches, and pairs of lovers who take refuge from an exhausted

vocabulary in _biting_ each other, are an odd sort of thing for an

ingenuous lad, domiciled in the manner M. Paul de Musset describes, and

hardly old enough to have a latch-key, to lay on the family breakfast

table. But this was very characteristic all round. Musset was not a

didactic poet, and it was not for him to lose time by taking his first

steps as one. His business was to talk about love in unmistakable

terms, to proclaim its pleasures and pains with all possible eloquence;

and he would have been quite at a loss to understand why he should have

blushed or stammered in preluding to so beautiful a theme. Herr Lindau

thinks that even in the germ Musset's inspiration is already

vicious--that "his wonderful talent was almost simultaneously ripe and

corrupted." But Herr Lindau speaks from the modest Saxon point of view;

a point of view, however, from which, in such a matter, there is a

great deal to be said.

The great event in Alfred de Musset's life, most people would say, was

his journey to Italy with George Sand. This event has been

abundantly--superabundantly--described, and Herr Lindau, in the volume

before us, devotes a long chapter to it and lingers over it with

peculiar complacency. Our own sentiment would be that there is

something extremely displeasing in the publicity which has attached

itself to the episode; that there is indeed a sort of colossal

indecency in the way it has passed into the common fund of literary

gossip. It illustrates the base, the weak, the trivial side of all the

great things that were concerned in it--fame, genius, and love. Either

the Italian journey was in its results a very serious affair for the

remarkable couple who undertook it--in which case it should be left in

that quiet place in the history of the development of the individual

into which public intrusion can bring no light, but only darkness--or

else it was a piece of levity and conscious self-display; in which case

the attention of the public has been invited to it on false grounds. If

there ever was an affair it should be becoming to be silent about, it

was certainly this one; but neither the actors nor the spectators have

been of this way of thinking; one may almost say that there exists a

whole literature on the subject. To this literature Herr Lindau's

contribution is perhaps the most ingenious. He has extracted those

pages from Paul de Musset's novel of "Lui et Elle" which treat of the

climax of the relations of the hero and heroine, and he has printed the

names of George Sand and Alfred de Musset instead of the fictitious

names. The result is perhaps of a nature to refresh the jaded vision of

most lovers of scandal.

We must add that some of his judgments on the matter happen to have a

certain felicity. M. Paul de Musset has narrated the story more

briefly--having, indeed, by the publication of "Lui et Elle," earned

the right to be brief. He mentions two or three facts, however, the

promulgation of which he may have thought it proper, as we said before,

to postpone to Mme. Sand's death. One of them is sufficiently dramatic.

Musset had met George Sand in the summer of 1833, about the time of the

publication of "Rolla"--seeing her for the first time at a dinner given

to the contributors of the "Revue des Deux Mondes," at the Trois Freres

Provencaux. George Sand was the only woman present. Sainte-Beuve had

already endeavored to bring his two friends together, but the attempt

had failed, owing to George Sand's reluctance, founded on an impression

that she should not like the young poet. Alfred de Musset was

twenty-three years of age; George Sand, who had published "Indiana,"

"Valentine," and "Lelia," was close upon thirty. Alfred de Musset, as

the author of "Rolla," was a very extraordinary young man--quite the

young man of whom Heinrich Heine could say "he has a magnificent _past_

before him." Upon his introduction to George Sand, an intimacy speedily

followed--an intimacy commemorated by the lady in expansive notes to

Sainte-Beuve, whom she kept informed of its progress. When the winter

came the two intimates talked of leaving Paris together, and, as an

experiment, paid a visit to Fontainebleau. The experiment succeeded,

but this was not enough, and they formed the project of going to Italy.

To this project, as regarded her son, Mme. de Musset refused her

consent. (Alfred's father, we should say, had died before the

publication of "Rolla," leaving his children without appreciable

property, though during his lifetime, occupying a post in a government

office, he had been able to maintain them comfortably.) His mother's

opposition was so vehement that Alfred gave up the project, and

countermanded the preparations that had already been made for

departure.

"That evening toward nine o'clock," says M. Paul de Musset, "our mother

was alone with her daughter by the fireside, when she was informed that

a lady was waiting for her at the door in a hired carriage, and begged

urgently to speak with her. She went down accompanied by a servant. The

unknown lady named herself; she besought this deeply grieved mother to

confide her son to her, saying that she would have for him a maternal

affection and care. As promises did not avail, she went so far as sworn

vows. She used all her eloquence, and she must have had a great deal,

since her enterprise succeeded. In a moment of emotion the consent was

given." The author of "Lelia" and the author of "Rolla" started for

Italy together. M. Paul de Musset mentions that he accompanied them to

the mail coach "on a sad, misty evening, in the midst of circumstances

that boded ill." They spent the winter at Venice, and M. Paul de Musset

and his mother continued to hear regularly from Alfred. But toward the

middle of February his letters suddenly stopped, and for six weeks they

were without news. They were on the point of starting for Italy, to put

an end to their suspense, when they received a melancholy epistle

informing them that their son and brother was on his way home. He was

slowly recovering from an attack of brain fever, but as soon as he

should be able to drag himself along he would seek the refuge of the

paternal roof.

On the 10th of April he reappeared alone. A quarter of a century later,

and a short time after his death, Mme. Sand gave to the world, in the

guise of a novel, an account of the events which had occupied this

interval. The account was highly to her own advantage and much to the

discredit of her companion. Paul de Musset immediately retorted with a

little book which is decidedly poor as fiction, but tolerably good,

probably, as history. As a devoted brother, given all the

circumstances, it was perhaps the best thing he could do. It is

believed that his reply was more than, in the vulgar phrase, Mme. Sand

had bargained for; inasmuch as he made use of documents of whose

existence she had been ignorant. Alfred de Musset, suspecting that her

version of their relations would be given to the world, had, in the

last weeks of his life, dictated to his brother a detailed statement of

those incidents to which misrepresentation would chiefly address

itself, and this narrative Paul de Musset simply incorporated in his

novel. The gist of it is that the poet's companion took advantage of

his being seriously ill, in Venice, to be flagrantly unfaithful, and

that, discovering her infidelity, he relapsed into a brain fever which

threatened his life, and from which he rose only to make his way home

with broken wings and a bleeding heart.

Mme. Sand's version of the story is that his companion's infidelity was

a delusion of the fever itself, and that the charge was but the climax

of a series of intolerable affronts and general fantasticalities.

Fancy the great gossiping, vulgar-minded public deliberately invited to

ponder this delicate question! The public should never have been

appealed to; but once the appeal made, it administers perforce a rough

justice of its own. According to this rough justice, the case looks

badly for Musset's fellow traveller. She was six years older than he

(at that time of life a grave fact); she had drawn him away from his

mother, taken him in charge, assumed a responsibility. Their literary

physiognomies were before the world, and she was, on the face of the

matter, the riper, stronger, more reasonable nature. She had made great

pretensions to reason, and it is fair to say of Alfred de Musset that

he had made none whatever. What the public sees is that the latter,

unreasonable though he may have been, comes staggering home, alone and

forlorn, while his companion remains quietly at Venice and writes three

or four highly successful romances. Herr Lindau, who analyzes the

affair, comes to the same conclusion as the gross synthetic public; and

he qualifies certain sides of it in terms of which observant readers of

George Sand's writings will recognize the justice. It is very happy to

say "she was something of a Philistine;" that at the bottom of all

experience with her was the desire to turn it to some economical

account; and that she probably irritated her companion in a high degree

by talking too much about loving him as a mother and a sister. (This,

it will be remembered, is the basis of action with Therese, in "Elle et

Lui." She becomes the hero's mistress in order to retain him in the

filial relation, after the fashion of Rousseau's friend, Mme. de

Warens.) On the other hand, it seems hardly fair to make it one of

Musset's grievances that his comrade was industrious, thrifty, and

methodical; that she had, as the French say, _de l'ordre_; and that,

being charged with the maintenance of a family, she allowed nothing to

divert her from producing her daily stint of "copy."